Keep your wits about you.
As she was in the process of reversing her steps, she heard something. She held still, thinking perhaps that someone had already discovered her absence and had come in search of her. In fear she waited, trying to hear the sound again.
There it was! Listen! Coming from the direction of the lower cellar. But what? She turned suddenly and looked over her shoulder down the narrow steps which led to the subcellar. At the far end of the passage she saw a faint spill of light. There was the sound again, coming from that direction, a whimper, like a—
Baby.
It sounded like a babe crying. No, she was only imagining it. There was no infant here and God help it if there were. But as she pushed away from the wall, she heard it again, so clearly it could not be denied.
On this lower level there was no mistaking the sound. It was an infant.
Before the door she stopped, the cries so close now. Then she must help it. But as her hand moved to push open the door, instinct warned her back and she went quietly down on her knees and leveled her eye against the keyhole. An instant later, she clamped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming aloud.
Hell's Face, that's what she'd looked into, the tiny circular hole permitting her to see a sight she wished most fervently she'd never seen, the man, Satan himself, Humphrey Hills standing before a table, and on the table, a red, naked, newborn infant, its tiny limbs flailing in the air as the madman's hand, so large that it covered the entire small
body, tried to hold it still so that the other hand, grasping a knife point, might cut something across the small heaving chest.
She rose, trembling, on legs which threatened not to support her, convinced that she was back on her cot, dreaming a hideous nightmare. The infant's wails were rising higher as the knife point moved back and forth across its chest. Great God in heaven, why didn't he simply kill it?
Then suddenly she was running, her own safety secondary to the need to fetch help. It must be stopped while there was still time, and she must stop it. Help. She merely thought the word at first as she ran back down through the dark passage, past the servants' hall.
Then the word came out at last, a full cry, "Help!" Then came again, louder, "Help!" and yet again, tears streaming down her face as she found she could not rid her memory of that awful sight.
At the top of the stairs, she stopped for breath and drew back as she saw, emerging from the dining hall, the cadaverous old man who traveled with the gentleman. As he approached her, his face alert with concern, she discovered to her dismay that she could not at first speak.
But as the old man drew even with her and kindly offered her the support of his arm, she whispered hoarsely, "Fetch your master, please." And when at first the old man failed to understand, she said it again and then pushed past him to accomplish the errand herself.
"Wait," he shouted after her. "I'll go," and in a dead heat the two of them reached the bottom of the stairs simultaneously and were just starting up when from the top of the steps, she heard a deep familiar voice.
"What is it, John?"
She looked up to see him, the gentleman himself, just wrapping his dressing robe around him where apparently he'd been abed when he'd heard her cries. "What is it, Elizabeth?" he demanded.
She shook her head, not wanting to speak aloud the horror she had seen. Instead she pronounced only one word, "Baby—" and reached out and grasped his hand and started dragging him forward. "Hurry, sir," she begged. "Please hurry."
Then the three of them were retracing her steps, Elizabeth leading the way.
When they approached the narrow flight of stairs leading down to the subcellar, Elizabeth found herself incapable of thinking anymore. Her own escape had long since been forgotten. She stood back as the gentleman approached the door, tried the knob, and finding it locked, hurled himself against the wooden barrier, splintered the wood, and thus gained access to the room.
Standing safely outside the door, at first she heard nothing as it took him time to digest the horror. Then she heard a muttered oath and stepped to the door in time to see the gentleman lunge toward Hills, the little man's face a blank in the instant before the assault. Then under the blow delivered by the gentleman's fist she saw him reel backward into a stack of cartons, saw him sprawled, stunned, though reviving quickly, the knife still in his hand, stumbling to his feet again.
At that moment, the old man shouted at her, "Take the child!" and as she summoned herself out of her fear, she rushed forward and grabbed the infant, her eyes lingering for a moment on the tiny chest, a mass of bleeding cuts, the child's face red with the exertion of screaming, its eyes closed.
