At Long Last
Page 11
The Tidmores, Ann and Thomas, were related to several members of the staff at Highview and had, like the others, followed the Montgomery family from England. Having watched Arabella and the younger Montgomerys grow up, there was a degree of intimacy between them that was not usually found between master and servant.
When Arabella explained that her stay would be a lengthy one, Ann Tidmore, her sweet, round face alight with pleasure, exclaimed, "Oh, miss! I am so happy to hear you say so. Thomas and I have long thought that it would be the best thing for you to have the ordering of your own household."
"Indeed, miss, we were talking of it only the other day." A spark lit Thomas's gray eyes, his short, wiry form almost quivering with excitement. "Will you be expanding the staff, miss? Mrs. Tidmore has long had her eye on a strapping young woman she'd like to hire as cook, and I know of at least half a dozen slaves who are wasted in the fields; they would make excellent house servants. Shall we see to it?"
Arabella smiled at them fondly. Ann Tidmore had been her grandfather's housekeeper for a number of years before his death, and Thomas, his butler. As their gray hair and lined faces testified, neither was a day under sixty-five, and she had left them at Greenleigh more as a form of semiretirement than anything else. Yet she sensed that they were eager to expand their duties, and while she had considered hiring other staff to replace them and to settle them in a nice little cottage of their own on the plantation, the expressions on their faces put that thought instantly from her mind.
"Er, yes, if you would not mind?"
"Mind? Bless my soul, child, it will be a pleasure!" said Thomas Tidmore. "The missus and I were nigh to dying of boredom with just the two of us rattling around in this place together. Our only pleasure was the spring and fall cleaning, when we had a proper staff in residence for a few weeks."
"I see," Arabella said teasingly, "that I have used you shamefully. Go. Go and find all the servants you think that we will need."
The afternoon was a busy.one. Mrs. Tidmore insisted that Arabella eat a nice little meal she prepared for her; she had hardly finished her repast, when her clothing and maid arrived from Highview. After selecting a room for herself and seeing to the placement of clothes and other personal articles, nothing would do but she allow the Tidmores to take her on an inspection of the house and grounds. They had kept the house in immaculate condition and were rightfully proud of their work. By the time Arabella had viewed everything from the attics to the kitchen and the cavernous storerooms, darkness had fallen. She was longing for her bed, but Mrs. Tidmore tempted her to eat a bit of broth and a nice ham sandwich before she retired for the night.
While she had stayed often at Greenleigh, and the bed in which she lay was certainly comfortable, she had trouble falling asleep that night. It seemed incredible that it had been only the previous morning when Jeremy had dropped his fireball at her feet and her world had turned topsy-turvy. So much had happened since then, but more alarming—in less than forty-eight hours, she was going to become Tony Daggett's mistress!
Arabella wrenched her mind away from that fact and concentrated on trying to fall asleep. But her mind was too full of everything that had transpired, not the least her removal to Greenleigh. She had always been happy at Highview; it had been her home, but even after just a few hours at Greenleigh, she sensed the difference. Highview actually belonged to Jeremy. It had been her father and Mary's home. Greenleigh was hers alone.
For the first time in her life, she would be able to please only herself when she made decisions; she did not have to consider or consult with anyone else no matter what she decided to do with the place. A little giggle shook her. Why, she could paint the place with stripes and no one would argue with her. Perhaps, she thought sleepily, there were advantages to having one's own household.
Despite being certain that she would not sleep a wink, Arabella fell asleep, her mind filled with the notion of making Greenleigh her home permanently. How long she slept, she never knew. She only knew that she woke terrified.
Her heart was pounding, her breathing labored, and it took a moment for her to get her bearings, to remember that she was at Greenleigh. Then to her horror she became aware of the heavy weight on the bed next to her and the soft, whispery breathing of another person. Another person lying beside her. Her mouth opened to scream, but a hard, brutal hand clamped her lips shut.
"None of that," murmured a voice, a man's voice she didn't recognize. "Keep quiet and nothing will happen to you." She felt the prick of a knife at her throat. "I believe," went on the voice silkily, "that you have something of mine. I want it back."
Chapter 8
Her heart banging like a war drum, Arabella lay frozen, unbearably conscious of the knife at her throat. Her mind worked frantically, trying to make sense of what the man had said. She had something of his? What? And what was so compelling about the object that he couldn't have simply asked for its return?
"Now then," said the man, "I am only going to ask you once for its return. You tell me where it is, and as soon as I lay my hands on it we're quits. Play clever with me, and you'll regret it." She felt the knife prick her throat just a little. "Understand?"
Arabella nodded, terror rising through her. She had no idea what he was talking about, and it didn't appear that he was going to believe her if she said so.
Lying beside her on the bed and feeling her nod in the darkness, the intruder smiled to himself. It had been risky for him to do this, but he had decided that it was riskier still to think that the letter would simply vanish. He'd thought that once and damned if it hadn't resurfaced and given him a leveler he wasn't likely to forget. He'd taken care of Leyton, but it still gave him an unpleasant feeling whenever he thought of how helpless he had felt when Leyton had first tried to blackmail him. He had to find the letter and, this time, make certain that it was destroyed.
