The Heart's Companion (16 page)

"Me?" she laughed mirthlessly. "I don’t know. I was doin’ purty good with the ballet until two months ago. Turned me off they did, said I was too old." She sniffed. "I can dance better’n most those fresh-faced chits they’re bringin’ in. They’re more interested in what they earn lying on their backs than trouping ’cross the boards. Now I ain’t goin’ to sit ’ere and say I didn’t git non’a them favors, but faugh! There ain’t no art anymore," she declared disgustedly.

Her lips twisted in a pout. "That were the real reason I were turned off, ya know. I could dance circles around the others! Made ’em all look bad. Like a pack o’ galloping animals. They complained, ya see."

She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face as she rocked with the carriage’s movement. "Y’know what I’d like ta do? Start me a school ta teach dancin’ fur the stage. Real purty dancin’. That would show ’em, that would!"

A marshal light burned in the woman’s eyes, and Jane almost hoped she’d get her dream. Somehow she found she couldn’t hold either Georgie’s or Sophie’s actions against them. They were ripe pigeons for Serena’s ilk: as much prisoners of their lives as Helmsdon and she were prisoners in the carriage.

The carriage rocked around a corner, throwing her against Sir Helmsdon. She looked up at him, and found a strange expression in his eyes. Almost one of guilt. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. He smiled and shook his head.

Sophie's head began to drop. It didn’t seem she was going to reveal any more secrets. They could tell she was locked within herself, remembering the perceived injustices she’d received. She sighed heavily and leaned back against the plush squab seat cushions, the pistol steady in her hand, her path chosen.

When Royce turned the last page of the novel he’d been reading, the afternoon shadows were long and the sun was beginning to turn orange. He placed the book back on the table where he’d found it. Earlier in the afternoon he’d picked it up out of boredom. When he saw Jane Grantley’s name on the flyleaf, he settled down to read it, curious as to what Jane liked to read. It wasn’t his normal bill of fare, but he had to admit he enjoyed it. He was anxious to discuss it with her.

A frown drew his brows together. He vaguely remembered the muffled sounds of them returning an hour ago. Mrs. Hedgeworth’s high, complaining tone coming from the Great Hall was clearly audible. He wondered why neither lady returned to the parlor.

For all that, where was everyone?

He swung his legs to the floor. Leaning heavily on the arms of the settee, he gingerly levered himself up, testing what weight his ankle would bear. Other than one brief stab of pain followed by a constant dull ache, it wasn’t too bad. He hobbled over to the parlor door and opened it. The Great Hall was deserted. Frowning in annoyance, he made his way slowly across the marble floor, his footsteps ringing in the large, empty space.

Suddenly a doorway under the stairs opened. Out stumbled Jeremy.

"I’m sorry, my lord. I was just, I mean, I heard you in the hall. Is there anything I can get you, my lord?"

"No, thank you, Jeremy. But you can tell me where everyone is. This house is quiet as a tomb!"

"It is odd, my lord. I noted it myself," he said eagerly. "But as to everyone’s location, I know I couldn’t say."

"I heard Miss Grantley and Mrs. Hedgeworth return an hour ago. Are they keeping to their rooms?"

"Miss Grantley did not return with Mrs. Hedgeworth, my lord. Mrs. Hedgeworth says she left her by the parsonage gate. Said she wanted to visit Reverend Chitterdean, seeing as how he’s ill now. But I do believe Mrs. Hedgeworth is in her room. Would you care for me to send a message up to her, my lord?"

"No, Jeremy, that’s quite all right. But I would care for an arm to act as crutch."

"Certainly, my lord," Jeremy said, placing his shoulder under Royce’s left arm.

Just then the sound of laughter and the slamming of a door caught their attention.

"Something tells me," murmured Royce, "that the quiet tomb is a thing of the past."

Jeremy grinned. "As you say, my lord."

The boys burst into the hall. Seeing the earl, they ran toward him, both talking at once. Royce braced himself for their physical onslaught, but Jeremy deflected the full power of their impact.

