Sylvia Or The Moral High Ground

by Catherine Bowness

  “Let me go at once!” she cried as loudly as she could.

  They were by this time beside the door and the man opened it and pulled her through, sweeping her into his arms the instant they were outside and forcing a handkerchief, soaked in something which tasted abominable, into her mouth. She struggled, making as much noise as she could through the handkerchief, but to no avail and, as he carried her away from the house, her senses began to swim.

  Afterwards, she was unsure what had happened immediately upon leaving the ballroom and did not know how much time had passed before she regained consciousness. She had the impression that she was swimming up from some depth, becoming aware only gradually of a swaying motion interrupted from time to time by sudden bumps, which she eventually realised was the movement of a carriage driven recklessly fast. She was tightly wrapped, like a baby, in a blanket and was slumped upon the seat of the closed vehicle.

  She was not alone: a man was beside her, still swathed in a black domino so that she could see nothing but his hands, ungloved and clasped together lightly between his knees. They were not hands she recognised and they struck her as alarmingly powerful, being large and square with sinews which showed through the skin even when apparently relaxed. He was not touching her and the noisome handkerchief had been removed from her mouth, although the bitter taste remained, making her retch.

  “Here; you can be sick into this,” he said, picking up a bowl from the floor of the carriage and handing it to her. She was not bound, except by the folds of the blanket and, groaning and choking, she struggled to pull her arms free.

  He leaned over and tugged the blanket away with one hand whilst proffering the bowl with the other. She took it and turned away.

  “Oh, you need not be afraid to be sick in front of me,” he told her roughly. “I’ve seen much worse – and so will you before I’ve done with you.”

  Too frightened now even to be sick, she leaned back against the squabs, reflecting that, if she had thought she was about to die when she had felt so unwell at the Barnabys’ ball, she had not only been entirely wrong but had had no idea that it was possible to feel as ill as she did now and still breathe.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “You speak like a gentleman but I do not know you. And what do you want with me?”

  “What do you think I want?” he asked. “What do men usually want with women?” He pulled off her mask and struck a light, leaning across to hold it to her face. “You’re a pretty piece,” he observed dispassionately.

  “Thank you,” she responded politely and continued, in an effort to establish some sort of an ordinary conversation, “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a quiet house where we shall be undisturbed for long enough.”

  “Long enough for what, pray? And why?”

  “You cannot – can you – be so innocent as not to have some idea of what is planned for you?” he asked in a bewildered voice before abandoning answering the first question in favour of the second, to which he both knew the answer and felt less uncomfortable in giving it. “Why? Why not? When a man is paid a large sum for doing something that comes natural and when the subject turns out as pretty as you, it’s not a job he’s likely to turn down. Have you stopped being sick?” He added abruptly, clearly wishing to avoid any further explanation of the precise nature of what he had been paid to do.

  She turned away again and made what she hoped were convincing sounds for she had suddenly realised that she held a weapon of sorts and determined to use it.

  “Yes, for the time being,” she said in a weak voice, ceasing the ghastly paroxysms she had been feigning but remaining hunched over the receptacle for a little longer before turning swiftly and hitting his face as hard as she could with the still empty bowl. While he was recovering from his surprise, she reached for the door handle.

  The carriage was travelling at considerable speed but Sylvia did not think about the likelihood of injury – or even death – if she succeeded in jumping out. She simply knew that she must go at once, before they reached the quiet house.

  But she could not open the door. Very likely it was locked: after all he had not thought it necessary to bind her hands or feet. In any event, she was still wrestling with the handle when he dragged her back and hit her across the face, a blow which knocked her backwards to sprawl against the squabs.

  He tore off his mask and swore at her viciously, adding, “You’ll pay for that!”

  “Deservedly no doubt,” she responded, seeing that her blow had caused his nose to bleed freely. “I am sorry if I hurt you. Please let me go.”

  For a moment he was so startled by her manner that he dropped the hand that had been about to hit her again.

  “I cannot do that,” he said almost apologetically. “I have already been paid half the fee and cannot forgo the rest. I need the money to take care of my family.”

  “Good God!” she exclaimed. “Do your wife and children know what you do for a living?”

  “They think I’m a gentleman of the road,” he said ironically.

  “I suppose they consider that romantic. What would your wife say if she knew what you were really doing? Abducting innocent women is an abominable way to earn your living. How much have you been paid?”

  “More than you can afford.”

  “Who paid you?”

  “I cannot tell you that because my instructions do not include killing you, although, now that you have seen my face, I may be forced to as I do not want to be identified any more than my principal does.”

  “I see. What if I were to tell you that I know a man who will pay a fortune to save me? That he will pay twice as much as whatever you have been given – and promised - to restore me safely to my family?”

  “Your lover? He will not want you after this.”

  “No, I daresay he may not. I am offering his money before you’ve hurt me. Turn round now and take me back to the ball.”

  “Impossible! A bird in the hand ...” His anger appeared to have subsided and he spoke almost kindly. “Can’t let you fly away though,” he added, bending down to what looked, in the intermittent shafts of moonlike, like a carpet bag by his feet from which he withdrew a length of rope.

