by Tessa Candle
Lydia dug her gloved fingers into the leather saddle strap, as best she could. She dared not further attempt escape lest she fall off and break her neck. Her skull jounced back and forth with the motion. Blood rushed into her head in a dizzying torrent. In a few minutes, they were slowing. Spots swam in Lydia's vision, but she could make out a covered carriage at the edge of the park. It bore no markings.
This had to be Delacroix's work. She would claw his face bloody if he tried to touch her. In fact, as soon as her feet touched the ground someone was going to get a proper beating.
Probably anticipating her thoughts, the other man dismounted first and pulled her off of the horse, so that she only got one badly aimed swing in, before her arms were pinned. One of them was pinching her nose, so that she was forced to breathe orally as she struggled.
She turned her head this way and that to avoid the bottle that her assailant was tipping into her mouth. More of the fluid landed on her face than made it past her lips, but the man then forced her mouth shut and held it. She was suffocating, but she would not swallow. She would not.
“Ijit. Let 'er nose be.” The other man released her nose, and grabbed her with both arms.
“Won't be but a few moments. She'll swallow.”
It might be better to play faint. Perhaps they would let their guards down and slacken their grips. She willed herself to relax her body and closed her eyes. The man holding her now had to support all of her weight. He did not set her down however.
The hoof beats of someone fast approaching on horseback were just audible, but she dared not look. Suddenly she felt it easier to relax. The drug must be affecting her, though she still held it in her mouth.
“Get 'er to the rig!”
The two men carried her, one still clamping her mouth shut. She heard the sounds of punching and a struggle. She opened her eyes just as she was dropped. The sudden jar caused her to swallow involuntarily. She cursed herself for this.
Her eyes were already a little heavy. She was feeling a bit more relaxed than she ought in the circumstances, but she could still make out the back of a man. He was tall and strong, and was tying a pretty good beating on one of the two men who had attacked her.
She tried to stand and assist in the fight. Her first grapple missed badly. One of the men elbowed her in the stomach, which threw her back onto the ground. She tried to stand again, but her body would no longer even sit up right. She lay on the grass and watched with a strange detachment.
The other miscreant tried to escape, but was engaged by Mr. DeGroen and Mr. Ravelsham, who had just arrived. She thought the man fighting nearest her was familiar, but she could not say exactly how. She tried to focus her memory, but recollection evaded her.
She caught a view of the side of his face. Yes, she certainly knew him, but from where? It was Mr. Rutherford. Of course. It felt nice to be rescued, and he was rather handsome. She smiled. Quite comforting, really. Like everything was going to be fine. In fact, the men had things well in hand, so she might just as well have a little nap.
She felt a sudden grasp on the back of her dress. Rough hands hoisted her up and dragged her backward toward the carriage. She tried in vain to gather her legs underneath of her. Then came the thump on the head.
Chapter 19
“Good Lord, she is in that carriage!” Rutherford gave a final swing and knocked his adversary senseless.
The other villain, who was restrained by Mr. DeGroen and Mr. Ravelsham, laughed.
“You are lucky I have not time to attend to you, too.” Rutherford leapt onto his horse and called out to the others, “I shall send word as soon as I can.” And he rode off after the carriage.
Keeping pace was no trouble at all, but Rutherford could only follow them. He cursed himself for not bringing a gun. And yet, who comes armed for a ride in the park? The whole situation was preposterous. It was unthinkable and outrageous conduct.
If he had a gun he might be tempted to ride past the carriage and shoot Delacroix in the face. For it must be Delacroix. A whip would be more satisfying, but he supposed that neither would help the situation.
Miss Norwood's reputation was already in serious peril. If word of the abduction got out, she would be ruined.
Still, he would not let anything happen to her person. If only there were a way of getting word to Aldley, but he was on the continent. With any luck, he would return home in a few days. But in the meantime, Rutherford would have to deal with the situation himself.
