May 1817
A letter arrived for Childermass from Marlowe of the Derby Magical Society the next morning. He was indisposed, the letter claimed, but would be sending another magician in his place who would arrive that very afternoon.
Childermass frowned at the letter, his toast and eggs forgotten for the moment. "Have you ever heard of this fellow Brandon?"
Segundus shook his head. "No, but that is no surprise. I have never met any of the Derby Magical Society."
"But have you read anything he has published? Any articles or essays?"
"Perhaps he is a new member," Segundus suggested.
"Aye," said Childermass. His troubled expression remained, but he did not broach the subject for the rest of breakfast.
Vinculus was still in his room sleeping off the aftereffects of the wine Childermass had bought him, so Segundus and Childermass paid a visit to Ainsworth at Yew Tree Farm. They got directions easily enough from Mr. Fawlty (but only after Segundus turned the full force of his society accent on him once more) and arrived there before midday. As Segundus did not have a horse and was unsure about riding Brewer, and as Childermass refused to ride while Segundus walked, they both went on foot.
Yew Tree Farm had a cobbled-together look, as though the building of the farmhouse was a project that had been started and abandoned many times, and each time it was started up again, different materials were used and a different plan was followed. The stones were many shades of brown and grey, and the roof was not all one angle. In one place, the walls jutted out in odd directions. It gave the appearance of the room within turning askew so it lay out of alignment with its neighbors. A vegetable garden wrapped around the front of the house to one side, and the other side was taken up by a chicken pen. A great clucking arose from the pen as Segundus and Childermass approached the front door.
Childermass rapped sharply on the weathered wooden door, and it opened in short order. A harried-looking woman in a working-dress and apron stood in the doorway. A cap covered half of her dark hair, and her hands were reddened from scrubbing. "Yes?" she asked impatiently.
"We're here to see Mr. Ainsworth," said Childermass. "Could you tell us where he might be?"
The woman eyed them suspiciously. "What's this about? Are you meeting him for tea?"
"No, madam," Childermass said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "We do not have an appointment with him, for tea or otherwise."
"What business do you have with him, then?"
"We just have a few questions for him."
The woman crossed her arms. "What's the nature of these questions?"
Segundus sensed a growing surliness in Childermass and decided he ought to step in. "We are historians," he invented quickly. "We are writing an article about the history of this area, and we wanted to talk with Mr. Ainsworth about the legacy of Yew Tree Farm. I understand the Ainsworth family has held it for several generations…"
The woman sighed. "Very well. Peter's in the barn out back." She gave them another once-over and raised her eyebrows at what she saw. "Mind your step, gentlemen."
Childermass smiled coldly at her. "I'm no gentleman." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode out of the yard and toward the barn. Segundus gave the woman a bobbing sort of half-bow and hurried after him.
The barn, at least, looked like it was constructed with a purpose in mind, though that purpose did not appear to be the housing of animals and farm equipment. Segundus was not entirely sure what its purpose was, but it seemed singularly unsuitable for use as a barn. It smelled of animals and dung, and the air inside clung damply to his face and hands. A wide pasture crisscrossed with wooden fences lay on the other side of the barn, and beyond that stretched a rolling sheep-field dotted with the white smudges of sheep. A man labored within, shoveling straw with a pitchfork. His height was hard to determine, bent over as he was, but he appeared to be at least a few inches taller than Segundus. His hair was a ruddy color, and he had the sort of muscles that farm-hands or dock-workers had— the sort that built up with repeated hard labor. He did not look much like a craftsman, but Segundus supposed that appearances could be deceiving. He abandoned his work, leaning on his pitchfork, as Childermass and Segundus approached.
"Peter Ainsworth?" Childermass asked. The man nodded curtly. "I am Childermass, and this is Mr. Segundus, of the Learned Society of York Magicians. We have some questions for you."
Ainsworth squinted at them as though he could ascertain the truth of Childermass's words if he looked hard enough. "What about?"
"We are making inquiries into the nature of the Johannite rebellion that is rumored to be brewing here," said Childermass.
"And you decided to come to me?"
"I have it on good authority that you are involved with the Johannites."
