by Martha Keyes
If their interactions over the past weeks were any indication, he was just as likely as she to become frustrated by their conversation. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken with Julia and come away not feeling discontented or bothered. In any case, Julia was not known to have a firm hold on her temper, and he had no desire to attract the attention which had been occasioned at the Rodwell's rout when they had their first great row.
His heart jumped as he spotted Cecilia Cosgrove ascending the stairs. A throng of people passed in front of him, though, preventing any view of whether Isabel accompanied her. He moved from left to right, attempting to get a better view, when an arm slipped through his. He turned and saw Julia looking up at him with a smile.
He grimaced, and her expression became provoking, one eyebrow arched and her mouth teasing. "I doubted whether you would keep your promise," she said, "but I should have known! I can always rely on my Charles." She guided him forward through the throngs of people, toward the end of the passageway which let out into a garden. As hot as the night was, it felt like a cool breeze in comparison with the heat of the indoors. A few other people sat on benches scattered among the garden's alcoves.
Charles's expression had morphed from one of confused surprise to one of doubtful contemplation. "What is this, Julia?" he said as they walked arm-in-arm around the garden's perimeter.
"What is what?"
He stopped, and she turned to look at him. "Do you truly intend,” he said incredulously, “to pretend that nothing has happened between us after yesterday's incident in the park?"
"Oh, pooh!" she said, turning back around and pulling him along. "That is but a distant memory. Let us forget all about it."
He stopped again, disengaging his arm from hers. "It is not a distant memory, though. It was only yesterday. You made it quite clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me. That is not something I am likely to forget. Ever."
Julia heaved a sigh, but the teasing smile still lurked. "Oh, Charles, do you wish me to grovel? It pains me to think of kneeling in this gown, but I shall do it if you insist."
"No," Charles said. "I'm afraid groveling would change nothing. I only wish to understand what precisely has brought about such a change in your demeanor toward me. Perhaps you mistook me for Farrow,” he said with a bite to his voice. “Is he not here?"
Julia laughed dismissively. "I'm sure I have no idea."
"Perhaps you should search him out,” Charles said. “I don't believe you can have anything further to say to me, and I have someone I need to speak with. Allow me to leave you in the care of the Misses Bailey here." He indicated two young woman just entering the garden together. "I know you hold them in particular affection." He greeted them warmly and then left Julia with them, trying not to betray his amusement at Julia's mixed rage and awkwardness.
She had never liked the Bailey sisters.
His long strides quickly brought him back into the uncomfortably-warm house. He didn't know what Julia was about, but she quite clearly had no intention of explaining what had changed since their last meeting.
He raised up on his tiptoes, trying to locate any one of the Cosgrove family. The sound of violins and a cello wafted down the stairs, and he trotted up the staircase to try his luck there. He needed Isabel to know that he had no desire to relinquish the friendship they had formed over the last few weeks. She had made it abundantly clear that she had no desire to marry him, but, fool that he was, he had never had the courage to ask why. He needed to know the reason.
He spotted the large headdress of Mrs. Holledge and scanned the circle surrounding her. Each member was listening attentively to what she was saying. Sure enough, Miss Mary Holledge was amongst the group. He walked up behind her and gently tapped her on the shoulder.
"Mr. Galbraith," she said, slipping out of the circle. Two of the remaining women eyed him with annoyance and closed ranks, leaning their heads in closer to hear what Mrs. Holledge was saying.
Charles's brows went up. "Your mother certainly has her audience in rapt attention."
Miss Holledge gave him a significant look. "For good reason. It seems that Farrow is quite done up. Word that he may be losing his inheritance has caused many of his creditors to call in his debts—of which he apparently has an overabundance."
“Word from whom?” Charles said.
“I understand,” said Mary in a low voice, “that his steward left his employ in an outrage and was quite free with Farrow’s private business matters once he left.”
