by Brenda Novak
“Why would he want to get powder into the mine in the middle of the night?” Truman asked.
“He wouldn’t say.”
If Cutberth could be believed, Rachel, Thornick, Collingood, Henderson, Greenley and Wythe had all been out tonight. Why? “He must have left,” Truman said. “All is quiet now. And the pit is locked.”
A strange expression came over Cutberth’s face. “That’s it. That’s where they’re at.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pit wasn’t locked when I was here before.”
As soon as Wythe hauled himself out of the mine, Rachel had run to the lift, hoping to find a way out herself. But it was no use. He had made it so that she couldn’t bring the cage back down.
She had retrieved the pick, even though she knew it could do nothing to protect her from an explosion, and waited—scared and shaky—in the dark. She’d been sure she wasn’t long for this earth, couldn’t imagine how she would survive what Wythe had in store for her. She had just decided that she would rather be killed by the blast than any cave-in it might cause, that she would stand right out in the open and wait for it.
But then… there had been no explosion. She’d heard Wythe above her, cursing to himself as he climbed into the lift. He’d been upset, newly frustrated. She could tell that but nothing more. Had he changed his mind about igniting a blast?
She’d thought so. But that didn’t make her safe. A flicker of light had suggested he was bringing a lamp. At that point she’d faced a very difficult decision. Did she grab the ropes to try to stop his descent? Would she be physically capable of holding him off that way? Or did she hide to the right, hoping he would go left, where they had been before?
There weren’t many places to conceal herself on the right. That was the reason she hadn’t chosen it before. But left took her ever deeper into the bowels of the mine, meaning he could cut her off from the lift indefinitely. And now that he had a lamp, she would have no way of slipping past him unseen. The tunnels were too narrow. She would have to stay well in front of him even though he could travel much faster.
In the end, she had chosen to run left. Her other options were more of a gamble. She had to go with the odds, use as much time as possible. She was hoping that the miners would arrive before Wythe could find her.
If they didn’t… at least she had a weapon.
She had been trying to out-distance him ever since, had been dodging him and his bloody light. She kept praying he would choose the wrong tunnel. Although she couldn’t see the various openings, she knew there were more turns than the ones she was taking. But any noise gave her away, and she couldn’t move fast without noise. She was just thinking she should have tried to stop the lift instead when another twisted ankle brought her to her knees.
Gasping in pain, she watched the edge of his light draw closer. Heard his footsteps. Heard him say, “You are only making this harder on yourself, Rachel. I will kill you quickly if you quit running. If you don’t… heaven help you.”
He meant it. He was beyond angry. He was probably desperate, too—as desperate as she was.
If only she could figure out a way to get him to move beyond her.
But how?
Drawing a bolstering breath, she limped around the next bend and flattened herself against the wall. She was out of options. She had to swing her pick. But once she did that, there would be no second chances.
Either she would survive, or he would.
“Rachel?”
He was coming, drawing so close she dared not breathe. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she waited, and her lips moved in silent prayer. Please… please…
Suddenly the light fell over her. She heard his excited intake of breath, saw the knife—and, feeling as vulnerable and exposed as she had ever felt in her life, swung the pick.
She caught him with a fairly solid blow, solid enough to knock the lamp out of his hands and send him reeling. And that gave her time to swing again.
It was the second blow that did the most damage. The sharp metal end lodged in his chest so deeply she couldn’t pull it out.
He seemed as surprised as she was. He stared down at himself in horror, until the pain and the realization of what she had done enraged him even more. Cursing, and swinging at her with one hand, he yanked the pick out with the other and tossed it away. Then he lunged for her.
She tried to run, but it was no use. Her sprained ankles could no longer support her weight. Terror overwhelmed her as he caught hold of her hair. And, almost immediately, his hands circled her neck.
Rachel could feel his extreme hatred as he squeezed—squeezed until she couldn’t fight anymore. Then everything went dim, as if the light he’d dropped had gone out.
Chapter 27
It was obvious as soon as Truman reached the flats that someone had been in the mine. A broken Davy lamp lay on its side near the lift. Around the corner, in the loading area, there were more broken lights—and four bodies. Using his own lamp to see who they were, he glanced up at Jonas Cutberth, who had accompanied him into the mine.
“’Tis Thornick and the others,” he said.
Cutberth knelt to confirm it. “Two have been shot. The others stabbed.”
“I can’t believe Wythe has done this,” Truman said.
“Who else could it be?”
Truman supposed that Cutberth could have done it himself and used the excuse that Wythe had been here to get him into the mine. But he had been holding one of Truman’s pistols since they entered the cage. If he meant him any harm, Truman would’ve found out before now. “But why would he kill these men?”
“Maybe they knew something they shouldn’t.”
Truman rued the day his parents had been kind enough to take Wythe in. “He will hang for this.”
“We have to catch him first,” Cutberth responded.
With a sigh, Truman lifted his light to see a few feet down each of the tunnels that branched off from here. With four men murdered, he was so afraid of what he might find he could hardly move. Did Wythe have Rachel? Or had he killed her, too?
“You take the tunnel heading to Number 8. I will go this other direction, to Number 10,” he told Cutberth.
