by Liz Carlyle
The rector had told the innkeeper to give them one large room on the top floor. “And a trundle bed for my wee one,” he had added. So she had kicked him very hard in the shin. The rector had jumped, and muttered a word she did not think rectors were supposed to say.
I am not your wee anything! she had wanted to scream. In fact, she had opened her mouth, but Miss Helene had picked her up, laid her glove across Ariane’s lips, and carried her across the room. Miss Helene had wanted her not to speak. And so she didn’t. And then, he had called outside to the dirty little man who had taken their horses.
The man had come into the inn, and the rector had given him a gold coin. “My wee one tends to sleepwalk,” he had said. “And my sweet wife and I are near dead with fatigue. Sit outside our door tonight, if you please, and shout out loudly if you hear anything at all. Just to be sure. Of course, there shall be just another such coin awaiting you tomorrow morning—if my beloved family is still snug in their beds.” The rector gave a hearty wink.
The man winked back, and the rector added, “And you carry a knife, do you not, my good fellow? I daresay Salisbury has become a most dangerous town, eh?”
The dirty man nodded, bit into the coin, and patted his coat pocket.
Well—! Did they think she was such a fool as to not figure that one out? Miss Helene certainly was not. She had seen it too. She knew why the rector had done it. What he had meant. Miss Helene had spun about to face the wall, still holding Ariane tight, shaking as if she were angry.
Now, in the distance, a bell tolled. One. Two. Three. Four times. Ariane turned from the window to face Miss Helene. The rector had left the lamp turned down very, very low. In the pale light, she could see the slow rise and fall of Miss Helene’s chest. She was asleep, then. But for a long, long time, she had lain awake beside Ariane, patting her on the leg and saying nothing, just staring up at the ceiling and wrinkling her brow as if thinking of a plan.
Yes, that was just the sort of thing Miss Helene would do. Think up a plan. But what sort? A plan to run away and hide? Ariane was very good at hiding. No one ever saw her. But Miss Helene would be afraid to take her. And Miss Helene would never leave her alone with the rector, who now lay snoring loudly on the trundle bed.
And Miss Helene had most likely never been to Salisbury. It was very far away from France and Bavaria and Vienna, and all the other places Miss Helene seemed to know about. But Ariane had been to Salisbury before. She knew where the cathedral was. She knew how to look for the spire. And she had stayed at another inn, larger and much nicer than this narrow little place he had brought them to.
Ariane closed her eyes and thought very hard about her previous visit. She could see the inn’s sign swinging bright in the breeze. She had not been able to read the words, but her papa had read it to her, and pointed out the red lion above the words. “The Red Lion in Milford Street,” her papa had said.
And then, he had laughed, and thrown her high into the air. “When we return to Chalcote, Ariane, we must tell Milford that we slept in his street on our journey. He will be mightily impressed, will he not?” And when they got home, Papa had indeed asked Milford if he owned Milford Street.
“Oh, indeed, Mr. Rutledge,” Papa’s butler had said somberly. “Every cobbled inch! But alas, I anticipate selling it soon, in order to purchase a villa in Tuscany for my retirement years.”
Papa had laughed and laughed and bounced Ariane on his knee. She was pretty sure Papa and Milford were having a jest. She did not think Milford would ever leave them to go to live in a villa, whatever that was. But she had worried about it just enough to remember it. She really did not want anyone else to leave Chalcote.
Across the room, the rector made a funny, choking-wheezing sound.
Just maybe, Ariane thought, he was dying. On tiptoe, she crept around to Miss Helene’s side of their bed, and peered into the trundle. Ariane had already figured out that he had placed it just so, in order to keep Miss Helene from getting out of bed. But the rector lay perfectly still, breathing very, very quietly. She could see the pistol protruding from the bearer of his trousers, just beneath his waistcoat.
He drew another breath, quietly this time. Well! So he was not dead, then. That was just too, too bad! Maybe he should be dead? Just maybe she should lift up the lamp and pour the oil right over him and set him on fire!
Oh—! Wherever had that come from? Such a bad, wicked thought!