Charles rubbed his chin in thought. "Well, perhaps Farrow is finally receiving his comeuppance." Julia’s sudden appearance at his side, her energetic attentions to him suddenly made sense. Obviously, she had heard the rumors and was trying to repair the bridges she had burned as a result of her association with Farrow.
"Yes, I think you're right," Miss Holledge said, looking around the room and adding absently, "I'm just glad that Isabel is gone. If anyone were to draw his ire now that the news is out, it would be she.”
Charles's brows snapped together. "What do you mean? Gone where? And why should she draw his ire?"
Miss Holledge's hand shot up to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Oh dear," she said. “I gave her my word!” She wrung her hands, and when she spoke, it seemed as though she was talking to herself. “But I didn’t try to interfere! It was not done intentionally.”
"Please explain, Miss Holledge," Charles said with a flash of impatience. "I must know if Isabel is in any danger. If Farrow is indeed under the hatches, he is more dangerous than you can possibly know." His forehead creased. "Though why Isabel should be a target of his anger is beyond me. Particularly if he knows that it was his steward who made his situation known."
Miss Holledge's hand relaxed slightly but still hovered in front of her mouth, her expression conscience-stricken. "He was mad as fire after she threatened him. I can only guess what he might be capable of in such a state."
Charles stiffened. "Threatened him?"
Miss Holledge blinked quickly, seeming to recall the incident. "As good as! We saw him in the Park, and he was being abominable toward Hetty. Isabel told him to stay away from Hetty or else face ruin."
Charles's stomach dropped and he swore softly. "Fool!" he said under his breath. "Where has she gone?"
Miss Holledge hesitated, taking her lips between her teeth. "I suppose I have already broken my word to her, so there's nothing for it but to tell you, besides it being utterly ridiculous of her in the first place.” She sighed. “She is leaving for her aunt's in Colchester before her father can throw her out."
"What?" Charles's voice was barely a whisper. "Why should he throw her out?”
Miss Holledge raised up her shoulders. “He is very set on you two marrying.”
Charles shook his head and blinked slowly, unable to account for the information from Miss Holledge given what Isabel herself had told him. “But she was confident that her sister's forthcoming engagement to Lord Brockway would satisfy him."
Miss Holledge's lips parted and her brows went up. "Oh," she said, "then she did not tell you.” Miss Holledge interlocked her fingers. “Things have been at an end between Cecilia and Lord Brockway since, well, since the visit to the menagerie, I suppose. He is expected to offer for Miss Bernard." She opened her reticle and took out a letter, handing it to him. "Here. This should explain everything."
Charles opened it with fumbling hands as Miss Holledge watched his face. He read it with hungry eyes, his expressions changing rapidly.
When he looked up at the end, he felt an overwhelming mixture of urgency and fear. He looked at Miss Holledge without really seeing her and then turned to leave.
"Wait," she cried out. "Where are you going?"
"To bring Isabel back," he said.
She grabbed his coat sleeve. "She received an urgent call to the rectory shortly before I came here. Perhaps you should go there first. I don't believe the Mail Coach leaves for another hour."
The energy stilled
in Charles's body. "To the rectory? Surely not."
Miss Holledge's shoulders went up, a sincere look in her eyes. "I saw the letter myself. He said it was most urgent."
"No, no, no, no," Charles muttered, running a hand through his hair. "It's not possible." He looked at Miss Holledge. "When I came here, the rector's coach was next door at Mr. Ellis'. He is giving him his last rites. Why should he send for Isabel to come urgently when he was not even there to receive her? It couldn't possibly have been from Mr. Safford." His eyes widened, and his heart began to pound. "Unless...." He trailed off. Suddenly he turned on his heel, running down the stairs and to the front door through the throngs of people.
26
Isabel walked to the rectory as quickly as she could manage with the heavy portmanteau under her arm. Her heart beat faster than usual, and she wondered what could have happened to merit such an urgent message. And one lacking any information at all.