  She struggled and kicked as he leaned towards her and took firm hold of both her wrists with the evident intention of binding them. But she was weakened by her experience with the laudanum-soaked handkerchief and he was, in any event, a bigger and stronger person than she; a man whose large hands she had already noted, one of which, she now discovered, could hold both hers at the same time.

  “Hold still for God’s sake!” he exclaimed with some irritation, hitting her again as she fought him. “What a spitfire! Must I break your legs before you submit?”

  She, thinking that broken legs would probably be the least of her injuries if she allowed him to get the better of her, continued to fight for as long as possible but was, unsurprisingly, eventually subdued and sank helplessly into her corner of the carriage.

  “Empty promises!” he observed laconically when she was firmly trussed like a rabbit. “No man I’ve ever met has been prepared to pay a king’s ransom for a woman who’s been snatched to be restored to him. They don’t generally believe female protestations of being unmolested. You may be a fiery little beauty but you’re not the only one. He’ll find someone else.” With which, he leaned forward and kissed her with some force right upon her reluctant mouth.

  She managed to bite his lip but received another blow for her pains.

  “You could be hanged for this,” she began again when he had resumed his own seat, dabbing at his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. She told herself that, however hopeless things looked at present, there was still a possibility that she might be able to save herself and she must not allow the fear of being hit to render her passive.

  “It’s not the only thing I could be hanged for,” he pointed out. “So shut your cakehole, my dear, and think of something pleasant to say to me. That way, I might not hurt
you so much.”

  But Sylvia could think of nothing pleasant to say and indeed felt at a loss to think of anything else to say at all. Instead, she addressed her Maker, silently, begging Him, if He could not see his way to saving her from what she feared was to be her fate, at least to help her to endure it.

  The carriage bucketed on for at least another half hour. Unpleasant as it was, it had become clear to Sylvia that her abductor did not intend to carry out whatever his instructions were within its swaying space; that fate was no doubt reserved for the ‘quiet house’. Consequently, she began to wish that the journey would continue as long as possible.

  Having offered up her prayers to her Maker, she turned her mind to more practical matters and strove to engage her frightened brain in a plan for escape. With her hands and feet bound, she could see little possibility of running away when the carriage stopped and none at all of being able to overpower her abductor. Escape looked to be impossible; nevertheless she managed, amid the turmoil of her fear, to think of one trick which she determined to employ once they arrived at their destination.

  When at last the carriage turned into a drive, her spirits plummeted briefly but, apostrophising herself for a coward, she managed to rally her forces once more to hold on to that tiny grain of hope that her planned trick might answer.

  The carriage drew up before what, in the light of a thin but surprisingly bright moon, she could see was a sort of farmhouse. It was no doubt, as he had said, quiet and a long way from any neighbour.

  The coachman opened the door and let down the steps. The abductor alighted first, turning round to pick her up. As he walked towards the building she saw that it was two storeys high and built of what looked like stone. When they reached it, he extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The coachman did not accompany them inside but returned to his vehicle.

  The abductor carried her straight upstairs and into a room which, with its curtains undrawn, was lit only by slender bars of moonlight. He flung her down upon the bed and set himself to lighting two tarnished candelabra standing upon the mantelpiece.

  “Now,” he said, returning to look more closely at his prize, his eyes moving up and down her form, “the moment has almost come to carry out the next part of my commission but, as a result of your abominable conduct in the carriage, there will be a slight delay while I wash my face. Do not move; I shall be back directly.”

  “I cannot, can I? But I must – I need to …” She could not bring herself to say what she needed to do but turned her head restlessly upon the hard pillow and endeavoured to hold her knees more tightly together than they were already forced by the rope.

  He laughed and, leaning down, kicked a chamber pot out from under the bed. “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes, thank you, but I cannot – cannot manage unless you untie me.”

  He stood considering her for a moment where she lay, bound, upon the bed, her eyes fixed upon his face with what she hoped was a suitably beseeching expression. She had not been able to make out his features in the dark carriage, particularly since he had not removed the mask until she had hit him with the bowl, after which she had stared fixedly out of the window.

  Now she saw that he was a man, probably in his forties, tall and strong – she already knew that – and, from what she could make out, behind the quantities of drying blood streaked across it, not unhandsome except that somebody had broken his nose, probably on several occasions since it had a good many bumps and seemed uncertain which way it wanted to turn. She wondered fleetingly if she had done so again; there seemed to her to be a vast quantity of blood and the nose itself had turned a horrid shade of purplish-black.

  “Very well,” he agreed, drawing a knife from its resting place in one of his boots and cutting the ropes which bound her.

  “I shall lock this door,” he said. “All the doors to the outside are locked and bolted. This room is on the first floor. If you attempt to jump out of the window you will most likely break your neck.”

  She did not answer but struggled into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Her wrists and ankles burned from the rope. She wished that he would go.

  He grinned suddenly, perhaps amused by her discomfort, and she saw that he had lost a good many teeth. What, she wondered, had brought him to this? He spoke like a gentleman and had a sense of humour – of sorts. Occasionally, she saw glimpses of kindness; he had hit her no harder and no more frequently than was necessary to subdue her. She had the impression that, in spite of her having hurt him, he bore her no particular ill will; he was simply doing his job and appreciated her efforts to defend herself.