"My lord! My lord!" squealed Edward.

"You should have seen—" Bertram was saying.

"It was the funniest thing—" Edward said.

"And dragged it behind them!" they shouted over each other.

Royce laughed. "Hold it! Hold it. calm down. One at a time."

"Well, my lord, we were at the Folly, you see, playing with the telescope," Bertram said. Edward nodded. "There’s been lots of activity in the neighborhood today that we got a chance to see. First we saw Sir Helmsdon leave. The next thing we know, we saw his horse over by the parsonage! Leastwise it looked like his horse. We haven’t seen another long-tailed gray the like of his in the neighborhood before. Anyway, what was really funny was to see Lord Willoughby come out and take it into the church!" Bertram finished.

"Willoughby took Sir Helmsdon’s horse into the church?"

"Right up the steps," corroborated Edward.

"What happened then?"

"Well, we didn’t look through the telescope the whole time," Edward said, his hands planted on his hips in exasperation.

"I understand," Royce said solemnly, though his lips twitched against a laugh.

"But when Becky said it was time to come back, we both took turns with it again. "

"Of course, how logical," he said, maintaining his even countenance.

"And that was the strangest sight!" Edward said.

"Hush, let me tell it, I can do it better."

"I saw it, too!" Edward protested. "They tied bushes to the back of their carriage!"

"Who did?"

"The Willoughbys! And they drug them along after them, too," Edward said.

"Very odd, my lord," Bertram confided, nodding solemnly.

"And you say they were at the Chitterdeans?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"Did you see who was riding in the carriage when it left pulling these bushes?"

"No, sir. But it was another man and woman. We saw the woman’s skirts and the man’s legs. They were walking really close, carrying something between them. "

"Their hands were tied!" intoned Edward.

"Were not," his brother said in disgust.

"Well, that’s what it looked like to me."

"You need spectacles."

"Bertram! Edward! You may argue all you want in a moment. Just tell me one thing. What color were the woman’s skirts."

Edward shrugged. Bertram frowned. "I don’t know. Kind of a white or cream color, I guess. But she had on a green jacket like Aunt Jane has."

Jeremy and Lord Royce exchanged glances. "And the Willoughbys have not returned, my lord," Jeremy said.

Royce nodded. "Thank you, boys. You’re right, that was a strange sight. I suggest you run upstairs and get cleaned up before your aunts see you." He watched the boys run up the stairs, then he turned to Jeremy. "Is Conisbrough in the stillroom with Lady Elsbeth?"

"Yes, my lord," Jeremy mumbled, blushing a deep red.

"Where is it?"

"Through that door and down the stairs." He pointed to the door he’d come through when he met Royce.

The earl looked at him oddly and shook his head. Leaning on him, he hobbled quickly to the door and opened it.

"Holla! Black Jack!" he bellowed down the stairs. "Trouble!"

That last brought an answering yell and the sound of running footsteps. Upstairs Lady Serena’s and Mrs. Hedgeworth’s bedchamber doors opened. They came to the top of the stairs.

"Whatever is going on?" demanded Lady Serena.

"Jane may be in trouble," Royce said shortly.

"Oh, no!" gasped Lady Elsbeth, coming up behind the Marquis of Conisbrough. She clasped his arm.

Jeremy’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed with an angry stare. He pulled away from Royce and pointed an accusing finger at Lady Serena. "You planned it! I heard you!" He turned to Royce, his lips compressed into a thin line. "At least, I heard part of it, and I thought it strange. I tried to tell Miss Jane, but she wouldn’t listen to me."

Royce grabbed him by the shoulders, ignoring Lady Serena’s outraged cries. "What did you hear, lad?"

"The first time I heard her complaining to those Willoughbys about Miss Jane sleeping down here, and how that would affect their plans. Then this morning she gave something to them and told them to keep it safe. I heard the word license. Then I heard some question about Reverend Chitterdean cooperating. "

"Preposterous," snapped Lady Serena. "You, young man have a vivid imagination. Any conversations I have had with the Willoughbys have been innocuous in the extreme. Elsbeth, you know how I feel about that pair. Besides, what do you mean to say heard. Any conversations I may have had were behind closed doors."

