This story copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and Scarecrow and Mrs. King and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
[an error occurred while processing this directive]people have read this story since April 2004
Many thanks to Pat for correcting my French and offering some other useful advice!
Steed Feels the Pressure Mounting
Emma Goes for a Ride
Chapter 5
Some distance ahead the hounds' voices signaled that the hunt was near its end. The master's horn accompanied the dogs, urging the riders to hurry. Emma was torn between her preference not to be present for the kill and her cover of enthusiastic huntress. Her conflict was resolved for her as the group of riders approached a stone wall at the base of a hill. The hounds were in a stand of trees covering the top of the hill. As they cantered across a meadow toward the wall, Shallot adjusted his stride, preparing to gather himself for the leap. They were amid a group of riders just behind the leaders, who had just cleared the wall. Suddenly another horse lunged diagonally across Shallot's path, aiming for a slightly lower spot in the wall. Shallot veered. Emma instinctively squeezed her thighs, gripping her saddle to keep her seat as the horse pulled up short of the wall.
Emma regained her breath, then patted Shallot's sweaty withers. "Thanks, Shallot," she said as the dogs cried out their victory from the top of the hill. Shallot looked across the wall and snorted, then stamped one fore hoof. Emma understood that he was disappointed – but probably at being out maneuvered, not at missing the kill.
She turned him to walk along the wall, disinclined to have him take a second run at it. There were a few other riders who'd fallen behind scattered across the meadow, stopping now to exchange a few words or rest their horses. She turned Shallot away from the wall and back toward the château .
Rounding an old wooden barn, the slate roof of the château gleamed blue behind a row of cypress trees on the far side of a fallow field. Pleasant as the long ride had been, and comfortable as her new saddle was, Emma was looking forward to getting out of it. Keeping Shallot to a walk to cool him down, she studied the massive building as it gradually become more visible between the tall, gracefully thin trees. Movement near ground level caught her eye. There was a drive between the trees and the house. A white truck with a familiar emblem on the side was driving along it, turning at the corner of the house toward the car park and, ultimately, the main road. Emma resisted the urge to spur Shallot in pursuit.
"He's fairly cool, but walk him a bit. He can have food and water, but leave him saddled – I'll be riding home," Emma instructed the groom who greeted her outside the stable.
"Oui Madame."
Emma dismounted and walked over to a stone bench under a tree. She stretched first her legs, then her back, and finally her arms. She tucked her gloves into her belt and massaged her hands, which were stiff from clutching the reins. Finally feeling loose again, she strode toward the main wing of the château , following other riders. They clomped up worn marble steps and through the building's grand front doors, propped open by heavy urns planted with ivy.
A liveried groom directed her to the left through a grand interior portal into a breathtaking ballroom. Linen covered banquet tables had been set down the center of the extravagant room. Equally extravagant savory, sweet, refreshing, warm, and cool appetizers – many local specialties – were interspersed with stacks of plates, linen napkins, and silver forks along the table's length. Emma realized that she was famished, so she made herself a plate of creamy fois gras on toast points, warm duck breast on salad greens in a delicate vinegarette, and slices of poached pear with crème anglaise. Miraculously, a waiter appeared at her elbow with a tray of champagne flutes just as she turned her mind to beverage selection. Thus equipped, she retired to a side table to eat and survey the crowd.
A few of the women had changed out of their riding kit, including one of the possible Paulines. As luck would have it, she and a female companion paused to speak with a third woman near Emma's table.
"Catherine! I was just telling Annabel about the gentleman I met yesterday – you remember? On the train?" Catherine nodded – clearly Steed had made an impression on Pauline, Emma thought. "He had very interesting opinions about horse breeding. I thought you might like to talk with him. He promised to come this afternoon, but I haven't found him yet."
"How disappointing!" Catherine replied coolly.
"Yes. Perhaps he is only detained. He seemed quite sincere," Pauline said with a sigh.
Emma suppressed a guffaw, turning away from the women to hide her face in case they should glance her way.
"Or rude," Catherine suggested, then finished off her champagne and went looking for a waiter.
"Speaking of rude!" Pauline's companion, Annabel, said. The two moved away and Emma allowed her amusement to show in a wry smile.
