The Rebel's Promise

by Jane Godman

  Rosie bit her lip, the mere mention of his name made her shiver. “But it is three full days since they left London! Harry will think I have not come for him.”

  “Harry knows how much his sister loves him,” Jack said, “He will be expecting you. But so will Sir Clive … and I want to retain the element of surprise. It will be dark in an hour or two. Be patient a while longer, sweetheart.” Tom looked up in surprise at the endearment, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  “What if he is not there?” Rosie fretted.

  “Then we will track him down to wherever he is holed up and call him to account. We have made each other promises in the past, you and I, and some we have struggled to keep. But this one I will not be deflected from … Sheridan will not win this round, Rosie.”

  Rosie used the frustrating wait to bathe and change her clothes but, in the spirit of the adventure, exchanged her travel stained garb for a clean set of Harry’s clothing.

  Jack raised an approving eyebrow in the direction of her derriere, making her smile. He and Tom were ready to depart.

  “Stay here, do not follow us,” He ordered pushing Rosie unceremoniously into the study. When she opened her mouth to protest, he ensured her silence by roughly kissing her. Rosie succumbed to this harsh treatment with a resignation that looked suspiciously like enjoyment. As soon as he released her, however, she began to object again, so Jack repeated the kiss until she subsided into murmured acquiescence. Tom’s furtive visit to Sheridan Hall that afternoon had revealed no sign of Sir Clive or Harry. In fact, he reported back, the place appeared closed up.

  “Tom and I will get into Sheridan Hall tonight – one way or another – to see if there is any sign of them there.” Jack frowned, “I still wonder if he would be foolish enough to take Harry there. The lad is well known hereabouts, and Sir Clive’s servants and neighbours would know instantly there was something amiss. Can you think of anywhere else where he might go to hide out in secrecy?”

  His words triggered something in the back of Rosie’s mind – a half-formed thought that niggled but refused to fully surface – but she shook her head, and he dropped a light kiss onto the top of her curls. “We will find him for you, sweetheart, and bring him home safe,” he assured her.

  And what then, Rosie wondered? It was not the right time to ask him the question that had burned itself into her heart. ‘What of us, Jack?’

  Rosie, with the lamentable lack of caution which always characterised her, ignored Jack’s instructions. Waiting until he and Tom had left The Grange, and watching until they were out of sight, she stole out of the house herself. She had not been entirely honest with Jack when she had claimed not to know of any other place where Sir Clive might have taken Harry.

  In the grounds of Sheridan Hall there was an old, dilapidated Dower House which had not been occupied for many years. Sir Clive had escorted her round it after she had accepted his offer. He had some plans to restore it and rent it out and had, in those early days when he truly believed he could persuade her - or perchance force her - to give him money, asked for her opinion.

  It took her about ten minutes, criss-crossing the fields and pathways and skirting the brooding forest, to reach the outskirts of Sir Clive’s estates. Crossing the park in the moonlight, she was shocked at the extent of the dereliction she could see, even in the semi-darkness. Nature had reclaimed the once elegant gardens, and it resembled a wilderness rather than the manicured oasis the designer had intended. The Dower House was a two storey, square building of red sandstone which had once been very beautiful. Ivy grew wildly across the façade, obscuring some of the windows and giving the whole house an un-loved appearance. Two huge chestnut trees stood like sentinels at the end of the drive, their roots pushing up the gravel surface so that it resembled a ploughed field.

  Going straight to the back of the house, Rosie knew that the clasp on one of the long windows which led into the library had been broken for some time. It was one of many areas needing repair that she had pointed out to Sir Clive when he had escorted her around the Dower House. But he had merely looked bleakly at her and reminded her that, unless she was prepared to help him, there was no money to spare for maintenance to any of his properties. Her intuition proved correct. The clasp had still not been fixed and she was able to pull back the ivy, open the window from outside and slide cautiously into the darkened library. Dust tickled her nostrils and the dry, stale smell made her wrinkle her nose. It was the scent of neglect.