Ariane shut her eyes, then put her hands over her mouth, just in case some words came out. But they did not. And he kept sleeping. And making almost no sound at all. But someone was still snoring. She could still hear it, and quite loudly too. Miss Helene certainly did not snore. That could mean only one thing.
Slowly, oh-so-carefully, Ariane crept to the door, shuffling quietly over the threadbare carpet. Yes! The dark man was asleep. She could hear him snoring in the hall. Cautiously, Ariane lay down on her belly, and pressed her cheek to the floor. Intently, she studied the thin shaft of light, looking for feet, legs, anything—but in the flickering light of the wall sconce outside the door, she could see straight across to the opposite baseboard.
So ... he sat either to the left or to the right. Not directly in front of the door. Suddenly, a deep, rumbling sound ripped through the air, sort of vibrating against the floor. At once, a horrible odor drifted through the crack and into the room.
Ughk—! That rather settled it, Ariane thought, pressing her nose to the carpet to shut out the stench. The small, dirty man sat to the left. The direction of his wafting stink was uncertain, but his nasty rumbling—that had definitely come from the left. She lifted her head and listened.
He still snored. The rector still breathed.
Slowly, carefully, Ariane got up from the floor, pulled on her cloak and hat, then, with her boots in hand, returned to the door and gingerly lifted the latch. In the corridor, the dirty man sat to the left, his legs stretched across the floor, his head lolled to one side. Testing each board as she went, Ariane stepped carefully over him and continued down the hall. It was just that simple. It often was, especially with adults. They never paid her any mind.
Ariane did not know how far she had walked after leaving the inn. At first, it had seemed very like a hiding game. She had crept down the narrow flights of stairs, paused in the big room filled with tables just long enough to pull on her half-boots, then she tiptoed through the kitchen. All was silent, even the latch on the back door, which had opened onto a musty alley.
But after wandering about a bit, and turning here and there, she had ended up right back in the market square where the singing man still slept! And so, afraid that the rector might be peeping out the window, she had run fast in the opposite direction, terrified at the thought of being caught.
But now, she was completely lost. The buildings looked bigger in the dark. Nothing seemed familiar. To make matters worse, there was no way to use the spire. It was still too dark to see it. How foolish not to have thought of that!
So, this was not a game at all. Things were very bad indeed. Yes, she had escaped him. But having escaped, she had no notion what she ought to do. Indeed, she had done something Miss Helene would never have done. She had run away with no plan at all! How she longed to crawl back into bed with Miss Helene. But now, she doubted she could find her way back to the inn. How foolish she had been to run away.
Ariane did cry in earnest then, and trying to look past her tears, she had turned about and headed down another cobbled alley, which after a few more twists and turns, led into a street whose name began with “Q.” That was all she could read! Just “Q!”
This was bad. Very bad. Oh, how she wished she had tried harder with her lessons. Feeling very small and stupid, Ariane snuffled back her sobs and tried to think. Should she turn left or right on the Q street? The buildings were growing taller and darker all the time.
Suddenly, a loud rumbling noise echoed off the adjacent storefronts. She looked up to see a heavily laden brewer’s dray rattling
down the cobbles. Panic struck. Instinctively, she knew she must not be seen wandering alone. Retracing a few paces, Ariane ducked into an alley, just as they dray rumbled past.
At once, she knew she had made a big mistake.
“Well, well,” cackled a voice from the shadows.
Ariane tried to run, but a strong hand dug into the folds of her traveling cloak and dragged her backward into the darkness.
“Come ’ere, me pretty, and let’s ’ave a look at you, what?”
Ariane dug in her heels, but it was no use. She wanted to scream, but no noise would come out. Did she even know how to scream? It did not seem to matter.
After peering at her in the dark, the woman pulled her into Q street, where the half-moon shed a little light. “My, you’re a fancy little thing!” the lady purred, like a warm cat saying words. “And finely dressed, I’ll say. What’s yer name, sweeting?”