Ainsworth raised an eyebrow. "May I know the name of my accuser?"
"You may not," Childermass said. "Firstly, what is the nature of your involvement?"
Ainsworth watched them with a wary eye for a moment. "Alright, I will admit it. Yes, I'm a Johannite. Why is that of interest to you?"
Segundus was somewhat taken aback by this proud proclamation. He had been given to understand that it would be more difficult to wrangle a confession, but Ainsworth had quite plainly declared it. Fortunately, Childermass seemed to know how to proceed.
"It is of interest to us because you believe you have England's best interests at heart," said Childermass. "And I disagree."
"Agree or disagree as you like. You will not change my beliefs."
"I'm not here to change your beliefs, only to persuade you to consider your actions."
Ainsworth gave an encouraging sort of nod, smiling tolerantly, as though prompting Childermass to continue. Childermass hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but that was long enough to let Segundus know that Childermass felt as wrong-footed as he did.
"Most Johannites count themselves as followers of the Raven King. Do you as well, Mr. Ainsworth?"
Ainsworth nodded again. "I do. My mother was from the North, and I was raised on his stories and legends, moreso than most in the Midlands. I was glad to hear of his return."
"I confess I was too. I have long hoped for his return, and for the return of magic. It has been the primary focus of my adult life."
"I can understand that well enough," Ainsworth said sympathetically.
"Aye," Childermass agreed, "I believe we understand each other very well, up to a point. Where we differ is regarding what ought to be done now that he is here once more."
"Indeed, sir. You believe that we ought to let the dust settle, as it were, don't you?"
Childermass nodded once, sharply. "England is fragile, sir. There has been altogether too much turmoil in the past years, between other groups of Johannites, the war, and certainly the events of the past several months. The country cannot handle yet more disruption."
"It's precisely because of that fragility, as you put it, that we must act now. Don't you see that we cannot wait?" Ainsworth heaved a deep sigh and leaned more heavily on his pitchfork. "We cannot allow the dust to settle, for it'll do so in ways disfavorable to us— and not just us, but men like us in all corners of the country. We're not so different than the unions in the South."
"Do not cast me as some kind of union-buster," Childermass growled. "I have no more love for such men than you do."
"Aye, I believe that well enough," said Ainsworth. "Even so, I believe we are at an impasse, Mr. Childermass. You cannot stop me through any method other than violence. But there's a very simple way to solve our conundrum, y'see. I have heard your arguments against rebellion, but you have yet to hear mine in favor of it."
Segundus looked anxiously between Childermass and Ainsworth. He felt very much outside of the conversation, scarcely more than a spectator. He rather resented being ignored, but at the same time, he was not sure he wanted to be part of it. He had no idea what he might say, and he overall felt entirely out of his depth. But Childermass was speaking again, and Segundus had no more time for such ruminations.
"I do not wish to hear them," Childermass said, "for I already know what they are."
"Forgive me, but I don't think you do." Ainsworth pulled a pocket-watch from within his jacket and studied it for a moment. "I've some time. Walk with me for a spell, sirs, if you would."
Childermass glanced at Segundus, who nodded. They followed Ainsworth out of the barn and through the sheep-field beyond, treading a narrow, winding path that cut its way uncertainly through the grasses. A low stone wall covered in moss circled the field, and the path led to a wooden gate, which protested as Ainsworth swung it open. The path continued beyond the wall, following the curves and slopes of the land. After perhaps four or five minutes of walking, a small pond with a copse of trees to one side came into view.
"How charming," Segundus said as they approached, then immediately cursed himself for his idiocy. Ainsworth wouldn't want to hear how charming the pond was, as though it were some sort of fashionable decoration.
But Ainsworth merely smiled in agreement and said, "especially so in the summer, when the frogs sing all night long." He sat down beneath a tree and leaned back against its trunk, then tilted his head as though to invite Childermass and Segundus to sit as well. Childermass selected a spot where he might view Ainsworth in profile, and after some hesitation, Segundus followed suit. Silence settled over the copse, and Segundus wondered if he should break it.
As it turned out, Ainsworth was the first to speak. "I wonder if you know, I used to be a weaver at the textile mill?"
