by Joan Smith
He stood a moment, paralyzed with fear, looking around in disbelief, unable to credit this had happened so quickly, that he had let it happen. Marianne at the mercy of those two thugs. He went to give the duchess a shake to rouse her, but stopped with his hand two inches above her shoulder. She looked so old, so pitifully frail.
He’d let her sleep on. What was the point of frightening the old girl? It would only bring on an attack. She had obviously slept through the whole thing, so she couldn’t tell him what had happened.
He quelled the rising panic and tried to think. Fifteen minutes ago they had been at the card table. Two minutes ago their mounts were still behind the brewhouse. They must have heard him coming and hidden. He dashed back downstairs. Rooney came running out to meet him.
“They’ve gotten away with Marianne, Rooney. She’s not in her room.”
“They can’t have gone far carrying a woman over their shoulders. Maybe they’re still in the building. I’ll search the inn.”
“Thanks.”
Macheath ran out to the brewhouse, to see the two mounts calmly chomping the grass. He tore back to the inn stable. Odd they’d use the public stable when they were encumbered with a hostage. Both La Rue’s and McGinty’s mounts were still there. It was impossible. They hadn’t gone on foot, carrying a struggling woman in their arms.
Oh God, they’d killed her. No, they wouldn’t risk murder. They had taken her away, somehow. McGinty had a room here at the inn. She wouldn’t likely be there either, but he had best look, just in case. He went out and hurried around the corner, down a corridor to the little room under the eaves that McGinty called home.
The door was locked. Macheath unceremoniously kicked it in and strode into the room, lit a lamp, and took a look around. McGinty wasn’t there, nor could he find any clue as to where he might be. No convenient note, only a pile of IOUs he’d probably never collect. Perkins, Mallory, Simmons, Perkins again, for ten guineas. He tossed them aside and ran downstairs, out the front door. He wasn’t fortunate enough to find anyone lingering outside the inn who would have seen them if they had taken the main road. They could have gone in any direction.
His mind automatically went into its military mode. He had a certain amount of territory to cover, and he couldn’t do it alone. His best helper, his faithful batman Miguel, was hors de combat. He needed willing volunteers. Beeton and Tom were the obvious men. He hastened to the stable and informed them of what had happened.
“They didn’t come this way. You figure they plan to hold her for ransom?” Beeton asked.
“So I assume.”
“I wonder how much the old malkin would be willing to pay,” he said doubtfully.
“I’ll pay whatever they ask, if it comes to that.”
“What can we do?”
“They haven’t been gone long. We’ll divide up the territory.”
Macheath was familiar with every fence and hut and creek in the neighborhood. He sketched a hasty map, pinpointing possible destinations where they might have taken Marianne.
“We’ll search La Rue’s cottage, though I doubt he’d be foolish enough to take her there. There’s an abandoned gristmill just here, on the riverbank. That’s a possibility. And Simmons’s cottage just here,” he said, marking the spot with a star. “He’s a friend of McGinty’s, but a family man. Take a look, just in case.” He tore off that portion of the map and gave it to Beeton. “You have a gun?”
Beeton patted his pocket. “I have.”
“You, Tom?”
“The old fowling piece—you’ve seen it.”
“Take it. It’s better than nothing.” He went over another section of the map with Tom.
“This’ll take a while on foot,” Tom said. “We don’t have mounts. Just the team from the carriage.”
“I’ll speak to John Groom. They have nags for hire.”
He had a hasty word with the ostler, who led two undistinguished jades from their loose boxes. Beeton and Tom were happy to get a leg over any piece of horseflesh. They didn’t get much opportunity to ride in Bath. Much struck with the captain’s expertise, they saluted before riding off on their mission, looking dreadfully like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
Macheath saved for himself what he considered the most likely place to find Marianne. But before leaving, he ran back into the inn.
“Any luck?” he asked Rooney. Rooney shook his head.