As the two men stalked each other, she quickly grasped the infant and ran with it from the room and hovered in the corridor outside, keeping her eyes pinned now on the knife, upraised in Mr. Hills's hand.
Then in a darting movement, Hills lunged forward. In a rapid reflexive action, the gentleman caught his upraised arm and smashed it against the table, then pinned it, shaking the knife loose, disarming the man and bringing him to his knees. The hatred on the detestable features now turned to cowardice as Hills pleaded, "No harm, sir. It's just the bastard—the one we was speaking of this morning—"
But the words, instead of pacifying the gentleman, seemed to bring him to greater fury. His hands were around the man's throat now, the entire weight of his body angled downward into those fingers as though he had no intention of letting go until all possible life had been squeezed out.
From where she stood in the passage with the whimpering infant, Elizabeth was unable to see Hills's face, blocked as it was by the gentleman himself. All she heard was a peculiar gurgling sound. Her next thought was, He's going to kill him. But the old man stepped quickly forward and placed a hand on the straining shoulders. She saw the gentleman look up as though just coming to his senses, then she saw him let Hills go.
She stepped to one side to see if the man was dead, then saw him groan, both his hands clasping his neck, his knees drawn up to his chest. She found the sight pleasing, God forgive her, the vicious little man who had inflicted so much pain now rolling about in the throes of agony himself.
During these few moments she noticed that the gentleman had found several pieces of rope and, with the old man's help, was tying Hills's hands behind his back and binding his ankles.
In a remarkably short time. Hills lay bound on the floor, his eyes
searching upward, terrified, as though uncertain what would be done to him next. But apparently nothing more would be done. The two men drew away from him back to the door. The old man asked, "What shall we do?"
"Leave him," the gentleman cut in sharply. "Come, we must hurry."
Still grasping the infant, Elizabeth was aware of the gentleman guiding her back down the passage as though to assist her with her light burden. As they approached the servants' door, she saw several of her friends peering in concern at the activity in the corridor. The gentleman warned them quietly, "None of you are to go down to the cellar until dawn. Is that clear?"
Elizabeth saw them nod.
"No matter what you hear," he added, "you are not to go down. Promise me."
The girls nodded again, too frightened to do otherwise. Then she felt his hand again on her arm, steering her rapidly toward the steps, his tongue keeping pace with their steps as he issued a spate of orders to the old man. "Bring the carriage around, John, as quickly as possible. We're leaving here immediately. I'll pack the trunks and meet you out front. Hurry now!'*
The gentleman saw him out the front door, then at last turned back to Elizabeth.
"Is he—" But he couldn't finish, and it was clearly an inquiry she couldn't answer. There had been no time to assess the damage done to the child. "I don't know, sir," she murmured. She moved to the steps and sat carefully on the lower one, placed the blanket on her lap and laid it open.
Throughout all this he held his position a few feet away as though he didn't want to se
e. Then she was aware of him moving closer until he was seated on the steps beside her, both of them staring down at the incredibly tiny and mutilated chest, a small trickle of blood still oozing from the cuts, the infant naked, his eyes closed, his arms and legs jerking reflexively in spasms.
Starting above the right nipple and moving to the left, marked in charcoal, were the letters, B-A-S-T-A-R-D. The knife point had cut the B into the flesh and one leg of A.
Overcome, Elizabeth lowered her head. At some point she was aware of him, quietly taking the infant from her. She looked up to see him awkwardly supporting the tiny back and head, saw tears in his eyes as he held the child.
"Why would Mr. Hills do something like this, sir?" she asked softly. "And where did he come from? He's newborn, scarce a day old. Look!"
And she pointed to the cut and knotted cord of his navel, dried birth blood still encrusted about it.
But if he had answers for any of her questions, he was incapable of delivering them.