"Aye," said Childermass. "You lost your job and moved back to your family's farm."
Ainsworth nodded. "It had been abandoned for some time. It took a great deal of work to restore it to its present condition."
Segundus found his voice for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. "Is that why you became a Johannite? Losing your job?"
"Mmm. Partially. I like to think we would have ended up here either way, but I suppose we'll never know."
"You have said we don't know your reasoning for rebellion," said Childermass with a touch of impatience. "Enlighten us, if you would, sir."
A ghost of a smile crossed Ainsworth's face. "As you wish. We seek a better England; that much you know and also desire. But in order to do so, we must confront the injustices we all of us face every day, and we must refuse to submit to them any longer. That is what you don't grasp, begging your pardon. It has been said of Johannites that we only want destruction and chaos, but that's not true. We aren't rebelling against modernity, or machinery, or whatever else the papers might say about us."
"What injustices do you face?" Segundus asked. Childermass shot him an irritated look, and he flushed at his own impertinence. To ask a man to detail all the small ways in which the world injured him! Oh, he was making a mess of things.
Ainsworth did not seem put off, though— quite to the contrary, he seemed pleased. "Well, I lost my job with no notice, no protection, and no security. That is an injustice, isn't it?"
Segundus, who had experienced something similar at the hands of the very man seated next to him, couldn't help but agree.
"Working men are paid barely enough to survive," Ainsworth continued. "And even so, we may be handed our walking papers on a whim, or because the factory owner no longer wishes to pay us when he can profit more by purchasing a machine. To lose one's livelihood for the sake of lining another man's pockets, to be told that your very life is worth less than what a machine can produce in a year… that, sirs, is an injustice too great to be borne."
Segundus, against his better judgement, found himself greatly swayed by Ainsworth's words. He called to mind all of the grievances that had been committed against him and could not deny that many of them had been at Norrell's direction. Certainly stripping Segundus of his livelihood had not benefited Norrell in a monetary sense, but it had maintained Norrell's monopoly on modern magic. In this, Segundus felt a sudden kinship with Ainsworth and a frustration at all the wrongs that could never be righted.
Childermass seemed to guess the direction of his thoughts, for he shot Segundus a look of warning. Segundus reined himself in. They had a mission, and that mission was not to join the Johannites— quite the opposite, in fact.
"I understand your intentions are good," Childermass said. "Admirable, even. But men have been executed for Johannite activity. This rebellion can only end in death, most likely your own. Why keep going when it is futile?"
Ainsworth looked at him with a rather startling expression of pity. "Aye, it may be futile, and so may the next rebellion, and the next," he said. "But our cause is right and just. It is loyalty to myself and my friends that drives me. It is the love of my family, and the Raven King, and the land he rules. Futile you call it, and futile it may be, but I could not do otherwise."
Segundus stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He could formulate no response to such a declaration. Had anything ever driven me that way? he wondered. He did not think so. He was a small, common man with small, common interests. His goals in life were not ambitious. He wanted only the latitude to pursue his chosen career with freedom and study magic without being restricted by others' ideas of who may or may not do so.
But was that not precisely what Ainsworth had described? Was it not an injustice that Segundus, and so many others, had been restricted from the study and practice of magic for so long, simply so that men such as Norrell could hoard all the knowledge to themselves? And had Segundus not rebelled against that restriction in his own way, time and time again over the years? First, he had asked the question that had set so much in motion, then he had made his ill-fated attempts to open Starecross as a school of magic, and even after that had failed, he had done his best to understand the enchantment upon Lady Pole that propped up Norrell's career like a shifting sand bank beneath an unsteady pillar.
Magic, Segundus thought. Magic was what drove him. Small and common he may be, but he had thrown himself against hegemonic injustice for love of magic. To remain passive, to forgo a fight even when he could not hope to win against Norrell's political and social power, would be a betrayal of himself and his belief that magic ought to be for whomever wished to study it. Of course he fought. Of course he rebelled. He, like Ainsworth, could not do otherwise.X
The church bells tolled then to signal the time was half-past eleven, and Ainsworth jumped like a startled cat. "Is that the time already?" he cried. "Excuse me gents, I must be going. I must see to the flock." He stood and offered his hand to Childermass to hoist him to his feet. Childermass accepted after a moment of hesitation, and in turn lifted Segundus.
