I guess I should mention the title I'm using at the moment is just something of a makeweight, so I don't have to put untitled. I'll think of a title some other time. Current ideas include "Half-Cocked Boy", "Lone Marauder" and the eternal classic...."Mandy Told Me To Call This Book 'The Story Of How I Almost Got Killed By A Car'" (don't ask). Anyway, comments, opinions and critiques appreciated.
Personally I reckon this needs a lot more fleshing out, but at the moment this is a first draft for the first chapter and will probably be much longer by the time I go back and edit it. But I trust you guys enough to help me out with that.
Terrance Cavendish sucked his pipe thoughtfully, before letting out a steady stream of smoke his mouth. “And why, pray tell, do you think I should take this child with me on my journeys?” he inquired, adding a unrestrained chuckle as if he had just been requested to sign away his estate.
A middle-aged woman with a flushed face stood facing Cavendish, who was himself sitting comfortably. In front of her stood a pale, blonde haired girl who looked as if she wanted to run away. “Oh Terrance, believe me, I do not want to inconvenience you but she has no one else to stay with and you are her uncle,” she replied desperately.
Cavendish looked almost offended. “My dear, do not be audacious enough to think that you can reprimand me for lack of responsibility – I know perfectly well my relation with the child,” he retorted, “But as you know too well I am an awfully busy man, with many clients to see today before the sun sets.”
“She is a quiet child and she will not disturb your business matters,” replied the woman, beginning to stand up to Cavendish’s bullying, “Isn’t that right, Eleanor?”
The child nodded her innocent face rigorously as if to tell Cavendish there was no chance of any argument.
Cavendish response was to sigh heavily, suggesting that this whole conversation was a total bore and the whole episode was wholly unimportant and a nuisance to his attention. “She can read, yes?”
“Of course.”
“She can do simple arithmetic, yes?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “You know she can. She was brought up in a good household.”
“Then perhaps she may be of a little use. My secretary is indisposed after somehow obtaining a bad illness, and I have nobody except Jeremy to help me with the accounts. But believe me, Margaret, I will work this child hard and with little rest, for that is the nature of my occupation,” lectured Cavendish.
Margaret said, “And she will show you what a hard-working, obedient young lady she is. I will be back from the capital tomorrow to take her off your hands.”
“What of the matter of assistants? I have none to spare.”
“Her maid can join your staff for the night.”
“I suppose all arrangements are in order. Unfortunately I shall have to be departing very soon, and the child will have no opportunity for breakfasting. Alas, another detriment of business,” Cavendish said, opening his hands as if to say that while it could be hard, he was capable of doing it.
Margaret soon after made her farewells and left Eleanor with Cavendish in the long hall. It was used as a greeting room for guests, and it was decorated on almost every wall space available by grand paintings of former owners, interspersed with tall windows that revealed the estate gardens. It was a dominating area and dwarfed the little girl, and she stared in wonder at the lavish chandeliers and mahogany furniture. Cavendish ignored her and called for a servant to pour him a glass of brandy.
There was a long silence as he sipped his drink, before she was ordered to follow him outside and they made their way into the hall, where a lad of only sixteen waited nervously, holding several briefcases and a collection of papers.
“Ah! Jeremy. This is Eleanor, my niece, she will be assisting us for the day,” Cavendish said, waving his hand vaguely at the girl, but speaking more cheerfully than in his conversation with Margaret, “Make your job easier, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Jeremy answered respectfully, glancing briefly at Eleanor before returning his attention to juggling the items in his hands. Cavendish beckoned them to follow as he gave the front doors a hefty push and walked out into the courtyard where a black carriage awaited. In the background a pebbled carriage circle surrounded a circular grassy knoll, complete with an arrangement of late summer flowers.
A servant held the door open and Cavendish climbed in and sat down, while Jeremy sat across from him and Eleanor was helped in next to the young lad. The driver whipped the reins and the clatter of horseshoes against stone signalled the beginning of their journey.
Inside the carriage it was dark, but outside the morning sunshine lit up the grass and the driveway and the brown horses, and was assisted by the beautiful blue sky, which refused to be subdued by the threat of clouds moving from the southeast. The conversation inside was boring, about debts and finance, so Eleanor decided the open a small gap in the curtains to steal a view. She watched a group of men as they cut down an age-old oak tree, the tall plant groaning as it fell down. Further on, the horizon was an oscillator of rolling hills, an almost hypnotic wave. Eleanor was transfixed by its simple charm.