Fear still threatened to choke her. Ariane stared up into the woman’s face and tried not to cry. The woman was rather pretty when she smiled, showing teeth that looked just a little dark. Heaping ringlets of elaborate hair spilled over both shoulders, and even in the dim light, Ariane could see that her bosoms were very grand. And despite the wintry air, they were poked up high and sort of ... well, falling out of her gown. Across the woman’s arm lay a tattered cape. Had the lady come out of one of those dark, narrow doorways which gave onto the alley?
“What’s yer name, me pretty?” repeated the woman, bending closer to her face. Ariane swallowed a sob.
“Ah, come on, ducks! You can tell old Queenie.” She lifted a long, thin finger and pointed at the street sign. “This is my turf, d’ye see? Everyone in Queen Street knows me to be a fair-minded game gal. And I knows everyone hereabouts. But I don’t know you, ducks. And such a turned-out lass as you has got no business in the streets afore cock-crow!”
A tremulous sob rocked through Ariane’s body then. With a determined jerk, she tried to pull away but the woman—Queenie—still held her fast. Suddenly, the woman was kneeling in the dirty street, and staring her in the face. “Lor, I ain’t never seen a one quake like you, dearie.”
With one hand, the woman stroked the hair back from Ariane’s face and made a little clucking noise. “Look ye, my girl, I’m on me way ’ome—and I’ll bet you’ve run away from yours, eh? Caught yerself a whipping, I dessay. Fancy I know the signs.” She gave Ariane a little shake and narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “Gar’n now! Tell me where yer from, and I’ll see you safely back, eh? A strapping’s better ’n starving any day.”
Warily, Ariane hesitated. The lady seemed nice enough. What should she do? What would Miss Helene do? The town had seemed far safer from up high. But she had gotten lost. She could not go back there, could she?
Somewhere else then? She had escaped with some vague notion of going to Milford Street, to look for the Red Lion. Was that not a good plan? Eventually, her papa would come, and he would stay at the Red Lion, because he always did. She remembered him having said that.
Yes, Papa would find her. And then, they would go to—to Southampton. And there they would get Miss Helene from the rector. It was, she supposed, the only plan she had.
The woman called Queenie sighed deeply. “Now look ’ere, lass—” Her voice was rough and serious again. “I’ve ’ad me a ’ard night, and I’m going on me way now. Queenie ain’t got time for them wot don’t want it. D’ye need some ’elp er not?”
“M-M-Milford,” Ariane stuttered, almost inaudibly.
“Eh?” said the woman, leaning forward in a cascade of yellow ringlets. “Milford’s yer name?”
“M-Milford St-street,” replied Ariane, a little louder.
Smartly, the woman nodded. “Right on me way ’ome, ducks!” Queenie hopped up from the cobblestones, grabbed Ariane by the hand, and dragged her down Queen Street. “And whereabouts in Milford do ye live, lass?”
“Th—the Red Lion,” she finally whispered. “P-p-papa always stays at the Red Lion.”
“Coo!” said Queenie, jerking to a halt and looking worried. “The Red Lion, is it? Hmm—! Well, I can see you as far as the courtyard, dearie. But after that, yer on yer own. Old Queenie’s got a little unfinished business with the tapster at the Lion.”
Helene shook her head, trying to clear the fog. Somehow, she’d become trapped in the garden maze, unable to go forward or backward. Unable to find Ariane, who was lost deep inside the jungle of greenery. The child’s terrified cries rang through the air. But every turn brought Helene face to face with yet anther challenge. A thicker patch of fog, a blazing fire, or a man with a pistol waited around every blind corner.
At last, she came upon a shallow puddle, narrow enough to leap across. But as she gathered her skirts and began to jump, she saw that it now swam with fierce, snapping creatures with jaws big enough to swallow her whole. But it was too late. Her feet had left the ground. She went sailing through the air just as a pair of hot, hungry jaws swallowed up her left leg. Inexorably, the creature began to drag her down, down. Down into the teeming puddle of wicked creatures and terrifying darkness.
Helene awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, and blinking uncertainly. The room was dark, the silence broken by the soft sound of someone breathing. She tried to pull herself higher in the bed, only to find her left leg was tightly ensnared in the bedsheets. Slicking a hand back through her hair, she discovered her forehead was beaded with sweat.
