by Joan Vincent
* * *
Sussex April 3rd Monday
In some surprise Hadleigh realized he was still alive. He regretted it an instant later when pain wracked him. It took time to sort out that he was no longer in the cursed cellar.
George’s face appeared before him. You have a choice, he seemed to mouth and then his gloating chuckle taunted.
You bastard will not be the end of me, Hadleigh swore. He dragged his body forward until he saw a half-opened door.
Triumph overrode Hadleigh’s pain when he reached the top of the outside steps. But halfway down them his weight shifted and he rolled to the bottom. A sea of mud cushioned his landing, but one foot struck a tread.
Hadleigh fought to remain conscious. When the black mist began to fade, he concentrated on collecting his strength. Gradually he became aware of a sound other than the buzz in his ears. He recognized it as the symphony of a coach and four.
I must be near a road, Hadleigh thought and twisted onto his stomach. As he got to his knees, his feet sank into cold pain-relieving mud. Drawn by the sound of the tattoo of hooves, he half-crawled, half-crabbed toward a rise laced with winter’s weeds and grasses. He pulled free of the mud and gained solid ground.
His teeth gritted against the pain, Hadleigh continued his torturous progress towards the road. Must tell André about the George and his servants.
* * *
Sarah, Lady Edgerton happily eyed the parcel on the opposite seat. Her shopping expedition into Lewes had gained the last ingredient she needed to concoct the new treatment for scabies outlined in Rupert Hale’s latest letter.
An eerie whimper chilled Sarah’s cheer. She pulled on the check strap to signal Brady to halt and pushed her head out of the window. “What was that?”
A groan quavered from the tall grass beside the road.
Sarah pushed open the coach door and stepped down.
“‘Twould be best ye get back in the coach, m’lady,” Brady told her, “‘tis likely some wounded animal.”
“Should we not see what it is?”
Brady frowned down at his mistress. “Better Cob and me come back to check. We can bring a musket.”
A louder moan stopped Sarah in mid-nod.
“Now don’t go—”
“I shall hold the horses while you take a look.” Sarah walked to the team’s heads and took hold of their bridles.
Brady scowled as he wrapped the reins around the brake. He climbed down, whip in hand. “They’ll stay still enough without yer hand, m’lady,” he groused and then trudged into the ditch.
“Make sure you do not hurt it further,” Sarah called after him. She watched him wade through the tall dried grasses and saw him jump back. “What is it, Brady?”
“Stay where ye are, m’lady,” he shouted.
Sarah saw him prod with his whip and then sink into a crouch. “What have you found?” When he didn’t answer she walked to the edge of the road.
Rising, Brady waved her to stay where she was. He came back, his face clouded. “I’ll take ye home and then fetch the magistrate,” he told her.
“Why? What is it?” she asked concerned by his demeanour.
“A man near like as I ken tell,” the coachman said tightly.
“Is he alive?”
“I think mebbe so.”
“Then we shall take him up with us,” Sarah said.
Brady caught hold of her arm. “Nay, m’lady. ‘Tis not fer the likes o’ye to see such. Sir Rufus would scald me proper if I failed in me duty an’ didn’t stop ye.”
Sarah pulled free. “Sir Rufus is dead these four years.” When he reached for her again, she stopped him with a glance and then lifted her skirts and strode forward.
With a shake of his head, Brady hurried after her. “The master forgot hisself once. Said ye were a stubborn gel,” he muttered with the daring of a long-time servant.
Hiding a smile, Sarah trudged though the grass. When Brady grabbed her elbow, anger flared until she noticed he pointed with his whip. She saw the mud-encrusted form, watched a muddy hand inch toward the hem of her gown. Then the stench hit her.
The coachman pointed to the swollen muddy wrists and feet. “Looks like he were tied up close fer a time.”
Fighting down her horror and the urge to gag, Sarah followed Brady’s glance. “At the Peterson house?”
“He couldn’t have come much further than thet. Let me take ye home, m’lady,” he urged. “Then I can come back w’wagon.”
A despairing groan drew their gazes back to the man.