Rutherford rode hard for an hour, before the carriage in front of him made a sudden right turn, almost tipping over in the process. It turned onto a smaller road, and the carriage had to slow down to navigate.
Fortunately he had just decided to slow his horse's pace, and leave some distance before him, when he saw a head and arm appear out of the carriage window. Rutherford realized too late that he was staring down the barrel of a pistol. He felt an amused sense of incredulity when the shot rang out.
Chapter 20
Lydia was still groggy when she opened her eyes, but her first vision was a man crowding her in order to lean out a window.
She could feel the jouncing motion of a carriage. He smelled of whiskey and smoke and sweat, and her throat clenched with revulsion at the stink of him. A loud bang and the smell of gunpowder brought her around.
“What on earth are you doing?” she shouted.
The man sat down next to her, re-holstering his pistol. It was Delacroix. “I am terribly sorry my dear. Just shooting some vermin.”
“Where am I?” Lydia put her hand to her head, as though that might steady her vision.
“I think the better question is, where was I?” He leered at her. “Ah yes. Your bodice.”
She looked down and found herself in the early stages of being undressed. Her outer dress was completely loose around her. Only her undergarments remained in place. He reached for her again. She swung at his face. It was a weak blow, but she scratched his cheek. “Do not touch me, you filthy pig!”
He leaned back and pulled out a knife. “Really, my darling, I thought you were smarter than this.”
“I am not your darling.” Her eyes were getting heavy again. She fought to keep them open. How could she ever have thought this man handsome? He was utterly revolting, his teeth yellow, his clothing heavily stained and his hair slithering about in greasy coils.
“Surely you understand that you have lost. You cannot possibly evade me now. Look at you, you can barely remain sensible. If you continue to struggle, you will only be hurt. I do not want to scar you.” He brandished the blade with a smile that suggested he would enjoy using it.
“But believe me I shall, if it is necessary. Or,” he leaned in and traced the blade lightly over the skin of her chest, “you can just lie back and enjoy it. I can be very gentle, dearest. I shall not hold your conduct at our last meeting against you.”
She clenched her jaw to stifle an impolitic reply.
His breath reeked of drink. How drunk was he? The gun was in a holster at his side, but it was a single shot pistol and he had not reloaded it. She dismissed any thought of using it on him.
Her thoughts were still scrambled, but the effects of the drug were starting to wear off. She wondered whom he had been shooting at. It must be one of her friends come to rescue her, surely.
“That is better. Relax.”
Just then she became aware of a horse approaching close to the carriage. Delacroix was fiddling with his clothing and appeared not to notice. But he snapped to when he heard the sound of someone landing on the back of the vehicle, and scrambling up on to the roof, which made alarming cracking noises.
He cursed and re-fastened his attire. The carriage slowed and there were sounds of struggle. Then the carriage stopped.
Delacroix, still cursing, moved to exit the carriage by the right door. Lydia grabbed the handle and flung the left door open.
Delacroix turned back, and grabbed her dress. “No, no, my little flaming beauty. You stay
here. I shall not be long, then I'll give you the full measure in your hot little—”
Lydia dove forward and slipped out of her loose outer garment, leaving him holding her dress, as she rolled from the carriage. She landed in a muddy ditch wearing nothing but her undergarments. But she was free. She had a sensible pair of boots on, so she made quick use of them.
Her legs were still wobbly, but she ran to the nearest tall tree with sturdy looking branches. It would not be the easiest climb of her life, but she was motivated. She thought she heard Delacroix behind her, but she didn't turn.
Heaving herself up to grab the lowest branch, she used her legs to walk herself close enough to swing one leg over, then paused in this ridiculous position to regain her balance.
Every moment she expected to feel rough hands upon her, pulling her back down from behind. But she remained unimpeded, so she hoisted herself up and balanced on the branch carefully, for she did not yet trust her limbs, then reached for the next.