Ainsworth led them back up the winding path, and Childermass filled and lit his pipe as they walked. "I hope you understand why I am trying to put a stop to this," he said around his pipe-stem. "My concern is for the stability of the nation. I might join your cause, if the circumstances were better."
"There are no better circumstances," said Ainsworth. "England is in so much turmoil now. If the atmosphere were more stable, changes would be more difficult."
"I worry that there is too much turmoil, and any changes you push for will start a civil war between those who follow the Raven King and those who do not."
Ainsworth was silent for a few moments. "I won't deny that there are some of us who would gladly see the Raven King on his throne again. I am one of them. I don't wish for unnecessary bloodshed, but I won't remain silent when it is clear to me that I must act."
Childermass sighed heavily at that. "Well, sir, you have made your case most admirably. I believe Mr. Segundus was very nearly ready to join himself."
Segundus flushed at that, but Childermass's tone was light and teasing, so he took no offense. They left Ainsworth to his chores not long after, and Childermass smoked with an air of thoughtfulness as they made their way down the lane back to town. "Well, that was a waste of a morning, I should think."
Childermass grinned. "Not at all."
"But we did not get any information from Mr. Ainsworth!"
"On the contrary, Mr. Segundus, we got a great deal of valuable information. We know more of his mind and his heart than we did an hour ago. That is no small matter."
"I suppose," Segundus said doubtfully.
A mizzling rain began to fall then, and Segundus was somewhat put out as he had not thought to bring an umbrella. They walked in near-silence through the drizzle, their boots squelching in mud and water running off their hats. The rain kicked up the smell of the moors, and the air grew greenly fragrant. It was peaceful, Segundus reflected, which was not a state of affairs that he often associated with Childermass. Until now, their encounters had almost all been combative in one form or another. In fact, the last time Childermass and peace had occurred simultaneously was that night at the minster in York, when snow had fallen around them as the world faded away. Though his memories of the moment were blurry (though due to magic or the passage of time, he couldn't say) he suspected his current situation was similar. The world seemed less important. All that mattered, for the time, were Segundus and Childermass and the silver sheets of rain that surrounded them.
May 1817, earlier
Milly Greene, governess of Duffield Hall, was quite accustomed to receiving urgent demands for her presence at all hours of the day and night. Even so, it was some surprise when Captain Oakes of the Derbyshire militia invited her for tea at her earliest convenience. This presented Milly with somewhat of a conundrum. Refusing his invitation would cast suspicion on her. After all, if she had nothing to hide, she had nothing to fear, did she not? But she had hidden what she should have perhaps revealed, and now it was too late.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She wrote back with her acceptance and named a date. She cancelled lessons for that afternoon, citing pressing errands in town, and at the appointed hour, she made her way to the old militia barracks that currently housed Captain Oakes and his company.
Oakes had evidently been awaiting Milly's arrival, for he met her just before the hedgerow that surrounded the barracks. He welcomed Milly with all the civility she could have expected. "What-ho, what-ho, Miss Greene!" he said as he bowed over her hand. His blonde curls spilled from beneath the brim of his hat and glinted in the sun.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Oakes," said Milly. "It is very good to meet you again. I confess I was surprised when you wrote to me earlier this week. I had no idea you would be in Duffield."
"Yes, it was rather a surprise to me as well! Colonel Forster recommended I take my company here for a bit of light training." Oakes led Milly to a room that was clearly not intended for drinking tea with guests. The floor bore signs of being hastily scrubbed, and several rugs had been scattered across the room in no clear order (likely to hide the worst stains, Milly thought). The furniture was poorly matched, and there were no windows with a charming view. The walls held a haphazard assortment of portraits, many of which were crooked. Milly raised an eyebrow at Oakes, and he blushed. "It was the best I could do with short notice. It may further surprise you that the barracks have no proper drawing room."
"That of all things does not surprise me, sir," said Milly as she took a seat in one of the mismatched armchairs.