Was the rector in danger? Did he wish for her to come retrieve the will? If he wished her to also deliver it to the solicitor he had mentioned, her plans might quickly unravel. It would mean missing the Mail Coach which would, in turn, mean having to wait until the following evening. Her father may well have read her letter already, and her only hope for the letter to Charles was that Mary would indeed wait to give it to him until the following day.
She shook her head and drew in a breath, trying not to dwell on the precariousness of her situation.
It was fully dusk when she passed under the stone arch and turned into the churchyard. Her eyes flitted in the direction of the graveyard, wondering if she would be obliged to fetch the will in the dark among the headstones. She was not terribly superstitious, but the thought still made her stomach clench. She hurried up the steps and pulled on the door handle, only to be jarred when the door stuck.
It was locked.
She stepped back and stared at it. It made no sense that the rector would lock the church after asking her to come. The remaining outdoor light was fading fast, and there was no light to be seen within the church. Perhaps Mr. Safford was at the rectory?
A click sounded behind her, and she whipped around, only to be met by the barrel of a pistol.
She froze.
"I'm so glad you could join me, Miss Cosgrove." Mr. Farrow's arm was fully extended, the dark metal of his pistol gleaming in his hand. "I knew I could trust your sense of loyalty to bring you here post-haste."
She pictured the short missive which had brought her, the sloppy handwriting which she had assumed to look different from Mr. Safford's script only due to his haste. "You wrote the letter?"
Mr. Farrow's mouth stretched into a lopsided smile. "Yes. And now you will show me where the good rector has hidden the will."
Isabel swallowed, and her chin came up slightly. "I am at a loss to know what you're referring to, sir."
He bared his teeth and put the pistol up to her temple. "Does this help bring anything to mind?"
Isabel’s jaw tightened.
Mr. Farrow smiled. "Yes, I urge you to reconsider. Your admirable but unwise threat in the park confirmed what I had already suspected: Safford confided in you after my last visit to him. I know the will is somewhere on this property. His loyalty to my father would not permit him to let it out of his care. You will show me where it is."
Where was Mr. Safford? She felt sick as she thought on the possibility that Mr. Farrow had already done harm to him. "What have you done with the rector?"
"The rector is safe," he said disinterestedly.
"I don't believe you."
"And yet it is true, despite that," he said. "He is, I believe, engaged in performing the last rites for someone. But I cannot vouch for his safety once he returns, which he may well do at any time. For that reason, haste on your part will ensure the good rector's safety."
Isabel could feel her palms sweating and the leather portmanteau began to slip in her fingers. What would the rector have her do? It was terribly important to him to honor his promise to his brother. But she also didn't feel he would wish for Isabel to sacrifice her life over the matter.
Would Mr. Farrow truly kill her if she refused to comply? She could try to buy time, but that might only ensure that harm would also come to Mr. Safford when he returned. Surely Mr. Farrow wouldn't kill in cold blood the only two people who knew the location of the will? What if it was happened upon by someone else later?
She thought of Hetty, of Farrow's heartless role in consigning her to debtor's prison or possible transportation. Her jaw tightened. Who else would become a victim if she didn’t stand up to him? She at least had nothing to lose.
"No," she said.
"Come again?" His teeth were gritted.
She looked him in the eye, feeling a burst of confidence "I will not help you to find and, I assume, destroy the will. And you must know that to kill me would only ensure your own undoing."
"You insist, then, on doing things the hard way?” He kept the pistol trained on her and stooped down to pick up a rope from an open rucksack lying at his feet. “So be it."
Isabel's confidence flickered.
He took the portmanteau from her and then turned her around, commanding her to sit down on one of the steps next to the wrought-iron railing. He set the pistol down next to his foot, watching her as he did it, as if to tell her not to even consider an attempt to wrest it from him. Keeping his eyes on her, he began tying her wrists, first together, then to the railing.