He sat thus for ever so long, as though every sense were straining to comprehend what lay silently in his arms. Finally he relinquished him to her with a whisper, "I must get our belongings.'*
Left in the hall, she rewrapped the infant in the soiled blanket and with the hem tried to dab at the cuts, the peculiar B clearly visible. He was so small, she thought. And what a cruel entrance into a cruder world.
As she clasped him to her in an attempt to warm him, she thought for the first time of her own ruined plans. What chance did she have now? She was not only a runaway bondager, but she knew for certain that Humphrey Hills had seen her below. Come dawn, the other servants would release him and he would come staggering up out of his fury and track her down no matter where she went. She looked bleakly about the cold hall, her sense of doom complete, and she was still sitting there half an hour later when outside the front door she heard the sound of horses.
A few moments later the old man appeared in the doorway, his face ruddy with cold. "Where is he?" he asked quickly, taking the entrance hall running.
With a bob of her head she motioned upstairs and continued to sit while everyone else rushed about her. The old man reappeared a moment later, one trunk balanced on his shoulder, dragging the other one behind, letting it fall from step to step. Grasping the infant to her, she stood up to get out of the way and as she was turning she saw the gentleman come down the steps, warmly dressed in his heavy cloak. Midway down the steps, he called out to her, "Where are your things? Bring them quickly to the carriage. We've not much time—"
Only then did it occur to her that he was willing to take her with him. For just a moment the prospect held enormous appeal. But then she remembered her mother in Shrewsbury, helpless, sure to receive Hills's wrath if there was no one else around to receive it.
And when still she didn't move, he called again, more urgently, "Hurry, Elizabeth. We must get out of here. All of us."
"I can't go with you, sir," she whispered.
He looked at first as though he hadn't heard her. "But you can't stay here."
"I don't mean to stay here, sir," she went on. "I was—running away when I heard the—" She lowered her eyes to the infant in her arms. "It
was my plan to go to Shrewsbury and get my mother and try to make it to Wales before—"
He appeared to be listening closely. "And what is there for you in Wales?" he asked.
"A new life, one would hope."
"And you prefer that to London and my protection?"
He wasn't making it very easy for her. "London's not the place for me, sir, nor for my mother. She's old and lame. She needs soft grass and quiet air—"
Suddenly the infant in her arms grew restless. There was a soft whimper. "You take him, sir," she smiled. "Wherever he came from he deserves better than this. Give him your protection. He needs it more."
From the doorway, the old man shouted, "All's loaded and ready, sir. Dawn soon."
But the gentleman didn't even look up. Instead he was staring down on her as though trying to understand her. Finally he reached inside his jacket, withdrew his purse, and handed her some notes.
As she took them, her eyes fell on the denominations. Easily a hundred pounds, perhaps more. At first she couldn't believe it. More money than she'd ever seen in her entire life. "No, sir, I can't—"
"Of course you can, and must," he countered forcefully. "Can you sit a horse?"
She nodded and though still in a state of shock heard him shout to the old man to unhitch one of the horses.
One hundred pounds, Dear God in heaven, a new birth, enough for a small cottage, medicine for her mother, a nest egg while she found decent honest employment. Then again he was moving her toward the door and out into the cold night.
As the old man brought one of the horses around, the gentleman took the infant from her. "On the back of this card," he said quickly, handing her a small white square, "is my name and my London address. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me."
Still unable to speak, she nodded, tucked the valuable card inside her pocket along with the money, and permitted him to assist her up onto the horse. As he placed the reins in her hands, he warned, "Don't tarry. Be on the bridge to Wales by dawn. Please."
One hundred pounds! She must say something to him, some acknowledgment of his kindness and generosity. But there were no words. Instead she reached out her hand to him, her eyes filled with tears, and he took it and pressed it in a firm clasp.
She drew up the hood of her cloak and wrapped the reins about her wrist. Though a cold wind was blowing over her, she felt with a strange
excitement that one bleak chapter of her life was ending and a new promising one was beginning.
Then the horse was moving. She stole a quick glance over her shoulder, saw the gentleman watching her.
