Colonel Brandon’s eyelids fluttered open and focused dazedly on her face. “Marianne?”
“Oh, thank God.” Marianne’s voice shook, the tears starting to spill down her cheeks all over again. “Thank God. I thought you were going to die.”
Colonel Brandon still looked greyish-pale, but he raised his free hand feebly and touched her cheek. He looked dazed, yet, and his words came out blurred with pain and fatigue, but he murmured, “Don’t worry, love. I am not so easy to kill as that.”
Marianne hiccuped another broken laugh and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. “I am glad to hear it.”
I would have gone out and left the two of them alone together. But then a hammer hit me squarely in the middle of the chest. At least, that was how it felt. Colonel Brandon’s brow furrowed and his head turned restlessly on the pillow. “There was something … something I had to remember.” And then abruptly he struggled to lift himself. “Young Cooper—Corporal Cooper. He is in terrible danger. I must warn him—”
I felt as though all the air had been forcibly driven from my lungs. “Jamie Cooper?” My voice sounded far off and rang in my ears.
Colonel Brandon was still struggling to sit upright. Marianne pressed him back with a hand on his shoulder, her face tight with worry once more. “Christopher, there is nothing for you to do now—nothing but lie quiet. You will start your wound bleeding again if you do not stay still.”
I ignored her and leaned forward. “Colonel Brandon—what about Jamie Cooper? How is he in danger?”
Colonel Brandon blinked. Until that moment, I am not sure that he realised I was in the room; he had eyes only for Marianne. His pain-dulled gaze focused on my face and he frowned in confusion. “Do you … know Corporal Cooper?”
“Yes, I know him.” I wanted to scream with impatience at having to delay for explanations, but I managed to moderate my voice. “I have known him nearly all my life. Now please … please tell me what has happened?”
Colonel Brandon was tiring, I could see. He sank back against the pillows and dragged the words out haltingly and with an effort. “I was going to break into Willoughby’s study—ground floor. Thought I could look for papers—anything. But before I could get inside, I heard something—a sound from nearby. Thought it was one of my men, at first. But when I called out”—his lips compressed in either frustration or pain—“a shot came out of nowhere. Got me in the leg. I fell—hit my head. Knocked senseless. Next thing I knew, a man was bending over me. Checking to see if I was dead. He intended to finish off the job, I suppose, if I wasn’t.”
He stopped, pressing his eyes closed, and was silent so long that I thought he might have lapsed into unconsciousness again. “And then?” I had to grit my teeth, fighting the urge to shake him and demand that he wake up and tell me the whole. “What happened—”
Marianne interrupted me, her hand closing around mine. “Margaret, stop. Do not ask him to say any more. He cannot—”
“Please.” My heart was racing, and whatever I was pulling into my lungs felt too thick to be properly called air. “Marianne, please. If Jamie is truly in trouble … in danger …” My throat closed off. Before I could manage to say anything more, Colonel Brandon’s eyes fluttered open again.
“The man—he was searching the pockets of my coat when I regained my senses. Or barely so. Just enough to be aware of what was happening, not enough to fight the fellow off. Then I heard my men approaching—frightened the man off before he could do me any more harm. After that … I was in and out, all the way here. Macneal strapped me to my horse—good thing, or I would have fallen off. But I remember—” Colonel Brandon’s jaw tightened in a spasm of pain. “I put my hand into my coat pocket to check for Corporal Cooper’s letters. That’s when I realised the fellow had taken them. Which means he knows—he and his employers know that Cooper was my agent all the time.”
Fear tingled all the way to the tips of my fingers. My mouth felt dry. “Colonel Brandon—the man who shot you—did you recognise him? What did he look like?”
