“Affection.” Dr Marshall turned a mottled shade of red. “Do not speak to me of affection. The English are the coldest, most undeserving race on the earth.”
“How can you say that? I have seen no Englishman treat you with anything but courtesy and kindness.”
“You know nothing. The English system is constructed not on kindness, but on predatory self-interest. My father, the respected baronet, is nothing but an abusive wastrel.” Bitterness dripped from his words like rancid honey. “But merely because of his status as an Englishman, the brute had the right to wrest me from my mother, whom he treated as a harlot. He made my childhood a misery until I prayed to God to die.” A vein pulsed at his temple, and his eyes were watery.
Lydia stared at him steadily. She could almost glimpse the frightened little boy he once had been. Her heart softened for a moment as she imagined his boyhood. It must have been an agony; but did that justify his subsequent behaviour? “I’m sorry for your distress, but you are a doctor. You should value human life more dearly than anyone, and yet you have murdered to advance your cause.”
Marshall shook his head, disdain radiating from him. “Miss Garrett, you are utterly naïve. The one thing being a physician has taught me is that human life is cheap. None of the tinctures and potions we apply cure anyone. They merely alleviate the symptoms, if the sufferer is lucky. Children die all the time when, contrary to all rights, their loutish parents survive.”
Marshall paced the small confines of the room. The vehemence of his feelings spilled over into his tone. “Ask any poor young girl who has got herself into trouble, and you would know that the price to end a human life is much less than the cost of an additional mouth to feed if the child were allowed to live. And if all this is not enough to prove the point, then go into any rookery in the city and you will discover precisely how little a life is worth. Men will slit your throat for a farthing.”
Lydia opened her mouth to argue but the doctor continued. “No. I shall thank you not to sermonize. The only way to get on in this world is to take what you want. Your platitudes cannot deter me.”
“And what is it that you want?” Lydia asked mildly.
Marshall stopped in mid-stride. He looked at her with such contempt that what remained of her compassion for him shrivelled. “I shall restore the glory of my mother’s family, and I will see that England receives the recompense she deserves for her tender care of her children.”
“And you believe this is the best means by which to accomplish that goal?”
“Of course it is. General Bonaparte has given me his personal assurance that my service will result in the restoration of our family lands.”
“But surely possessions alone will not suffice to make you happy?”
“Enough! This is no debate in the House of Commons. Eat, and if you so desire, pray that your friends obey my commands, and that you see another day.” Having delivered what he apparently believed to be an effective parting line, he whirled and stalked away.
“Let’s see what he has brought us to eat. It is a good sign. At least he does not mean to kill us immediately. Otherwise, why bother to feed us?” Mrs Adkins took the bundle from Lydia, who still gripped it in numb fingers. “Naan.” Mrs Adkins held up a flat, round disc. “It is the local kind of bread. It can be quite good if it’s fresh.”
“The proverbial bread and water,” said Lydia in weak jest.
Mrs Adkins smiled obligingly.
Lydia could not shake the unsettling effect of Dr Marshall’s passionate discourse. What an unhappy wretch. Had he ever known love? Bitterness had eaten away his soul like lye, until nothing remained but his rage and pain.
They sat on the floor as if at a picnic, though without the same sense of frivolity. Now that the sun was up they could see that the windows were not as tightly boarded as Dr Marshall might have wished. Thin slits of sunlight filtered through, allowing them to examine their cell more closely. Fed and somewhat rested, they considered their situation anew.
“It seemed hopeless last night, but perhaps we can engineer an escape. Those boards look old and dry,” said Lydia with an appraising look at the windows.
The door behind them flew open and banged against the wall. Lydia started, biting her tongue. Their guard, the driver from the night before, stood in the doorway with a basin of water and an incongruously fine linen towel.
“Monsieur says you will want to wash.” He stalked into the room and set the items down, carelessly sloshing water. “I will bring drinking water later.” With this surly pronouncement he left.
Mrs Adkins clutched her heart. “I thought for a moment he had heard us and come to put a violent end to our plotting.”
“So did I,” said Lydia, a little chuckle escaping—less mirth than the cusp of hysteria, quickly brought under strict control once more.
“If we are going to attempt an escape, we must be very careful. I do not think my heart could take another such scare. What are our options?”
“If you will listen at the door for the guard, I will go through the furniture to see if there is anything we could use as a tool or a weapon.”
Lydia searched the desks and other furniture thoroughly, but found nothing useful. A broken pen nib, a stray button and a quantity of knotted string were the extent of her discoveries. Disappointed but undaunted she dragged a chair beneath the window and stood on it to examine the situation.
“There’s no glass. It has all been broken out. If I had a knife or something like it, I think I could pry out some of these nails and remove the boards.”
She climbed from the chair and replaced it in front of the desk. Mrs Adkins joined her and they sat on their pallets in silent contemplation of the predicament.
“In the novels I have read, the hero pretends to be ill. When the guard comes in, he is overpowered and the hero escapes,” Mrs Adkins said.
“I don’t think I could overpower the guard. Could you?”
“Not overpower him, but perhaps we could light the lamp. When he comes in, we could throw it at him and then run out.”
