box today, mind. Market day, me pet.’ The old woman’s eyes grew crafty. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It might be best to check. Make sure you take the third turn on your right. It will take you straight there. Otherwise it is a long ways around and there are bad folks about.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Lottie pressed the woman’s hand. ‘I really appreciate your kindness. I am sure I will find him now.’
‘I hope you do, pet. There are them that don’t.’ The woman smiled, a cruel smile. ‘You can always come back and finds me. I will offer you a good home. You come back here and tell that there landlord Mother Hetts will give you a place to rest your pretty golden head.’
Lottie stepped over a pile of muck and turned her back on the woman and crowded yard, hurrying away from that evil place as quickly as she could. She would not think about ‘them that don’t’ and ‘a good home’. She could do this. She was capable. It would be no worse than going for a walk in Haydon Bridge. She would find the constable and explain. He could discover Tristan’s whereabouts while she waited. She would be safe.
The market-day crowd jostled her, but she kept on walking, relieved to be taking action instead of standing there panicking. She released her breath and tried to ignore the stares, acutely aware that her paisley dress was more fit for carriages than walking. Several women wrapped in woollen shawls and carrying baskets stared at her and put their heads together, whispering and pointing.
A carriage with a young girl and her mother in it swept past, splashing mud on the hem of her gown. Lottie gave a small cry and jumped back. Then she stooped and tried to wipe it off as men stopped and stared. A man said something unintelligble, but Lottie shook her head. She glanced back over her shoulder towards the inn, but it had been swallowed up by the crowd. She couldn’t go back and she had no guarantee that Tristan would even be looking for her. Once she found a constable, things could be put right. All this unpleasantness would be a bad dream.
Several of the market goers jostled her. Lottie continued on, holding her reticule close, trying not to think about the beggars and thieves. She saw the opening, more of an alleyway than a street. She hesitated, then chided herself for being a ninny. The elderly woman had been quite specific with her directions. She plunged into the narrow street. It was imperative that she find the constable as quickly as possible.
‘Going my way, my pretty dove?’ a gin-soaked voice asked. ‘See here, Fred, a fresh dolly bird has flown into our nest.’
‘Ain’t never been paid to do this before.’ The innkeeper looked skeptical, but he pocketed the coins that Tristan pushed forwards on the bar.
‘As long as it is done tomorrow morning, I don’t mind.’ Tristan pressed his hands against the bar and leant forward so that he was close to the unshaven jowls of the innkeeper. ‘I always pay my debts, keep my promises and never forget a favour or an injury.’
‘You had that look about you.’ Sweat broke out on the innkeeper’s face. ‘I will do what you ask. And your lady friend, she is your wife, isn’t she? I run a decent establishment.’
Tristan glanced around at the bar where a motley group of farm labourers, card sharps and ladies of the night were arranged. Blue smoke hung in the air. In one corner, a woman warbled a forlorn song. ‘Your opinion and mine may differ as to decent.’
‘Are you saying that I cheat my customers?’ The man wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘I ought to have you thrown out of here.’
‘But you won’t. I paid in advance and far more than that room is worth.’
The innkeeper licked his lips. ‘That you did, that you did, and I don’t say nothing to a paying customer.’
‘It is how I want it.’
A moment of unease about the deception he was playing on Lottie passed over Tristan, but he pushed it away. He was doing what was right. One short sharp shock for Lottie Charlton and their married life would be far happier. It was easier if she learnt lessons now, before it was too late.
Tristan went back to the yard, filled his lungs with clean air and swore. Loud and long. No blonde in a paisley silk afternoon dress, straw bonnet with a satchel by her side. No woman of quality waited there.
Tristan pressed his lips together. He had expected her to be there—spitting fury with her eyes perhaps to be left in the yard on her own, but to be there. He tried to think clearly. Robinson would have obeyed him. He would not have taken her with him. Tristan swore again, wishing he had told Robinson to stop and explain once he had left the yard. A mistake, but one he could not undo.
He had been gone longer than he anticipated, but not that long. She had gone. He had been mistaken.
A hard tight knot came into his throat. He had counted on her being different. He did not think she would have abandoned him so easily, not after the stand she had made at the hotel. He gave one more sweeping glance of the yard. Next time he would remember about the perfidy of women.
‘Lost something, pet?’ an elderly woman crooned to him. ‘A trinket? A pretty little dove? I know where you can find another. Mother Hetts knows everything about little doves, she does.’
‘There was a woman here. A blonde woman, well dressed. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’
‘Can’t remembering having seen anyone of that description.’ The woman gave a shrug of her thin shoulder and her watery eyes turned crafty. ‘Then my memory ain’t what it used to be. Lots of folks searching for things today. Always asking Mother Hetts if she’s seen this or that. Can’t be expected to remember. It’s market day.’
The old woman gave a cackle, reminding him of a demented hen. The crackle went straight through him. He swung back and advanced towards the woman, whose crackling abruptly ceased.
‘You know something. Where did she go?’ Tristan advanced towards, his hands flexing at his sides, longing for something to hit. ‘Would a coin help to recover that memory of yours?’
‘May do? May not?’ The old woman rocked back and forth. ‘It is amazing what silver coin can do for my memory.’
Tristan reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling, holding it beyond the reach of the woman. ‘The truth. Quickly.’
‘I sent her to the parish constable…if she can find him. Mother Hetts looks after the little doves, she does,’ the woman said, holding her basket in front of her face. ‘She was looking for someone who was missing. Right concerned she was. Nearly in tears. Poor little dove. Are you lost?’
Tristan tossed her the coin. She caught it with expert claws, tested it as Tristan’s insides twisted. He had not considered the possibility that Lottie might wonder about his whereabouts and worry. He had to find her and quickly. There was no telling what trouble she might encounter.
‘Bless and keep you, sir. You are a real gentleman. If you don’t find her, I can always get you another pretty dove.’
Tristan pushed past a cart and horse blocking the entrance to the yard, and went out into the street. His blood pounded in his head.
She had to be there. She could not have gone far. That old crone would not spend for ever in the yard.
