A River Runs Through It (3 page)

“Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah!” The
applause grew louder, continuing so he could hear it down the street to the
Constable’s small office, where he was relieved of his valuables in preparation
for being escorted to the ancient stone roundhouse on the green.

"Tell me, Mackey,” he asked as he ducked his head to
enter the tiny building. “Is there but one law-abiding citizen in this entire
county?”

The constable scratched his head thoughtfully. “Why, yes,
sir. There be Adam Weilmunster.” He paused reflectively. "Sure, 'tis
the reason he is not liked overmuch.”

So saying, he swung closed the heavy oak door, locked it, and
left his prisoner to fume in peace, quiet, and damp.

***

Edmund paced back and forth across the floor. He found out
very quickly that only two steps in any direction merely brought him another
stone wall and another bump to his already abused forehead, so disdaining the
spindly wood chair, he grasped the bars of the tiny slit laughingly referred to
as a window, and peered out at the village surrounding him.

He, Edmund Middleton, seventh Marquis of Granville, was
rotting away in the Oaksley roundhouse. His cover was effectively blown,
ending his first job as spy. The Lady--if one could call her that--Katherine
Thoreau had bested him in a duel of wits. And worst of all, if Napoleon
escaped again, England, her economy weakened by the circulation of false coin,
could very easily fall to the upstart emperor. Edmund gritted his teeth,
wondering what had possessed him to flirt with that woman. A harpy, that’s
what she was, and a common thief, to boot.

Unable to contain his impatience, he jerked on the door once
more, as if it might have mysteriously become unlocked in the seconds since
he’d last tried it. From the window, he could see the lights of the Assembly Hall.
Carriages had been called and the revelers began to filter slowly out,
laughing and calling to one another. Not a few cast curious glances toward the
roundhouse. Several villagers, strolling home across the green, gave him a
civil nod in passing.

With a sigh, Edmund sat down backwards on the hard chair,
crossed his arms on the back, and settled down to wait until the village was
slumbering. It was a long wait, but in the meantime, he entertained himself by
imagining Lady Katherine in various poses of humility or danger, from which,
inexplicably, he felt himself called upon to rescue her.

But finally, just as he was ready to tear down the roundhouse
stone by stone, the last lighst went out in the cottages around the green, the
only sign of life the sliver of light coming from the window of the taproom at
the Lady and the Scamp, far across the post road.

“Finally,” he muttered softly to himself. Plunking his numb
derriere back on the chair, Edmund yanked off his patent-leather pump, flicking
open the secret compartment in the heel. Into his palm fell a shiny brass
pass
partout
.

Stuffing his foot back in the shoe, he mentally thanked
dandies in general, and cousin Claude in particular, for it was he from whom
Edmund had acquired his outrageous raiment, including the hollow-heeled pumps.
With another cautious glance out the window, he stretched his arm as far as he
could through the iron-slatted window of the door, and rattled the key in the
lock.

With a click, the lock opened. Another couple of yanks and
rattles, and it fell to the ground. With bated breath, Edmund paused once
more, listening, straining to hear anyone approaching in the blackness. But
not a sound disturbed the night, so he slipped out of the roundhouse, carefully
setting the lock behind him. With a final glance around, he slipped across the
green, keeping to the shadows. Across the dusty post road, he stepped into the
stable behind the inn, and quietly stole a horse.

***

Kate paused at the low stone wall, listening for any movement.
In a thicket, Diana stood patiently, nibbling at a few blades of grass which
poked through the carpet of fallen leaves. Far down in the valley lay the
village, dark and quiet, surrounded on three sides by the River Inswith flowing
calm and smoothly silver. All about her the night was still. Even the wind
didn’t blow, as if to compensate for the previous night’s rain.