She couldn't help but ask, "How does this advance your cause?"
"Quite effectively, I assure you." He tied a final knot in the rope. "You will not tell me where the will is hidden. Very well, then I shall have to destroy it by some other means. I prefer a less messy ending, but you have forced my hand. And you, my dear Miss Cosgrove, shall be unfortunate collateral damage. Whatever knowledge you have of this dies with you." He stooped down again to pick up a long cloth which he tied around her mouth.
Picking up a flint box and some kindling, Mr. Farrow walked with brisk steps toward a spot near the middle of the length of the church, stooping down.
Isabel’s eyes widened, and she gave a tug on the rope. Its rough fibers chafed her wrists.
"Stop!" she cried out, but the sound was muffled, and he made no evidence of hearing her.
He struck the flint toward the kindling, and she saw a small red ember glow and then spread.
27
Charles instructed his coachman to take the quickest way to St. James's. He sat on the edge of his seat, his hands clenching in impatience and impotence as he waited to arrive at the church.
Perhaps his suspicions were incorrect, but knowing that Farrow was at the end of his rope and that Isabel had threatened him, he felt great anxiety on Isabel's behalf. It was the type of fear that gripped him and made him feel cold.
The voice of his coachman came through the windows muffled. "Do you still want me to proceed, sir?"
Charles furrowed his brow and peered out the window, wondering what obstacle could possibly be in their way. The lighting outside was peculiar, the darkness moderated by a faint orange glow.
He opened the coach door and leaned his body out. He went rigid for an instant and then jumped down, sprinting toward the church with an order to his coachman to stay put.
Flames leapt up around the building, and Charles felt the heat increasing as he approached. He saw a number of people in the street, pointing at the building.
He flew under the arch, slowing his pace as his eyes frantically scanned the scene. The fire was spreading through the garden, and the pungent smell of greenery burning assailed his nose. The building itself was aflame, but the stone was providing a barrier to the fire's attempts to spread indoors.
He looked toward the door and froze. Collapsed on the steps of the church was Isabel.
"Isabel!" he called out, racing toward her as he coughed from the smoke and swore.
He almost skidded to a stop, kneeling next to her and taking her by the shoulder
s to sit her up. Her hands were tied to the iron railing, and he could see the bright red marks from where she had perhaps struggled against the ropes. His jaw tightened as he put an ear to Isabel's chest, listening intently amidst the crackling sound of the fire. The thump-thump of her heartbeat was barely discernible, but he felt a gush of relief at the sound. Beads of sweat trailed down his forehead.
Charles looked at Isabel's face, framed by disordered hair and a bonnet which had fallen back. Her mouth was stretched by the tight gag around it, her cheeks red and glistening with sweat.
He glanced around, and his gaze landed on the stones which paved the courtyard. One was cracked, its corner breaking away. Setting Isabel gently back down, he hurried over to the stone, using his boot to break the remaining edge away, then picked it up and returned to Isabel.
He sawed at the rope with the jagged stone, eyeing the flames which were quickly making their way toward the church door. Once the fire reached the wooden door, it would inevitably move to the interior of the church.
He could hear shouts coming from the street. He desperately hoped that the Watch had been alerted and would soon bring in help to combat the fire.
As his sweat dripped onto the stones below and coughs came relentlessly, the final thread broke, and he pulled the loosened ropes from Isabel's wrists. He undid the bonnet ribbon around her neck, letting the straw hat slip onto the ground.
Slipping one hand under her legs and one under her back, he hoisted her limp form into his arms and made his way out of the churchyard. His coachman stood in the street, his feet shuffling anxiously as he awaited instruction.
"Open the door," Charles said breathing heavily. Once the door was open, he instructed his coachman to take Isabel’s legs. He supported her upper body and, watching over his shoulder, carefully stepped into the coach. The coachman handed in Isabel's legs, and Charles worked to position her in the limited space on the seat, with her upper body resting in his arms.