The lines of pain bracketing Colonel Brandon’s mouth deepened. He shut his eyes again, this time in what seemed an effort to remember, but finally shook his head. “It was … dark. Didn’t see much. Don’t think that I had ever seen him before.” His voice trailed off into exhaustion. But then—just for an instant—a look that was almost a grim smile touched the edges of his mouth. “Henry. Henry Ay—”
But that was all. He lapsed into unconsciousness—or at least sleep—again. It would have been cruel to try to rouse him. And besides, I suspected that Marianne would have had my head if I had made the attempt. I left her and fairly pelted down the stairs to where Colonel Brandon’s men were grouped together in the billiard room.
I saw the faces of several of the officers tighten at my entrance. Including that of Captain Wainwright (he of the terrible breath), which made me inclined to forgive him his attempt to kiss me earlier. He and the other men are plainly devoted to Colonel Brandon, and were afraid that I had come to tell them that their commander was dying or already dead.
I had no idea how to even begin to tell them the full story coherently. But finally—somehow—I got everything out. None of the men knows Jamie. They knew only that Colonel Brandon had an inside source of information on the smugglers. Jamie’s communications had been infrequent. And of course, he could not write at all when he was shot and then ill with fever.
Neither had they any idea where Jamie had gone tonight—save that they had seen no sign of him at Rosford Abbey. The best plan they could formulate was for half of them to ride back to Rosford and interrogate Willoughby, while the rest of them scoured the countryside for Mr. Merryman.
They left an hour ago. Captain Wainwright even patted my shoulder as he went out and told me not to worry, that they were ‘sure to lay the dirty scoundrels by the heels.’ Which was rather sweet; it was not his fault that his clumsy attempts at reassurance made me want to scream all over again.
I looked in on Marianne and Colonel Brandon and found him still deeply asleep. He and Marianne both; she had lain down on the bed beside him and must have dropped off, for when I peeped into the room she was sound asleep with her arm flung protectively over her husband’s chest. I am glad she is able to rest; she must be exhausted. But there is no point in my even trying to close my eyes.
I feel as though half a lifetime has passed since Colonel Brandon was first carried into the house. But actually the clock over my mantel reads just half past three. The darkest—and most sinister—watch of the night, or so it feels right now. Even Henry the 8th’s leer seems at this moment more threatening than lascivious in the light of my—
Oh. Oh, God. I have just realised something about what Colonel Brandon said.
Friday 2 July 1802
I had to ask Marianne for the date earlier, when she came in to scold me for not eating any of the cold custard and beef broth on my tray. I was shocked when she told me that it was the second of July—that three days have passed since I last set this journal down.
Those days are such a blur—a fog of pain and nausea and lying in bed while worried faces peered down at me: Marianne and Elinor … Colonel Brandon … but never the face I wanted most to see. I was lapsing in and out of consciousness—or so Marianne tells me now. At the time, I felt merely as though I were trapped in something sticky and viscous as mud, something that weighed me down and kept me from opening my eyes for more than a brief moment or two, however hard I struggled.
I remember voices—the voices of my sisters, hushed and sounding frightened. And a deeper, ponderous voice that I suppose must have been the surgeon’s, for it spoke words like concussion, and, possible inflammation of the brain. Which even in the depths of semi-consciousness roused me to something like irritation—it seemed such an insultingly inadequate way of describing the horrendous, stomach-churning pain that felt as though it were going to split my skull in two.
My head still aches. In addition to scolding me for n
ot eating, Marianne also advised—or rather ordered—me not to try sitting up yet. I am certain that if she were to come in now, she would yank the pen from my hand, confiscate this journal, and tell me to lie back down.
But I do not want to sleep any longer. And I want to write this before I lose any more of the details.
I have just read back over the last entry I made—ending with the moment when I realised that not only did I know where Jamie might be, but that with all of Colonel Brandon’s men gone, his life depended on me alone.
As soon as I finished scrawling those last words, I was up, flinging on my cloak and lacing on my sturdiest half boots—though my fingers shook so much it was difficult to manage the ties. At least I had no trouble in creeping from the house unseen. The servants were all either abed or waiting in the kitchen in case Colonel Brandon should need anything. In the parlour, Edward and Elinor were asleep, too—side by side on the sofa with her head resting on his shoulder.