She wondered idly how Steed had convinced Pauline of his sincerity, and felt a surprising pang of jealousy. Come on, old girl, you know it's his job. Doesn't signify a thing, she chastised herself. But the feeling was there nonetheless, and she had to accept that their relationship had changed. The detachment that had once protected her at the deepest level had evaporated the moment Steed had uttered those three words at the door of his flat one morning a few weeks ago. Remarkable, she thought, how important it is to hear it. As if I hadn't known it all along. But you didn't, a deeper, unsentimental, analytical voice, put in.
Frowning at herself for indulging in such introspection when there was work to do, she finished her own champagne and left her empty plate and glass on the table. Pauline did have a point – where was Steed?
She had just acquired a fresh glass of champagne when Francois De Courcelles beckoned to her from the edge of a nearby group. She walked to him, allowing herself to survey him as she approached, and letting him see her observation. He smiled appreciatively at her – a man who enjoyed being admired.
"You missed the kill, Lady Emma," he said. She inclined her head in silent agreement.
"My horse was – distracted," she said. He nodded knowingly.
"Refused the wall, humm?" he said.
"You could say," she replied, not caring to complain about the other rider's discourtesy.
"Too bad. Well, better luck next time. There will be a next time, I hope?"
"If it can possibly be arranged."
"I will see to that," he said, lifting his glass up to touch hers. She put on her most coy smile.
"Your property is most impressive," she said. "I saw grapes, sunflowers, grains – is that for animal feed, or bread?"
"Most of the grain is for animal feed," he replied with an appraising look – but this time his appraisal was not physical. "Of course, the grapes are for the Château winery – in the Loire everyone makes wine."
"Of course," she said, "and every wine wins awards – somewhere. And yet, you chose not to serve yours," she held up her champagne glass. She had noted that the sparkling wine was a good, well known vintage from the Champagne region.
"Astute of you to notice," he said, his pleasant tone failing to mask annoyance. "Unfortunately, our production has been low – bad luck with several seasons' harvests. I did not feel that we had enough of a proper vintage."
"Too bad," Emma purred, "It's fortunate that you aren't financially dependent on the wine."
"Yes," he replied, practically purring back at her. "It's a hobby, really. Will you excuse me?" he asked, looking beyond her at someone across the room.
"Of course," she replied. He strode away and she turned to watch him meet a man near a side door. Emma had not seen him during the hunt. The two men exited together through the side door. Emma sipped her champagne, giving them a head start. Before she moved, Pauline slipped out through the same door.
Showing your true colors, Emma thought as she wandered to the door. She turned her back to it, one hand on the handle, and regretfully placed her half empty champagne glass on a passing waiter's tray. She opened the door and slipped through, turning to see where she was as she quietly closed it.
She was relieved to find herself in a narrow corridor – she'd been prepared to make excuses about looking for the loo if she found herself face-to-face with De Courcelles. She strolled along the corridor, glancing at portraits that lined the walls. She noted a few empty spots where the shadows of frames marked the walls. Relatives in disfavor, she wondered, or sold for upkeep costs? The portraits that were present were unremarkable – no hidden gems by well-known portraitists.
Half way along the corridor two doors faced one another. The one on the right was slightly ajar. Tsking at De Courcelles's carelessness – or perhaps it had been Pauline's – Emma pressed herself against the wall beside the door, listing to the voices that carried through the narrow opening.
". . . on its way this afternoon, just before you got back. It will reach the feedlot tomorrow, just in time for the livestock for the banquet. We're already dismantling the facilities," a man, not De Courcelles, was saying. "There was one problem."
"Oh?"
That was De Courcelles.
"We had an intruder this morning. Crighton found him. He had English identification, so we thought it best to ship him home."
There was a grunt, probably De Courcelles again. The other man went on, "We searched the château and didn't find any other strangers. But we did find a car. It was parked between fields south of the château . We relocated it into the Loire."
"Unobserved, I trust?" De Courcelles said in a disinterested tone.
"Certainly."
"What was his name?" Pauline's light voice contrasted with the mens', "the intruder?"
The man did not respond immediately, but finally said, "John Steed. His identification is odd – looks like government, but it's vague." There was a small thump and Emma imagined Steed's billfold being dropped onto a table.
"Does that name mean something to you?" De Courcelles asked.
"Non," Pauline replied, her voice tight, the single word clipped even shorter by her accent. She might have carried it off if she hadn't added, "I was just curious."
"I am disappointed," De Courcelles went on, "I would have liked another test subject."
