Sylvia Or The Moral High Ground

by Catherine Bowness

  She wished Prue was with her; her commonsensical approach would have been of great comfort in this strange situation; she would have calmed Cassie’s nerves by reminding her that, even were she to be discovered, the worst that could befall her would be ejection from the ball. After all, since she had been thrown out by Society a long time ago, she had nothing further to lose were the action to be repeated.

  And so she tottered through the evening, clinging, as agreed, to Lord Furzeby’s arm and dancing only with him and occasionally Mr Harbury, when that gentleman was able to tear himself from his beloved’s side. The closer the clock hands moved towards twelve, the more anxious she became. Her tight hold upon Furzeby was caused quite as much by her own need to be protected as by their agreement that she should do so in order to carry off her impersonation of his shy sister-in-law.

  Her ordeal was almost over and people had begun to drift away when his lordship was approached by a man whom she recognised as Lord Marklye. Furzeby had promised that they would be amongst this early-leaving group but, as the minutes ticked past, he seemed to be in no hurry to depart. The minute hand crept around to the top of the clock. She saw Mr Harbury leading Miss Sullington out once more, presumably determined to spend every last second in her company before the unmasking made it impossible.

  The Duke was not dancing but she could see him standing at the far side of the room with a woman whom Cassie was fairly sure was his sister.

  She must not – could not - be here when midnight struck. She tugged at Lord Furzeby’s sleeve but he merely patted her hand and murmured, “In a minute, my dear; there is no hurry.”

  “But there is; it is very nearly midnight.”

  He laughed. “There will be such a frenzy as the hour strikes that no one will notice us. I promised my sister that we would leave before the unmasking,” he explained to Lord Marklye. “She is on tenterhooks lest she be forced to reveal herself to people she has not seen for years, although I should not think many of them would recognise her after all this time.”

  “But why should you not wish to re-acquaint yourself with old friends, Mrs Harbury?” Lord Marklye asked.

  “Oh,” she muttered, trying for the fluttery manner of a socially inexperienced woman. “They will find me grown so old and dull. I do not think I could support all the questions.”

  Lord Furzeby patted her hand kindly. “Never fear; all will be well,” he said comfortably without, Cassie was certain, having the least idea of what she was soafraid.

  “Have you seen Miss Holmdale?” he went on to Marklye, giving Cassie a most unpleasant shock.

  “Not for some time,” Marklye admitted. “I danced with her earlier but, in view of what happened at the last ball we attended, I thought it safer to keep my distance.”

  “Very wise,” Furzeby agreed. “Well, I had better do my poor sister’s bidding and steer her out of harm’s way.”

  He nodded at Marklye and began to make his way, Cassie clinging to his arm, towards the doors.

  But he had left it too late to escape before the clock struck. The musicians stopped playing so that everyone would be able to hear the knell which marked the moment of revelation; to Cassie, as to a few others, it seemed indeed to signal a summons to Heaven, or to hell. The room fell silent as it worked its way ponderously through its routine until the twelfth note had sounded when, after a short pause in case they had miscounted, pandemonium broke out, everyone shouting and tearing off their own or their partner’s mask. Lovers discovered whom they had been rashly addressing with protestations of undying devotion or recklessly kissing – in some cases with joy, in others with something akin to horror.

  It could not have been more than a few minutes later that a man’s voice could be heard above the hubbub.

  “Where is she? Where is Miss Holmdale?” It was the Duke. His voice was so loud and authoritative that the shouting and laughing abruptly ceased.

  “Where is she? Has anyone seen her?”

  Everyone began to talk at once again, but this time they were all saying the same thing, repeating the Duke’s urgent questions. “Miss Holmdale! Where is she? Has anyone seen her?”

  “Not for several hours,” Lord Marklye said, his own voice, close beside Cassie, easily piercing the clamour. His face, unmasked, no longer wore the slightly amused, sardonic expression to which she had grown accustomed, but one of intense anxiety.

  At the sound of his voice, the Duke pushed through the crowd until he reached his lordship’s side when he cried wildly, “She has gone! Someone has taken her!” He, also unmasked, was looking at Marklye and did not at first notice Cassie.

  Lord Furzeby, with Cassie still hanging upon his arm, turned back. She tried to pull him on, but he resisted, putting his free hand on her arm where it was linked to his and dragging her with him back towards Marklye and the Duke.

  She, more afraid of meeting Rother than of losing Furzeby – or indeed being discovered to have infiltrated a ton party - struggled to free herself but his lordship would not let her go.

  “Come along, my dear. If Miss Holmdale is missing, we must all do our best to find her.”

  In a moment they were beside the Duke. Cassie, although she was still wearing her mask, turned away from a face whose expression rendered it almost unrecognisable. The years of pain and disappointment, together with what she had come to believe was indelible bitterness, had vanished to be replaced with an anxiety so acute that it had woken all the long-buried passion of his youth.

  “Have you seen her, Furzeby?” he asked.

  “No, I own I haven’t been able to make out which one she is all evening. Compose yourself, Rother,” he added almost sternly. “She cannot have gone far. She may be in the refreshment room, or perhaps she has stepped outside.”