Sarah sank to the ground and pressed two fingers against the grimy neck. “His pulse is rapid and weak.”
“How would we shift him?” Brady objected. He winced when inspiration lit his mistress’s eyes.
“Please get my cloak. Now.”
Brady tromped back to the coach. He wrenched open the coach door with a muffled oath. With no vehicle or rider in sight he shrugged in defeat and hurried back with her cloak.
“Lay it out beside him from the shoulders down,” Sarah instructed. “No, turn it around—bottom first. Spread it out. Yes, like that.” She walked around the figure and knelt.
“You take his shoulders. We will roll him onto the cloak.” At her nod they heaved the man onto his side and then pushed him over. His prolonged groan made Sarah grit her teeth.
While Brady got back up, Sarah peered at the portion of the swollen feet not coated with mud. Pus and blood oozed from the butchered flesh along with a foul odour.
Both Brady and Sarah were befouled by the time they hauled him onto the coach’s floor. Sarah was heartened to still find a pulse. “Home,” she ordered Brady. “Do not spare the horses.”
* * *
Returning to the barn at Edgerton Manor with two pair of scissors, Sarah saw that Cob and Brady had laid the man on a bed of fresh straw. She sent two curious stable boys to fetch heated water, and then handed a pair of scissors to Cob.
“You cut off his breeches and small clothes while I take care of the shirt.” Silencing the men’s objection with a look, Sarah knelt beside the stranger’s left hand and slid the scissors beneath an unfastened cuff. Cob’s soft curses and the rasp of the scissors told her he complied.
When they finished, Sarah had the stable lads pour the warm water over the man from head to toe. She handed towels to Brady. “You and Cob scrub him while I clean his hair and face.”
The two men exchanged speaking glances.
“It’s summat like cleanin’ up t’greased pig what’s been chased through ev’r muddy patch at the Fair,” Cob drawled.
“Then I’m fer skinnin’ this’un,” Brady answered wryly.
Cob snorted. “The lads at pub’ll think we’ve gone daft.”
“You are never to tell them of this,” Sarah ordered.
“Why wun’t we be tellin’ them?” Cob puzzled.
“Because then he won’t be the only one skinned.”
An hour later in the morning salon on the manor’s ground floor Sarah took pillows from Molly, her abigail. After he was placed on the bed she used them to cushion his ankles. His fever had risen and his heartbeat continued too rapid. Sarah pushed aside weariness as she bent and studied the wreckage of his feet.
Straightening she yawned. “A drawing poultice is where I shall begin.” Her gaze strayed to the swollen, badly bruised, and cut wrists atop the blanket. “And a healing salve. Then something to keep you calm, to give your body a chance to heal.”
Sarah trod to the head of the bed and gripped the man’s shoulder. “It is up to you,” she said firmly. “I will help you all I can, but only you can choose to survive.”
Chapter Three
Edgerton Manor April 3 Late Evening
Body tremors and muscle spasms in her patient’s legs forced Sarah to bind the poultices of slippery elm powder mixed with calendula tincture against the bottom of his feet.
With Cob’s help she had managed to force some tincture of Guelder rose, or crampbark, down the man’
s throat. But not enough to still the spasms. Sarah watched the blanket atop him quiver and debated what to do.
“Get that blue bottle,” Sarah said as she removed the blanket across her patient’s thighs. She held out her palm. “Just a small amount.” Massaging the cramping muscles with the neat tincture, Sarah heard a deep gasp at the door and stilled.
Cob, at her side, handed her a towel. “I’ll keep on it, me lady,” he offered. “Like tending a fetlock, truth be told.”
“Yes, thank you.” Sarah wiped her hands on the towel, then turned to face a scowling gentleman.
Mr. Gilmar Crandall was a stocky man of medium height. His full round face below a thick shock of brown hair was now creased in disapproval.
He was two years Sarah’s junior, but she saw a flash of her father in his stance. That she had not been as exceedingly foolish as everyone believed when she had declined the physician’s offer of marriage flashed through her mind.
Crandall’s lips thinned as he inspected the figure on the bed. “I thought your coachman was bosky,” he said. “Hoped it was a wild faradiddle. That he was attempting to roast me.”