Oakes poured two cups of tea and settled into the armchair opposite Milly. "You know, of course, that I am the heir to your father's— my uncle's— title and estate."
Milly did know. It was not a subject she enjoyed reflecting upon, and it had driven her into the words and ideas of writers such as Miss Wollstonecraft. (She was also an avid reader of novels and, despite Maggie's teasing, felt no shame over it. It had not escaped her notice that she shared the situation of the heroines of Miss Austen's most beloved novel, and it struck her as somewhat unfair that their only escape was through marriage. Milly had no such options.)
"You must also be aware of the…" Oakes hesitated, searching for words. "The financial situation of the estate."
"I am aware, yes," Milly said drily. "Do you think I am here by choice?"
Oakes blushed. "Of course not, Cousin Amelia. Er, Miss Greene. I… that was a foolish question. My apologies."
"Why do you bring it up?"
Oakes did not seem to know what to do with his hands. First he wrapped them around his teacup, then folded them on the table, then fidgeted with the sleeve of his scarlet uniform. "My uncle has a textile mill in this town, as you are aware of. Obviously. Ahem. He has heard some rumors of a Johannite uprising that may be starting here soon. I am sure you can imagine that he would want to protect his financial interests."
Despite the heat of the teacup in her hand, Milly suddenly felt very cold. "Rumors, you say? Where did he hear these rumors?"
Oakes shrugged as though he did not care very much about the answer. "From the foreman of the mill, I imagine."
"Well then." Milly settled her teacup back in its saucer. "He would know better than I."
"Have you heard any rumors yourself?"
"Oh, one hears this and that. I do not doubt that if you walked down the street, any one of the people you see could tell you as much as the foreman told my father." Milly fought to keep her tone light. Inside, she was panicking. She did not trust her cousin, and she felt keenly that she would need to be very careful to reveal just enough information to appear as though she concealed nothing, while not letting slip anything particularly important. It was a line as thin as a knife's edge, and erring too far one way or the other could prove equally damning. Something Oakes had said clicked then. "Is that why you are here? To protect my father's financial interests?"
Oakes blushed and stammered. "Of course not! Colonel Forster, the head of the regiment, ordered me to take my company here for— certain drills and training."
So we are both lying to one another, Milly thought. "A remarkable coincidence, you being stationed here in this town where my father owns a mill and where Johannite activity may be brewing."
"Yes, remarkable." Oakes did not meet her eyes.
Milly sighed. "Cousin, we both know it is no coincidence. It is quite plain to me that my father ordered you here to quell the rebellion before it could impact his mill. I only wonder how he convinced the colonel. A monetary bribe would be quite impossible due to his current financial situation, but perhaps a promise of future favor? As a baron, his word would hold sway over your colonel's career in the militia."
"I really could not say," Oakes said, his gaze firmly fixed on his teacup.
"I do not wish to see my father's estate fall any deeper into debt," said Milly quietly. "I understand why you and he are doing this, but I would not have expected him to send the militia of all things to quell a rebellion that most around here have no interest in."
Oakes furrowed his brow as he considered her words. "Most? So there definitely is a Johannite rebellion brewing?"
Milly's breath caught in her chest. She felt as though she were walking along a path lined with snares and traps, and she would have to be very cautious indeed to avoid being caught in one. "If there is, it is a small one, and unlikely to have any great impact. It is my belief that these Johannites are not like those of the past. They have not shown any inclination toward wanton destruction. You will notice the lack of burnt buildings or smashed factories."
"How can one have a rebellion without destruction?" Oakes asked with a frown.
Milly shrugged. "I would guess they desire a sort of social reorganization."
Oakes's eyes went wide in alarm. "Like in France?"
"No! No, certainly not!" said Milly. "Peacefully, and rationally. These men love England. They do not want to see her torn apart in a civil war or a bloody revolution."
"You seem very well informed on what the Johannites do or do not want," Oakes said, eyeing her narrowly.
