by Robin Helm
Whereupon a blindfold was fastened securely over Elizabeth’s eyes.
The woman then seized her shoulders. “Now then, up you come. We’ll be marching out to the woods to use the privy, so to speak.”
Elizabeth thought that she had experienced every sensation of mortification. She now discovered that she was wrong. At least it would be a woman who accompanied her.
“What about the gent?” a man’s voice growled. “He’s out cold.”
“All the easier to blindfold,” said the woman. “Why you never done it before is beyond me. Do you want him testifying against you?”
The man gave a grunt. “Haven’t got a blindfold.”
“Must I think of everything? Use your neckerchief, for pity’s sake.” The woman then pulled Elizabeth from the wagon. “I’ll free your feet. Don’t try anything or you’ll be sorry.”
It took some minutes for the numbness to abate. Even so, it felt good to stand, even if it was only to be marched into the woods. When she and the woman returned, the rag binding Elizabeth’s mouth was removed.
“Don’t bother screaming. There’s no one to hear.”
Elizabeth felt a cup be pressed against her lips. “Drink up, dearie, if you know what’s good for you.”
Elizabeth jerked her face away; the water had a foul taste.
“It’s water, not gin. We can’t have you perishing from thirst.”
Elizabeth resigned herself and emptied the cup.
“Now for the real stuff,” said the woman. There was a pause, and Elizabeth again felt the rim of the cup against her lips.
This was not water. The strong tang of cinnamon-flavoured spirits caused Elizabeth to recoil. “Wh-what is this?” she sputtered.
“A bit of something to send you to sleep, missy.” The man’s voice was now speaking. “Just following orders. Making you comfortable-like.”
“Orders?” demanded Elizabeth. “Whose orders?”
The woman laughed. “As if you do not know. Gor, Manny,” she added. “What need had you to slap her?”
“I didn’t—not bad, anyway.”
“Are you daft? The print of your hand’s on her cheek, plain as day. No harm’s to come to the pair of ’em; that’s orders. There’s a bounty to be had, so you’d best keep that nasty temper to yourself.”
A hand tilted Elizabeth’s chin. “You’d better swallow it down,” the man growled.
When she resisted, the woman’s fingers grasped the back of Elizabeth’s neck, pulling her hair. Elizabeth gave a yelp of pain.
“Lend a hand, Manny. We’ve got to get this down her. And then him, such as he is. I see you left your calling card on his face.”
“That’s his lookout, not mine. He wouldn’t come easy and got what was coming.”
Elizabeth felt a stab of pity for the man, whoever he was. She had no choice but to swallow the bitter-tasting drink. Her feet were again bound, and the gag was refastened over her mouth. Without ceremony she was returned to the hard floor of the wagon.
From the sounds of it, her kidnappers were now administering the drink to the man. She heard him sputter as he was forced to swallow.
The taste of cinnamon meant something—but what? Why was it so difficult to think clearly? An odd feeling of wellbeing swept over Elizabeth like a wave, along with a lessening of pain. This meant something too, but Elizabeth was too weary to reason it out.
Her fellow prisoner was lowered ungently; she heard his head strike against the floor when he was dropped. Then the doors slammed shut and were bolted. Elizabeth listened carefully. Yes, her companion was breathing.
With shouts and more cracking of the whip, the wagon jolted into motion. This time Elizabeth did not fight against its rumbling and rocking. Just as she was surrendering to sleep, the word laudanum drifted through her mind.
That was it, wasn’t it? The cinnamon taste told the tale. She and her fellow prisoner had been dosed with laudanum.
oOo
The wagon’s wheels hit another rut in the road. This one was deep, and the wagon swayed dangerously. “What in blue blazes?” shouted a woman’s voice. “This ain’t no time to be drinking, you git!”
“A fellow needs something to warm him,” a man’s voice shouted back. “That wind cuts like a knife.”
“If we break an axle out here, we’re done for.”
“Hobgoblins and ghostly horsemen of the moor? Bah. Bogeys to scare children.”
