by Amy Corwin
Armed with the rock, he assaulted the top of the door. The wood was already crumbling, and he was rewarded by a small piece breaking off at his second stroke. He examined it with satisfaction before beating even harder, smashing the stone repeatedly against the stubborn door.
The process was slow and his arms were throbbing with the effort, but he soon had a large, jagged hole in the upper left corner of the door. He stuck his head through. It was barely wide enough to admit his body, but he wriggled his shoulders and managed to squirm through.
The room beyond was dark and filled with rubble from the collapsed roof. His heart beat faster. In the corner, stone steps rose — the entrance to the tower!
He moved forward cautiously, unsure what might be in the room with him. The last of the light was fading, and he could not take his mind off the stone monster — or even demon — crouching just outside the door. Something worse might live in here, just waiting for the first person to venture into the room.
The floor beneath his feet creaked. He glanced down with surprise. Instead of flagstones, this room had wooden floors. He wondered briefly if it might be rotted, like the door, but the part of the wood wedged behind the stones was solid. The floor had to be solid to support all the rubble.
The broken blocks probably protected it. And even better, the walls were darker here, less weathered. Maybe they were wooden panels. If so, a secret compartment might be hidden behind one of them. Probably near the rear wall. That made the most sense.
His fingers tingled with excitement.
He moved to his left, edging round a pile of slate from the roof. The floor felt spongy under his feet, but it held. Another step and he heard a sharp snap, like wood breaking in half. When nothing further happened, he ran forward, sure that fleetness of foot would keep him from disturbing the softened floorboards.
It worked. He paused two yards from the base of the stairs, next to the wall, feeling his heart race. The wooden wainscoting was dark with damp and pitted, but when he tapped and pried, he could not find anything even remotely like a secret panel. Feeling disappointed, he glanced again at the stairs.
The tower was his best choice.
He straightened his jacket, patting the pocket containing the necklace, and started up. And up. The first floor was empty. Not even a bird’s nest to hide the necklace. He climbed further up.
The second floor looking more promising. It was almost dark, but he could make out something against the far wall; it was an old chest. Dirt and broken slates crusted the rounded top and an old vine had wound itself round it, but there was no obscuring the rectangular shape.
This chest would be perfect. No one would think to look here. In fact, he knew he had to be the first person to have climbed those stairs for years. He took a cautious step forward. The floor creaked like an old ship, but it held. Two more slow steps and he gained confidence, marching forward more rapidly.
He was almost in front of the chest. He took a final step. Instead of a solid floorboard, his right foot kept going down. His arms windmilled. There was nothing to grab. For one second, he felt he might not fall. He seemed suspended in the air.
Then he fell with a yelp of surprise. He tried to catch the edge of the floor. But he slipped through and before he could scream, he hit the first floor in a shower of loose rubble, rotten wood and leaves.
Crack! He landed on his side, the air whooshing out of him. Wood snapped beneath him, bowing ominously.
Not again!
Fingernails scrabbling over the rotted wood, he threw himself towards the dim shape of a window piercing the far wall. Rocks and leaves tumbled over him. His legs kicked in the air. Screaming, he made one final effort. He rolled over, pushing with his feet when they touched the floor.
As he scrambled in the darkness, something hit the back of his head, plunging him downwards into the darkness.
§
Pain made his stomach heave. Edward gagged and clutched his head. He was blind! He rubbed his face and winced. His head ached and his skin burned under a gritty film of dirt and shards of slate. Panicking in the darkness, he dug his fingers into his eyes despite the sting of dirt. He lifted his head.
His eyes watered. With a desperate sob, he broke into tears, but everywhere he turned, rocks jabbed at him. He shifted and screamed when sharp, crippling agony bit into his leg. Every time he moved, another ripple of pain made him choke. He sniffed and ran his sleeve over his face and runny nose, trying to breathe.
He had to be calm and unafraid. Think of Nelson. What would he do?
Then he remembered he was alone in the darkness. Below him, the monsters rattled round, searching for him. He could not move. Above, he heard a scrabbling sound. A fragment of rock crashed nearby, sending a shower of stinging rocks and dirt over him.
No one knew he had come here. No one would come.
He was alone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“If you hope to obtain favour, endeavour to deserve it.” —The Complete Servant
“He is not in his room,” Helen said, clutching Hugh's sleeve. “Ned's bed is still made, and there is no sign of him.”
Hugh smiled reassuringly. “He is just out relieving himself.”
She glanced out at the shadows intensifying and sweeping over the wide lawns surrounding Ormsby. “In the dark?”
His gaze moved beyond her shoulder to the window. A thoughtful expression grew in his eyes. He rubbed his hand over his beard. “I will go and look around. Do not worry, bad pennies always show up again.”
“He is not a bad penny,” Helen replied. He was not listening or taking note of her concerns. She could feel that something was wrong. She knew it.
“He will show up. Just as soon as he realizes he has missed his supper.”
Before Helen could respond, the housekeeper and butler returned to the servants' hall.
“You may all go about your duties,” Mr. Symes announced from the doorway.