  “I forbade her to go outside,” the Duke snapped, his eyes still roving round the room. But, however agitated he was, he had not lost his ability to focus on what was before him and it was not long before those anxious eyes lit upon Cassie. In spite of clutching her hood tightly about her head and keeping it turned away from her former lover, he recognised her, reached out a hand and took her by the shoulder, spinning her round to face him.

  “Why, Robert!” she stammered, stealing a look at his face and knowing that he was about to reveal her identity in the most shocking way possible. “I believe she went outside on to the terrace,” she whispered, hoping that he would let go of her and run off into the garden.

  He did not. He ripped her mask from her face and said in a low voice, “With whom? Who took her outside?”

  “I don’t know,” she stuttered, her teeth beginning to chatter. “He was masked.”

  “When was this?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  “You saw her? You recognised her?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” she said. “I thought the man was Lord Marklye.”

  “It was not I,” his lordship said shortly. “We had already agreed that it would be foolhardy to step outside in case someone was hoping to shoot either of us.” He peered at the woman in the oriental turban, not entirely certain who she was.

  The Duke was also staring at her, but not because he was having the least difficulty in recognising her. “Where is she?” he said through his teeth.

  “I don’t know,” Cassie whispered. “Kissing someone in the garden, I should suppose,” she added cruelly and, as it turned out, unwisely because such overt provocation made the Duke lose whatever restraint he had put upon himself.

  He took hold of both her shoulders, wresting her away from Lord Furzeby’s grasp, and, bending his head to hiss directly into her face, said, “Where is she? Who took her and what have you instructed him to do with her?”

  “Here, I say, let her go – you’re frightening her,” Lord Furzeby said mildly, putting a hand on the Duke’s shoulder but not repossessing himself of Cassie.

  The Duke shook it off. “She is determined to destroy Miss Holmdale,” he said. “It was you who ordered her to be
shot at the Barnaby’s ball, was it not? And it is you who has arranged some sort of trap for her tonight? Where is she?”

  His fingers were digging into her shoulders and Cassie, as she always did when threatened, burst into tears. “I am sorry! He – he has abducted her, taken her to a quiet house to ruin her,” she stuttered, her words distorted by sobs.

  “Who has? And where is this quiet house?”

  “A hired man. He – you do not know him; neither does she.”

  “Very well.” His voice was quiet but there was a deadly purpose in it which made Cassie shiver. “Where is the house?”

  “I … it is on the way to France.”

  “The same house to which you were taken?” he asked, enlightenment beginning to dawn.

  “Yes – or as near as I could find. I saw him drag her outside more than half an hour ago – you will be too late.”

  “I shall not if you tell me precisely where to find her,” he answered through his teeth. “Better still: you shall come with me.”

  “No!” she cried. “No, pray do not make me! It is on the road to Orpington – as far as I can remember, it is about two hours’ drive from London.”

  “You were taken from Vauxhall; we are not there now. Did you hire the house as well as the man? How many men? Just one?”

  “One - and a coachman to drive. They took a travelling chaise and are to spend one night here in England – in the quiet house – and then he was to take her to France tomorrow.”

  “To do what with her?”

  “How can you ask? To do what was done to me.”

  “You thought you were on an elopement – at least that is the story you told me. You thought, as I recall, that you were in love with the man who ruined you. Very likely it is a pack of lies on a par with the rest of the stories you have spun me over the years. Am I to understand that you have paid a man – whom for Heaven’s sake? – to abduct Miss Holmdale, take her to a secluded house to ruin her and then, tomorrow, continue the journey in order to abandon her in France? What the devil did you hope to achieve?”

  “I wanted to be rid of her once and for all and I wanted her to suffer the way I have and be forced to earn a living the way I have.”

  “But she will not,” he said coldly. “Whatever has befallen her I shall find her and bring her home. Where precisely is this house? And how shall I recognise it? I have no wish to take you with me, I do assure you, but, if that is the surest way to find the place, I shall be obliged to put up with you for the duration of the journey.”

  Lord Furzeby interrupted. “What have you done, Cassie?” he asked.

  “I – what he says I did. It is the most terrible thing I have ever done in my whole life and I regret it with all my heart. I am sorry, Robert. I see now that you do love her and that nothing I can do will ever make you cease to do so. Please let me go; I will throw myself in the river. Pray, pray let me go.”

  She tried to fall to her knees before him but he would not allow her to do so, holding her up with his hands under her elbows.

  “You had better come outside,” Lord Furzeby said, taking one of her arms from the Duke and beginning to lead her towards the door. The Duke still holding the other arm, the two men led her out, forcing a way through the throng.

  When they had gained the drive where carriages were pulling up, waiting while their owners jumped in and driving off with loud adieux to those still awaiting their vehicles, Lord Furzeby said, in the sort of voice that nobody had used to Cassie since she had been a small girl, “Tell him exactly where Miss Holmdale has been taken. Stop weeping. Now is not the time to indulge in a fit of hysterics: a woman’s life is at risk and she must be rescued immediately. Tell him at once. He must go without delay if he is to have the least hope of saving her.”