Milly knew she had made a misstep; she felt a snare closing around her ankle. In defending the Johannites she had revealed too much. "I am only making guesses, and besides—" carefully lifting her foot to draw it from the loop "—the great family here is not concerned, so why is my father so keen on using the militia in what is, if I may say so, a most underhanded way?" Deflect, keep him talking. He is a fool and I can find a way out of this conversation easily enough.
"Underhanded!" Oakes exclaimed. "Why, this is precisely what the militia is for, to keep peace in England!"
"And what methods did my father instruct you to use in your duties as a peacekeeper?"
Oakes flushed and looked rather miserable. "I do not want to imprison anyone or bring anyone to trial."
"That is not an answer to my question," Milly said. But then again, maybe it was. She sighed. "Cousin, if you arrest a man on no grounds other than the suspicion of being a Johannite, you may very well incite the destruction you seek to prevent."
"I will do what I must to protect my uncle's estate, which will be mine someday."
Oh, yes, that sounded like something her father would say. Milly suspected the baron had a great deal of influence over Captain Oakes. It would not do to needle him until he put his hackles up and snapped at her. She carefully guided the topic of conversation to safer waters: Oakes's parents, whom she had met only a few times; his education; his favored pastimes and hobbies. She learned very little about him she did not already know or could guess: his mother was dead and his father was a poor country solicitor; his education was middling but provided him with few prospects other than enrollment in the militia; he enjoyed riding, cards, and billiards, but not dice. He had never heard of Miss Wollstonecraft.
Mundane though this conversation was, it gave Milly a chance to think. She had one foot on two entirely separate paths: that of an impoverished baron's daughter, and that of a Johannite. Before, she had not thought these paths would diverge so very much, but now she was beginning to realize that Oakes's arrival and her father's meddling may force her to choose one path and disavow the other. She did not want to choose between her loyalty to her friends and her loyalty to her family— and by choosing one, she would surely lose the other forever.
Perhaps she would not have to choose, though. Perhaps she could find a way to ensure the paths would run parallel so she might continue to walk both.
"Mr. Oakes," Milly said, interrupting the captain's long-winded story of a particularly raucous ball in Wirksworth. "You seem like a man not much inclined to violence."
"Well, one must be comfortable with a certain level of violence if one is to be successful in the militia, Miss Greene. At any time we may be called upon to defend our country."
Milly doubted Oakes had ever seen any violence more serious than a heated quarrel over cards. "Nevertheless, I am certain that my father may be appeased in some way that does not involve jailing or executing innocent men. That would be the most straightforward solution, would it not?"
"What exactly are you proposing?" Oakes asked, his eyes wide.
"We work together, Mr. Oakes, to make sure that my father's mill is not burned, and you shall have no cause to make any arrests." Milly smiled her most charming smile at him; it had the desired effect. Oakes blinked at her a little blearily and smiled back.
"That sounds ideal, Miss Greene," he said. He cleared his throat and glanced down at his tea as though collecting himself once more. "Despite my rather boorish conduct earlier, I did not invite you here only to interrogate you about the Johannites. I have another topic in mind. Please forgive me for approaching it so— ahem, so directly. You see, I do not wish to put you from your childhood home. You will always have a place there, even if you do not accept my— my suggestion."
Milly thought she had an inkling where this speech was going, though she prayed for some misunderstanding. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. It seemed that she might possibly have a way out of her situation, and it was the same one offered to Miss Eliza Bennett in Miss Austen's novel. Would she accept where Lizzie had refused? Were her assumptions even correct? She fought to keep her breathing steady and a smile on her face.
"My suggestion," Oakes carried on, unaware of Milly's state, "is that we are… Well. Married, so to speak. No, not so to speak. In truth. Married, in truth. Oh, this is not a very good proposal, is it? I do beg your pardon. I only mean to say that you could still be the mistress of my uncle's estate, even though I am to be its master."
Milly took pity on him, even as her heart sank. "You flatter me, sir. It is a very kind proposal. You put my own happiness ahead of yours."
"I think I should be very happy," Oakes protested.
"I only meant that it is a generous and selfless gesture," said Milly. "I hope you understand, I cannot give you an answer now. Your proposal has come as a great surprise to me, but I promise I will give it careful consideration."
A slight frown turned down the corners of Oakes's mouth. "Do you have another beau?"