Where was she? Where had she been?
A dream. It was just a dream. She had been searching for ... for Ariane. Her eyes darted through the room, and the memories of the preceding day came rushing back as well. Stripping back the bedcovers from her legs, Helene tried to shake off the last vestiges of the nightmare.
It was only then that she realized that wakefulness held a far greater terror. Something was wrong. But what? Stretching across the bed, Helene put out a searching hand, and patted her way across the mattress. There was nothing but a wall to her right. She was alone. Ariane was gone.
In the pale moonlight which seeped into the room, she could see that the door to their bedchamber stood open. Lowe’s incompetent henchman lay sprawled asleep in the corridor beyond. Her sharp intake of breath roused Thomas Lowe, and he sat up with a muttered curse.
After crawling into bed long after midnight, Cam was almost immediately roused by a brisk young chamber-maid who knocked upon his door with knuckles made of Sheffield’s best steel.
When he groaned in protest, she look it as a greeting, swishing into the room with a lamp turned far too high, and bearing a bucket which made a god-awful clatter when she set it down. Then, with a cheerful good morning, the girl set about sweeping the hearth.
Rolling out of bed with a manly grunt, Cam sat on the edge of his bed, watching as she tipped steaming water into a porcelain basin. “The time—?” he managed to rasp, scrubbing his hand down a day’s growth of stubble.
“Why, ’alf past five, m’lord, like you asked last night.” The buxom young maid turned from the washstand, looking momentarily confused. “The potboy already woke old Stokes to open the kitchens early. You’d still be wanting breakfast, aye?”
Cam rubbed his palms over his eyes, which felt imbedded with a day’s worth of road grit. His memory of the previous night’s events began to return. “Yes, thanks,” he finally mumbled, managing to smile at the girl. “Now go wake my brother. And miss—mind his hands! Whack him on the sconce with that bucket if the scamp missteps.”
With another bright smile, the girl swished back out. Hastily, Cam stripped to the waist and washed as best he could, then dressed and jerked open the door just as Bentley stepped into the corridor. After an exchange of terse greetings, they reviewed the morning’s strategy, then clattered down the twisting staircase, crossed the vestibule and entered the dimly lit common room.
Behind the wide oak bar, polished to a high sheen, a burly man set down a stack of thick crockery plates. The smell of strong coffee wafted from the kitchens. In th
e cavernous hearth, a fire roared, and on the settle nearby lay a lump of rags. Spying a narrow trestle table near the hearth, Cam moved toward it, Bentley following close behind.
Just then, the bundle of rags sat up. Atattered quilt fell away to reveal a small, wide-eyed child. Cam stopped so abruptly, his brother felt flat against him.
“What the devil—!” muttered Bentley, gingerly rubbing his nose.
But Cam was already on his knees, pulling Ariane into his arms, and turning her toward the fire. “My God, my God,” he murmured, letting his eyes drift anxiously over her, even as he skimmed assessing hands over her face, her arms, and finally her tiny ankles, to reassure himself that she was unhurt.
“Ariane—! Ariane, my precious! What has happened? Where is Helene?” Fretfully, he studied the child’s pale face, her eyes, which blinked uncertainly. Her presence here seemed a miracle, but it was not enough. Abruptly, Cam looked about the room desperately searching for Helene.
Bentley stood back as the innkeeper circled around the bar, hastening toward the commotion.
“The lass is well enough, I daresay,” announced the man, hands set stubbornly at his thick waist. “And I’ll thank you to keep yer ‘ands off, if you please.”
“Good God!” roared Cam, leaping up from the settle as if he might throttle the innkeeper. “Keep my hands off? Let me tell you, my good fellow, I shall have an explanation for this! Someone will tell me just why my daughter—a mere babe—has been left to sit here unattended. And in this—!” He jabbed a finger at the ragged quilt. “She looks to have been scared nigh witless!”
Cam lunged toward the innkeeper, a wide, barrel-shaped man, but from behind, Bentley grabbed his brother’s arm and yanked him sharply backward. The innkeeper set his hands at his hips and glowered at the earl.