“Not goblins, you dolt. Marshes and bogs have what they calls quicksand. That what swallows man and beast alive. So keep your wits about you.”
“It’s Dartmoor Prison I’m not liking. Too close for comfort, that is.”
Darcy frowned in an effort to think. The vile potion his captors had him swilling made his head swim. Dartmoor Prison. Did this mean they were in Devon?
The wagon gave another jolt and listed to one side. “Gor blast it, Manny! Slow down! We’ll be ditched if you keep to this pace.”
The wagon righted itself and went lumbering on. Darcy heard his fellow prisoner groan.
Here was another perplexity. That he was kidnapped for ransom was understandable, but why involve a woman?
Unless it was his cousin, Anne.
Of course it was Anne. Who else could it be? Even without this ordeal, his cousin’s life was not a happy one. And now she was being held for ransom.
With a miserable howl, the wind buffeted the wagon’s high sides. “Blast this infernal wind!” the man shouted. “What was Jackman thinking? Why this godforsaken place?”
“For easy money, that’s what. Nab the gent and the girl; dump them here and clear out.”
“Why not hide ’em in London? Instead of driving two hundred miles and more in all this cold? What I wouldn’t give for a warm fire and a pint.”
“We’ll have both soon enough, once we get free of the moor. If you don’t ditch the wagon!”
The wind howled, and his captors continued to complain. At length Darcy grew weary of listening to them. If only his headache would abate, perhaps then he could think!
Sometime later he woke to more cursing.
“How do you know it’s the right house?”
“Only one out here, dolt. Can’t miss it, Jackman said. There’s the lake and there’s the house.”
At last the wagon ground to a halt. Darcy came fully awake, every sense on the alert. God only knew what would come next.
“Took you long enough,” a voice shouted.
“This ain’t exactly the easiest spot to find. Lend a hand. I want to be away before nightfall.”
“No need to be telling me twice.”
When the wagon’s doors came open, Darcy felt the bite of the cold wind. The scent of rain was in the air.
Anne was taken from the wagon first, and she moaned several times. This was difficult to hear, but it meant she was alive.
Presently the men returned for Darcy. He was pulled into a sitting position, and the rope binding his ankles was removed. When his feet met the ground, Darcy realised that he wore only stockings. What had happened to his riding boots?
“March,” someone ordered. Darcy did so, stumbling over wet, rocky terrain. And then it began to rain. A chorus of curses erupted.
Rough hands pushed Darcy along. Then a surprise: his feet encountered wooden boards. The hollow sound reminded Darcy of a dock, and his guess turned out to be correct. Amid complaints about his size and weight, he was lowered into a small boat. The rain gained in strength; Darcy could hear it hissing against the surface of the water. Oars were fitted; the boat swayed precariously. Finally, it was pushed clear of the dock.
Darcy struggled to think. Were he and Anne being taken out of England? But that could not be right. To board a seagoing vessel, shouldn’t they be in a port city? Hold hard, someone had mentioned a lake. Was this significant? He wished he knew. If only his head did not throb so!
It took some time to reach their destination—which turned out to be another dock. Darcy was hauled out and made to w
alk a short distance to a building.
Once inside he encountered warmth, with the snap and crackle of a fireside and a mouthwatering aroma of soup or stew. Someone pushed him into a chair and cinched a rope around his calves.
And now the race was on, for his captors were keen to depart. There was much stomping about, and over this he heard the woman’s rough voice as she took inventory of supplies. Apparently, he would be a prisoner here for some time. Of Anne there was no sign.
The door slammed several times, and at last the room grew quiet. Were his captors leaving? Presently Darcy sensed someone leaning over his chair.
“Here you are, guv’ner. A paring knife with which to cut yourself free, see? But you can’t see, now can you?”
There came a clattering sound. “Mercy me. I dropped it on the hearth.”
Darcy heard the door come open. “Bert,” someone hissed. “The boat’s loaded. Come on!”
The man was still leaning over him, and Darcy readied himself for a blow. With fellows like this, one never knew.