“That might work.” The scrape of a shoe in the hall caught Lydia’s ear. “Wait. I think I hear him coming.”
They watched the door expectantly. The lock turned and the door swung open. The guard brought in the pitcher of promised water. “Monsieur will be back with lunch,” he muttered, before slouching back into the hall and closing the door behind him.
“Mrs Adkins, do you think you could charm him into leaving us a butter knife with our next meal?”
“Please call me Rosalie. If we are to die together, I’d like you to know my name.” She straightened. “Wait. I’ve had another idea. Help me take off my stays. The busk and boning might work to remove the nails. It would be better if we could escape without a confrontation.”
With Lydia’s aid, Rosalie removed her stays and pulled out the long thin strips of whalebone that gave then their structure. When she had redressed, Lydia replaced the chair beneath the window and climbed back up while Rosalie took up position by the door. Lydia set to work diligently, wedging the edge of the whalebone under a rusty nail, and beginning to pry the nail loose.
The day grew progressively hotter, until it felt as if they were in a fiery kiln. No breeze or breath of air penetrated their cell, and they grew miserably overheated. Lydia took a break to drink from the provided pitcher. She had made progress, removing three nails from the bottom board, but it was agonizingly slow. Rosalie insisted on taking a turn wielding the whalebone and they switched positions.
By mid-afternoon, drenched with perspiration and exhausted, they had removed all the nails from the bottom board save two at the top, which they had purposely left in place. It would not do for the guard or Marshall to come in and find the board missing. Under the cover of night, they would pry out the last couple of nails in each board and make their escape.
“I do wish that whoever put these up had not been quite so thorough in his task,” said Lydia as she began on the se
cond board. Far from the perfect tool for the job, the thin whalebone kept slipping. Her hands were scraped and bleeding in several places. Rust discoloured her fingers and she carefully kept from getting it on her dress. Quite apart from the natural instinct not to ruin a gown, she did not want rust stains on her skirts giving away their plans.
The bone snapped once more and Lydia’s knuckles were again grazed, drawing blood against the rough boards. She gritted her teeth, but refrained from crying out. God grant that we do not run out of whalebone before we run out of nails.
“Someone is coming,” whispered Rosalie.
Lydia jumped from the chair and shoved it back into place. The key rattled in the lock. She dropped the whalebone behind the desk and plunged her hands into the water basin. The door swung open, and a smiling Dr Marshall appeared.
“Did you miss me, ladies?”
Lydia did not respond, but continued to wash her hands and then her face slowly, as if unconcerned.
From the pallet, where she lounged as if she had lain there all day, Rosalie complained loudly about everything from the heat, to the food, to the lack of facilities.
Lydia took up the towel, patting her hands and face dry. She breathed a prayer of thanks that Rosalie had distracted the doctor and she had the chance to fold the towel neatly and hide any stray streaks of rust or blood.
“I fear I am not as proficient at hosting these little events as I might be,” Marshall said dryly. “Perhaps I will improve with practice. My friend Philippe tells me you have been very quiet today. What have you been up to, my dears?”
Finished with her ablutions, Lydia sat on her pallet. “We have been catching up on our needlepoint. What else?”
Marshall turned to her and smiled humourlessly. “Keep a civil tongue in your head or you might find it missing altogether.” He turned back to Rosalie. “Mrs Adkins, I do not believe you were awake when I informed Miss Garrett of the precariousness of her position. Her life is of little value to me—and only in so far as it keeps those who do value her in line. Pray remember this if you are tempted to try something I might not like.”
Lydia stared at the back of his head. His manner was markedly different from what it had been that morning. He seemed determined not to be drawn back into any sort of conversation.
Marshall left the room, calling to Philippe. “Bring in the food and allow the ladies to use the facilities, one at a time. I shall return later.”
CHAPTER 41
A maid found another note just after tea. Anthony and Harting were poring over a mountain of paperwork in Lord Wellesley’s study when it was brought in.
Gentlemen, I have assured you of my good faith by presenting proof the ladies are still alive. Now you will obey each of my instructions to the letter or your ladies will no longer remain in that happy state. Lord Wellesley, you will bring the Peacock Throne to the ruins of Kali’s temple, near the village of Shiankam, at midnight. Only Lord Danbury may accompany you, and you must both be unarmed. We will conduct an exchange. Your treasures for mine. If troops are even suspected, the ladies will die.
It was time for a council of war. They had learned a great deal throughout the exceedingly trying day, but little of it was of any use. They had list upon list of people and properties, but narrowing it down was proving even more difficult than they had feared.
Captain Stevens entered, leading a native woman with wide fearful eyes.
“Sir,” said Stevens, bowing to Lord Wellesley. “This young woman may have seen who left the note.”
Anthony leapt to his feet, and the woman started nervously.
“What did you see?” asked Lord Wellesley urgently.
In halting English, the woman delivered her story. “I scrub floor in the hall. Most days we do this more early, but the ball makes extra work. I work behind the plants. The man come in. He turn head like he does not want someone to see. So I am wonder, and I watch. He puts paper on table and goes away.”