There was a pause, then the other man replied, "we've performed more than adequate tests, Francois. This man made me uneasy. Better that we simply remove him."
"Yes, well, still. . ." De Courcelles's voice trailed off. Emma tried to imagine what was going on in the room, but her limited view through the slightly open door was of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There was a tapping sound – a pen on a desk? "I shall have to be content with one final equine test," De Courcelles went on.
"What?" Pauline hissed. Emma cringed, thinking of Pauline's lovely chestnut mare. "You bastard! How could you?" There was a crash of furniture being overturned, then the door was flung open and Pauline ran out. She turned right, away from the ballroom, and didn't notice Emma, who was to the left of the doorway.
Fearing that one of them men would follow Pauline, Emma hurried back to the ballroom, slipping in through the door and leaning against it to survey the room.
The crowd had thinned a little, but the party was far from over. She took a glass from a waiter, depending on the familiar feel of the cool crystal and taste of the wine to calm her. As with the pang of jealousy earlier, she was taken aback by the depth of concern she felt over Steed's fate. She forced herself to consider the facts: they had not killed him, or given him a dose of their foul substance. The longer they held him, the more likely he was to find a way to escape. And if he didn't, she would rescue him. Her certainty about that helped her focus. She wanted to leave, to go in pursuit of the truck that she was certain Steed was in. But leaving without thanking De Courcelles would be impolite, and it might just draw attention to her before she could actually get away from the château .
So she lingered, sipping her champagne and nibbling on a few grapes, unwilling to commit to another plate of food. De Courcelles reappeared in the ballroom about ten minutes later. She restrained herself from approaching him immediately, allowing two other riders to make their farewells before approaching him.
As it was his farewell was perfunctory. He acknowledged her thanks with a polite word and vacant eyes. She imagined that he, too, was mentally following the truck full of poison threading its way northward. Relieved not to have to exchange witty banter, she slipped out of the château and strode quickly along the gravelly path to the stables at the end of the side wing.
Shallot bobbed his head at her as she came up behind him and patted his rump. He was saddled and bridled and seemed to have been partially groomed. Three other horses were tethered beside him in similar condition. As she reached up to pull down the stirrup, Shallot started at a loud crash within the stable. This was followed by a distressed whinny and a woman wailing wordlessly. Shallot snorted, clearly agitated by the sounds emanating from inside.
"Wait here," Emma said to Shallot with a pat on his withers as she slipped between his and the next horse's heads and stepped over to the stable door. It was open enough for her to slip inside. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness while listening to the distressed horse kick his stall once more. She noticed several crops hanging on hooks near the door and took one, holding it behind her as she stepped further into the stable.
There were about a dozen stalls and only a few were occupied. Pauline stood outside one near the end of the row, reaching over the gate toward the animal within.
"Coco my poor darling," Pauline sobbed. "I'll get that bastard for doing this to you." The gate shuddered with a loud crack and Pauline jumped back, emitting another wail.
"Is there an antidote?" Emma asked, stepping closer to the other woman.
Pauline spun toward her, looking rather like a startled colt. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, drawing the back of her hand across her eyes.
Emma took a step closer, and glanced into the stall. The horse – not, she realized, the chestnut Pauline had ridden in the hunt – stood rigid, bathed in sweat. Suddenly he lunged at the gate, his neck stretching across the barrier toward Pauline, his lips peeled back from snapping teeth.
She jumped further away from him, narrowly escaping his bite, then looked unhappily back at Emma.
"Is there?" Emma pressed, "Or does he plan to let his little bug run rampant over the English countryside? And who's to say your Coco here won't pass it on to this fine mare?" She nodded at the horse in the stall beside Coco, noticing that it was, in fact, Pauline's chestnut.
Pauline followed her glance, and Emma hoped that would push her over the edge. But to the contrary, she seemed to pull herself together.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said sharply.
"People are going to suffer the way your horse is. Tell me where he's sent it."
Pauline shook her head mutely. Emma took another step closer just as Coco slammed his rear hooves into the stall again.
"You can stop this," Emma said. "you can save the people that he's trying to kill."
Shaking her head again, Pauline turned back to her horse. Emma reached into her pocket for a small slip of paper with Tara's Paris phone number on it. She looked at the number for a moment, memorizing it, then reached out and pressed it into Pauline's hand. The other woman ignored her, absorbed in watching her horse as he dropped to his knees.