Everyone looked at Jeremy. He blushed and scuffed his feet. "I—I listened at the keyhole," he confessed.

Everyone but Lady Elsbeth stood in stunned silence at his confession. She whisked by them all and ran lightly up the stairs. She stood in front of her elder sister and shook her head from side to side. Downstairs Royce and Conisbrough were shouting orders to have horses saddled. Millicent shrieked and fainted. No one noticed.

Lady Serena tipped her head up, a superior smile on her face. "I told you I should see she has suitors. And by now she is wed. So you see, you have no reason not to come live with me.

Lady Elsbeth grabbed her sister’s arm and twisted it behind her back. She forced Lady Serena into a small drawing room and closed the door. There were immediate shrieks of outrage. Lady Elsbeth turned the key in the lock, then tucked it into her bodice. Behind her a number of household servants had gathered, drawn by the shouting. She strode past them, only glancing down at Millicent’s prone form as she passed.

"Someone get a bucket of water and throw it on her," she said, then hurried down the stairs.

Royce grunted at the searing pain that shuddered up his left leg when he pulled his top boot on. Ruthlessly he shunted the pain from his mind. No doubt when this day was done the boot would have to be cut off. It couldn’t be helped.

What did the Willoughbys want with Jane? Ransom? And what of the second man the boys saw? Was that Helmsdon?

He shrugged on a jacket cut more for comfort than fashion and strode with only the hint of a limp out of his room. He met the marquis and Lady Elsbeth in the Great Hall. Lady Elsbeth glanced at his boot-clad feet, her healing nature warring briefly with her concern for Jane. Concern won.

"Serena is behind this. I don’t understand it, but for some reason she is determined I live with her. She expects Jane to be married by now, thus freeing me," she explained as they hurried outside to the waiting horses.

A frown creased Conisbrough’s high forehead. "Would Chitterdean perform a marriage under duress?"

I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it may be a moot point. He has the grippe now. He may be too ill."

Royce nodded. "Thus the reason for bundling Jane and an unknown gentleman—presumably Helmsdon, from the boys description of his horse—into a carriage. It also explains the elaborate effort of tying brush to the back of the carriage to obliterate their trail."

Conisbrough and Lady Elsbeth looked at him in surprise.

"That’s what the boys said they saw through the telescope," Royce said, grabbing the reins from the waiting groom. His jaw tightened in grim determination when he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. Sharp pain shuddered up his leg. He ignored it. Nodding curtly to Conisbrough, he wheeled his mount around and spurred him to a gallop.

Lady Elsbeth watched them a moment, twisting her hands nervously before her. She could not simply stay behind, wondering every moment what would transpire. Her lips thinned. She turned and curtly ordered a carriage brought around. While the grooms headed for the stables, she turned back to the house to fetch her hat and cloak.

In her chamber she paused by her dressing table, her eyes scanning the assortment of bottles there. She nodded, and ran to her wardrobe to collect not only an extra cloak for Jane to ward off the coming night’s chill, but also a small portmanteau. She hurriedly stuffed it with lawn nightgowns (suitable also for cutting into bandages), pins, scissors, smelling salts, and medicinal herb mixtures. Lastly she added a large bottle of a milky brown liquid.

With the portmanteau and extra cloak clasped in her arms, she ran from her room, her own cloak billowing behind her. In the Great Hall she shouted instructions to the servants, telling Jeremy to be certain her sister and niece were still at Penwick when she returned.

"I don’t know when that will be. Keep the boys out of trouble, too," she requested, hurrying down the wide front steps. She placed the portmanteau on the floor, then allowed a groom to help her up.

"Pardon me, my lady, but shouldn’t you take one of the grooms with you?" Jeremy suggested, trailing after her. He reached up to tuck the extra cloak around her.

"No, I shall do better alone. Stand away, Jeremy," she ordered, "I’m going to spring them!"

