Page 13 of The Traitor
Three
As Sebastian listened to Miss Danforth prattle on about quilting parties and old women who held “knitting meets” with their familiars, he wondered if Wellington himself might not be behind the recent series of duels.
Sebastian’s first year of repatriation had been calm enough. The worst he’d suffered had been scornful looks, the cut direct here and there, a smattering of snide asides—the very same fare served him during his initial months with the French Army. A few months ago, the tenor of the abuse had become more lethal, as if somebody important had gone down a list of post-war grudges and come to Sebastian’s name.
“I have not seen you knitting, Miss Danforth, for all that you claim to have won these knitting races.” Inane talk, this, but she was trying not to cry, and Sebastian would aid her as best he could.
“I knit at night now, when I can’t sleep. I do the piecework during the day, when the light is better.”
“I have seen the old sailors, sitting with their tankards, knitting away as if their hands belonged to somebody else. I have seen the old women, too, knitting while cannonballs flew over their heads. Knitting must be powerful medicine for the mind.”
“Why on earth would old women be knitting in the midst of cannon fire? Why would old women even be within hearing of cannon fire?”
Her indignation was a tonic. Every soul on earth ought to regard the combination of old women and cannon fire with outrage. The human race should go to bed each night praying tolebonDieusuch a tragedy never befell any of their members again.
Though it would, human nature being incorrigibly foolish.
“I commanded a small garrison in the mountains of southwestern France. For much of the war, we had little to do but serve as a place for troops going into Spain to eat and rest.” He told this lie smoothly, because he’d rehearsed it often in his mind, which made it no less mendacious. “Some officers brought their wives to the post, and we had our share of laundresses and cooks, the same as any army.”
Whores, most of them, and God bless them for it.
“I cannot fathom women in the midst of warfare.”
Miss Danforth looked less grim and peaked to contemplate this topic than to contemplate the loss of her aunts. Sebastian brought the phaeton to a halt in deference to a donkey disinclined to proceed into an intersection. The ragman at the beast’s head was cursing fluently, but in such a thick Cockney accent, Sebastian doubted Miss Danforth could comprehend it.
“Look around you, Miss Danforth. You see the strolling gentlemen, the shop boys, the tigers and grooms, the fellows milling about outside that tavern? Pretend they’re all gone—not a fellow left in sight. Now pretend your job is to kill the enemy, or be killed by her, day in and day out. How long do you think it would take for that combination, of warfare all around and not a single member of the opposite sex among you, to become untenable?”
The ragman lifted a whip from the cart’s seat and came around to brandish it at the donkey.
“War is untenable,” she said. “I cannot see how anybody stands to raise a weapon at somebody who has done them no wrong, much less pull the trigger.”
The whip came down on the beast’s shoulder, viciously hard, and Miss Danforth turned her head away. Had she not been beside him, Sebastian would have already been out of his vehicle. He passed her the reins, leaped down, and approached the donkey. The beast was tiny, its hide scarred and its tail matted with burrs. Outside the tavern on the corner—the Wild Hare—bets were being placed, probably over how many lashes it would take to get the animal moving or kill it.
The whip came up again.
“How much?”
At Sebastian’s question, the ragman lowered the whip and turned a puzzled frown over his shoulder. “Beg pardon, guv. I’ll have the beast moving directly, see if I don’t.”
He raised the whip again, but Sebastian forestalled the next blow by the simple expedient of snatching the whip from the man’s hand. “How much for the beast?”
Simon gestured for his tiger, and the boy came to heel quickly, no stranger to these encounters. Simon passed the lad the whip, because sometimes a man needed two fists on short notice.
“Yer want t’buy ’er?”
“Howmuch?”
The ragman dressed to advertise his trade in an assemblage of fabrics that, had they been clean, would have been colorful enough for any tinker. Rheumy blue eyes turned crafty. “I’ve met your kind. You like to beat ’em, like to beat the wenches too.”
The donkey stood quietly, head hanging, while the gallery at the pub had gone silent.
“I do appreciate the necessity for the occasional display of violence,” Sebastian said, stroking a hand over the animal’s shaggy gray fur. “But I like my opponent to be able to fight back, not trussed up in harness, a bit in her mouth, and a whip in my hand.”
On the seat of the phaeton, Miss Danforth was perfectly composed. The team stood placidly in the traces, suggesting not even her hands conveyed nervousness.
“Two quid.”
Exorbitant for a beast broken in spirit, foundered, and underfed. Sebastian flicked a glance at the tiger, who produced the requisite funds. “You have two minutes to unhitch your cart.”