Swiftly she said the Lord's Prayer to its end and made the sign of the cross upon her breast. A miracle, all of it. A nightmare which had changed into miracle. She urged the horse to greater speed.
It was God's hand, God made manifest in the gentleman. Two had been saved that night. The infant and herself.
She would never forget him, never, as long as she lived.
With regret, he watched the girl ride off into the night. She would have found a pleasant home in Daniel Spade's school. He couldn't imagine what lay ahead for her. Obviously the gift of money had pleased her. But was she shrewd enough to know how quickly and easily the world would try to separate her from it?
There was nothing more he could do. He whispered, "God go with you," then at last was aware of John Murrey standing at his elbow, urging their own haste. "Time's passing for us as well," the old man said. "And himself there won't go forever without a tit full of milk, so—
Edward looked up suddenly at the old man. That had not occurred to him. "My God, John, what are we—"
"Never you mind, sir," the man soothed. "If we can keep him warm, he'll sleep for a while. Soon as we put safe distance between us and this place, we'll stop and find a wet-nurse."
Edward agreed, reassured by the calm voice. Clutching the infant to him, they made their way back to the carriage where John Murrey opened the door. Edward stood a moment, awkwardly engaged in shifting the bundle, unable to free a hand in order to pull himself up. Again he glanced helplessly at John.
Without words, the infant was transferred from arm to arm, and Edward pulled himself up, then again looked bleakly down on John. "Fm afraid, my friend, that nothing in my life has prepared me for this moment."
Still holding the baby, John Murrey grinned with pride. "Nothing to it, sir. I assure you. I had two beauties of my own—once."
Edward saw the look of pride in the old man's face sink rapidly into gloom. Hurriedly he moved to dispel it. "Then I shall count heavily on you, John." His own smile faded. "As I always seem to do."
Embarrassed by Edward's show of emotion, John Murrey became very businesslike. "If I may make a suggestion, sir—"
"Please do
."
"Unbutton your coat and shirtwaist and keep the child close to your flesh. He'll survive with the warmth there until we can stop later on."
Edward started to protest. But when he saw John Murrey crawling into the carriage to help with the placement of the child, he slowly began to unbutton his garments.
"Good," the old man smiled and Edward watched, fascinated, as the old man pulled off the soiled blanket and dropped it unceremoniously out the carriage door. The sudden exposure to the cold roused the child out of his half-sleep. The small mouth flew open at the indignities being forced upon him. Edward had not thought it possible that so shrill a shriek could come from so tiny a frame. And in the instant of the babe's complete nakedness, both men stared down on him, Edward's eyes lingering on the small chest, the word scratched in charcoal still visible, the cuts no longer bleeding, but still red.
John Murrey too seemed almost overcome. "You should have killed him," he muttered.
"I almost did," Edward commented ruefully. As the child's shrieks evolved into shivering spasms of cold, John Murrey lifted him and angled the small package of flesh down through the opening in Edward's shirt, affixing him in a cradled position, then quickly buttoning the shirt up around him, restoring the jacket and cloak and finally sealing both the infant and Edward inside one of the great fur lap robes.
"Won't he suffocate?" Edward asked in alarm, trying to adjust to the sensation of wriggling flesh next to his own.
"Not likely," John soothed, backing out the carriage door. "Keep his face lightly covered. Warmth is the important thing."
Edward felt the small but persistent limbs pushing against him. And there was a new and disquieting sensation now. "He—feels wet," Edward whispered.
At this John Murrey laughed heartily. "You'll survive, sir. Are we ready? We've wasted quite enough time—"
Edward had never felt less ready, but his old friend was right. Perhaps the infant himself was capable of sensing danger in this place. Seated rigidly on the seat, his arms, beneath the lap rug, laced firmly about the new protuberance on his chest, Edward nodded wearily and said over the child's muffled cries, "Take us home, John, as quickly as possible."
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