I did think of waking them and telling them where I was going. But that would have meant explanations—and further delay—and it was a virtual certainty that they would tell me that it was too dangerous, that I ought not to go. Looking back, I can see that I ought to have left a note; that would have been the sensible thing. But I suppose that I was thinking even less clearly than I believed—because in that moment, I was in such a desperate hurry to go that it never even occurred to me.
Feverishly anxious as I was, though, I could not take any of the horses from the stables. That would have meant rousing Mr. Dawson or one of the other stablehands—followed by the same delay for explanations and arguments involved in waking Elinor and Edward. Instead I ran all the way to the north pasture. I know I must have fallen in the dark, because when I arrived at Star’s field, I discovered that my palms were sore and scraped. But at the time, I did not even notice.
There was moonlight enough for me to see that Star and the foal were lying down together on the far end of the field, peacefully asleep. But when I gave a low whistle and called her name, Star roused and came over to me, the foal trotting at her heels. She butted her head inquisitively against my palm—I could almost feel her curiosity as to why I was coming to see her now, at this strange hour of the night. But she did not startle or run away when I swung myself over the fence, and I felt a fierce rush of thankfulness that she trusts me now. Thankfulness, coupled with the pulse-pounding fear that I was endangering Star in this mad enterprise as well as myself.
I kept my voice calm, though, as I stroked her neck. “Good girl. Good girl, Star. I need you to help me with something. Will you help me, do you think?”
Star made a soft whickering sound and nuzzled my hair—and I turned to the foal. “I am sorry to leave you here alone, sweetheart. But I will bring your mother back as soon as I possibly can, I promise.”
I hoped as I murmured the words that they would not be proven a lie. Trying to keep my hands from shaking, I slipped the simple rope bridle I had brought with me from the stables over Star’s head. It took me three tries to lift the latch of the pasture gate and swing it open, but at last I managed. The foal tried to follow as I led Star through, and I felt like a monster pushing him back, locking him back into the pasture all alone, without his mother for the first time in his short life. But grasping Star’s mane, I swung myself up onto her back.
I had never tried to ride her before, and I felt her stiffen at my weight. I leaned forward, rubbing her neck, murmuring softly until I felt her powerful muscles loosen. Of course, I had no saddle—a bridle I could manage, but I could scarcely have carried a heavy leather saddle with me all the way from the stables. And I was still wearing Marianne’s silk ball gown rather than riding habit; I had to sit on Star’s back astride, and the skirts of the gown bunched up nearly to my knees. But luckily—even if I had not done it in years—I used to ride bareback and astride as a child.
Jamie was the one who taught me, actually. But I could not let myself think of that. I was keeping all thoughts of Jamie tightly locked away in the back of my mind; let myself recall even those childhood memories and I was afraid the fear I was holding at bay would overcome me, leaving me unable to move, much less save his life.
Star shifted her weight from side to side, plainly waiting for my command. But for a moment, I simply sat, resting my cheek against her bristling mane and listening to the too-loud thud of my own heart in my ears. I had nothing to go on—not really. Only my own tenuous reasoning. Which seemed even more tenuous and uncertain out here, alone and in the dark, than it had in the light and safety of my room.
But any chance, however slight, was still a chance. And besides, anything was better than returning to Delaford and watching the minutes crawl by as I waited for Colonel Brandon’s men to return.
I nudged Star forward, guiding her carefully through the woods until we reached the turnpike road, pale as a silver ribbon in the moonlight. Then once we had gained the road, I urged Star into a canter. At any other time, it would have been glorious—the night stillness all around and the feel of the wind in my hair as Star surged forward, powerful and sure. She is a dream to ride—as amazing as I always thought that she would be. I could feel her straining forward, as well. Now that we were out in the open, she seemed to be enjoying the adventure and would have shifted into a full-out gallop if I had let her. But as much as my whole body screamed with the need for haste, I also did not want her to tire. I was not precisely sure of the distance we had to go—and Star had given birth not long ago.