  The firm voice and clear instructions had an instant effect upon her. She stopped crying, sniffed loudly, tore off her turban as though, by removing the last remnant of her disguise, she was facing and preparing to tell the truth, and put the Duke in possession of all the facts she knew with admirable succinctness. She did not know who the abductor was – she had paid a middle man to arrange the matter – but she did know where the house was because she had, in consultation with the intermediary, chosen it.

  She had not intended to be at the masked ball, which had seemed the perfect opportunity for somebody to snatch her rival and remove her once and for all. Females were frequently abducted – or willingly eloped - during the course of masked balls, which was one of the reasons why mothers of young girls were so worried by them, and why everyone else found them so exciting.

  Assured by Lord Furzeby that they would leave well before midnight, she had believed that she would have been long gone by the time the governess’s absence was discovered. She wished now more than ever that she had not come. She had been horridly conscious of the time all evening, her eyes moving restlessly between the clock face and the door on to the terrace; she had seen the abductor drag his unwilling victim outside. Seeing it, seeing her rival being forced towards her doom and remembering with horror her own abduction, she had been filled with remorse, had almost shouted out then to stop it, but had lacked the courage to draw attention to herself and had fallen back into her long habit of hoping for the best whilst fearing the worst.

  She had been desperate to leave as soon as the door had closed behind the governess, not only because she dreaded facing the Duke’s wrath, which she knew would explode over her when he discovered his beloved was missing, but also because she wanted to escape from her own fear and horror and overpowering guilt.

  But she had been unable to uproot Lord Furzeby in time because he had, irritatingly, fallen into a protracted conversation with Lord Marklye just as they were about to go.

  The Duke, satisfied that he knew where to find the house, said to Furzeby, “Can you find my sister and her husband and tell them where I have gone? They will be obliged to ask someone else to take them home since I must take the carriage.”

  “I will take them home myself,” his lordship promised.

  “With her in the carriage as well?” the Duke asked, jerking his chin at Cassie.

  “Lord, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea in the circumstances, would it? I’ll ask Marklye. Never fear,” he added with an attempt at jocularity, “the way you drive your quarry will barely have arrived by the time you catch up with them.”

  The Duke rewarded him with a twisted grin before disappearing into the night in search of his carriage.

  Lord Furzeby, who was still holding Cassie firmly by the arm, looked down at her severely. Her hair, released from the confines of the turban, tumbled over her shoulders, its bright gold illumined by the lamps. Her beautiful face was strained and appalled; she looked like a picture illustrating a gothic tragedy. “Charitably,” he said, “I must suppose you to have lost your reason. Do you have any understanding of what a terrible thing you have done?”

  “Yes, oh yes, I do - now. I believe I was positively deranged when I did what I did. All I could see was that he thought her good and me bad, and I wanted more than anything to turn the tables upon her. I cannot tell you how much I regret it.”

  “Well, it is a little late for that, is it not? But at least you have made a clean breast of it and Rother should be able to find her. No doubt he will like to play the hero,” he added beneath his breath. He went on, more loudly, “You had better come with me to find Marklye and give him the message that he is to take the Weys home. And we must also find James.”

  “I am sorry,” Cassie repeated, clinging to him as he led her back inside.

  Furzeby paused while he raised her hood over the gleaming hair. The musicians had resumed playing and, now unmasked, several people were dancing. “I am not the person of whom you should ask forgiveness.”

  “I have – I did just now, but he will never speak to me again, will he?”

  “I should think you would be well advised to hope not,” his lordship replied drily. “There is another person w
ho requires an apology even more than Rother does.”

  “I could not speak to her – and he would never allow me near, would he?”

  “I cannot answer that. All I can say is that, if she is still alive and in possession of her senses after this, she will be owed the most abject apology. You could always set pen to paper, you know; there is no absolute necessity for you to darken her door.”

  “No. Will you – you will not wish to have anything further to do with me either, will you?”

  “You have done me no harm,” Furzeby said. “But it is true that I have seen another side of you tonight – one that I find disagreeable and that will make me more vigilant and less trusting in the future. But you seem genuinely remorseful and I doubt if you will do anything so base again.”

  Chapter 36

  Sylvia stood braced against the wall, with the shard of glass in her hand, for such a long time that she began to hope that the delay might prove to be to her advantage although she could not, no matter how frantically her eyes searched the room, see anything that would be of more use than the weapon she held.

  She considered setting light to the bedclothes with one of the candles but suspected that the abductor would be unlikely to bother to rescue her and she would be no more able to escape through a locked door than she could at present, indeed less so if the room were a mass of flames.

  She was almost relieved when the sound she had been awaiting finally came: the key was turned in the lock. Her heart began to beat so fast and loud that it almost obliterated her ability to think. She grasped the shard more firmly, straightened her legs and planted them further apart to give herself a firm base. She suspected that attacking – or even attempting to attack - her abductor with a sharp instrument would not only be imprudent but ultimately useless. Nevertheless she told herself sternly that she must not waver; she must screw her courage to the sticking place and strive to maintain what sharpness and strength of mind she could.