“The servants have searched the place. They’re not here, Macheath. It just struck me—Jim Todd is at the inn tonight.”
“He wouldn’t be working with La Rue. He’s a respectable farmer.”
“He is, and a clutch-fisted one. He takes his little wagon and cob into the forest at night to save a few pence stable fees. If they were carrying Miss Harkness, they might have made free of it, eh?”
“I was heading into the forest in any case. I’ll have a look.”
He hurried outside, mounted his mare, and rode the few yards to the forest behind the inn. The night was crisp and cold. The afternoon clouds had blown off to reveal a jet-black sky sprinkled with diamond dust. A star-dogged fingernail of moon cast a wan light below. He had often seen Jim Todd’s little wagon tied to a spreading elm in a clearing in the forest. It wasn’t there. If La Rue was using it to transport Marianne, he would likely avoid the main road. Folks hereabouts knew Jim and his red wagon. They’d find it odd if La Rue was driving it.
He led his mount into the forest. The light of moon and numberless stars vanished, plunging him into darkness. Overhead, branches met to form a whispering roof that obliterated the sky completely. The path wound through the forest, dotted here and there with small cottages belonging to the keeper of the woods and the few woodchoppers allowed to cull dead or dying trees. It was not these respectable cottages that interested Macheath, however. Deeper in the forest were to be found less-respectable haunts— shacks belonging to poachers, temporary hiding places for highwaymen and other lawbreakers.
Red Perkins, a poacher who sold his stolen game to Rooney, lived in one of them. With a memory of those two IOUs bearing Perkins’s name, Macheath felt Perkins was in no position to balk if McGinty demanded a favor. The devil of it was, Macheath had no clear idea which shack it was. But he knew it was not far from the inn. He had been chatting with Rooney one day when Perkins came to sell him a bag of poached partridge.
“Where are they? Let’s see them,” Rooney had said.
“I didn’t risk bringing them out of the forest till I knew if you wanted them. I’ll get them now. I’ll be back inside an hour.” Which meant the shack was not more than half an hour away on foot. Macheath could do it in much less on horseback, if he knew which direction to take. He dismounted and began searching the tree line for signs of a path. Before he had gone far, he found one. It was only a narrow footpath; better to leave his mount behind. It would be quieter on foot in any case.
Macheath was an old hand at this from his guerrilla days in the Peninsula. He moved with the stealthy grace of a jungle cat, hardly disturbing a twig as he went forward. Were it not for the lump of cold fear in his stomach, he would have enjoyed it. But the desperate realization that they had Marianne drove him nearly to the edge of panic. He had to force himself to keep a steady, quiet pace. He didn’t want to arrive too breathless to deal with La Rue and McGinty, or too overwrought to think straight.
He peered left and right. The path split, one branch going east, one west. Perkins’s stunt to confuse the game warden. Macheath chose the right path, which he soon realized was the wrong path. It led to a creek where Perkins could hop in to confuse the trail if hounds were following him. He quickly backtracked and took the left path. He felt sure he was on the way to Perkins’s shack now—but was that where they had taken Marianne? Were they even now molesting her, as McGinty had tried last night at the inn? He moved faster, faster, the twigs snapping loudly underfoot now, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t, for he had seen a dull glow of light through the branches. Perkins’s shack!
As he rushed forward, a single shot shattered the night. Macheath froze in his tracks, then forged on, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Chapter Seventeen
Marianne couldn’t see where they were taking her, but it was not down the main staircase. It was a narrow set of steps. She could feel her toes banging against a wall when she kicked. She heard a door squeak open; not the front door. If it was the back way, though, it was odd she hadn’t heard the sounds of the kitchen. She didn’t hear any sound from the stable now that she was outdoors, either. Was there another door? After they had gone a few yards, they put her down and made her walk, over rough terrain, for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Sometimes she felt bushes touch her ankles, so they must be in a woods. The forest behind the inn, of course.