And after all, the distance was not so great as I had feared. We followed the turnpike northwards—and what seemed a very short while later, we came to the massive iron gate that led up the sweeping drive of the Dumbroke estate. At sight of the gates, Star came to an abrupt halt and with a high whinny of fear reared, tossing her head so that I was very nearly thrown from her back. Clinging tight to the halter, I slid down from her back and tried to bring her back under control. “Whoa. Easy, girl. Easy.”
Star’s ears were flat back and she snorted, stamping her feet. “Shh, quiet. Please.”
I rubbed her neck, terrified that the noise she was making would bring someone to investigate. Though at the same time, I felt a slight curl of relief expand in my chest. It was a slim chance—a very slim chance—that had brought me here to Dumbroke. On the surface, Mr. Chalmers seemed as unlikely a candidate for a villain as Mr. Palmer. Henry Ay— Colonel Brandon had said, when speaking of his attacker. Which might—possibly—be interpreted as an attempt to say, Henry the Eighth. Henry the Eighth—as witness the portrait in my room—had been fat and was famous for his bright auburn hair. Mr. Chalmers was also immensely obese, with ginger-coloured hair. Scarcely enough to convict—or even challenge—him in a court of law.
But now Star was frightened at the sight of the Dumbroke estate. She knew where we were; plainly, she had been here before. That Mr. Chalmers might have been Star’s former owner, responsible for her abuse, was also no proof he was involved in the smuggling. But it was enough to set my pulse pounding as I looked for a place where I could tie Star.
That was the difficulty. I could not simply turn Star free. I was not sure whether she could—or would—find her way back to Delaford and her foal. But neither could I force her to continue up the Dumbroke drive. For one, I could never be that cruel when the mere sight of the gates terrified her. And for another, I had no idea how she would respond. If she took fright and made too much noise at the wrong moment, she could bring discovery on me.
In the end, I led her a short way down the road and looped the rope of her bridle about a tree that stood a few paces back from the edge of the track. “It’s all right.” Star was still shifting and snorting uneasily, and I stroked her neck. “No one will hurt you, I promise. I will not let them.”
The gates were rusty and overgrown with a tangle of vines, and they let out a screech that sounded as loud as musket fire when I pushed them open enough to slip through. A small lodge stood to one side, where a family r
etainer would once have lived, charged with the duty of opening and closing the gate for his master’s carriages. But the lodge looked as dilapidated and overgrown as the gates; plainly no one had lived there for years.
Trying to keep to the shadows of the trees, I crept up the driveway—which seemed endless in the dark. Dumbroke had evidently been planned by someone who believed that an ancestral home is not an ancestral home unless it is a mile or more from the gates to the main house. I covered perhaps three quarters of a mile at a quick trot—expecting that at any moment, I would hear an angry shout of discovery.
And then, from somewhere up ahead, I did hear a shout—but it was not directed at me. “Ye dirty gypsy! I’ll blow yer head clean off for that.”
I was not thinking—I simply raced forward, around the side of the hulking shape of the house I could now make out in the distance. I did have sense enough to move off the gravel drive and onto the sweep of overgrown lawn, so that my running footsteps scarcely made a sound. And when I reached the rear of the house, and the edge of what looked to have once been a yard and kennel for hunting hounds, I stopped, trying to pull the air into my straining lungs as quietly as I could. The shout had come from this direction—I was certain of it. And the next moment, I heard something more—not a shout this time, but a man’s voice, cool, well-bred, and sounding more irritated than anything else.
“I must say, this really is the greatest bore in the world.”
It was Mr. Chalmers’s voice—I knew it without question. Though he sounded different. Confident and drawling, rather than fussy and querulous—and yet with a chill to the words that seemed to send slivers of ice all the way down my spine. I was standing behind the stone-built kennels. To my right, an ivy-covered stone wall about as high as my chest enclosed the yard where the hunting hounds would have been trained and given daily exercise. I crouched down so that I was entirely behind it and crept towards a wooden gate that I assumed must be the yard’s entrance.
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 23