The servants glanced at each other. A few shrugged their shoulders and exchanged whispers.
The cook stood up ponderously, her bulk dominating the end of the room closest to the kitchens. “What was all this about, then?”
“Nothing of concern to any of you. A minor, inconsequential matter that required the attention of Mr. Symes and myself.” Mrs. Adams clasped her hands at her waist. “Now get along with you. There's plenty still to be done before you can go to your beds.”
After the others had filed out, Helen followed Hugh to the room he shared with Ned. When there was no sign of him there, they went outside to the outhouse behind the dovecote. Hugh knocked on the door and stood back, arms crossed over his chest.
“Give a man a minute, mate,” a rough voice answered.
“That's not Ned,” Helen whispered, gripping Hugh's arm.
“No, it is not.” He turned away and for the first time, she thought she saw worry carving deep lines between his brows. “When did you see him last?”
“With Cook. He was learning to make sauce.” Her voice shook with anxiety.
Hugh took her hand in his. The warmth of his grip heartened her until she glanced around. Night had fallen, shrouding the gardens around them with misty darkness. The moon had yet to come out and the light from the stars seemed distant and cold.
Where was he? She could imagine Ned's panic, alone as night fell.
“Then we will ask in the kitchens about Ned,” Hugh said. “He might be on an errand.”
The cook was supervising the wash-up when Hugh and Helen returned to the kitchen. When she caught sight of them, she let out a long, tired sigh and crossed her arms, adopting a belligerent, wide-legged stance.
“No more interruptions tonight. If Miss Leigh sent you for a pot of chocolate, you can just fix it for her and clean up, besides.”
Hugh’s faced darkened with anger. For a calm man to grow angry so quickly meant he had to be more worried than he let on about Ned, Helen thought. A cold shiver rattled through her.
“We
are not here for that,” Helen said, stepping forward. “It's Ned — did you by any chance send him on an errand? Perhaps he got lost in the cellars?”
“Ned? No. As I said already, I sent him to his room. He was feeling poorly. Couldn't have him getting sick in the sauce, after all.”
“And did you see where he went?” Hugh’s voice was hard, as if accusations simmered in the depths.
The cook stared at him, her face carefully blank. While a steward was in the upper echelon of servants, a good cook was her own master. Many a cook wielded more power than any other servant in the household, due entirely to the stomach — and therefore whims — of her employer.
A good cook was hard to replace.
“The child went back to his room,” the cook said at last. “If you wish to find him, look there. He's certainly not in my kitchen.”
“That is the difficulty,” Helen said. “He is not in his room. We have looked. He is missing.”
“Missing?” The cook frowned and glanced at Hugh.
The two bristled like a pair of dogs preparing to fight. Each stared accusingly at the other rather than reveal any weakness such as anxiety.
“I am afraid he may have got lost somewhere. He is new here. He may have gone exploring,” Helen said, breaking the tense silence.
“He was sick, I tell you,” the cook replied sullenly. “He went nowhere but his room.”
“Well he's not there, so you had better give us another answer,” Hugh said.
“You think I popped him into my oven? I haven't touched your brother. But he liked that cat in the stables. Go there and stop accusing those who are too busy to be hiding little boys.”
Helen laid a hand on Hugh’s forearm. “Please — will you check the stables?”
“Of course.” He gave one last measured glance at the cook before he strode through the kitchen door.
“What about the cellars?” Helen asked.
Cook shook her head and ran her forearm over her sweating forehead. “In this house, I keep the keys to the cellars — not Mr. Symes. Symes has a small, um, weakness when it comes to spirits.” She jingled a ring of keys fastened to a tie on her apron. “No-one went down, not since this afternoon. I went myself to fetch this evening's wine and the Madeira for the ladies. And I locked up after.”
“I see,” Helen said, biting her lower lip.
“I can go down and search. You keep these lazy sods at the dishes, and I'll see if the boy slipped by me, though I can't see how he could have.”
“Oh, please. I would be so grateful.”
“Yes, Miss Caswell. Just wait here. If he's down there, he'll be plenty eager to get back out, for there's not a ray of light in the cellars; just a lot of kegs and blackness as thick as pitch.”
Helen’s heart twisted, imaging Ned's terror. “Hurry — please.”
With a curt nod, the cook turned on her stout heel and lumbered over to the door at the rear of the kitchen. The ring of keys clanked as she fumbled with them before finding the right one and unlocking the door. A lamp sat on a shelf near the door, and she stopped to light that before starting down the stairs. Helen watched as the golden glow bobbed and gradually disappeared.
There was the sound of a step behind her. “There you are — Miss Leigh has been asking for you,” Mrs. Adams said. “What are you doing down here?”
“Oh, Mrs. Adams, Ned is missing! I am so afraid he is lying hurt somewhere.”
“Missing! Along with the necklace, I’ll be bound!”