Lydia discovered, when she was well up the tree and dared to take a look below, that Delacroix was not behind her, nor anywhere near the tree. Her limbs were shaking as she climbed around to position herself for a better view of the road.
She could not see the men, but she could hear the sounds of fighting. She climbed a little higher, until she could see over the carriage. Delacroix and Rutherford were at blows. Despite his drunken state, Delacroix appeared to be holding his own.
Then Lydia saw the blood seeping out of Rutherford's arm. She should never have run away. She should have stayed and helped him fight. And now she was halfway up a tree, hiding like a coward.
There was movement at the front of the vehicle. The driver, who had been lying in a heap on the ground, stood up and rubbed his jaw. He stumbled to his seat at the front of the carriage. Lydia thought for a moment that he might simply drive away.
Instead he seemed to be rummaging for something. She strained to see what he was doing. Her breath caught in her throat. He was holding a pistol.
The other two men didn't notice the driver. Rutherford fell back as Delacroix kicked him in the chest, then scrambled to retrieve his blade from the ground. She was sure they would murder Mr. Rutherford one way or the other.
She had to help. She began to climb down, but froze when she saw Delacroix lunge at Rutherford with the knife, just as a shot rang out. Both Rutherford and Delacroix fell to the ground. She gasped.
The driver stumbled back to Delacroix. He rolled the two men apart. Rutherford did not move. He was covered in blood. The driver tried to rouse Delacroix, to no avail. He hobbled back to the carriage, hopped into the seat and whipped the horses into motion, leaving Mr. Rutherford and Delacroix behind in the dirt.
Shaking, Lydia climbed down so fast she almost pitched out of the tree on her head. Her limbs were scraped, bruised and bleeding. She was shivering with cold and fear when she reached the ground, but she could only think of Rutherford, lying there in the dirt, covered in his own blood.
She ran as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her to the man who had tried to rescue her and was lying there dying alone. If he were not already dead.
She reached Delacroix first. His body lifelessly still and covered in blood. His own man must have shot him. Good riddance. She rushed past to kneel beside Rutherford, looking for some sign of life.
“Mr. Rutherford?” She tore open his blood soaked shirt. There were no wounds to his lower chest or stomach. Perhaps some of the blood on his clothing belonged to Delacroix.
She bent her ear to his lips. A surge of relief went through her when she felt a faint breath on her cheek. “Oh thank heavens!” Throwing propriety to the wind, she pulled him gently into her arms. “I do not know how I could live with myself if you died. Please hold on. You just stay alive, Mr. Rutherford.”
A further search revealed an injury to his left arm—it looked shallow, a grazing wound. It had bled a lot, but seemed to have clotted. His right shoulder had a deep, angry-looking wound that was still bleeding heavily.
She had read enough medical literature to know that sudden blood loss could render a man senseless. She had to bandage him and get him somewhere warm. But there was no carriage.
Lydia looked around. Her garments still lay in the dirt where Delacroix had discarded them. She tore a few strips from her already tattered underskirt, then quickly dressed herself.
She tended to Mr. Rutherford's wounded shoulder as best she could. She packed it with moss from the trees, as Ole Maeb had showed her, and wrapped the strips of cloth around his shoulder to put pressure on the wound.
She struggled to shift his heavy torso and dragged him over to prop him up against Delacroix's body. It was still warm and would keep Rutherford's shoulder out of the dirt. It might not help very much, but it was something, at least.
Lydia surveyed her inexpert work without optimism. The sound of horse hooves filled her heart with hope. She turned to see that it was not a rider come to her assistance, but a lone chestnut stallion trotting toward her. Of course. Lydia cursed herself for a fool. She had forgotten that Mr. Rutherford had followed them on horseback.
The horse lowered his head and nuzzled Mr. Rutherford's hair.
“Well, my friend.” Lydia stood up and introduced herself, stroking his neck and scratching his ears. “Will you help me save your master?”
The problem was, Rutherford was too big to hoist onto the horse's back. Furthermore, she had no idea where in all of the English countryside they were.