Then came the sound of shuffling feet and the opening of a door. “’Tis a game of hide and seek for you, guv’ner. Best o’luck. You’ll be needing it!” The man gave a sharp laugh and went out. The door was shut securely.
Darcy waited, scarcely daring to breathe, as the man’s footfalls died away. A log on the fire fell apart with a sharp hiss. Was he alone? No, surely there was a guard posted. The wind gave a moan and hurled rain against the windowpanes. Only an idiot would remain out in this weather. So where was the guard? Why had the man left him with a knife?
And then there was the tantalizing aroma of soup. Somehow, he must cut himself free and see to Anne—if Anne were here. And then, by heaven, he would eat.
But his calves were not tightly bound, and he was soon able to wiggle free. From there it was a painful—but not disastrous—drop to the floor. It took some time to locate the knife and even longer to cut himself free, but he managed it. Off came the blindfold and the hateful gag.
He was desperate for a drink of water, and he knew where to find it—the lake. Out the door he stumbled, heedless of his stocking-clad feet. Despite his desperate thirst, Darcy was pulled up short. There before him lay an expanse of desolate, windswept moor.
Was there a more isolated, lonely spot in all of England? The boat was on the far side of the lake. Escape would not be easy.
His captors were not joking about the approach of nightfall. Darcy stumbled to the lake’s edge and scooped icy water into his cupped hands. Ah, the heaven-sent wonder of clean, clear water! Never was he more grateful for something so simple and life-giving.
He knelt there, heedless of the rain, breathing out a prayer of thanks. He might not be in fighting form, but God be praised, he was alive and whole. He must next see to Anne—if she were here—for surely she was as famished and as thirsty as he.
The house was built of quarried stone and was not large. The ground level consisted of a small vestibule and two rooms. The front room, which was meant to be the dining room, held a jumble of supplies. The staircase was blocked with a mountain of firewood, an oddity. Beyond was a rough wall built with fresh lumber. Apparently, his captors did not want him accessing the top floor. The kitchen was detached from the house. Where were the stables and outbuildings? On the other side of the lake, perhaps?
But he should not stand here gaping. He must help Anne.
The second room faced the back of the house. It was probably meant to be a sitting room, but it too had been adapted for his captors’ purpose. In the corner stood a large bed, piled high with blankets.
Only one bed. Why had that been brought down?
A little fearfully, Darcy came up to it. Against the pillows was Anne’s bonnet-clad head; she was well covered up and sleeping. He gave a sigh of relief. Anne was alive.
Should he wake her? Surely, she was in need of water! Her clothes were likely as filthy as his, but Darcy was not about to help Anne change into something clean—if there were clean clothes here. He could, however, cut the ropes that bound her.
Darcy twitched back the coverlet to reveal Anne’s feet and discovered a pleasant surprise. The ropes that bound her ankles had already been cut. Carefully, he removed her shoes. From one fell a folded paper.
Why would Anne have such a thing in her shoe? Was this a clue? Darcy pocketed it.
Her breathing was regular, but Darcy knew that she would sleep more comfortably if he removed her bonnet. It was a sad thing, crushed beyond recognition, but it had protected her head. Carefully Darcy untied the ribbons and drew it off.
Anne gave a great sigh.
Darcy did likewise, and he felt his knees grow weak. For it was not his cousin Anne who lay sleeping in the bed, but Elizabeth Bennet.
Elizabeth, the only woman he had ever loved.
Elizabeth, who loathed him as thoroughly as a woman could loathe a man.
And they were here together, imprisoned in this lonely house on the moor.
CHAPTER 8
Lady Catherine’s grand scheme was unraveling at an alarming rate.
Oh, Anne had been sent to procure roses at the proper time, but she returned to the house almost at once. The basket had fallen into the dirt, and Anne was unwilling to touch it. The shears were missing, and besides, there were no pink rosebuds that she could see.
Lady Catherine herself had marched Anne back to the garden and made her wait on a bench in the sunshine—a healthful practice! There Anne sat, hunched and brooding, swinging a foot to and fro in a most unladylike way.
After half an hour, when the abductors did not appear, Lady Catherine had no choice but to take Anne back into the house.
