by Lela Bay
Could a poem fix the wedge she’d driven between them? How could he not see all the words she could not say? She longed to go back to the night-shadowed chair, before their argument, but the words to soothe the hurt she’d given wouldn’t come.
He still watched her.
“I adore poetry,” she choked out.
Speechless, Mr. Stinson clamped his lips shut. He gave a formal nod and stepped from the room, moving with purpose.
Subdued, Eleanor glided to her belongings and pulled out a wooden box. The top opened with a click and soft music played. When had she wound it last? When had she opened it? The box held nearly nothing. She set her small mementos aside—the glitter of a ring, a lock of hair, and a painted portrait—then filled the box with the mound of paper.
The formerly empty box burgeoned with the girl’s hopes and dreams. Foolish dreams. Foolish response to their loss. Should Eleanor pursue her into the dark storm? Should she join in the girl’s madness once again, throwing away the rational life she’d always lived? Eleanor placed a hand over the paltry evidence of her own love affair, swamped by kindness for the lost child.
She looked up to the doorway, where Mr. Stinson had returned, catching him unexpectedly as he gazed at the narrow length of ankle revealed by her draped skirts. Dropping her skirts and brushing off a final slip of paper, she allowed an ember of satisfaction to rekindle hope. His admiration wasn’t completely subsumed by anger.
He cleared his throat. “You were downstairs only a short time. I may yet catch her outside.”
“I’ll help,” said Eleanor, raising her chin.
“I had a feeling.” He smirked and held out Eleanor’s cloak. He’d already arranged his own over his shoulders.
Eleanor accepted the cloak and rushed after Mr. Stinson into the pitch-black hall. A single flash of light illuminated a strip of the checkered rug and lit the empty wingback chair as if in invitation. Eleanor looked away, guilty her dalliance had given Bitsy the opportunity to follow her devilish side.
Foolish excitement simmered inside her as she rested one slim hand on Mr. Stinson’s arm. She chastised herself for enjoying his company, even under these trying circumstances. He guided them to the door. It shook with gusts of wind.
“I think you should stay inside. Perhaps she’s hiding from us.”
Tempting as it was to say yes, she shook her head. “Thank you, but she is my charge, and it is my life’s mission to see her returned to safety.”
She meant it to sound ironic, but the words struck as heavily as a promise. Neither of them laughed.
Eleanor took a deep breath, like a diver anticipating cold water. Mr. Stinson released the door.
Outside, fierce wind snatched the air from Eleanor’s lungs. Rain pounded. Wind whipped her skirts, and sopping hair became lank whips against her chilled flesh.
They battled to the barns and circled the yard, calling. Nothing answered but the nicker of sleepy animals and more pounding rain. They separated to search more quickly. Eleanor kept one hand on the carriage house and circled, still calling.
Her calls whisked uselessly away in the wind. The inn was lost on the tempest of the storm, and she did not know which way to turn. She huddled against the carriage house, shaking with cold. Mr. Stinson appeared out of the slashing wind and sheltered her with his body, concern writ large across his face.
“I should have stopped you from coming. You must get inside.”
“It’s good I did.” She clutched his arm, pointing and shouting above the storm, “It’s the DeMontrey carriage. He’s hasn’t left with her, yet!”
Between slashes of heavier rain, they spied the black carriage. Horses, still attached to their traces, hung their heads in misery.
Mr. Stinson dashed across the yard and climbed up the single step. He flung open the door, ducking inside.
Eleanor held her breath, wondering if he’d find the lovers nestled inside. What would he do? A challenge? A fight? Had Bitsy forgiven the blackguard? Would she forgive them for stopping her once more?
Mr. Stinson rapidly backed down and closed the door on the interior of the coach. “Empty!”
Eleanor released numb hands she had pressed to her lips.
Mr. Stinson studied the bent heads of the mud-covered and shivering horses. They flinched at the crack of thunder. He snarled, “They can’t be left out in this. Get yourself inside and get warm. I’ll keep hunting.”
Mr. Stinson led the animals into the security of the barn.
Following the direction he’d looked, Eleanor dashed back to the inn. Her wet cloak clung to her arms, weighing her down as she fought the door. Inside, she paused, but a shadow caught her eye.