Satisfied she was alone, Kate hopped over the crumbling wall
and into the wilderness which was once the formal gardens of Wallingford
Castle. Determinedly she pushed her way uphill through the heavy undergrowth
of scrub trees and blackberry bushes that had run wild over what was once the
pride and joy of the Family Wallingford. Village gossip had it that the last
Wallingford, Old Man Jacob, had gone stark, staring mad and died behind these
walls of an overfondness of brandy, the French pox, or various combinations of
the two. But that was almost one hundred years ago, and Kate had known the
Castle only as an exciting, romantic place to play. But she hadn’t been here
in years and the darkness made it almost impossible to discern the remains of
the path beneath the undergrowth.

Thorns tugged at her skirts as she doggedly pushed ahead,
keeping one hand out in front of her face to protect herself against the protruding
branches. It was slow going, because she had to keep stopping to orient
herself in the dark, sometimes parting the branches above in order to get the
faint light of the starry night sky.

Disoriented as to distance, if it hadn’t been for the stone urn
over which she stumbled, Kate would have missed the Italianate terrace
completely and gone tumbling down the steep hill. Instead, she overbalanced,
falling backwards down a shallow flight of stone steps, cushioned by a thick
layer of moss and other debris. She managed to claw her way up through the
bushes and realized she had somehow found what she was seeking: The Grotto of
Love, so named because dozens of assignations had taken place over the years
under the white marble statues of Apollo and Daphne.

Kate caught herself wearing a silly smile as she eased back
the door on the small lantern she carried. Why, it must have been almost a
decade ago that she and Tom Appleby--

Her thoughts broke off as her fingers found the third rose
down from the sixth bunch of grapes on the carved marble trellis on the back
wall of the grotto. When the wall gave way on oiled hinges, her heart raced in
excitement.

The lantern flame flickered in the sudden draft. Kate,
overcome by a jolt of common sense, stepped away and picked up a rock. Taking
a deep breath, she ducked into the low opening. Before her stretched a long
tunnel, disappearing in an endless darkness beyond the reach of her small
lantern.

The walls were of large stones plowed from the surrounding
fields centuries ago, now concealed in this secret place, leading to mysterious
rooms far beneath the ground. Carefully, she placed the rock at the opening of
the doorway, then eased the marble door gently against it in case she needed to
exit in a hurry.

Now, all she had to do was march down the long, dank corridor.
Yes, just put one foot in front of the other and traipse down the tunnel.

Kate took a deep breath of damp, mildew-scented air. And another.
One more and she began to feel lightheaded, which was better than scared, she
decided, and gathered the courage to walk down the tunnel.

It was smaller than she remembered and much wetter. The stone
walls were cold and covered with a sheen of dampness. After several yards, the
path forked. To the left, the hard-packed earth sloped slightly upward. To
the right, slightly down. After a moment’s deliberation, Kate turned right.
It had been years since she’d explored beneath the Castle, but she was positive
this way led to the underground river and the great cavern. Or perhaps it led
to the cliff high above the rushing underground river. She flipped a mental
coin, remembered the reward, and soldiered on.

Walking carefully, she cupped her hand in front of the lantern
door so as not to allow too much light to precede her, giving away her
presence. Every few feet she paused to listen, but heard only her own rapid
breathing and the rhythm of her heart. It seemed forever before the tunnel
plunged steeply downwards and the ghostly tinkle of running water came to her
ears. The tunnel came to an abrupt end, with openings to the right and left.
Still shielding her lantern, Kate backed up against the wall, slowly easing
forward to peek around the corners. At first she saw an expanse of stone
passage, glowing dimly yellow in the light of her lantern. The noise from the
river escalated into a dull roar, then out of the river’s rush she heard the
unmistakable pounding of footsteps. Quickly she fumbled to shut the lantern
door, plunging the tunnel into damp blackness. She paused to listen, though
every nerve and muscle screamed at her to run. The footsteps were coming
closer and closer, louder and louder. At last she was able to discern their
direction: from the cliff over the cavern, directly toward her. She stood rooted
to the spot in utter panic. The footsteps slowed, then began again, growing
fainter till they faded into the distance.

Kate leaned against the wall, weak with relief. Then she
realized she’d missed what might have been her best chance at catching a
counterfeiter. She shook her head in disgust at her own fear. Was she, or was
she not an extraordinarily successful highwayman, respected and, yes, feared
throughout the parish? For pity’s sake, she was a disgrace to the name
Thoreau.

