“Muzzle her, somebody.”
There were sounds of a struggle. “The brute,” Sherlock muttered. “But she has every ability to deal with him. It’s time for me to be going.” One moment he was there talking, whether to me or to himself, and the next moment he had disappeared into the night.
Feeling not nearly as confident as he had sounded, I stayed where I was, worrying about Tish, unable to do anything to help her. Yet.
Chapter the Nineteenth
Time is a peculiar phenomenon, pretending to be regulated by clocks and watches, yet speeding or lagging just as it chooses. Those few moments of waiting and darkness before anything else happened were the most dilatory I had ever experienced. It seemed like ages before I heard sounds coming from the direction of the stable, eons before I saw Rudcliff’s carriage come rolling up towards the hall. I felt as if I had grown a beard before it was time for me, like Sherlock, to be going.
The carriage, drawn by a sturdy pair of Cleveland Bays, rolled directly past me. I hid from the light of its lanterns, shrinking into the arbor vitae. But the instant its rear wheels spun by me, I darted out, dashed to its far side, and trotted along with it, hiding behind it and in its shadow as it pulled into the portico and halted at the hall door.
Crouching on my side of the carriage, I tried to listen, barely able to hear beyond the pounding of my own heart. For perhaps ten minutes now I had not been able to see or hear what was happening to Tish. I tried to tell myself that she had done wonderfully and would emerge undamaged. My heart wouldn’t listen. She had been through rigours and would go through more. The black barouche awaited her.
I heard the door of Dunhench Hall opening. A babble ensued, including, to my relief, Tish’s voice raised in undiminished fervor: “You’re nothing but a pack of mongrels, the whole spineless lot of you!” And I heard scuffling sounds; she was struggling, as arranged, to divert attention from any sounds I might make.
Hoping the coachman’s eyes and ears were all for the commotion surrounding Tish, I reached up to open the door on my side of the carriage as silently as I could, slipped inside, then shut the door just as stealthily behind me.
Jonah in the whale’s belly could not have felt more in the dark than I did. I stretched my arms but felt nothing, and I needed to find a seat under which to hide! The voices all too quickly drew closer, among them a matronly one I had heard before. “Now dearie, do please settle down like the sweet darling Flossie I know you are. Dear lady, you’ll always be my angel lamb, no matter what they done to your precious hair…” Dawson choked, and her voice trailed away. Mentally I blessed her, for her loquacity gained me time to feel my way to one of the lavishly upholstered carriage seats and crawl underneath it to hide in its shadow.
“Go away, you mealymouthed, simpering sheep! Let me alone!” retorted Tish. I heard more sounds of struggle, and then someone opened the carriage door. From where I lay in hiding I could see only feet, and it alarmed me that they wore sturdy brogues; none of them were bare. Where was Tish?
“Where is Caddie?” she flared, her voice directly above me; she perched on the seat under which I hid. “Is he too much of a coward to show me his face?”
“Now, now, my lady,” said Dawson from the seat opposite. I heard what sounded like the scrape of a match, then saw a light blaze—or seem to blaze, however slight, in the darkness. It steadied; Dawson must have lit a candle. Odd, to bring a candle into a carriage, but perhaps she did not want a madwoman coming at her in the dark.
The carriage door shut and its wheels began to roll as I pondered two unexpected developments: Someone had put shoes on Tish, and Dawson was with us. Sooner or later, I would have to do something about Dawson.
But for the time being, as the carriage bore us away from Dunhench Hall, stopping only long enough for the lodge-keeper to open the gates, I stayed where I was, wishing there were some way of knowing whether Sherlock, Tewky, and Dr. Watson were following as planned. Of course the lodge-keeper would see them as their wagonette dashed out directly behind our carriage, and of course the lodge-keeper would run up to the hall and express suspicions that something peculiar was going on, but by the time that happened, if any alarum was raised, it need not concern us. Pursuit would be too late to overtake us.