“Andre!” she cried.
He staggered toward her, the reek of alcohol thick in the air. His once carefully oiled hair hung into his face and two-days growth darkened his jaw below the thin line of his fastidiously maintained mustache. He looked dangerous, disreputable, and Eleanor feared it would be enough to entice Bitsy into defying her benignly neglectful family once more.
She pressed away, but he crashed into her. They toppled to the wall. The tangy scent of horse filled her nostrils. She struggled to disentangle from her wet cloak and fight him off.
Surprise lit his aristocratic features. He muttered a French expletive, and Eleanor realized he had supposed she was Bitsy. She glared up at his reddened eyes, glad she’d obstructed his devious purpose for a second time. He was searching for Bitsy, which meant he did not have her. Hopefully Bitsy had found somewhere safe to pass the storm.
Rather than release Eleanor, he pressed against her so there was no chance she could struggle free.
“You’ve left me with nothing.” His accent was so thick Eleanor could barely understand his English, but the knife he pulled from a sheath at his belt spoke well enough.
“You’ve done that yourself, fool,” Eleanor replied in French.
“I’ll have something for my troubles.” The knife point sunk a fingertip length into her ribs.
She cried out in pain and surprise.
The door crashed open again, and Eleanor gave a smothered shriek she feared could not be heard over the reverberation of thunder. Andre pressed harder, smothering her and using his black-caped back to hide them in the shadows behind the door. Unable to see, trapped breathing a pocket of bad air weighty with the smell of wet-wool and man, Eleanor prayed the knife would not sink in further. Would she rather Mr. Stinson pass, leaving her to Andre’s doubtful mercy, or find them and risk Andre finishing the job in one swift sharp press?
A light came on in the hallway as someone holding a taper opened a door.
“Ryder?” asked Lady Rosauer.
In the faint candlelight, Mr. Stinson must have spied the glistening wetness on Andre’s black cape. He lunged, knocking Andre from Eleanor. The blade cut a shallow path across Eleanor’s side. She gasped and cried out. The two wrestling men thudded to the floor and rolled. The wingback chair scooted across the floor, toppling into the banked embers of the fire. Sparks flew in a cloud, lighting their scuffle and fading. Eleanor strained to see through the haze of ash.
“Andre?” Bitsy’s small voice brought Eleanor a surge of relief.
From her huddled spot in the corner behind the door, Eleanor spied Bitsy framed in the bedroom doorway where young Ryder Leon also stood, hair mussed, looking bemused.
Lady Rosauer saw them as well. The lines around her thin lips tightened. “What is going on here?”
The sheer authority of her voice stilled the fighting men and froze the young couple in place.
Mr. Stinson hauled Andre to his feet by the back of his cape. A swelling beneath Andres’s eye indicated how Bitsy’s erstwhile tutor would look the next day, taking him from rogue to thug; a class Bitsy would certainly be able to resist, Eleanor thought with satisfaction.
“Apologies, Lady Rosauer.” Mr. Stinson said, recovering his breath, “The storm washed up some flotsam.”
Lady Rosauer’s austere eye
, no less sharp for the puffy night cap and paper rolls crowning her head, passed over the lot of them. Mr. Stinson attempted to straighten his waistcoat, having lost his cape and jacket in the tussle.
Less civilized, Andre wrenched from Mr. Stinson. He slammed an elbow into the other man and thrust him into the shadows where something crashed with a wooden clatter.
“Bitsy, you whore. Found another to run off with already? Are his French lessons as satisfying?” Andre added graphic things that Eleanor could not have imagined.
They listened in horror to the foulness gushing from Andre. Bitsy paled and staggered back into Leon’s arms. Eleanor left the wall to stop him, but the room seemed to spin. She pressed a hand over the wound in her side.
Lady Rosauer took three steps forward, picked up a piece of the wing chair, and slammed it into the vituperous Frenchman, leveling him. His thin, aristocratic nose broke with an audible snap.
He’d play no more seductions, Eleanor thought without pity, tumbling forward on sinking legs to reach the dark corner where Mr. Stinson hid.