“No! Quite apart from anything else, he did not have any opportunity to steal the necklace. He has been helping the cook in the kitchen; she told me so herself, and that he was working under her supervision. Before dinner, he grew ill and she sent him to his room, but he is not there. I am so afraid he went out for a breath of air to ease his stomach and got lost. We are new here, he could easily have got lost outside, or hurt.”
Mrs. Adams studied her face. “Where is Cook?”
“She went to the cellars to look for Ned.”
“Why would she think Ned might be there? Does she not keep the doors locked?”
“Yes, Mrs. Adams,” Helen replied, feeling increasingly miserable. “I asked her to look, although she said she went down alone much earlier in the afternoon. I just don’t know where else to look.”
“He is your brother, where do you think he would go?”
“Outside, for some air …. What if he got lost in the maze? He is just a child; he could have wandered inside and could not find his way out.”
Mrs. Adams pressed her mouth shut. Helen's heart sank. She would get no help from the housekeeper, and Ned might be lying somewhere, abandoned and afraid.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“ … do not act on your own opinion, nor hastily, but, confidentially, consult your mistress ….” —The Complete Servant
“I'll fetch Mr. Symes. We will have to search the grounds. The weather here is uncertain, and we cannot leave a child outside all night,” Mrs. Adams said.
Helen stared at her in surprise. Perhaps she had judged the housekeeper unfairly.
“Well, go on.” Mrs. Adams waved her away. “There is no time to waste. Most of the servants will not have gone to bed yet. We will find him.”
“Thank you,” Helen said, impulsively catching Mrs. Adam's wrist and pressing a kiss to her cool cheek.
Mrs. Adams appeared nonplussed at Helen's action. Raising a hand, she reseated her cap before pushing Helen away. “Well, get on with it, or none of us will get any rest tonight.”
Rushing out, Helen ran through the corridors to the green door dividing the servants' part of the house from the family's. In the small butler's cubby hole near the front door, Mr. Symes was bending over a notebook, carefully annotating something.
“Mr. Symes, my brother, Ned, is missing. Mrs. Adams sent me to request your assistance. She is in the kitchen.”
He rose ponderously and sighed. “I will join her. Yet another fruitless search,” he commented under his breath, as he followed her down the hallway.
However, instead of returning to the kitchen, Helen dashed up the grand staircase, hoping no-one would notice her scandalous behavior in daring to do so. She would get her shawl and join the search. They would find Ned. Everything would be all right.
She had to believe it.
§
“Where have you been?” Miss Leigh asked, as Helen hurried into the room.
“My brother is missing —”
“Mr. Caswell?” She let out a long breath and settled into her chair by the fire. “I cannot say I'm disappointed to see him go. He may be an excellent steward, but he allowed his curiosity to get the better of his sense.”
“Not him — Ned.”
“Ned?” Miss Leigh rose, reaching a hand out and gripping the chair back to steady herself. “Missing?”
“He may have got lost outside,” Helen answered distractedly, snatching her shawl off the hook by the door.
“The maze.” Miss Leigh nodded and settled her own shawl around her shoulders. “He undoubtedly went into the maze and got lost. I always said that would happen one day. Thankfully, I have mastered the design. I will find him.”
“Oh, no — you can't! You are ill. I cannot let you go.”
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Leigh replied in an icy voice. “Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do?”
“No, Miss Leigh, but —”
“I shall find him, never fear. It is a matter of moments. Now stop gawking and fetch a lantern. You shall accompany me.” A cynical light glowed in the depths of her hollow eyes. “He may be afraid of an old witch like me, but he will doubtless come to you. I suspect any male would.”
As if any man would find me attractive with a faded gown and hair scraped back so severely it makes my head ache. Blushing, Helen turned away to fetch an old shuttered lamp from her room.
Most likely, Ned will think I'm a ghost, haunting unfortunate souls lost in the maze. She just hoped her ap
pearance would not send him screaming deeper into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“His character must be irreproachable and exemplary ….” —The Complete Servant
Hugh took one last look around the stables. Horses shuffled drowsily in their stalls, their warm breath whispering in the silence. No one had seen Ned, although the cat had managed to reproduce sometime during the day and now had a litter of seven mewling kittens. If anything could catch the attention of a small child, it would be the newborn cats.
The fact that Ned was not here troubled Hugh more than he wanted to admit. There were a lot of places for a young boy to hide, but none of them were comfortable locations in which to spend the night.
He left and closed the door gently, slipping the wooden latch into place. When he turned, he saw the lean, dark figure of a man looping the reins of his horse round one of the iron rings on the post at the corner of the building.
“Mr. Gaunt! What are you doing here?” Hugh asked, startled.
“I had some information I thought you should have as soon as possible.”
“What is it? I am in a damnable hurry. That boy, Ned, is missing. It may be nothing, but it is going to be a cold night. I do not want another death on my hands.”
Mr. Gaunt nodded. “Then I'll be quick. I went to the village to question the vicar your brother planned to visit. He let slip the information that Mr. Castle had a habit of visiting Bath — and occasionally London — to gamble.”
“So he liked to play cards —” The journal Ned had given Hugh told him all he wanted to know about his brother’s habits. And resentment.