They movement was slow, but gradual, and an hour or so later the driver pronounced they were over halfway towards the town Sidburgh, where Cavendish would have a weekly meeting with his clerk to discuss the progress of his investments. Eleanor’s interest only peaked up when they were reached a roadblock, where she looked at to see a man dressed in black livery challenging the driver. She couldn’t hear what they were arguing about, but luckily the driver request Cavendish to sort them out, and soon after they began to move.
Her uncle came back and sat down with a furrow on his brow. “Sheriff was trying to prevent us crossing free country! Just because of some reports of highwaymen. Bah! What is this country coming to?”
Jeremy tentatively said: “Shouldn’t we be worried, sir?”
“Worried? About what? Some untrained, good-for-nothing pickpockets?” Cavendish countered, hitting his fist onto his thigh as he did so. “No, my young boy, they won’t touch us. They rely on fear, and hapless victims, and I am neither scared nor willing to be victimised,” he added with an air of finality.
“But we have no guards or weapons…” Jeremy started, before being startled by Cavendish’s response.
“God damn it, boy! I make this journey four times a month and I’ve never been held up once. Besides, I have a pistol hidden in my boot,” he said with an aggravated tone, tapping his black leather left boot with quiet assurance. “Now, back to the matter of rent in the West sector…”
Eleanor ignored them after that. What her uncle had said about carrying a firearm had sent a little chill down her spine, but that was dwarfed by the sudden grip of fear she had of being robbed, as they lay helpless in this small, vulnerable carriage. She would have nowhere to run and a flood of panic suddenly engulfed her and she tried to hide it from the two men sitting near her, but she had started shaking and Cavendish gave her a strange look.
“What the blazes is the matter, girl?”
Eleanor didn’t answer; instead she put her head in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.
Cavendish just watched as if she had contracted a bad-smelling disease, but Jeremy decided to act and put his arm around the shoulders of Eleanor, and asked her: “What’s wrong, little one?”
She just shook her head. Cavendish looked at Jeremy angrily, and Jeremy looked ready to protest before he realised the carriage had stopped, and there was the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked.
*****
Captain McKenna rolled the body over with his foot and stared down at the clean cut on the man’s throat. “He’s good,” McKenna murmured to his compatriot, “Very good.”
The other man grunted in reluctant agreement. “We’ll still catch him either way. No one has ever escaped us yet.”
McKenna crouched down to the immobile figure, and inspected the cut across his throat. He then looked at the slide mark, which had been carved through the dirt, and further on where there was an unnatural disturbance of leaves, and flattened vegetation. “He lay here,” McKenna said, “And managed to move quickly enough over to where Joe was walking and kill him before Joe could react.”
“How do we know Joe didn’t see him? Or fire a shot? Or that they didn’t fight and the highwayman just got a lucky stroke?” replied the other man, a stocky figure with a bald head.
McKenna pointed to the ground around the dead man. “Listen and learn, Renno. There is no evidence of a struggle, since the ground and the leaves are undisturbed. If you check his musket, you will find it loaded and still half-cocked. I sincerely doubt he had the time and space to load his musket again. Also, I could find no powder residue in his barrel. The angle of the cut suggests that it was from behind, and not a jab or slash from the front. Finally, his pupils are dilated. Joe was killed by surprise.”
Renno had listened in silence as McKenna talked, and now nodded respectfully at the old tracker’s wisdom. “Joe was no slacker, either. A good man,” the bald man said in response. McKenna nodded in sombre agreement. Renno glanced behind him, through the trees, where he could make out a still black carriage. “Aren’t we going to capture him? He might escape if we wait too long.”
“He’s got nowhere to go – I have men strategically placed around the whole area.”
“Those people’s lives are in danger,” challenged Renno.
“From my reports, this man only kills if people threaten his own life. Unless the people in that carriage do something stupid, I’m willing to take the risk.”
“I still don’t understand why we don’t take him now.”
“He’ll have a harder time travelling with goods upon him; also, his pistols are loaded,” replied McKenna mysteriously, walking away before the bald man had time to query the baffling answer.
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