This was what came of hiring ruffians to do a job of work! Incompetence and sloth! Apparently, the abduction was off.
Lady Catherine was beyond angry—and what was worse, there was no one at whom she could rant! How did one bring criminals to book? For the rest of the day she fumed and stormed about, until even loyal Dawson went into hiding.
And then Darcy did not come down to dinner.
At first Colonel Fitzwilliam was annoyed, but as the night wore on, he grew worried. When Darcy did not appear for breakfast the next morning, he saddled a horse and launched a search of the estate.
Darcy was nowhere to be found.
Thus, Lady Catherine was left to confront an awful truth: Darcy had been taken, and yet Anne was left behind.
And then Mr. Collins came to call, blubbering nonsense about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She too had disappeared on Friday, and her bed had not been slept in since. He hated to intrude, but had Miss Bennet come to call yesterday and forgot the time?
Idiot! She soon sent him scuttling back to the parsonage.
But it was now Saturday night. Mr. Collins was back, this time accompanied by his distraught wife.
“Are you certain that you have not seen her?” Mrs. Collins was now saying. “She left the parsonage Friday morning to walk the grounds of the Rosings Estate.”
“Am I anyone’s keeper? There is no need to indulge in dramatics, Mrs. Collins. Miss Elizabeth Bennet has simply run off, as girls of her class are wont to do. Her mother ought to have supervised her upbringing more closely. Five daughters,” she added scornfully, “and all of them out. Most irresponsible.”
“I suppose you mean it is I who ought to have supervised Elizabeth more closely,” said Mrs. Collins. “Nevertheless, it was your nephew—”
Lady Catherine interrupted. “I do not care for your tone, Mrs. Collins. What has Darcy to do with any of this?”
“On the evening before Elizabeth disappeared, I am told that Mr. Darcy came to call. He spoke with her alone. Might I speak with him, please?”
“He, ah, is not with us at present. He had urgent business.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Did he indeed, ma’am? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Lady Catherine rounded on him. Must she explain it again? “He told us at dinner on Friday, you
will recall, that he had a pressing matter that demanded attention. Obviously, he has taken himself off to London.”
“Leaving his coach behind? I think not, ma’am.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, are you saying that Mr. Darcy has not been seen since Friday?”
“It does appear that way, yes.”
Lady Catherine did not care for the direction this conversation was taking. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is remarkably headstrong,” she announced. “She simply will not listen. I have remonstrated with her several times on the unwisdom of wandering about without a companion. And what has been her response? Nonsensical nattering about how she was accustomed to do so at home and that Rosings was perfectly safe. Which it is. Doubtless she has eloped with the curate.”
“But-but ma’am,” stammered Mr. Collins. “At present I haven’t a curate.”
“With a soldier then. Girls are such fools for men in red coats.”
“I thank you, dear Aunt, for the vote of confidence. I, the only soldier she knows here, have eloped with no one. Nor would I.”
Lady Catherine glared at Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Mrs. Collins would not be silenced. “I say again, ma’am, that Mr. Darcy is involved in some way. Once before in my absence he called at the parsonage; I found him in the parlour alone with Elizabeth.”
“Are you implying a romantic liaison? Nonsense. She scarcely spoke to him, nor did he speak to her.”
“It is not nonsense, ma’am,” insisted Mrs. Collins. “This is now the second day that both she and Mr. Darcy are missing. Therefore, it is time for Mr. Collins to contact Elizabeth’s father. He shall have something to say in the matter.”
“Indeed, Lady Catherine,” said Mr. Collins, “although I am loath to contradict your wishes—for surely you know what is to be done in each and every happenstance—in this case I have an obligation to my cousin. My duty, though unpleasant, is clear. Therefore—”
Lady Catherine cut him off. “Do be quiet, Mr. Collins. We are making every enquiry. Until we determine when and how they—she—was taken—”
“Taken, ma’am?” cried Mrs. Collins.
Lady Catherine pursed up her lips. Now the fat was in the fire! She did not mean to let that detail slip out.