"No, sir. Few men would be happy with a wife such as myself."
"A governess?"
Milly smiled ruefully.
"Well, that is no matter," Oakes decided. "For as we agreed, we are going to protect my uncle's mill, and soon his debts will be paid off."
Milly wished she shared his enthusiasm; rather than ensuring the paths ran parallel, she got the sense that she had only made them more likely to diverge sometime in the future. "Certainly, Mr. Oakes," she said, her tone carefully light. "Thank you for the tea. You have certainly given me much to consider. This has been a most diverting visit, but I fear I must go soon. The young mistresses have afternoon lessons that I must prepare for."
Oakes stood and laid her saucer and cup back on the tea-tray. "You will think about it?"
Milly smiled in a way that she hoped was reassuring. "I will."
She thought about it. She thought about it while Oakes escorted her close to the village (whereupon she was obliged to make her excuses and flee, in case anyone saw her and Oakes and started a rumor); she thought about it as she took a rambling footpath north out of town that ran along the banks of the river; and she thought about it as she settled down on a convenient boulder and pulled her shoes off so she might dip her feet in the cool rushing water.
It was a convenient solution, she had to admit. All she had wanted was to inherit her father's title and estate, but the entail made that quite impossible. Marrying the heir was almost as good as inheriting herself, said a very practical voice in her head that reminded her of Maggie. Oh, Maggie— Maggie was the reason she hesitated. She knew she would disappoint her friend if she left, and explanations would be needed. How awkward it would be to tell Maggie, after all this time, that she, Milly, was the daughter of the Baron of Segrave! Maggie had never asked, and Milly was too embarrassed at her situation to offer the information freely. No, far better to be thought of as a respectable, middle-class woman from a respectable, middle-class family, not the daughter of a failing house that was about to be drowned in debt and ruined.
Milly groaned when she realized that Hastings had presented her with the perfect opportunity to admit her heritage, and she had lied. Oh, why had she lied? What had she been trying to protect? Why had she thought it would matter to Hastings, whether she was related to the mill-owner, the baron, or not? It was certainly too late to confess now. They would suspect her of being a spy, and she would not be welcome at any of their meetings, and she did so want to be part of the little group of Johannites. They wanted a better world, a more just world. Certainly, they had only a fool's hope at succeeding, but at least they intended to try. That was more than could be said for her father. He was interested in little other than his estate.
Not all of what she had said to the Johannites had been a lie, she told herself. In fact, almost none of it was. She really did believe in the rights of women, and the Raven King truly was a persuasive figure. There was only the small matter of his followers being all too willing to start a revolution and possibly a civil war. Milly did not want a revolution, but neither did she want to give up her principles entirely— and she had to admit that her principles aligned much more closely with those of the Johannites than those of her father.
So where did that leave her? If she allowed Oakes to investigate freely, he would no doubt find something to put the Johannites on trial— and if her father had anything to say about it, it would not be a fair one. The baron was ruthless when protecting his financial interests. Perhaps Maggie had the right idea after all. Perhaps Milly would be able to stall Captain Oakes and his militia long enough to convince her father that the mill was in no danger. She would have to feed him just enough information to convince him that the Johannites were no true threat, and eventually Oakes's genuine militia duties would call him elsewhere. And in the meantime, she would do her best to dampen the revolutionary spirit of the more impetuous Johannites, so they presented no threat to her father's mill. It might work.
Milly scoffed and aimed a splash of water at a leaf that drifted in the center of the river. And a snowball might survive a day in Hell.
The others could never know of her deceit, though, or she would be alone and friendless. Milly could hardly bear to think of how Maggie would look— betrayed and furious, and her heart hurt at the thought. Her mind spun round and round, churning like the water, but she had no such cool clarity. She felt as though her lies were stacking up, one on top of the other like a house of cards, and the slightest word out of place would send the whole thing tumbling down.
No way to go but forward, said Maggie's voice again. Dear, practical Maggie. She must never learn the truth of Milly's duplicity, or she would never forgive her. The voice was right, though— Milly must continue forward upon her two paths and step very carefully so she might never have to choose.