Death at the Wedding Feast by Deryn Lake

hat flew away and he was left with his cinnamon curls flying into a tangled whirl like those of a rain-soaked scarecrow. And finally that which he had been dreading throughout the whole terrible ordeal happened. A fox, startled by the sound of approach, bolted from its lair right at Strawberry’s feet. The stallion came to a dead stop and John whizzed over its head and on to the ground below, where he landed in a boggy piece of earth. Looking up dazedly he saw that Strawberry had turned and was bolting back to Exeter like a racehorse.
    â€˜Damn your eyes!’ he shouted at its retreating rear end. The horse whinnied and tossed its head to show how much it cared and continued on its journey at breakneck speed.
    Slowly and gingerly the Apothecary got to his feet, relieved to find that nothing was broken. Looking round him he discovered that he had reached the bottom of the hill on the top of which stood Elizabeth’s house. Walking carefully and somewhat painfully with no light to guide him except that of a new moon, John made his way upwards. He fell over six times during the journey, once landing in what he could only think was a dried-out cow pat. By this time he had acquired a hole in the knee of his breeches and his stockings were filthy and torn. And all the while the lights in Elizabeth’s home taunted him, never seeming to draw nearer however hard he tried to reach them. At long last he reached the main gates and rang the bell on the lodgekeeper’s cottage.
    He stood, panting in the darkness, while he heard two big bolts being drawn back and the eventual creak as the door opened. The lodgekeeper stood there, lantern raised on high. John stood rooted to the spot as he stared down the barrel of a blunderbuss.
    â€˜Don’t shoot, Harrison, for the love of God. It’s me, John Rawlings.’
    â€˜Get away you varmint. You tatterdemalion. Be off with you.’
    â€˜Harrison, please. It really is me. I was thrown by my horse and I’ve had to walk here.’
    The lantern was thrust right into his face so that John was forced to screw up his eyes, squinting at the brightness.
    â€˜Stap me, if it ain’t you. I’d never have recognized you, Sir. You look like a tramp.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ John answered with what little patience he could muster.
    â€˜You’d best come in, Sir, and have a bit of a wash before you goes to the big house. Mind you, Lady Elizabeth ain’t there.’
    â€˜She’s not? Where is she then? Do you know?’
    â€˜She went off in the carriage to see Lady Sidmouth and she hasn’t returned, Sir.’
    â€˜How long ago was this?’
    â€˜Three days, Sir.’
    â€˜Oh, hare and hounds, I haven’t missed another one,’ John said to himself.
    â€˜We don’t know, Sir. We ain’t had no word.’
    â€˜I’d better go there straight away.’
    â€˜Wash yourself first, Sir. They’ll not let you in else.’
    John looked at his reflection in a small mirror and allowed himself a shriek of horror at the sight he presented. Then he set to in an old tin bowl and kettle full of hot water, stripping off until he had managed somehow to remove the top layer of dirt. He surveyed his clothes as he put them back on. There was no help for it. He would have to go to the big house and change into something that he had left behind on his previous visit, his trunk being left in Exeter to be brought the next day by a man with a cart.
    Plodding up the drive with Harrison lighting his way, John suddenly felt exhausted. Every step he took hurt and by the time he reached the grandeur of Withycombe House, the Marchesa’s great and stately dwelling, he felt fit to faint. The head footman took one look at him and immediately ordered him to bed.
    â€˜But Lady Elizabeth . . .’
    â€˜Sir,’ said the footman firmly, ‘’twill make no difference if you go tonight or not. Anxious as we all are