  She paused, wondering whether to go back and fetch Jack and Tom, but she did not know for sure yet if her hunch was correct. As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard a voice from the depths of the house. Silently opening the library door, she paused half in and half out of the room, straining her ears in an effort to hear more. She froze as Sir Clive’s voice, raised in anger, reached her. He was somewhere in the house. Following exactly the sort of headstrong instinct that Jack had expressly warned against, Rosie tiptoed out into the galleried hall and followed the sound.

  “Keep that godforsaken cur under control or, I swear by the devil’s own name, I will shoot it dead! I don’t know what possessed me to bring the blasted thing,”

  Clive’s words were accompanied by a gruff bark which Rosie recognised joyfully as Beau’s. She paused outside the room – she thought it must be the study – from which the sounds came.

  “He is hungry.” It was Harry, sounding remarkably nonchalant in the circumstances. “And so am I for that matter. It must have been that foul drug you gave me.”

  Rosie had to stifle the outraged exclamation which rose to her lips. She had been wondering how Clive had managed to persuade Harry, who hated him with a fury beyond reason, to accompany him. But drugging a twelve year old plumbed new depths! Was there no end to the man’s villainy? She already knew the answer to that question … and it sent a shiver of fear through her.

  “I have told you already, you stupid boy…”

  The ragged edge to Sir Clive’s tones informed her that Harry was doing a good job of wearing down his patience, and Rosie bit back a smile. She knew that trick of Harry’s only too well. It was the one he had used on their father when he persuaded him to get him a dog and later when he wanted to join the hunt. “…There is no food to be had in this house. You must hope your wretched sister arrives soon.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think she will.” Harry replied cheerfully. “I know she was engaged to attend several parties and she wouldn’t want to miss them.” Silence reigned briefly before he continued plaintively. “I cannot believe there is no food to be had. All I have eaten for the last few days is dry biscuits. I am persuaded you do not want me to die of starvation. Surely someone has laid by some apples or preserved fruit? Or even some salted meat? If you look in the pantry I am quite sure … why, I’ve not had a proper meal for three whole days …” Rosie heard no more. A crushing blow to the back of her skull caused her to crumple, unconscious, to the floor.

  When she regained her senses, Rosie was stretched out on a sofa in what was, indeed, the study of the Dower House. A lightning bolt of pain was streaking through her skull and Harry was tenderly holding a cold compress against the back of her head. Beau was sitting on the floor beside her, baring his teeth and growling at Sir Clive every time he moved. Her vision swam sickeningly and she closed her eyes again.

  “You idiot,” Sir Clive berated Poulter, his shamefaced groom, who still held the brass candlestick with which he had bludgeoned Rosie. “There was no need to bash her brains out! Did you think she was going to overpower you? Get back to the stables and see to the horses. ‘Tis clearly all you are fit for.”

  The man ambled out, muttering excuses that he had not recognised her. He seemed to feel that, by dressing as a man, Rosie had deliberately misled him and was entirely to blame for the whole incident.

  “If that thug of yours has harmed her …” Harry spoke through gritted teeth and, in that moment, there was nothing of the boy in his manner.

  “Hold your
tongue, damn you!”

  Sir Clive turned on him; his lips tinged white with fury and flecked with saliva. This was not going according to his plan. His intention had been to frighten Rosie into submission so that she would hand over the money he needed and never dare to stand out against him in the future. Now, thanks to his fool of a servant, she was lying here looking like she was at death’s door, and that infuriating boy was agitating to go and fetch help. The picture was clear and uncompromising. Sir Clive could have the death of his affianced wife on his conscience before this night was done. He swung away angrily, hunching his shoulders and gazing into the meagre fire.

  Rosie, seizing the opportunity afforded by his momentary inattention, gripped Harry’s wrist. He bent close to her, ostensibly smoothing her hair back from her brow

  “Jack and Tom are here, they have gone to Sheridan Hall.” She whispered and he nodded his understanding.

  “Her breathing is too uneven, and she shivers dreadfully.” He told Sir Clive, “She needs brandy … immediately.”