“Mr. Stinson?” Eleanor cried, falling to her knees. Sopping coldness puddled around his limp figure. Water, not blood, she realized in light-headed relief.
He groaned and stirred. “Careful, or I might think you cared for me.”
Eleanor captured his head and pressed her forehead to his to feel the heat of life contained there. His lips pressed against her cheeks, eyes, and finally her mouth.
Her tears joined the rainwater around them. “I wanted only to be with you.”
His hands, settling on her sides, brought a gasp of pain.
“Eleanor?”
“I’ll be all right.”
He lifted her and brought her into the light.
The round innkeeper and Eleanor’s driver fumbled to light lamps. They’d joined the party once sounds of the scuffle reached them in their rooms at the back of the building, too late to help. The men tried not to stare at the shattered furniture and puddles of water laden with pinkish blood.
Lady Rosauer frowned reprovingly, daring anyone to speak.
“Don’t hover. She must be seen to,” she said.
She bade Mr. Stinson to lay Eleanor within her own spacious rooms.
The others huddled in the doorway while she examined Eleanor’s side.
“Make yourselves of use and clear up that front room. Grant us privacy, if you please,” scolded Lady Rosauer.
Eleanor could hear Mr. Stinson curse, for the first time in their acquaintance.
He popped a grim head around the corner. “He escaped while we were distracted. I’ll go after him.”
“Do not bother,” said Lady Rosauer. “We have people for that, and only a witless fool would go out into the storm. You are safer here.”
Mr. Stinson’s expression darkened, and fear tightened Eleanor’s chest. She’d been outside, as had he, and knew how bad it was. She could tell at a glance that he didn’t care. He’d rush off to face nature and the brute.
Eleanor cast him a pleading look.
His expression softened. He cleared his throat. “We’ll soon have the room set to rights.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
He withdrew. From the front room came the soft clatter of righted furniture and murmured conversation.
Lady Rosauer’s maid appeared and assisted Eleanor from her dress. She laid it before the fireplace, leaving Eleanor in her shift and petticoats.
Lady Rosauer considered her and lifted a small knife. “Your stays are irreparable, so we may as well make you comfortable.”
Rather than unlace her, the elder lady simply sliced the single cord binding Eleanor into her stays and tossed the useless piece of clothing aside. Her maid picked it up, examining the slashed fabric and stain of blood.
“I may have a go at sewing this up and giving it a new cord.”
“It’s yours,” said Eleanor, grimacing at the pain of Lady Rosauer’s efforts. She had another packed in her chest upstairs.
Lady Rosauer finished bandaging Eleanor into her shift. Despite the flowing blood, the wound had not driven too deep. A twinge of pain jolted her if she breathed deeply or moved quickly, but would otherwise heal with little impediment.
Lady Rosauer remained thoughtfully silent as she tied the last knot. Finally, she looked at Eleanor. “That was the French tutor, no?”
Eleanor’s heart thundered in her chest. She nodded miserably. Oh dear, Bitsy’s poorly guarded secret was now open to an unforgiving world. She would be a pariah, unable to show her face in public without ridicule and certain never to make a good match. The child was finished before she’d begun. All their efforts on her behalf meant nothing, and it wasn’t fair. Despite her impetuousness, Bitsy was a good girl. Needy and naive, it was true, but such faults were not uncommon. Usually, young and impressionable women were protected, but Bitsy had not been. Her family had failed her, and so had Eleanor.
Lady Rosauer’s lips pursed. She opened her mouth but words caught in her throat. She cleared it. “It is too bad I do not speak French, but it is obvious he was distressed you took her on this day trip. It is lucky his intentions became clear this way, for such men have a nasty way of leading young girls astray.”
Eleanor blinked to find her worries unnecessary. Could Lady Rosauer have completely misunderstood the situation? It seemed too good to be true. She merely nodded, then realized the older woman expected a reply.
Eleanor exhaled. A spike of pain lanced her side, but she didn’t care. She pressed a hand over the bandage.
“Yes, milady.” Eleanor agreed. She could not recall Andre’s obscene diatribe being in French, but was happy to agree with the elder’s assessment. Her feet wanted to dance, so she shoved them beneath the hem of her shift.