I listened hard, but my ears told me little. Only the motion of the carriage informed me that we had passed the gate. Once on the high road, we swayed along at a rapid clip. Time had come for me to act, but I found myself in a bit of a quandary. While I felt no doubt that I was more than a match for Dawson, my initial position—crawling out from under a seat—would put me at a disadvantage. What if she were to scream, alerting the coachman? I most certainly did not want to deal with two adversaries at once.
Suddenly Dawson spoke; indeed, she blurted, as if driven by emotion. “Lady Dunhench, you must know that none of this at all is the least bit due to nothing you did. It’s the earl; he is the way he is, and it’s nobody’s fault—”
Tish reacted like a viper striking. Screeching something inarticulate, she coiled, snatched off her shoe, and flung it at Dawson’s face. Thereafter it is hard to describe with authority the exact sequence of events. Dawson gasped, ducking so clumsily that she nearly fell. Seizing my opportunity, I slithered out from under the carriage seat and saw her discomfiture. Tish yelled, “Cow!” and threw her other shoe at Dawson, who fell to the floor whilst ducking it—or perhaps in surprise at seeing me, or more probably because the carriage came to a crossroads and turned sharply—not for the first time.
Flat on the floor, with eyes both wild and wider than I would have thought possible considering her bovine qualities, Dawson opened her mouth to scream, but I pounced, clamping my hand over her mouth before she got past her initial squeak. Kneeling on her bosom, with one hand silencing her and the other flourishing my dagger, I warned her, “Don’t make a sound.”
Tish got up to retrieve her shoes, and her face was a study, but that was not what first caught my attention regarding her. At some point, I saw with surprise and relief, someone had put clothing on her, a dimity frock awkwardly tugged over the tattered dress she already wore, and sagging cotton stockings, and a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.
I asked, “Are you all right, Tish?”
As I remained physically atop Dawson, I felt her startle when she heard the name.
“I’m exhausted,” Tish said, sitting down in a way that vouched for the veracity of this statement.
“You were marvelous, you know. Brilliant.”
“Is it all going as planned?”
“There is no way of our knowing for sure, but I expect so.”
“Then I may get rid of these pistachio shells?”
“And beeswax and so forth? Certainly.”
With my hand still muffling her mouth, Dawson made a squeak conveying astonishment and inquiry. I turned to her and spoke most sincerely, gazing down into her eyes. “Dawson, what you are seeing is sisterly love such as you are never likely to experience again. Tish has shorn her hair, starved herself, worn a pauper’s dress, and undergone the utmost rigours for the sake of her twin, all in an attempt to trick the Earl of Dunhench into mistaking her for her sister. We mean no harm to you.” This while my dagger still hovered over her. “Our sole purpose is to find and free Lady Felicity. Dawson, I know you have a good heart.” Although not much backbone—but I kept that thought to myself. “If I sheathe my dagger, will you promise not to interfere?” I wanted to sound like an angel of justice with sword in hand, but I found myself wheedling.
Dawson nodded so vigorously she dislodged my hand. Standing up, I returned my dagger to its sheath in the busk of my corset, then helped her to her feet and saw her re-seated, keeping a strict watch on her the whole time lest she attempt some kind of subterfuge.
“Dawson,” I demanded, “why, pray tell, did your master see fit to rid himself of Lady Felicity in such a disgraceful and underhanded fashion?”
She stared at me, blinking and blank, before s
he answered. “Why, Miss Basilwether, it’s just his way. He can’t stand one woman for long. Her smilin’ and singin’ like a lark wore him out. The wonder is that he married her in the first place. I truly believe he thought he loved her.”
From across the carriage, Tish called Caddie an unrepeatable name. Unsurprised and without taking offense, Dawson turned her attention to Tish, who had already peeled or rubbed most of the pseudo-ghastliness off of her skin.
“Miss Glover,” said Dawson in awed and obsequious tones, “I never would have guessed it was you.”
Tish replied only with a grimace. Vestiges of rage still clung about her like incorporeal rags.
But Dawson persevered. “How on earth did you know to come looking for your lady sister?”
“You truly expected me to be so stupid as to believe Flossie was dead?”
“Most people did,” said Dawson humbly.