Plastering herself against flat against the damp stone wall,
she edged a few steps forward. Her hand reached out, touching cold stone, then
nothing. Pulling her cloak close, she bent low and slipped around the left
corner. The hard-packed earth floor gave way to loose gravel which crunched
and gave under every step.

Never had black been murkier than in the thick heaviness of
the cavern. It was a risk, but she opened the lantern door the merest sliver
and found herself standing on a natural balcony formed of rock, which loomed
over a gaping black emptiness. Far below, the underground river which fed into
the River Inswith gurgled musically. The sounds echoed over and over in the
enormous, though unseen, chamber, building to a rushing roar which hurt her
ears.

Kate held the lantern high as she cautiously edged farther out
along the balcony. The light didn’t even begin to make a dent in the inky
gloom, but she was positive down below was the spit of land jutting into the
river. After pausing to listen for footsteps, she eased the lantern completely
open. Light spilled out across the huge nothingness. Sure enough, far below
and across the river was the peninsula.

Fiddle. She was precisely across the river from where she
meant to go.

Kate considered her options. At one time there had been a
rope ladder which some of the boys had used to cross the lake. If she could
only find it now, she could swing over to the other side, catch the
counterfeiters, and claim that reward by tomorrow.

Kate normally considered herself most fortunate that she was,
in fact, a Thoreau, and therefore had great courage and fortitude, but even so
a little voice of reason kept screaming "No!” in the back of her mind.
But she found, rather to her dismay, that her fear of heights was not quite as
great as her fear of the counterfeiter prowling the tunnels, probably very
willing to kill her to protect himself..

Five thousand pounds
, she reminded herself.
The
fate of England
, she reiterated.

Slowly, so slowly, Kate crept farther out along the balcony,
keeping her hand against the damp stone wall. As she gazed into the rushing
waters below, tiny ripples on the surface barely shimmered in the light of her
lantern.

Carefully, she swung the lantern from side to side in search
of the old rope. It then occurred to her that she made an excellent target,
flinging the lantern about, to any who might be watching her from down below. But
the idea of retracing her steps, possibly getting lost, was more frightening
than getting shot. The very idea of what she was about to do made her shake.
Over and over again her eyes drew again to the rushing waters of death below.
Unaccustomed tears sprang into her eyes. Her throat went dry and her head
spun. Finally, on the far side of the balcony, Kate spotted a length of rope
tied round a rock. She edged back the way she came for several feet, still
keeping her hand to the wall.

One step, then another. One more and she’d be there. She
took a gingerly step, but a loose bit of gravel rolled under her boot and she
fell. Swallowing a shriek, she twisted, clutching desperately for the rope as
she skidded toward the precipice. Her fingers caught hold of the rough hemp.
For a moment it held, but before she could brace herself, the rotted fibers
gave way and the momentum of her fall propelled her forward. With a suppressed
scream, she fell hard on a small boulder and grabbed for it. Helplessly, she
watched as the lantern, its flame flickering wildly over the rock walls, rolled
to the balcony’s edge and plunged over. There was a pause, then a splash, as
an thick, utter blackness descended upon the Great Cavern.

Paralyzed with fear, Kate lay where she’d fallen, arms wrapped
about the boulder. Mindlessly, she whispered a curse, then every other curse
she’d ever heard her father, grandfather, and stable hands use. Some she
didn’t even understand, but the full-bodied flavor of the consonants rolled off
her tongue in a satisfying way which gave her courage.

Then she realized she’d have to get up and walk from the balcony,
out the small entry hole, down the path to the grotto door--or was it up the
path? Right or left? Which was which?
I write with my left hand
, she analyzed.
I turned right to get in
here, so turn left. Right. No, left then right at the path fork
. Her barely-banked fear came back full bore. Kate
tried cursing again, but the magic had worn off, no match against the blackness
and sheer drop into a black river of certain death.