“You are very tired,” Sarah soothed as she took his hat and gloves. She helped him out of his greatcoat. “From what did Brady take you?”
“I had finished,” Crandall reluctantly admitted. “The Granter boy sliced open his leg. He should be well to go in a week or so. Missed the tendons so was more stitchery than anything.” He stalked to the bed.
“Do you even know who this man is? Do not answer. I am certain that, as usual, you know nothing of him or how he came to be in this state.” After a glance at the shackle-marred wrist Crandall placed his hands on a quivering leg and ran it up and down.
“I fear this might be tetanic. What is beneath the poultices?”
Sarah met his gaze with worried puzzlement. “I am not certain. The soles have many deliberate cuts, some quite fresh. His ankles are badly bruised. Brady thinks a stock was used. You see the state of his wrists.”
Lifting a limp hand, Crandall turned it over. “Metal shackles,” he said under his breath. “They held them above his head from the look of the scrapes and cuts.” The doctor continued his examination. “Where was he found?”
“I found him on the way home from Lewes. Brady believes he crawled from the Peterson place. I told him to check the house in the morn and fetch Squire Buckley.”
“Has this man said anything?”
Sarah shrank from the memory of the savage moans. “No.”
Crandall laid his ear against the man’s chest. Then he motioned for Cob to lift him and pressed an ear to his back. When he finished, the doctor withdrew three vials from his surgical case. “I know you will not be persuaded to let me move the fellow,” he said. “There are signs of tetanus. Even granting that his lungs were healthy before he fell into the hands of whoever did this, pneumonia is likely.”
The corners of his full mouth twisted upward. “I shall not waste time for either of us. You know the amount and frequency of these medicines. Now let me help change the poultices so I know just with what I deal.”
* * *
April 6th Thursday
An odd rasp daubed at Hadleigh’s consciousness. Distressed. Disturbed. He moved. Pain shot through him.
Again that ugly rasp. Hadleigh opened his eyes and his gaze lit on hands. It locked onto the stone and the straight edge they held. He tried to move but could not and watched the blade’s awful glide down the whetstone.
Hadleigh tried to protest. As his cry gurgled free he saw the straight edge arc out of the hand.
Then gentle fingers held his face. A hint of wild jasmine wafted over him. Large dark gold-flecked brown eyes—a woman’s eyes filled with concern—pleaded for understanding.
“No,” Sarah said as firmly as possible under the scorching dread in the steel grey eyes. “You are safe,” she assured as he sank back into unconsciousness.
Standing behind her, the retrieved razor in hand, Brady apologized. “Didn’t mean noo harm, me lady.”
An unusual surge of anger warned Sarah that the stranger had become too dear to her. She shrugged the thought aside and motioned. “Did you not think of them?”
“His feet,” Brady said dumbly looking at their wrappings. He went axle stiff. “I did na mean—”
“I know,” Sarah said. She now remembered that her patient’s face had felt overly warm. She saw sweat beaded on his brow. “Please get Molly and fresh cold water.”
At the end of a very long morning Sarah thanked Molly and Cob for their help. She asked them to watch the patient and call if there was any change. She motioned Brady to come with her as she left the salon.
Darton, the sixty-year-old butler who had served her husband since before his first marriage, halted her just outside its doors. “My lady, Squire Buckley has arrived. I placed him in the Chipped Pitcher Salon.”
“‘Bout time,” Brady said, syllables heavy with sarcasm. “The Squire bein’ so busy and all doin’—”
“I shall see the magistrate, shortly,” Sarah interrupted Brady to tell Darton. “Please take him a tray of his favourite cakes,” she instructed the butler.
“Odds be he’ll know no more than I told ye,” Brady blustered. “He won’t know who this man be or anythin’ else. Sir always said Buckley was the greatest buffon—”
At the small shake of her head he hunched his shoulders and fell silent. When Darton left them Brady said, “Cob and me don’t b’long inside, m’lady. We know horses and such—”
“I know,” Sarah said kindly. “I thank you for your help.” She worked her jaw as she thought of the days ahead. “Something must be done.” Sarah turned an inquiring smile on her coachman.
