"A thousand pardons, m'sieur, madame, but we seek escaping criminals thought to be fleeing justice on this highway in a coach quite like this one. Adieu, you may proceed," Fourchette said, though that galled him to no end.
"And you apologise, m'sieur" Sir Andrew pressed, a brow up. "A thousand pardons for… my choice of words, as well, and my apologies to madame," Fourchette was further forced to say.
"Well, I should bloody-well think so, dash it all!" Sir Andrew huffed. "Whip up, driver! Avance, cocher, vite vite!"
"One down, two t'go!" his wife, Susannah, who was really better known round Drury Lane as Betsy Peake, chortled to her companion who was also better known on the Shakespearean stages of London and its nearer counties as Anthony Ford, as the party of horsemen clattered far enough away for them to revert to their natural accents and glee to have fooled the Frogs so thoroughly.
"Must say, m'dear, but these roles we play give life a zest!" Ford said with a satisfied sigh of contentment and a bit of relief that they were free and clear.
"Here, I'll shred these lyin' packets t'wee bits as we bowl along," Betsy offered. "And, yes! It is very… piquant!"
"Showin' off, again! Piquant, my eye! Hoy, Bets… ever do it in a carriage?" Ford leered.
"Wif th' likes o' you? Hmmph!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"Oh," Caroline said with a start, after sitting silently tense for more than an hour as their coach rolled past the last outskirts of Paris and into the pleasant countryside 'tween the Seine and the Oise.
"Trouble?" Lewrie bolted erect, thinking she had seen some sign of pursuit. "What?" he demanded, wishing that he'd thought to pack a single pistol in his bags before leaving England. Even the hanger he had gotten back from Napoleon was in a round-topped trunk on its way to Calais.
"No, I don't believe," Caroline told him, delving into her reticule. "Forgive me for being remiss, but I quite forgot the note that Lady Imogene slipped me just as we were leaving." She produced a wee folded piece of paper, when opened no more than four inches square.
"Oh!" Caroline exclaimed again. "Sir Pulteney has additional instructions for us. Here, see for yourself."
Once you pass through Pontoise, there is a quite nice coaching inn on the far bank of the Oise, called Le Gantelet Rouge. Stop there for refreshment. Linger! I arrive anon.
"Hummph!" Lewrie huffed. "What's that, down at the bottom?" Lewrie asked his wife, once he'd read it. "That blob, there."
"It looks like a flower of some kind," Caroline said, peering more closely at the note, which was written in black ink; the flower petals though, were coloured yellow with chalk or pastel pencil.
"Should we eat the note, now we've read it?" Lewrie japed.
Caroline rolled her eyes at him for making jest in such circumstances but at least she did it with a grin. She began to shred it, feeding wee pieces of the note out the window on her side of the coach, bit by bit. "That should be sufficient, enough so for the likes of your mysterious old friend that hideous Zachariah Twigg!"
"Never a friend," Lewrie countered. "I wonder if they'll ask for our papers when we enter Pontoise… cross the bridge, or when we order dinner at the inn?"
The authorities in Pontoise evidently could have cared less of a damn anent the identities of travellers, for there were no soldiers posted on the southern outskirts, nor on the bridge which spanned the Oise. The carriage trundled through the heart of the town's business district, to the northern outskirts, then…
"There it is!" Caroline exclaimed as Le Gantelet Rouge came in sight on the right-hand side of the road, out where the homes were humbler and further apart, where stone-fenced or hedged pastures and farm crops began to predominate.
"Uhm… cocher?" Lewrie called, leaning out his window. "I say, cocher. Arrкte, s'il vous plaоt… а le Gantelet Rouge. For dйjeuner."
"Mais oui, m'sieur," the lead coachman laconically replied as he slowed the horses and turned the coach into the large, shady yard in front of a two-storey stone inn with a slate roof, with a cool gallery to one side, and many outbuildings and barns.
"We will be awhile, erm… quelque temps?" Lewrie said to the coachmen once they had alit. "Ah… you're free to… "
"Faites comme vous voudrez messieurs" Caroline provided for him, explaining that while they took a long dinner and a rest from the ride on the hard benches, the coachmen could do as they will; have a bite themselves, some wine, and such. "Give them a few franc coins, Alan."
"Oh, right-ho," Lewrie agreed, handing up coins from his purse.
"The gallery looks inviting," Caroline commented as the entered the travellers' inn.
"Perhaps an inside table, Caroline. Out of sight from the road." "Yes, of course," she agreed, then looked at him with amusement.
"Right-ho, Alan? The Plumbs must be wearing off on you. You will be saying 'Begad,' 'Zounds,' and 'Stap me' next."
"Well, uhm… "
They shared a bottle of wine, lingering over it and making but guarded small talk. Half an hour later, and they ordered a plate of hors-d'oeuves, then a second bottle of wine when that was consumed. They ordered soup and bread, then opted for breaded veal and asparagus, to while away another hour. Le Gantelet Rouge boasted an ormolu clock on the high mantel, and its ticking, the slow progression of its minute hand, was maddening, after a while, 'til…
A coach could be heard entering the inn yard, wheels hissing and crunching over the fine gravel, and chains tinkling… bound to the rear of the inn, nearest the stables and well. Was it Sir Pulteney, was it soldiers? Both Alan and Caroline began to tremble despite their efforts not to, ready to bolt!
"Zounds, but there you are!" Sir Pulteney Plumb exclaimed very loudly as he bustled in the rear entrance, now in more modest travelling clothes and a light serge de Nоmes duster and wide-brimmed farmer's hat, which he swept off elegantly as he made a "leg" to them. "Told you the 'Red Gauntlet' sets a fine table, haw haw! And, here is my good lady! Begad, m'dear, but look who has stopped at the very same inn as us! Allow us to join you, for we are famished and as dry as dust." The Lewries had to sit and sip wine, order coffee to thin the alcohol fumes from what they had already taken aboard as Sir Pulteney and Lady Imogene ordered hearty full meals and dined as if they had all the time in the world.
"Now, for your coach and coachmen," Sir Pulteney said at last as he rose and moved to the front door. Lewrie followed him to see Sir Pulteney paying off their hired coach and ordering their luggage brought to the inn. "I told them that you found the inn so delightful, and the arrival of old friends so pleasant, that we would all be staying on the night, and coach to Le Havre together in the morning." Sir Pulteney explained after he returned. "They will rack back south to Paris a touch richer than they expected, and, God willing, your whereabouts ends here, haw haw!"
"What happens tomorrow, then?" Lewrie asked him.
"Not tomorrow, Captain Lewrie… what happens now is more to the Point," Sir Pulteney said with a sly expression as their luggage made its way through the inn, to the rear stableyard, and into the Plumbs' coach.