  “I shan’t be long,” he said placatingly, almost as though he expected her to miss him. He left the room and she heard the key turn in the lock and his footsteps fade away.

  She moved immediately, knowing that she probably had very little time to prepare for his return. She went to the window, raised her foot and kicked it. She wore only dancing pumps and the blow had no effect. She fetched the chamber pot and, using all her strength, banged it against the glass, which shattered satisfactorily although it made a frightful noise. A large hole appeared at the point of impact, surrounded by cracks radiating outwards. Most of the glass fell to the ground outside, but a light coating of glittering dust landed upon the floor where she stood, giving it a curious – and rather beautiful – frosted appearance.

  She was still wearing the long silk gloves which she had put on for the ball. Knowing that he would most likely have heard the breaking glass and that she had only seconds before he returned, she drew one off and, wrapping it round a long shard of what remained, pulled it away; it made a curious crackling sound reminding her of Cook breaking toffee in the kitchen when she had been a child. Cook would have broken the strip into several smaller portions with a hammer but Sylvia took care not to do this; she needed her weapon to be both long and sharp; a toffee-sized piece would be of no use. Her intention, so far as she had been able to form one, was more to fend her attacker off with the threat of plunging her glass dagger into his breast than to do so for, even at this moment when she believed she was fighting for her life, she was not by any means certain that she would be able to bring herself to kill a man.

  The shard was about nine inches long and shaped like a flame with sharp edges all around and a decided point at the end. It made a handsome dagger provided that she took care not to stab herself whilst threatening her opponent.

  Grasping her weapon firmly, she took up a position against the wall beside, but not directly in front of, the window – she had no wish to be pushed out of it in the ensuing struggle. As she moved, her feet crunched on the sparkling dust as though upon frosted grass.

  She waited, breathing hard, for what seemed a very long time. What was he doing? Could he conceivably be waiting for a kettle to boil the better to wash the congealing blood from his face?

  Chapter 35

  Cassie relaxed as the evening wore on and nobody seemed to recognise her although it would not have been true to say that she began to enjoy herself.

  She recognised the Duke as soon as she saw him because she knew his height to a nicety and was familiar with the way he held himself and moved. She saw him lead out a young girl who could be no other than Miss Sullington because she had been standing next to a woman with a long nose, who was, without doubt, Lady Sullington. Later she saw the same girl dancing repeatedly with Mr Harbury and the happiness visible upon the small uncovered portion of both faces. Those two were, it seemed to her, genuinely in love. Whether they would stay that way and whether the girl would be permitted to marry the young man, was impossible to predict but she was certain that their attachment was mutual.

  She no longer thought that their parting, if such was to be their fate, would be due to the more eligible Duke winning her; she was certain that he would not continue his pursuit now that his former love had reappeared. She could not identify the governess at first, only having seen her once or twice, but she did
not see the Duke approach anyone who looked like her all evening and wondered if they were still angry with each other on account of the misunderstanding which she had so successfully engineered years ago. On the other hand, now that the Duke was aware of her, Cassie’s, machinations to part him irrevocably from his former love, she supposed that he would eventually make a renewed offer – and the governess would likely accept with alacrity, having no doubt discovered the reality of remaining unmarried and pursuing a displeasing profession.

  Recalling their last, exceedingly disagreeable, meeting, Cassie wished, not for the first time, that he had raised his hand to her in preference to whipping her with scorn alone. She began, only now, to appreciate the skill with which he had, by not hitting her, thrown her own shameful conduct back at her without affording her the comfort of feeling mistreated by him. She knew that the scales of ill-usage were tilted heavily in his direction; he had done nothing of which she could complain and had indeed added to her sense of self-loathing, not only through his self-restraint, but also by dint of his generosity.

  Attending the masked ball, which was given by a prominent member of the ton, Cassie was, for the first time since her fall, amongst people of her own background. The older guests were people she had almost certainly met several years ago, the younger ones probably their children. She had thought that, if only she were permitted to return to her former position and mix with those of her original rank, she would be able to put the past behind her and lay aside her anger. But she found that, on the contrary, mingling with these arrogant, spoiled people, who had never known the misery and degradation to which she had been subject, made her more resentful. They dared, from their smug position of comfort and security, to despise those who had been unlucky, believing that such unfortunates deserved whatever had befallen them.

  As for Lord Furzeby: she was as unsure of his motives in bringing her here as she was of his ultimate intentions towards her. Did he want her as a mistress or was he simply being kind? To bring her, incognito, to a ball argued either that he meant to reinstate her into Society or that he wished, for his own reasons, to make a mockery of the ton and its rigid rules. This latter explanation did not seem to her to fit his character so far as she knew it. He was known to be, not only a man of unimpeachable morality, but also a kindly one of whom she had never heard a bad word. Everyone liked Lord Furzeby; she did herself and began, almost against her will, to wonder if she and he had some sort of a future together.