  Clive weighed up the situation. He would need to go down to the butler’s pantry and fetch a bottle back up. He judged he could safely do so and return within a few minutes. Rosie was not going anywhere, he decided. The boy was the danger. “You will have to come with me,” He said brusquely.

  “Not on your life.” Harry stated baldly, again in that mature voice that Rosie had never heard before, “I’m not leaving her alone.”

  Clive wavered for a minute or two. He really didn’t like the look of Rosie, there was no colour in her cheeks and she seemed to be scarcely breathing. And surely she should have come round by now? “Well?” Harry reminded him coldly. With a muttered curse, Clive flung himself out of the room and went in search of the brandy. Who was in charge here, anyway?

  As soon as they were sure he had really gone, Rosie tried to rise but the pain which shot through her head was ferocious. It made her feel so dizzy, that she sank back again.

  “I cannot …you must go,” she told Harry in an urgent undertone, “Go and fetch Jack.”

  “I won’t leave you here alone … with him!” Harry’s anguished whisper cut her to the core.

  “You must! Go now before he returns … please, Harry … and take care …”

  She squeezed his hand and he moved cautiously towards the door. Beau hesitated, casting a concerned look in Rosie’s direction then back at Harry. It was as if he was reminding Harry that she was there and asking if they should take her with them. Reluctantly, he followed his master from the room.

  Once outside the Dower House, Harry was able to use the looming shadows of the overgrown garden as cover. He could hear Poulter whistling tunelessly from the nearby stables. He held his breath as he tiptoed across the path, wincing as the gravel crunched underfoot. At any minute, he expected to feel Sir Clive’s heavy hand on his shoulder and he knew his kidnapper would not be lenient if he caught him. Once out of sight of the house, he broke into a run and was soon at the front of the imposing entrance of Sheridan Hall. The house appeared to be in darkness but Harry knew that Sir Clive’s elderly butler and housekeeper were in residence. But where could Jack and Tom be? A panicky feeling descended on him and, without thinking, he pounded loudly on the door.

  Almost immediately a grumbling voice could be heard from inside the house and the sound of rusting locks being drawn back grated on his ears. Beau gave a gentle whine and Harry automatically patted his blonde head in reassurance.

  Mr Dawson, Sir Clive’s ancient retainer, appeared, holding a candle aloft and peering into the gloom.

  “Is it you again, Mr Drury? What is to do now, sir?”

  “It is I, Dawson,” Harry stepped into the light so that the butler could see him clearly, “Are Mr Drury and his lordship still here?”

  “Good grief, Master Harry! Such a fright as you gave me!” Dawson had known Harry since he was in leading strings, “Now what are you up to at this time of night?”

  “Never mind that!” Harry did not attempt to disguise his impatience and the old man tutted his indignation, “Just answer the question, for the Lord’s sake, man! Where is Mr Drury?”

  “Well, I must say Master Harry, there is no need for that tone …” even in the dim candlelight, Harry’s fury at these words was evident and Dawson decided now was not the best time to read him a lecture on manners. “Mr Drury and the other gentleman were here not ten minutes since,” he said, in aggrieved tones. “They seemed to think Sir Clive was here but I explained …” A strangled sound of frustration from Harry got him back on track. “They said they were going back to The Grange.” He finished with a sound suspiciously like a sniff. Harry did not stay to hear more, he and Beau had already set off at a run.

  Rosie kept her eyes closed, unsure if it was the pounding of her heart or the excruciating pain in her head which the most disturbing sensation. Sir Clive’s heavy footfall as he trod back into the room seemed over-loud and she risked peeping through her lashes. The room was poorly lit, two pitted candelabra stood on the mantel and the fire was so low it was barely a blaze at all. She had an excellent view of Sir Clive as he paused in the centre of the room, decanter and glass in hand, looking around in near-comical dismay as if expecting to see Harry under the table or behind a chair.

  “If you are hiding from me, whelp …” But his bluster was unconvincing. As he turned towards her, Rosie closed her eyes once more and concentrated on keeping her breathing even. Clive came to stand over her. She was painfully aware of his noisy snorting and the unpleasant, musty smell of his sweat as if the fear which gripped him had seeped out through his pores.