“Did you recognize the man? Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, sir. It is the…” She screwed up her face searching for the right word. “The doctor. I do not know his name. So many guests.”
Anthony frowned. A doctor? And then all of a sudden it was as if someone had finally turned a tapestry over to reveal the picture rather than the knotted underbelly. Of course it was Marshall—with his French mother and burning desire to see her properties restored. Who better to help him in his quest than Bonaparte? He had mentioned his high-flown patients. No doubt they were the source of his intelligence as well as his wealth.
Beside him, Harting shook his head. They both ought to resign all claim of sense for not having seen it sooner.
“You are certain of what you say?” asked Wellesley.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. Here is a guinea. Run along now.” The girl fled Lord Wellesley’s presence, smiling and clutching her unheard of wealth.
Harting was on his feet. “It can only be Adam Marshall. By Jove, I never would have guessed it.”
Wellesley shook his head mournfully. “Stevens…” He turned towards the captain.
“My men are already looking for him,” said Stevens, anticipating the order.
“Does he own any warehouses?” asked Marcus.
Anthony pawed through the stacks of paper they had accumulated since the kidnappings, all the information they had been able to compile regarding the British and their holdings in and around Calcutta, until he came up with the list he wanted. “Here it is,” he said. “He owns three warehouses, but only one is northeast of Government House. I am going.”
Harting stood and pulled at his cuffs. “We will all go, but we must be careful. We’ll approach it on foot. Don’t want to put the ladies in any greater danger.”
Anthony felt for the sword at his side. He would put Marshall in danger, or die in the attempt. And then deliberately he released the blade. No more impulsiveness. He must think. His reckless cruelty had placed Miss Garrett in danger from the first. If he had been kinder they would have danced together again and she would have been safe. He would not make the same mistake again.
They made their plans quickly. Dr Marshall had been spotted leaving after luncheon and Lord Wellesley left orders to detain him upon his return. They didn’t trouble with a carriage but mounted horseback to ensure speed. In less than half an hour they were away, flying towards the warehouse at a gallop.
Lydia and Rosalie had eaten their lunch quickly. With renewed vigour, Lydia attacked the boards of their prison windows. Marshall appeared from time to time. With each visit he became more openly hostile, as if his anger fed off anxiety.
His shift in temper worried Lydia. His behaviour might be all affectation in order to frighten them, but Lydia sensed an instability beneath his façade. Urgency welled within her, lending energy to her efforts. The longer they remained within his power, the more likely it was that he would carry out his threats.
Night came early in India, and they lit the lamp in order to see what they were doing. All the nails save the final two on each of the three boards had been removed. Desperation sped Lydia’s movements. With frantic haste she worked the remaining bit of bone.
The whalebone bit into her palm, scoring it once more. Tears scalded her cheeks, but she could not stop now. Necessity prodded her. They must escape soon or not at all.
The grating of the key shocked her. On the other side of the door, Marshall berated Philippe for falling asleep. There had been no warning.
Rosalie gasped, looking at her wide-eyed.
Lydia started to scramble from the chair, but the whalebone remained wedged tightly under the head of the nail. She gave it a mighty wrench and it pulled free, but she lost a precious second. Flinging the piece of whalebone into the shadowed corner, Lydia leapt down. There was no time to replace the chair, so she stood in front of it trying to regulate her breathing.
Marshall seemed to sense their apprehension the instant he opened the door. He eyed Lydia an
d the chair. In a single bounding step he leapt towards her and grabbed her hand, holding it up to reveal the scratches and rust stains. His eyes went automatically to the window, and he shoved Lydia aside. She stumbled and fell against the wall.
He examined the boards grimly and hauled Lydia up by her hair. “I warned you not to try to be clever.” He slapped her, making her eyes stream, but Lydia had had enough.
She fought back, hitting, kicking and biting. From one corner of her eye, as if from a great distance, she saw Rosalie shove against Philippe, who held her back from the fray.
Lydia’s strength was no match against Marshall’s, but fury drove her, and it took him several minutes to subdue her. Breathing heavily, with his knee in her back, he pinned her hands to the ground above her head. He ripped off his cravat and used it to pinion her arms behind her. Hauling Lydia to her feet, he delivered another resounding slap that would have toppled her had he not still been holding her up with his other hand.
Lydia gasped for air. His weight had pushed what breath she had from her lungs. His slap had disorientated her. Her head ached, and her other wounds smarted, but she was pleased to note she had left an ugly scratch across his cheek, and had even managed to bloody his nose. With any luck she had caused more damage than she could see.
Marshall touched his face and blood came away from where she had scratched him.
“You have more of your father in you than you credit,” Lydia rasped.
Rage suffused his features, making his eyes even darker. His fingers bit into her shoulders as he shook her savagely. Rosalie shouted for him to stop, and even Philippe released his grip on Rosalie to put a hand on his arm.
“Monsieur, she may still be useful,” he said. “The exchange is only a few hours away. It would be a pity to waste any advantage.”
Marshall seemed to come to himself and he released Lydia, who slumped to the floor. Rosalie knelt by her side, smoothing the hair back from her face.
The Peacock Throne Page 29