Even as they drew rein before the vicarage, Royce was scanning the lane for traces of the carriage. He scowled, his dark brows forming a thick bar above his eyes. The trick with the brush had erased all traces of a carriage’s passing. Unless they could find some clue here, it would be difficult, nearly impossible, to determine which way their quarry had gone.

He dismounted quickly, ignoring the pain. It wasn’t as bad this time as he feared it would be. Perhaps, he thought grimly, his ankle was acquiescing to the punishment it must bear. Conisbrough looked at him quizzically. He shook his head and waved him ahead, following at a limping trot.

Their knock on the door met with no response. They knocked again. From inside they heard answering thumps. They forced open the door to discover Reverend Chitterdean attempting to bounce toward the door in a wooden chair. When he saw them enter, he sagged in relief against the ropes that bound him. The Marquis of Conisbrough ran to the kitchen in search of a knife. When he returned, Royce was standing over Reverend Chitterdean, shaking his head.

"He’s near collapse. His temperature is high, and I don’t like the sound of his breathing. Worse yet, he can’t talk," he said, taking the knife from Conisbrough and beginning to saw at the ropes.

"Can’t talk!" The marquis looked at the vicar. "Then you didn’t marry Miss Grantley?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know where they’ve taken her?" Royce asked, slicing through the bonds on his arms. He knelt down to cut the ropes binding his legs.

This time he nodded, his head bobbing vigorously up and down. He rubbed his arms and wrists where the ropes chafed.

"But you can’t tell us," the marquis said. It was more a statement than a question. He helped the man stand up.

Reverend Chitterdean trembled weakly, and leaned heavily on the marquis. He shook his head sadly, the gleam of tears in his eyes.

"Damn," muttered Royce. He pulled himself slowly upright. "I wonder where Mrs. Chitterdean is?" he said, leaning heavily on the chair.

Chitterdean brightened, and reached out to grasp his coat sleeve. He pointed upstairs. The marquis picked up the discarded knife and loped up the stairs. In a moment he was calling down that he’d found Mrs. Chitterdean and the maid, both trussed up like fowls to market.

"Well, have you discovered anything?" asked a cool, light voice from the open doorway.

Royce turned, surprised to see Lady Elsbeth standing there.

"I was certain you’d have come and gone before I arrived."

"We would, but we don’t know where to go. Chitterdean knows, but his voice is gone. Conisbrough’s untying Mrs. Chitterdean now."

Lady Elsbeth, portmanteau in hand, glided over to Reverend Chitterdean’s side. "He’s burning with fever. Help me get him to the sofa to lie down."

She fluffed a pillow behind his head and covered him with a blanket. "He seems lucid enough. Have you asked him to write their destination down?" she asked matter-of-factly as she rooted in her bag for a particular vial of medicine.

Royce slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "No!"

"I’ll fetch paper and pen," said Mrs. Chitterdean, coming down the stairs before Conisbrough. The little woman moved with a brisk efficiency, every line in her body rigid with anger over their ordeal. She swept past them all into the reverend’s study and returned moments later with an old, well-scarred lap desk.

"Here, dear," she said, placing the desk on his lap and laying out paper on it. She even dipped the quill in the ink bottle before handing it to him.

With a hand shaking from high fever, Reverend Chitterdean laboriously scrawled his message. His handwriting was nearly illegible. It was with agonizing slowness that letters took shape into a word.

T u n b r i d

"Royal Tunbridge Wells!" Lady Elsbeth said excitedly.

Chitterdean nodded and collapsed back against the cushions, then almost immediately leaned forward again to write.

Crawley.

They stared at the word and shook their heads. Reverend Chittenden looked from one to another, hopelessly. Then he looked at his wife, and pointed back at the word.

She started to shake her head no, then stopped. "Cranford Crawley?" she suggested.

"It would figure," she said when her husband nodded. "He’d likely do what they wanted, for a price. For a man of God, he’s more in league with the devil. "

"Where is this Cranford Crawley?" Royce asked, already straightening to leave. He was dismally aware of the time that had passed since the boys had seen the carriage leave.