"If you change your mind, call this number. Tell them you have information for John Steed."
Pauline did not respond, may not have heard her, but Emma did not want to linger any longer. The virus, and Steed, were half-way to the channel by now and she needed to find some help.
She and Shallot reached the main road unhindered, but she was confident that Pauline would eventually react to her questioning. She directed Shallot off the main road, threading their way across the countryside, occasionally jumping obstacles and climbing through gullies. Shallot seemed to enjoy the adventure, and soon was snorting in anticipation when he saw Gérard and his horse trailer waiting for them outside the tiny village.
"'ere you are!," he said warmly as they reached the vehicles. Emma had to rein Shallot in to prevent him from climbing right into the trailer. Gérard took the horse's bridle in hand and Emma slipped off. She immediately uncinched her saddle, noticing that Gérard was trying to discreetly inspect his horse.
"He was a pleasure, Gérard. Merci," she said. The little man grinned proudly.
"Oui, he is a fine fellow, isn't he?" he replied. Then he went on with his inspection more overtly. Emma removed the saddle and stepped into the trailer to find the bag.
"I'll just go ahead and change," she called out, seeing her clothes folded where she'd left them. Moments later she stepped back out into the gathering dusk, back in the jumpsuit that she'd put on that morning. She was glad that it was both clean and versatile, since she no longer had any other clothes – unless she wanted to go on a search and recovery mission in the river. This train of thought led her to a sudden realization – she'd not gotten around to giving Steed the gift that she'd bought him. Now it was lost with everything else in the car. That loss was more grieving than her favorite shoes and nice lingerie.
"Lady Emma?" Gérard touched her arm. She looked into eyes full of concern. "Something is wrong? Where is Steed?" She realized that Shallot was stowed in the van, the doors closed behind him. She had allowed herself to drift in thought for several minutes.
"Oui," she sighed. Then she explained that their car had been stolen, and Steed was in trouble. "Could you take me to a town where I can catch a train back to Paris this evening?"
"Oui, of course," he replied, escorting her to the passenger side of the truck. She appreciated his protective behavior, seeing that she was safely seated in the truck and closing the door for her. She could barely admit to herself his tiny gestures made her feel looked after, and were comforting.
Gérard drove the truck and horse trailer at a safe, steady pace, navigating from the rural road that went past the château to a busier highway heading east.
"Steed has been in trouble before," Gérard ventured once they were moving along with the moderate traffic.
"Oh yes," Emma replied ruefully.
"But you are concerned, this time," he went on, sneaking a glance at her.
"There is particular danger," she said, realizing as she spoke that it was probably no more particular than usual, "I'm just -- ," she tried to explain, but couldn't.
"In love with him," Gérard supplied, a sly grin distorting his leathery face. Emma could not prevent a matching smile.
"Oh, but dear Gérard, I have been for so very long, it's nothing new," she said, hardly able to believe she was saying it. The little man chuckled, then reached out and took her hand.
"Do not be distressed, madam," he said, "Perhaps it's because I am a papa. My girls will speak to me, will say the things they do not to others. Even those they should tell."
"Steed knows," she said lightly, thinking again about how differently she'd been feeling lately, ever since his confession of love for her.
"Perhaps, yes," Gérard said gently, "but he would like to hear it, I think. When you find him."
Emma silently watched the scenery – long stretches of forest were broken up by farmland that transitioned into light industrial. Commercial barns, processing plants, and manufacturing facilities drifted by. Gradually there were more clusters of houses, gas stations, and then genuine suburbs.
She was lost in thought again, trying to imagine the perfect circumstances in which to tell Steed in no uncertain terms how she felt about him. She had settled on a cozy evening in front of the fire in his flat and was imagining their conversation when she realized that the truck was stopping.
"Madame Emma," Gérard said, half turning toward her. They were stopped in front of a train station. Streetlamps twinkled against the gathering dusk, and a bright red and green sign advertising beer glared harshly at her from the station café.
"Merci, Monsieur Gérard," she said, taking his hand in hers.
"Travel safely, Madam," Gérard said, "and when you reach Steed, ask him to phone me – so I too will know he is well."
"I will," she said. Taking the bag with her saddle, she climbed out of the truck. Gérard waved farewell and drove away. Emma realized as the trailer moved off in traffic that she had not said a final good-bye to her partner for the day. "Take care, Shallot," she said softly, then turned and pushed through the door into the station.