  “Rosie?” He waited for a response and, getting none, stomped into the hall and, hauling the heavy doors open, called for Poulter. When there was no immediate reply, she heard a heavy tread on the gravel and his impatient upraised voice. Cursing the servant for a fool, his voice faded in and out of the range of her hearing and she decided Sir Clive must have gone towards the stable in search of the groom. When the man finally answered, his voice high and nervous, Sir Clive ordered him to set off in search of Harry. He came back into the house with his rage fuelled further and kicked a footstool across the room with a foul expletive. He was panting uncontrollably and Rosie wondered hopefully if he might be about to have an apoplectic seizure.

  She was finding it increasingly difficult to lie still while Sir Clive paced relentlessly up and down the study, pausing occasionally to dash off a glass of brandy. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the sofa sagged under his weight as he sat down next to her. Next minute, his clumsy fingers were fumbling at the front of her shirt and she bolted upright, almost climbing the wall in a desperate attempt to get away from him.

  A loathsome sneer twisted his lips. “I thought that might bring you round,” he told her nastily, “It’s quite incredible the way you have suddenly regained consciousness. One might even say ‘tis miraculous.”

  He began talking to her in a calm way, much in the manner of a rational man having a tete-a-tete with a loved one. It was only the unbalanced look in his eye which gave away the truth. Sir Clive had been clinging for some time now to the edge of the precipice of his own sanity. Tonight, he had lost his grip and tumbled over the brink.

  “You really should not have crossed me, Rosie.” He continued conversationally. “Your father discovered, to his cost, how unwise it is to follow a course of action contrary to my wishes.” Delighting in an opportunity to torture her, he persisted, “It was not my intention to kill him, you know, but, nevertheless, it was a most fortuitous outcome – from my perspective, at least.”

  In an effort to retain her composure, Rosie clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug painfully into her palms. She knew he was merely sporting with her as a cat plays with a mouse, trying to get a reaction from her. Trusting Harry implicitly, she forced herself to concentrate on listening for any sound of Jack’s arrival.

  “Of course, the charming Harry is an unfortunate complication, but he is young yet
and who knows what the future may hold for him? Accidents do happen, after all … and I still have his infamous ‘confession’ which I may use to my advantage at any point in the future. You would have laughed had you been there, my darling! It was ridiculously easy to dupe him into writing it, in fact it was nigh on impossible to stop him confessing to treason once he started.” He laughed, a harsh sound which reminded her of a padlock snapping closed. “And then, of course, we come to the crux of the problem … St Anton. How annoying that he did not die a bloody death at Culloden as he should have done. It really is a dreadful bore having a fiancée who drools at the very sound of another man’s name, my dear. It is a habit of which I intend to break you. Yes, break is the very word ...”

  He came towards her and Rosie shrank back against the wall. Sir Clive smiled, enjoying her fear. This was familiar territory, he felt in control again. He withdrew a heavy duelling pistol from his coat pocket and placed it on a bureau.

  “In case we should be disturbed, my love.”

  He explained, catching hold of her hair as Rosie attempted to run. Her head snapped back painfully, and she saw stars as he jerked her to him, ferociously biting at her lips and neck. He scorned her futile attempts to writhe out of his grip and laughed as she attempted to claw at his face, “That’s it, fight me … I enjoy it so much more that way …” The guttural, gloating tone of his voice terrified her. “So much more fitting to take you here on the floor, like the little whore that you are, instead of waiting for our wedding night, do you not agree …?” The cloth of her shirt ripped and he dug his fingernails painfully into her left breast breaking the tender skin. In desperation, Rosie brought her knee up sharply between his legs and, although it didn’t pole-axe him the way she hoped, it did have an effect. With a howl of rage, he hit her a back-handed blow across the face, which crushed her lip across her teeth and knocked her to the floor. Rosie felt blood fill her mouth and gagged. Looking up into his face, she read murder there and closed her eyes. With a slow smile, he placed his foot on her outstretched wrist and trod down sharply. The world swam out of focus as Rosie heard the delicate bones snap.