"Just this side of Royal Tunbridge Wells in the tiny village of Piddenhurst."

Royce and Conisbrough backed toward the door as she spoke, and were out and mounting without a farewell. As one they urged their horses to a gallop. To the west of them the sun was turning brilliant orange as it dipped toward the hills and trees.

They rode hard, without speaking, each man locked within his own thoughts, too grimly aware of their quarry’s lead on them. There was, as Royce predicted, no sign of carriage tracks to follow. There were no tracks at all—no sign of cattle crossing, no imprint of a tinker’s shoes and his heavy cart, no dog prints. Nothing then became their trail. But darkness was falling, and soon they couldn’t see the road. Finally, after about ten miles, they found a collection of bushes and branches, all knotted together, lying in a ditch by the side of the road. "They must feel safe, now," observed Conisbrough.

Royce nodded. "Safe, and perhaps now in need of speed. Pulling that load would have been a strain on the horses. "Maybe they’re not so far ahead of us as we fear. "

"Maybe," was Royce’s only reply as he spurred his tired horse onward.

Georgie stopped the hard driven horses before a neglected cottage. Though evening shadows cloaked everything, Jane could discern an overgrown bed of roses just beyond the sagging fence that ringed the tiny property. The glow of a single lantern shone dimly through the smudged and dirty windows. Jane shivered at the sight, for it was not the warm glow one equated with a hospitable welcome. There would be no help for her here.

An oppressive heaviness sat in her chest. She was tired, hungry, and frightened. It took every gram of fortitude she possessed not to succumb to tears. She clenched her jaw, in her mind imagining the texture of her Ice Witch cloak. She draped it about herself, willing the rents and tears it had suffered of late to disappear. She took a deep breath.

Sir Helmsdon laid his bound hands over hers. He gently squeezed her hands, giving her what silent support he could. If Georgie and Sophie succeeded in marrying him to Jane—though what threat they would use if either said no, he was loath to consider—he would not be the winner he’d once anticipated. He found he admired Jane and that he truly loved her. His past protestations of love sounded hollow and false in his own ears. He knew now that it was because he loved her that he did not wish to marry her.

He eyed Sophie as Georgie went up to the cottage. There was a grim set to her mouth that warned against unwarranted heroics. If he proved too recalcitrant, he did not put it past them to find the first available plowboy to stand as Jane’s groom. There had to be a way to avoid this situation. He’d learned when the duns pressed the worst, there was always a way to avoid them. Something came about. He didn’t know what it would be, but he had to be ready to grab for it when it came his way.

Then Georgie was back, hustling them into the dimly lit cottage.

Jane and Helmsdon strained their eyes against the gloom. There, standing by a faintly smoking fireplace stood a stooped, straggly-haired man dressed in rusty black. He stared at them with sharp, beady eyes reflecting red coals from the hearth. He looked more like one of those religious zealots than a Church of England clergyman.

"So, this is to be the bride and groom?" he said with a laugh to match his attire. Stooped, and nearly hunchbacked, he shambled forward, cupping Jane’s face between long, dirty fingers.

Jane jerked her head back, glaring at him.

He laughed again and turned his attention to Sir Helmsdon. "I’ve heard of you, sir. You will stand to profit the most from this ah, transaction." He canted his head slowly toward the other shoulder. "Why do you resist?"

"For the reason that I am being forced," he ground out, "which is a circumstance that should be abhorrent to you as a man of the cloth."

"A reg’lar little fire-eater, ain’t you? A pocket knight," he observed, laughing again.

"Enough chatter," Georgie growled. "Will you do it or not?"

"For a price, my friend, only for a price."

"Well, of course! I ain’t so lost to reason."

"To be sure, to be sure," the man murmured, patting his pockets for the spectacles that rested among grizzled locks on his head. He finally found them and pulled them down on the bridge of his nose. He stooped to pick up a worn black bible. "Eh, what price?" he asked, looking at Georgie sideways, a ghoul in the dim light.