“Did Cook say something about Farmer Cauley’s brother being home to visit?”
“Bob Cauley? Aye, seen him in Lewes. Right pulled down at losing his major. Brought the body home from the Peninsula.”
“Did he say if he had plans?”
“I fadge he’ll be goin’ back to the army. Said his term’s up but he don’t know no other life.”
“Please find Mr. Cauley,” Sarah instructed. “Ask him to call on me. Mr. Crandall should call within the hour so later this afternoon—any time then will do.”
“M’lady,” Brady began dubiously, “he’s a soldier.”
“Exactly,” she dismissed him.
When Sarah entered the salon, Squire Buckley released the lemon square he in his hand and heaved his bulky frame upright. “Lady Edgerton. Sorry to disturb.”
Barely touching his proffered puffy hand, Sarah murmured, “Good morning,” and withdrew hers. “Do be seated,” she invited as she did. Seeing the plate of lemon squares half empty, she stifled a smile and set her features into calm inquiry.
“What news do you have for me, sir?”
Buckley squared his bulky shoulders and fingered the large gold buttons on his old-fashioned waistcoat. “Something havy-cavy about the business at the Peterson place,” he began.
“Good of you to take in the man but really, my lady, he may be worse than a thief,” the squire reproved. “A decent man wouldn’t get himself clapped up like a common criminal.”
“Do you know anything of the matter, sir? Who he may be or who the persons are who did this to him?”
“Well, as to who he is. There is no way to learn that if he cannot tell us,” he explained with a wave of his hand.
“The men who did this to him?”
The squire tugged at his neck cloth’s knot. “Brady said he told you what was found at Peterson’s,” he said brusquely. “Not something to speak to a lady about.”
“I am a lady but by Sir Rufus’ grace only,” Sarah cajoled. “Merely Mr. Leonard’s daughter. Death has been spoken of many times in my presence,” she added. “The men at Peterson’s with their throats slashed may have tortured the gentleman but he could not have, in any case, cut their throats. Who were they?”
“They aren’t from our distr
ict,” Buckley said thankfully. “Bad blood from Kent or mayhaps London.”
Biting back a retort, Sarah persevered. “What of the man who rented Peterson’s?”
“It was let by a solicitor in London. I’ve written for details,” he hastened to add, then leaned forward triumphant. “Jim at the White Hart told me that he went by Mr. George.”
“How long was this George in Lewes? What was his business?”
“My lady, you mustn’t trouble over such things. The matter is in hand.” Squire Buckley hauled himself out of the chair. “You’d best spend your time ridding yourself of that encumbrance.” He gave her shoulder a paternal pat. “You’ve too good a heart,” he said as he palmed two lemon squares.
“I’ve warned people not to talk to strangers about the matter. No telling what that would bring to your door.”
Sarah swallowed her annoyance with practiced ease. “Please call if you garner any other information.”
* * *
Bob Cauley watched Sarah, Lady Edgerton, work in her stillroom. He had heard about her from his brother’s family. He saw a plump woman past the age of youth. Her hands were purposeful as she poured a decoction into dark bottles.
His brother’s wife had praised and nattered on about the baronet’s wife. Lady Edgerton was a physician’s daughter. She was skilled with herbal remedies and unstinting in her care of the people in the district. But Lady Edgerton, his brother’s wife had insisted cynically, had done well to snatch up Sir Edgerton upon her father’s death.
“Good afternoon.”
The greeting caught Cauley by surprise as did her direct gaze. It was kind but piercing. “Good afternoon, m’lady,” he said sheepishly. He squared his shoulders. “I be Bob Cauley.”
Sarah tightened the stoppers in the dark bottles and placed one in a cabinet. She did not appear surprised when Cauley handed her the others. “Thank you, Mr. Cauley.” She met his brown-eyed gaze, assessing him. She closed the cabinet door and walked around him. “Please follow me.”
In the long walking hall on the south side of the house Cauley remained standing when Lady Edgerton took a seat.