With a muttered curse against Wythe, the ex-clerk left his dead friends.
Truman stood as he hurried past. “And Cutberth?”
His lamp cast shadows on his face as he turned. “Yes, my lord?”
“Be careful. He is obviously not right in the head.”
“You be careful, too. I would guess you are more of a target than I am. He won’t get any bloody title from me—pardon my language.”
“Maybe not.” Truman nudged Thornick’s foot. “But he will kill anyone who gets in his way.”
Cutberth indicated the pistol Truman had given him. “I’ll shoot if I have to.”
As Cutberth ran off, Truman pulled out the other pistol, which he’d slid into his waistband for the ride down. “Rachel?” he called. “Rachel, answer me!”
There was no response.
“Wythe, if you hurt her, you have no idea what I will do to you. You will never inherit a halfpenny. Do you understand? But if you give up and bring her to me, I will do whatever I can to help you.”
He paused to listen, but only his own voice bounced back to him. He couldn’t even hear Cutberth now that the man had hurried down the other tunnel.
“Rachel?” It felt hopeless, but he kept calling to her as he searched. He felt as if he had been everywhere before the miners started to arrive for work. Then they all searched. They were so angry over the deaths of Thornick, Greenley, Collingood and Henderson that he didn’t have to offer them any incentive to take the task seriously. But it wasn’t until an hour later that word finally reached him: She had been found.
He wanted to ask if she was alive, but he didn’t dare. He had already seen too much loss in his life, knew he couldn’t bear the answer if it was no.
“Take me to her,” he said instead.
>
Rachel lay on the damp ground, tossed to one side like a used rag. She was shivering and covered in something damp and sticky. She didn’t know if it was the grime of the mine or if it was blood. Twice she had tried to call out but couldn’t seem to find her voice. Or maybe she had managed it, because she’d drawn someone’s attention. Cutberth was nearby. She might have been afraid of him, but he was being careful not to spook her. He called out that he had found her, then remained crouched to one side, keeping his distance because every time he tried to touch her she gave a frightened cry.
“Rachel, thank God! Are you badly hurt?” The earl came rushing toward her, his voice filled with fear. She was so relieved to see him she couldn’t even speak. He was alive. They were both alive.
But where was Wythe? She wanted to get up and look around, to prepare for another assault, if there might be one coming, but she didn’t seem to have her usual strength. Her fingers sought her throat, where she could remember his hands… squeezing the life out of her.
“Truman,” she managed to croak. “I thought I might never see you again.”
He dropped down beside her and wiped the tears that streaked down her face. “I’m here, Rachel. I’m here with you. And I won’t ever leave you again. Tell me you will survive.”
“I think—I think I will be fine.”
“What happened?” His voice was as gentle as a caress when he pulled her into his arms.
“I’m not… certain,” she admitted. “I-I thought my life was over. I thought he was going to kill me. And then… I heard footsteps. Men hurrying past me, calling my name. I was afraid I was dreaming, that if I dared answer he would come back.”
“My poor Rachel,” he said. “He can’t harm you now. I’m here. And I will never let him or anyone else harm you ever again.”
It was difficult to swallow. Her throat hurt too badly. But she was grateful for the pain. It was the only thing that convinced her that this moment in his arms might be real, that the earl was with her again, after all.
“Is he still here in the mine?” Cutberth asked.
Her memories were too foggy to be able to answer that. “I’ve tried to piece it together,” she managed to say. “I slid my hands out in search of him, but he didn’t seem to be lying close by.”
“Over here,” someone shouted. “I’ve found Mr. Stanhope.”
Cutberth went to see. Truman looked over but he didn’t relinquish his hold on her. “Is he alive?” he asked.
“No, my lord. I think he bled out. He’s got a chest injury. It looks like he tried to get up, maybe to stagger out, but… he didn’t make it far. He’s lying in a pool of his own blood.”
“Get a wagon and take him to the surface,” the earl said. Then he pressed his lips to Rachel’s forehead. “Thank God I found you,” he whispered and carried her to the cage.
“It’s over,” he promised and soon they were out of the mine and squinting against a beautiful, clear dawn. “It’s all over.”
When Rachel opened her eyes, she saw a large painting propped up near her bed. She studied it for a second, wondering why it was there and why it looked so familiar. And then she realized. It was Landscape with the Fall of Icarus! With a small gasp, she tried to sit up, but Truman was there, and he gently pushed her back.
“Not so fast,” he cautioned. “Dr. Jacobsen just left. He said you are to take it easy for several days yet.”
“But you found it!” She studied the farmer and the plow and the ship he’d told her about. It was beautiful. “You found the Bruegel you were looking for.”
“I found all of the missing paintings. Well, they were recovered,” he corrected. “As soon as Madame Soward learned that Wythe was dead, she came out of hiding and contacted Mr. Linley, eager to trade them for the reward.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
“But…” She remembered nothing about that. “Where was I?”
“In a laudanum-induced sleep. Jacobsen said you would recover more quickly if you gave your body a chance to get some rest before facing the emotional trauma of what you experienced.”