“Reputations being such tender things, it is also fortunate my nephew was here to shelter the girl at the last moment.” Lady Rosauer watched Eleanor from the corner of her eye.
Lady Rosauer’s maid studiously avoided drawing attention to herself.
Of course! Lady Rosauer was concerned how stories about Bitsy would explain why she appeared from inside Ryder Leon’s room. The lady’s young nephew was now Bitsy’s savior, though he didn’t know it.
Eleanor’s nod was vigorous. “Yes, quite fortunate. They both behaved admirably.”
“Well, let us not go that far.”
Lady Rosauer assisted Eleanor into the top of her gown once more, smoothing a hand over the damp and bloody rend that marred its side.
They found the others within the dining room, huddled miserably over cups of hot tea. They flooded to Eleanor and Lady Rosauer’s sides, chattering over one another.
“I didn’t catch him in the courtyard and did not pursue. We can send a magistrate for the carriage he’s stolen once again,” said Mr. Stinson.
His hair was wet and tousled, and his skin still gleamed with drops of rain. Eleanor turned teary eyes away from him, afraid what he might see in them with his searching gaze.
“I’d left our rooms only for a moment.” Bitsy’s nose was red, as if she’d been crying.
It fortified Eleanor to think the child had been properly scared. The night might come to some good after all.
Bitsy continued, “You must believe me, I heard a sound in the hallway, and when I opened my door, the dog came inside. I thought to return her to Mr. Leon.”
“God’s truth, we were talking about your dog. Bitsy admires her,” Mr. Leon attested, his eyes flickering to his aunt and away.
The beast in question, tongue lolling, rolled onto her back. She squirmed, begging for a crumb.
“Lady Mabel, my dog?” Lady Rosauer looked to Eleanor and nodded her approval, editing events without saying another word.
Eleanor remembered the sounds she had heard in the hall, prior to joining Mr. Stinson, and realized it was probably true. Her heart warmed and opened with gladness for all mankind. And canine, for that matter.
She hugged Bitsy, who returned the embrace a b
it too heartily, eliciting a groan from Eleanor.
After the excitement settled, they returned to their various rooms. Eleanor escorted Bitsy, her face stern as she shut the door behind them.
“I know I’ve done it again, but I swear I was just returning the dog. I didn’t even know Andre would come!”
“We thought you’d gone to confront him!” Eleanor caught herself on a side table, her deep breaths constricted by the wrappings encircling her ribs.
“Why in heavens would you think that?” Bitsy looked aghast.
Silently, Eleanor flipped back the lid on her keepsake box. A few confetti-sized papers fluttered off the exposed mound. The shredded love letters made their own indictment.
“The dog did that! Lady Mabel shreds everything! She got into the pile while I dressed to return her.”
Eleanor sank to the bed, sighing and closing her eyes. “I’m glad, but you were unwise to go to Mr. Leon’s room.”
“I meant to find you first! But you were—occupied.”
Eleanor opened her eyes on Bitsy’s dimpled cheeks and closed them again, wishing away the warm blush from her cheeks. Could she pretend to faint? At the very least, she should lie down. It was cowardly, but hadn’t she been brave enough tonight? She’d confronted Mr. Stinson, kissed him, and—even more! Oh, how much had Bitsy seen? Then she’d found these shredded papers and assumed it meant a broken heart. It would have broken hers.
She sighed. She’d never thought of herself as fragile, but tonight Bitsy proved to be the more resilient of them, because even after the fighting and insults, she had the energy to be amused at Eleanor’s predicament. Eleanor peeped between her lashes, finding Bitsy humming and pulling down her sheets.
Though the girl found it amusing, Eleanor did not. She deserved every bad thing that had happened this night. What madness had possessed her? She hung her head, considering laying it on the cool marble-topped side table.
In fact, she did so. The marble was hard and unsatisfying.
She sniffed, allowing herself a moment of self-pity, then ruthlessly set aside her foolishness and jerked upright, straight-spined as her mother had instructed from the time she was allowed at the table. She kept her eyes closed, because she couldn’t quite master herself and didn’t want Bitsy to see.