It was important to know where she was, because she had every intention of escaping and had to know her way back. She had to believe that or else succumb to the blind panic that was scratching at her brain. The most unnerving part of it all was that the men barely spoke. When they did, they said not a word that would betray their intentions.
Before leaving the inn, La Rue had said, “We didn’t plan on cargo. Where’ll we store her?”
“Perkins owes me. We’ll use his shack.”
“She’ll be hard to handle on horseback.”
“Take Jim Todd’s rig,” McGinty had said.
The names Perkins and Jim Todd meant nothing to Marianne, but clearly McGinty had a very rudimentary understanding of private property.
When they stopped, she was tied up wing and leg and dumped into the back of a wagon on top of a few inches of hay. The blanket was torn off. She saw she was in a clearing in the forest, with a path leading out into a dense growth of mature timbers. Branches whispered high overhead. In the clearing, a myriad of stars spangled the black sky. The smaller man pointed the pistol at her as the other one trussed her up more tightly. They didn’t warn her against calling for help, but it was implicit in that round black muzzle pointing at her. When she was secured, they put the blanket over her again and the wagon bumped along for an indeterminate amount of time and distance.
She struggled with her bindings, but the more she pulled the tighter they became. Where were they taking her? What were they going to do with her? Was McGinty planning to wreak his revenge for last night? “I’ll have you here on the floor, minx,” he had said. Oh, Lord! She wished she had taken the pistol when John offered it to her. Or even that she had put the little knife in her pocket. But she hadn’t. It was in her reticule, in her room. She should have let John shoot him when he wanted to last night. The smaller one was McGinty, she was sure of that. Likely the bigger man was La Rue.
At length, the wagon stopped. The men exchanged a few words then. She listened, trying to hear them and, if possible, to recognize the other voice.
“The shack’s dark. Perkins ain’t home,” La Rue said.
“He’d be out filling his jiggle bag. He don’t lock his door.”
“I’ll take her in. You take the note to the duchess,” one of them said. It wasn’t McGinty’s voice. She had never heard that voice before.
“Tomorrow’ll be time enough.”
“Don’t be daft. Macheath might be back by then.”
“I’ll stay with the wench. You take the note.” That was Dirty Dick.
“Do as I say, Dick. Kidnapping’s bad enough. If we harm the lass, the law will never stop looking till they find us. You can buy all the girls you want after this is over.”
“How much do we ask for?”
“The old malkin is good for thousands. Ask for five thousand—in cash.”
“She wouldn’t have that much on her.”
“There’s banks, ain’t there? Tell her five thousand in cash tomorrow at noon.”
“Where?”
There was a longish silence. “Nay, that’ll never fadge. She’ll send for Macheath. He could be back by noon, easy. Tell her the jewels, tonight. The groom brings them to the forest. The little groom—alone.”
“That’d be Tom.”
“Just say Tom brings them to the forest, and we’ll find him.”
Dick grumbled a bit, then left on foot.
She was hauled over the bigger man’s shoulder like a sack of oats and carried into a cottage of some sort. A shack, they had called it. La Rue—she assumed he was La Rue—dumped her onto what felt like a horsehair sofa, all hard and lumpy, and threw the blanket over her. She managed to ease the gag from her mouth and breathed the warm moist air smelling of horse, which was trapped under the blanket. She waited and listened. He was pouring himself a drink. She hoped he didn’t get drunk and forget the warning he had given McGinty.
At least she hadn’t been left alone with Dirty Dick. She began working at her bindings again. They were some rough sort of hemp that scratched her wrists. If only she had brought her scissors with her. Was there nothing she could use? Then she thought of the nail file. She had dropped it into her pocket earlier. It would take time, but it might eventually work through the hemp.
By squirming she could get her hand over to the side pocket of her skirt. She slid her fingers in and managed to get the thin blade between her thumb and forefinger. The more difficult part was reaching the rope when her hands were tied together. She got a tight grip on the end of the file and began to saw. The strokes were short, due to her hands being tied together. She had to work carefully to prevent the movement of the blanket from revealing what she was doing.