“Most people are not twins. Flossie could not have left this life without me, or I would have felt it.” Her tone changed. “I feel it now, my sister’s being. She is not far away!”
“That’s true.” Dawson looked more than ever impressed. “We should be getting close.”
“Close to where?” I demanded.
Quite docile, Dawson responded, “The Lesser Smythnuncle Sanatorium for Imbeciles and Mental Defectives.”
As I was attempting to memorize this cognomen (in case, by any mischance, it might be needed later), the carriage slowed to navigate a curving drive, then drew to a halt. We all stiffened as we heard the driver climb down from the box—I in particular, for I froze, unable to decide whether to draw my dagger to control Dawson or hide under the seat in case the driver opened the carriage door.
Fortunately, he did not. “Dawson,” he bawled, “stay with ’er a bit until I knocks somebody up.”
And to my most pleasant astonishment, Dawson called back, “All right.”
The sound of his boots crunching on gravel proceeded away from us. As soon as I deemed it safe to do so, I opened the carriage door—the one opposite the direction the coachman had gone—and poked my head out.
Beyond the wan light of the carriage lamps I saw only darkness.
Trying not to let my heartbeat hasten in consternation—not quite yet—I got straight out of the carriage and walked back behind it.
Nothing.
I listened but heard no reassuring sound of clopping hooves.
We had reached the insane asylum, but I neither saw nor heard any sign of Watson or Tewky or Holmes or their wagonette or their thrice-accursed yellow horse.
Chapter the Twentieth
“Tish,” I said, opening the carriage door that faced away from the asylum, “the others are not here. They must have gotten lost. We must retreat.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind!” It seemed as if Tish, in playing the part of her angry twin, had seriously taken on a shoe-throwing sort of personality. “I’m going in there. I’m going to see my sister.”
“But Tish, you can’t!” Trying to decide on a plan of action, I was reasoning backwards from the worst thing that could happen: Tish herself being committed as a lunatic. “They won’t let Flossie go on just your say-so!”
“They know Lady Felicity as Nora,” volunteered Dawson, observing us eagerly yet placidly, as if seated in a theatre. “Mrs. Nora Helmer.”
“She’s lost her name?” Tish sounded dazed.
“Nora Helmer!” I exclaimed. Evidently Caddie had been to see the latest controversial play, A Doll’s House, and had chosen a unique way to mock its heroine. “How fiendish! Tish, how can you possibly expect—”
Heatedly she cut me off. “I have not come this close to finding my sister in order to hesitate! You know where she is; go for help!”
“Afoot, in this isolated place, with no idea which way to turn?” If being committed was the worst that could happen to Tish, being stranded was the worst that could happen to me—yet I could hardly ride along in the carriage back to Dunhench Hall, could I? Nor could Tish, for that matter. Somehow I must keep both her and myself out of harm’s way. “Tish—”
“Hush!” she ordered, urgently gesturing for me to leave; she must have seen, as I did, the swaying light of a lantern moving towards us. I backed away, closing the carriage door as quietly as I could, but I knew I would not do what Tish wanted of me. I could not simply abandon her in the asylum.
Only one other option occurred to me, involving swift action and surprise. But luckily, the coachman had no reason to beware of me. Indeed, he had no idea I existed.
Reaching the carriage, he opened the door and spoke to Dawson. Edging around the back of the carriage towards him, I heard his bewildered voice. “They say Missus Nora Helmer ain’t run off at all. She’s right there in her ward where she belong.”
“That’s right.” Dawson sounded ever so smug. “This one here is her twin sister.”
Peeking out of my hiding place, I saw the man gawking like a fish. I also surveyed his surroundings and made a useful observation.
“So what am I supposed to do?” the coachman appealed.
“The earl wants her committed just the same,” said Dawson, to my scowling disapproval. Evidently Dawson was a weathervane of a woman, taking sides as the wind blew.
“But—but that’s awful serious, especially as she ain’t the right one.”
“What other choice do you have? Adopt her, you and your wife?”
Tish said impatiently, “Just call me Mrs. Linde and take me in there.” Tish had not yet ceased to surprise me; Mrs. Linde was the name of Nora Helmer’s friend and confidante in A Doll’s House.
