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Authors: Lynn Kerstan
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on the tor, spying on her the way she was spying on Duran.
Once she was nearly certain she had spotted a dun-colored figure crouched behind an outcropping of stone. But when she rose to take a better look, there was only a clump of bracken. The next morning she saw a flash, and then another, like sunlight reflecting off glass, from a hill the other side of where the gentlemen were gathered. For a long time she focused her gaze on that hill, but no more flashes caught her eye.
Duran had got on her nerves, she decided. That would explain it. But the sensation of being observed grew stronger, and on the third morning she abandoned the desolate tors and joined a snoozing Lord Marley at the crest of a grassy hill overlooking the target range. There, in the shade provided by a pair of oaks, were three high-backed benches mounded with cushions and a low table laid out with apples and pears.
Spying in comfort , thought Jessica, settling down with a pear to the accompaniment of Lord Marley’s snores. Below, perhaps fifty yards away, the sportsmen clustered in groups, drinking mugs of brandy-laced coffee and placing wagers.
The serious business of bagging partridges and gray grouse would not begin until tomorrow, she knew. Sothingdon shooting parties followed a predictable schedule. Yesterday the men had gone after the elusive Dartmoor hares, and today would be devoted to pigeon trapshooting.
There was no mistaking Duran, the midmorning sunlight gilding his hair as he prowled among the drabber beasts of the field. Waiting quietly to one side, laden with powder flask, shot belt, and a pair of rifles, was his loader, the young Hindu who had accompanied him to High Tor.
The other Hindu stood alone on the same bare hillock where Jessica had seen him each day, as still as a pillar of salt in his long white tunic and snowy turban. Lord Duran’s valet, according to the servants, all of whom were in awe of the man. He never ate meat, they said, and he had healed Bridget’s runny eyes with drops and soothed the turn boy’s burned hands with an ointment he taught the boy’s mother to make, and he spoke the King’s English like Quality except for some words he didn’t know. He asked polite enough, though, and smiled when the words weren’t the sort you could say in front of the vicar. He put them in mind of a vicar, come to think of it, heathen though he be.
She’d wanted to learn more about Duran’s odd attendants, but even under her father’s benign rule, gossiping with the servants was frowned upon. Mostly by the servants themselves, she had realized when the talkative footman she’d been plying for information was shushed by the parlor maid.
Duran, looking relaxed, was conversing with John Pageter and two other gentlemen while servants unloaded three large wooden boxes from a wagon and carried them to a spot about thirty yards beyond where the men were standing. Not long after, the first pigeon was loosed and promptly brought down by her father’s bullet. In turn, each of the gentlemen took a shot, with Duran among the few who missed.
He missed his second shot as well, laughing when Sir Gareth offered the use of his spectacles. He made a show of assuming the proper stance on his third try. This time the pigeon fell. With a theatrical gesture of relief, he bowed to an enthusiastic round of applause.
“Well, then,” said Lord Marley, who had awakened at the first shot. “I have won two hundred guineas and lost half of it back. The young man appears to be finding his range.”
“You were betting on Lord Duran?”
“Against him. Nearly all the wagering is focused on Duran, him being a stranger and an erratic shot. He don’t mind losing, though, I’ll give him that much.”
“Has he lost a great deal?”
“To be precise, he’s missing, not losing. Says he foreswore gaming, but doesn’t object if others use him for their own wagers. It’s young Pageter who’s playing deep. Owes me twelve hundred already, and
Once she was nearly certain she had spotted a dun-colored figure crouched behind an outcropping of stone. But when she rose to take a better look, there was only a clump of bracken. The next morning she saw a flash, and then another, like sunlight reflecting off glass, from a hill the other side of where the gentlemen were gathered. For a long time she focused her gaze on that hill, but no more flashes caught her eye.
Duran had got on her nerves, she decided. That would explain it. But the sensation of being observed grew stronger, and on the third morning she abandoned the desolate tors and joined a snoozing Lord Marley at the crest of a grassy hill overlooking the target range. There, in the shade provided by a pair of oaks, were three high-backed benches mounded with cushions and a low table laid out with apples and pears.
Spying in comfort , thought Jessica, settling down with a pear to the accompaniment of Lord Marley’s snores. Below, perhaps fifty yards away, the sportsmen clustered in groups, drinking mugs of brandy-laced coffee and placing wagers.
The serious business of bagging partridges and gray grouse would not begin until tomorrow, she knew. Sothingdon shooting parties followed a predictable schedule. Yesterday the men had gone after the elusive Dartmoor hares, and today would be devoted to pigeon trapshooting.
There was no mistaking Duran, the midmorning sunlight gilding his hair as he prowled among the drabber beasts of the field. Waiting quietly to one side, laden with powder flask, shot belt, and a pair of rifles, was his loader, the young Hindu who had accompanied him to High Tor.
The other Hindu stood alone on the same bare hillock where Jessica had seen him each day, as still as a pillar of salt in his long white tunic and snowy turban. Lord Duran’s valet, according to the servants, all of whom were in awe of the man. He never ate meat, they said, and he had healed Bridget’s runny eyes with drops and soothed the turn boy’s burned hands with an ointment he taught the boy’s mother to make, and he spoke the King’s English like Quality except for some words he didn’t know. He asked polite enough, though, and smiled when the words weren’t the sort you could say in front of the vicar. He put them in mind of a vicar, come to think of it, heathen though he be.
She’d wanted to learn more about Duran’s odd attendants, but even under her father’s benign rule, gossiping with the servants was frowned upon. Mostly by the servants themselves, she had realized when the talkative footman she’d been plying for information was shushed by the parlor maid.
Duran, looking relaxed, was conversing with John Pageter and two other gentlemen while servants unloaded three large wooden boxes from a wagon and carried them to a spot about thirty yards beyond where the men were standing. Not long after, the first pigeon was loosed and promptly brought down by her father’s bullet. In turn, each of the gentlemen took a shot, with Duran among the few who missed.
He missed his second shot as well, laughing when Sir Gareth offered the use of his spectacles. He made a show of assuming the proper stance on his third try. This time the pigeon fell. With a theatrical gesture of relief, he bowed to an enthusiastic round of applause.
“Well, then,” said Lord Marley, who had awakened at the first shot. “I have won two hundred guineas and lost half of it back. The young man appears to be finding his range.”
“You were betting on Lord Duran?”
“Against him. Nearly all the wagering is focused on Duran, him being a stranger and an erratic shot. He don’t mind losing, though, I’ll give him that much.”
“Has he lost a great deal?”
“To be precise, he’s missing, not losing. Says he foreswore gaming, but doesn’t object if others use him for their own wagers. It’s young Pageter who’s playing deep. Owes me twelve hundred already, and
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