But she didn’t feel upset. She felt… free. Surely he did too, now that the demons that had nearly destroyed him were gone—those within and without. She smiled as she gazed at the painting. “You were right all along.”
Something else occurred to her, something she wanted to tell him. “My lord…”
“Rachel, call me Truman, please,” he said with a laugh.
She closed her eyes at the pleasure it gave her when he rubbed her cheek with the back of his hand. It was such a tender gesture.
“If you are going to be my wife, you will need to get used to it,” he chided her.
“I like the sound of that, of being your wife.”
He smoothed the hair off her face. “I like the sound of it too.”
“But… what of Mrs. Poulson? You know she had a hand in the fire, in Katherine’s death.”
“I do. But we don’t have to worry about her. Not anymore.”
“Is she… gone?” Rachel asked.
He sat on the edge of her bed. “Yes. Gone for good.”
“What happened?”
“As soon as she heard that Wythe was dead, she”—he cleared his throat—“let’s just say she fell into despair.”
“I have never seen a servant love someone she has served as much as Mrs. Poulson loved Wythe,” she marveled.
“He wasn’t just someone she served, Rachel.”
There was something… odd about his tone. “What do you mean?”
“She was his mother.”
Rachel felt her mouth drop open. “But… how?”
“All too easily, I’m afraid. Apparently his father dallied with the servants as often as he did.”
“The woman who was supposed to be his mother hid that from the world?”
“From everyone, even my parents.”
“Why would she be willing to do that?”
“She was unable to give him a son herself. Maybe she felt it was her duty to accept Wythe because of that. I don’t know. But I didn’t find out about the relationship until she learned of his death. Then she fell to the floor, weeping uncontrollably and rocking back and forth, moaning, ‘My son, my son, what have they done to you?’ ”
Rachel winced. She wasn’t sure if it was for the sight Mrs. Poulson must’ve made or the pain she must’ve felt. Rachel had no love for the housekeeper, but losing a son was a terrible thing. She knew because her own mother had suffered so badly when Tommy died. “Could she have meant that metaphorically?”
“No. It makes too much sense, now that I know. Why she was his wet nurse. Why she followed him everywhere. Why she was so devoted.”
“Katherine was carrying Wythe’s babe.” That was it. That was what Rachel had wanted to tell her betrothed. But she was still so weak and tired. “Mrs. Poulson killed her for fear she’d tell.”
He grimaced. “Yes. I know that, too. She didn’t stay crumpled in a heap of grief for long. She soon grew angry. She told me about the baby, said I wasn’t man enough to father a child, that Wythe never should’ve saved me, that I wasn’t anything compared to him, that he deserved the title.” He waved a hand. “You get the idea.”
Rachel had a headache. She adjusted the pillows to give her more support. “It’s a wonder she didn’t try to kill me, too, before I could bear you an heir. It felt like she hated me enough.”
“I’m afraid she might’ve tried. That’s why I’m glad she’s gone.”
“What happened to her in the end?”
“She ran out of the house and, before anyone could stop her, jumped off the cliff to the rocks below.”
Horrified, Rachel covered her mouth. “No…”
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“We will both forget,” she promised. “We won’t think of it again. Her or Wythe.”
His gaze shifted to the Bruegel. “It’s sort of eerie that this particular painting is
what unraveled the mystery, don’t you think?”
“Why?” she asked.
“You know who Icarus was.” His fingers moved over hers as he talked.
“Someone from Greek mythology?”
“Yes, a very ambitious fellow. He wanted to fly. So his father made him a set of wings with feathers secured by wax.”
It seemed as if she had read the story before, but she couldn’t remember it. “Did those wings work?”
“They did. But he got too ambitious for his own good and would not heed his father’s warnings. He decided he would fly all the way to the sun.”
“And the heat melted the wax.” It was coming back to her now.
“That’s right. He fell into the sea and drowned.” He pointed to the painting. “These are his legs here, just below the ship. As you can tell, he didn’t get very far.”
“Wythe tried to fly too close to the sun,” she murmured. It was such a fitting description for what had happened, how ambition had taken hold and caused his downfall.
“At least he got a lot further than Icarus,” Truman responded.
“He wanted your title so badly—and all that went with it, my love. The admiration, the respect, the money.”
Truman’s handsome face looked pensive. “If he had only waited, he might have inherited it all.”
“No.” She smiled as she placed his hand on her stomach. “You will one day have a son to inherit it all.”
He bent to kiss her lips. “And the farmer continued to plough.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It’s an old Flemish proverb that goes with the painting. It means life will go on.”
“It will do more than go on, Truman. We will be happy, won’t we?”
His hand cupped her cheek. “It makes me feel guilty to say it, but I am already happy. You make me happy. That’s all I need.”
EPILOGUE
Rachel snuggled closer to the warmth of her husband’s body. They had been married for six months, but having him in her bed never grew old. She enjoyed hearing his steady breathing, relished the feel of his bare skin sliding against hers as he moved in the night. She had tried telling him it was unseemly for them to sleep without clothes every night, but he wouldn’t hear of letting that change, and she had only been teasing him anyway. She never felt so content as when she was lying naked in his arms.