Chapter 21
Tilly surveyed the landscape as it crept by the carriage window. It was slow going, following the hounds and trying to be inconspicuous about it.
Smythe, Rutherford's butler—and, he assured Tilly, also his closest servant and valet—had insisted on accompanying them. In fact, he had refused the use of the dogs unless he came along, as well. It made the carriages more crowded, but Miss Ravelsham, after some consideration, thought that having some extra domestic servants along might not be a bad thing.
Whatever they did, it had to be plausible. Servants almost always aided plausibility.
They had the advantage of knowing which road out of London Rutherford had taken in pursuit of the carriage. But after they were out of the city environs, there were plenty of side roads that might be taken. So they had brought out the dogs, and plodded along behind them with the curtains half drawn so that any curious persons that might pass could not identify them.
It was a preposterous way to spend a Thursday afternoon, and Tilly would be fully enjoying absurdity of it, were it not for her concern for Lydia. She shuddered to think what might be happening to her friend even now, while they crept along at a maddeningly slow pace behind Rutherford's huntsman, who handled the dogs.
At least they seemed to know where they were going, for Rutherford had taken his own horse, and the dogs knew the scent well. Tilly thanked the heavens that he brought his dogs with him to London, and happened to mention it when Lydia introduced them at Hatchard's.
It was a large coach, but they were crammed in tightly. Mr. and Mrs. Norwood sat across from her, next to her brother. Tilly sat with Mr. DeGroen and Smythe, who claimed he could not possibly fit into the servants' carriage, and who clearly had an elevated sense of his own dignity.
The strange combination of tension and boredom was maddening, and Tilly was just about to risk looking frivolous by suggesting a game of whist, when she felt the carriage turning sharply onto another road. Relieved for the possibility of progress, she looked out the window again.
“I believe this is the road to Dunston Hall, is it not, brother?”
Frederick shrugged. “I am afraid you know more about such things than I, Tilly.”
“I believe Dunston is in this general direction, as I recall hearing it from Mrs. Delacroix. It is not ten miles from our own estate, though we are not acquainted with the Viscount.” Mrs. Norwood's face looked drawn.
“You mean the estate of her elder son, the viscount? Yes, I belie
ve you are right. I suppose that is a hopeful sign that we are on the right path.” Despite these optimistic words, there was a deep grief and anxiety in Mr. Norwood's eyes. He clearly felt even worse than Tilly did.
The carriage slowed and stopped. Tilly opened the door and stepped out to see what was happening, then gasped at the sight. They had found Lydia. She stood, totally dishevelled, in the middle of the roadway, holding the reins of Rutherford's horse. She was pale and bleeding, in torn and dirty clothing.
Tilly ran to her friend, who was already being wrapped in a cloak by the huntsman.
“Lydia, thank God you are safe!” She pulled her friend close and hugged her tightly, then stood aside to allow Lydia's father and mother to do the same.
“Never mind me. We have to get Mr. Rutherford somewhere warm and fetch a doctor immediately. He has been gravely injured.” Lydia patted the horse, affectionately. “And somebody get this darling half a dozen carrots and a good rub down. You lot only just arrived in time. I was running out of fabric to re-tie the sleigh and I had not the faintest idea where I was going.”
Sure enough, behind the horse, the groom and the huntsmen were carefully lifting Rutherford from a makeshift jumble of branches fastened together with strips of cloth from Tilly's habit. The whole thing had two longer poles attached to the saddle, so that the horse could pull it along the ground.
“That is a rather ingenious contraption.” Tilly could not believe that they had found them at last. Lydia was safe. Tilly blinked back her tears and shook her head to dispel her mawkishness. “But look, you are chilled. We shall talk later.”
After a quick conference, Mr. Norwood sent the huntsman and a groom back down the road to retrieve Mr. Delacroix's body and deliver it to the viscount at Dunston Hall. Then they made re-arrangements in the seating order within the carriage.