The coachman coughed in the hesitating manner known as “hem and haw.” “Well…”
Tish put one foot on the step to get out of the carriage. He reached out a hand to assist her.
I charged. Gentle reader, please bear in mind that, while not weighty, I am tall and strong, and I lanced into them like a battering ram. In less time than it takes for me to tell it, I knocked them both sprawling, Tish back into the carriage on her posterior, and the coachman similarly into a formidable rosebush.
“Enola!” Tish cried, “I will never forgive you, never!”
That hurt enough to make me bite my lip as I shut the carriage door on her and darted onward, swarming up the carriage as if it were a tree, seizing the reins from where the coachman had secured them, grabbing the whip and lashing the horses. They sprang forward, and at the same time, not at all coincidentally, I sat down hard on the coachman’s bench. I kept the presence of mind to ply the reins so that the plunging horses stayed on the drive, the carriage slewed and swayed its way around the turning, and we sped back in the direction from which we had come. I heard the coachman swearing and snapping thorny branches as he struggled to get up from the rosebush, and to my satisfaction, his curses faded away, left behind.
I started tugging on the reins and addressing the horses in soothing tones, telling them they could cease galloping now. My lucky fates be praised that the Cleveland Bays, scions of a fine old breed, proved to be far more civilized than Jezebel. By the time we reached the end of the drive, I had slowed them to a trot, and I reined them in even more to accomplish the turn onto the road at a walk. Otherwise, I might have upset the carriage, especially as I could see only by the light of its lanterns. But I very much feared Tish might jump out when we slowed down. As soon as I could, I clicked my tongue and snapped the whip to send the horses once more into a smart trot.
We whirled along for a few miles, when our road ended at a thoroughfare. I had no idea which way to turn, but in this case she who hesitated might have had a mutiny on her hands; slowing the horses to a walk, I took a quick glance to the left—at darkness—then to the right, where I saw a hint of a light. Peering through trees, I thought it could have been sizable but quite distant, or closer but quite small. Indeed I had no idea what was its source, but it hardly mattered. Lost in the night, like a moth I turned towards the light, urging the horses into a trot again.
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As we rounded a gentle curve in the highway, I saw it more clearly, not so far away from us; I saw it move—then felt a bolt of fear straighten my spine, for I now perceived the light to be a lantern held by a man blocking our road! A robber? I could not turn such a large, clumsy thing as a carriage to flee him, I saw no way past him, and the only other choice seemed to be to run over him.
“Halloo there!” he called, swinging the lantern.
At the sound of his voice, recognition took my breath away. I could not muster speech to answer him as I reined in the horses.
Not knowing who I was, he strode forward, lifting his lantern to have a look at me. Voice pitched about an octave above his normal tone, he exclaimed, “Enola?”
“Hello, Sherlock. What happened?” Foolish question, for, stopping the carriage, I could see what had happened. The wagonette swooned in the ditch beside the road with its wheels spinning awry while Tewky and Watson surveyed it forlornly. As for Jezebel, she was notable only by her absence and by the damage she had wrought.
“What happened?” Sherlock mimicked. “I should ask you what happened. Why are you driving this carriage when we both know you cannot drive?”
I had no chance to retort, for the carriage doors opened. Tish and Dawson stepped out, Dawson carrying her now nearly spent candle.
“Enola Holmes,” cried Tish, her words choked by wrath and tears, “I shall hate you forever unless we go back there and get my sister straightaway.”
“Well,” said Sherlock, “we can’t have her hating you forever, can we?”
* * *
A short time later, when we once more drove into The Lesser Smythnuncle Sanatorium for Imbeciles and Mental Defectives, our carriage lamps were not the only illumination. Several persons, both male and female, clustered out front holding lanterns, their interest centred upon a rampantly gesticulating individual.
“That’s the coachman,” I explained to Sherlock, who was riding up on the box with me, having helped me get the carriage turned around. “I had to shove him into the clutches of a big rosebush, or he would have taken Tish inside.”
Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche Page 13