She heard a bottle rattle against the table. Another drink was poured into the glass. He drank and smacked his lips, then walked across the room. From the sounds that followed, she thought he was building up the fire in the grate. It was stifling under the blanket, but it would be chilly in the room.
Where were they? No sounds other than those made by the man could be heard. It was an isolated cottage somewhere in the woods. Impossible to find! She kept sawing at the ropes as these thoughts raced through her mind.
At least the man didn’t show any interest in her as a woman. Just as she was thanking God for this mercy, she heard heavy steps approaching the sofa. He stopped when he reached it. She held her breath, praying as she had never prayed before in her life. She felt his hand on the blanket. He lifted it and stared down at her. He had removed his mask, and she saw a tall man with rough reddish hair and snuff-brown eyes, red around the rims. His hands were the size of ham hocks. She had never seen him before.
He gave a snort, said, “I don’t know what he sees in you,” and dropped the blanket back over her face. She never imagined she would be so glad to be found unattractive. The man returned to the table and his drink, and Marianne to her work with the nail file. It seemed a hopeless task. She could not get a firm hold on the smooth ivory handle. It kept slipping, but she persevered, as she couldn’t think of anything else useful to do. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, she had severed one strand of the rope. When she pulled, the rest of it came loose. Her hands were free. That small success gave her confidence and courage. Her hands were numb. She flexed her fingers to restore the flow of blood.
Now if she could get her feet loose without alerting him what she was about! She rolled over, turning her back to the room to allow herself a little freedom of movement. When the man didn’t say anything, she began working her hands down to her ankles. It was easier to untie the ropes there than to cut through them. After a few broken fingernails, the rope at her feet was loose. She was no longer bound, but she was still locked in a house with a large man holding a gun. A man who was rapidly drinking himself into drunkenness.
She turned over quietly until she was facing the room again and listened. The only sound was the snapping of wood in the grate and the occasional rattle of a glass or bottle on the table. She risked lifting the corner of the blanket and peeking out. La Rue sat at the table, facing her but not looking at her. He was looking at the fire. When he rose to go and stoke it, she lowered the blanket and looked around the room for a weapon. He had lef
t his pistol on the table. Could she reach it before he caught her? If she failed, the attempt might jolt him into an ugly mood—and with a fair bit of liquor in him. God only knew what revenge he might take.
She wanted something closer to hand. There was nothing. The place was only a one-room shack, with no stove or sink. The man who lived here must cook at the hearth. If he washed, it could only be in a nearby creek. La Rue was bent over the fire, working at it with a poker. He held a log in his hand, preparing a spot to add it to the fire. That would take him half a minute at least. She might not have another chance. She’d make a dart for his gun.
She pushed the blanket aside and leapt toward the table. She didn’t look behind her, but she heard La Rue drop the log.
“Here!” he shouted, and came after her.
Her fingers closed over the weapon. It was heavy and felt awkward. She had never fired a gun in her life, but she knew she had to pull the trigger. She turned and saw him coming toward her, wearing an ugly scowl.
“If you come one step closer, I’ll shoot,” she said, surprised at the firmness of her voice. She had thought it would quake with the terror she felt. Her hand was trembling. She saw La Rue look at it, and his lips drew back, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth.
“It ain’t loaded,” he said
Staring into his snuff-brown eyes, she couldn’t see any shadow of fear. Surely he hadn’t gone to rob the duchess with an unloaded gun.
“Yes, it is,” she said, and put her other hand on the gun handle to steady it.
“Try it,” he said, his lips stretching into an evil grin,
His eyes held hers, neither of them wavering. It was a battle of wills. She gritted her teeth and determined that if he came one step closer, she’d pull the trigger and hope he had been bluffing about the gun’s not being loaded.
