26. On the Road

Chapter twenty-six

On the Road

O nce again, Gyles was forced to prove his usefulness by finding a carriage for hire. The task was more difficult this time since the French language was a closed book to him. He followed his nose to a livery stable, and after pleading his case in English before a group of haughty French coachmen, finally found one who would take pity on him.

A mountain of a man rose from his seat on a barrel—bearded, stern, and smelling of horses, onions, and pipe tobacco. "Paris?"

Gyles nodded.

The man grunted and beckoned for Gyles to follow him. He brought him to the other side of the stable where an old but serviceable coach stood waiting. He gave Gyles a searching look.

Guessing rightly, Gyles dug into his pocket and drew out the remainder of the money Louisa had given to him.

The man shook his head at the British pounds. " Non. Francs. You will pay me en Paris ." Taking out a pipe and tobacco from a pouch, he lit it and let out a puff of smoke that swallowed Gyles whole like fog on the Thames.

Thus began their journey from the coast to the capital. Gyles sat up on the box with the driver and learned through monosyllables and gesticulation that the man's name was Jacques Martin. Their conversation could not go much further than that, and finding Jacques' cloud of tobacco more pungent than was desirable, Gyles spent most of his time with head turned away, observing the countryside.

Despite the French penchant for claiming superiority over everything English, the condition of the French roads was far worse than anything Gyles had ever encountered. These thoroughfares had not been tended to since Marie Antoinette lost her head, and probably not for decades prior. The trees and undergrowth often encroached on the road itself, leaving all sorts of low-hanging branches and leafy copses where danger could be concealed.

On the afternoon of the second day, Gyles was hoping to see new varieties of hedge roses, but instead he saw two horsemen ride out from the trees and make straight for them. Both men had dirty muslin scarves tied over their faces and pistols in one hand. Upon spotting them, Jacques immediately put down his pipe and began to whip up the horses as if the Furies themselves were riding behind.

"What's going on?" demanded Gyles.

" Les brigands! " Jacques fumbled with one hand in the oilcloth bag behind the seat. He kept his other hand on the swinging reins. Pulling out a flintlock pistol, he thrust it in Gyles' hands and then unearthed another one for himself. Apparently, the man had driven through this countryside enough times to come prepared .

"Er, do you really mean for me to shoot them?" asked Gyles, seeing that the pistol was primed and loaded.

Even if he had understood the question, Jacques was too busy urging his team on to answer. The two riders were close to the carriage now. The pounding hoofbeats of their horses diverged as each moved towards one side of the fast-paced coach. Gyles turned around in his seat. The fellow on his side had almost come parallel to the carriage window.

He hesitated. The gun felt foreign in his hand. He had a theoretical knowledge of how pistols worked, and he had even fired them once or twice. But his father had not been fond of hunting, and he had no brothers, cousins, or friends enamoured with shooting. There had never been occasion to become proficient with a flintlock.

The gigantic driver gripped the reins in his teeth and, wheeling about in the seat, sent a shot behind him, straight into the shoulder of the approaching highway marauder. The man let out a cry of pain, and his horse slowed and veered off the road again.

Gyles swallowed. Clearly, it was his responsibility to take down the man on the right side of the carriage. He levelled the pistol at the man's galloping figure and then jerked it upwards again. What if he missed and the man pried open Louisa's carriage door? What if he didn't miss and shot the man straight through the heart?

As the latter did not impinge on Louisa's safety, it seemed the lesser of two evils. He had just made up his mind to take the shot when a report rang out behind him. At first, he thought the highwayman must have fired, but craning his neck around, he saw that the second rider was slowing to a halt, reins slack, hands pressed against his thigh on which a dark spot was spreading .

Jacques continued driving at a brisk pace until they arrived at the next village. Then, screeching to a stop in front of the churchyard, he nodded at his companion.

Gyles leapt down from the seat with the speed of a greyhound and opened the carriage door. There was Louisa in her stylish carriage dress and bonnet, a short-barrelled pistol resting beside her on the bench. She was not in hysterics, as Penelope would have been, but Gyles was surprised to see her heart-shaped face so calm after such an ordeal.

"Was it you who fired?"

"Of course it was. Did you not have a weapon? Monsieur Martin certainly made sure that the inside of the carriage was well-equipped." She nodded to the rear of the carriage where the fellow to her pistol sat mounted in a holster secured to the wall.

"I was equipped with a weapon but without the skill to use it."

"Have you never fired a pistol? I thought you lived in Derbyshire. They must have pheasants there."

"Only a handful of times, not enough to be confident of hitting my mark from a careening carriage." It had never bothered Gyles before that he was not a crack shot, but for some reason, at this moment he felt hopelessly inadequate. He had thrust himself on Louisa Lymington to ensure her safety, and she had proven herself far more capable of taking care of herself than he was.

"Perhaps I ought to let you ride inside the coach," said Louisa cuttingly, "for your own protection."

"That won't be necessary," said Gyles, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment .

"Still determined to be a pebble in my shoe?" Louisa arched an eyebrow. She climbed out of the coach, pushed past Gyles, and approached the driver. " Merci beaucoup for your fine driving, monsieur ." She sent a meaningful look at Gyles. "I think those gentlemen of the road will think twice about accosting your coach again."

The laconic man tipped his hat to her, and Gyles caught a whiff of onions.

Later that night, as they were bedding down in the stables, Jacques approached Gyles. "Monsieur," he said gruffly. "My English is poor, but you claim to be un valet de pied, n'est-ce pas?"

"A footman?" guessed Gyles.

" Oui , but I think you are more than a…footman," Jacques said gruffly.

"I'm not sure why you think that," said Gyles cautiously. He shrugged his shoulders to shake off the straw sticking to his back. He did not particularly enjoy sleeping rough in the stables without a featherbed but he would not complain.

"And," continued Jacques. "I think you are less than a man." He thrust a short pistol in Gyles' direction along with a pouch of powder and shot. "You must become one."

"Arms make the man?" Gyles combed a hand through his chestnut hair.

"Le bon Dieu makes the man," said the coachman with a grunt. " Le bon Dieu and practise, Monsieur Pebble. I will teach you tomorrow, before we leave."

"Thank you," said Gyles, accepting the gift with good grace and tucking it into his satchel. He would have to rise early indeed to shoot targets with Monsieur Martin before they left in the morning. But to someday earn the praise of Lady Louisa—it would be worth it.