He was positive that Arabella had the letter even if she didn't know it; Leyton's aborted attempt at robbery had convinced him of that. Besides, he'd not found it during a thorough search of Leyton's things. He didn't believe that Arabella was a danger to him, even if she read the letter. If she were the only one he had to worry about, he would have let the matter rest. It was the fear of Tony's seeing the letter that motivated him. Arabella might not make the connection, but Tony undoubtedly would. His smile faded as he considered what that could mean: All his patient waiting and scheming would have been for naught.
Softly, he asked, "Now where is it?"
Arabella swallowed again. "You must believe me," she implored. "I swear to you, I do not know what it is that you seek."
He was silent as he turned her words over in his mind. She could be telling the truth. For a moment, he wondered if he had been mistaken. It was possible that she didn't have the letter, that Leyton had hidden it somewhere else, but he dismissed that idea. She had to have it—he was convinced of it. But there was a reasonable explanation for her denial. He wasn't certain how she had gained possession of the letter, so it was conceivable that she had not found it yet. Then again, she could be lying. So which was it? Truth or lie?
As her first terror ebbed and Arabella began to think more clearly, there was one thing she had determined upon; she had no plans simply to lie there and be slaughtered like a sheep. She lay stiff and unmoving beneath his knife, desperately seeking a way to defend herself. But search her mind as she might, no brilliant thought came to her, until with a leap of her heart, she remembered the heavy glass pitcher filled with water that was sitting on the small table next to her bed. Mrs. Tidmore, bless her! had pressed it and a glass upon her when she had retired in case she should become thirsty during the night.
Surreptitiously Arabella slid one arm toward the table and the precious pitcher. Second by second, inch by inch, her questing fingers grew nearer their goal.
The man sighed suddenly, and Arabella froze.
"I find myself," he admitted, "in a most peculiar position. If what you say is true, I have wasted my time.
However, it is also possible that you are lying. But my real problem is what to do with you now that we have had this little conversation. I could, I suppose, take you some place private and make certain that you are telling the truth."
The knife slid stingingly along the side of her throat, and Arabella felt the warm wash of blood flowing in its wake. There was a roaring in her ears and she was conscious of a great rage welling up inside of her. He had cut her! How dare the cowardly scoundrel treat her thus! How dare he!
Unaware of the fury building within Arabella, the man sighed again. "This is becoming so much messier than I expected," he said more to himself than Arabella. Unfortunately, I am afraid that I cannot take your word for it, my dear—you'll have to come with me. We can, er, talk more easily away from here."
Arabella had no intention of going anywhere with him, especially since she had a very good idea he did not intend for her ever to return... alive. She concentrated on laying her hands on the only weapon available, the heavy glass pitcher.
More to give herself time in which to reach the pitcher than because she was interested in what he was saying, Arabella asked, "What do you mean?"
Confident that she was thoroughly cowed, he lessened the pressure of the knife against her throat, and said, "I mean, my pretty, that whether you know what I am talking about or not, you now know too much. It was, I realize, a mistake coming here like this, but it is a mistake that I can easily rectify. So come along and don't give me any trouble."
Arabella barely heard him. With the knife no longer touching her, she concentrated on getting her fingers around the handle of the pitcher. To move was dangerous, but she sensed the moment to strike was then or never—and at that moment her fingers brushed the pitcher.
There was no time for finesse. She reared up, the pitcher in her hand, and swinging wildly, she cracked it savagely against the side of his head. The knife slashed viciously, but missed its target, and her assailant fell back groaning.
Soaked by the water that sloshed out of the pitcher, Arabella shoved away his heavy form. She scrambled from the bed and flew across the room to the door. Half-sobbing, she flung open the door and ran into the main upper hall. She took a deep breath and screamed like a banshee. It was quite a satisfying sound.
Down the stairs she stumbled, fright now that she was free mingling with the fury that churned in her breast. Braced to feel the hand of her assailant closing around her, she fled pell-mell, her feet barely touching every third step. Never stopping her headlong rush, the moment she hit the entrance hallway of the first floor, she sprinted off in the direction of the Tidmores' rooms, shouting at the top of her voice. This was no time to worry about dignity.
The blessed sound of anxious voices and the flicker of light came to her and a moment later she was clasped against Mrs. Tidmore's bosom.
"There, there, lovey," soothed Mrs. Tidmore. "Whatever is the matter?"
"A man," Arabella gasped. "There is a man in my bedroom—he was going to kill me!"
"Never say so!" exclaimed Mr. Tidmore, his expression shocked, as he held his candle higher to get a closer look at Arabella.
"It's true, I tell you!" Arabella insisted, her eyes huge with fear. "He had a knife at my throat."
Mrs. Tidmore smothered a shriek, her eyes widening as she took a second look at Arabella. Arabella's gown was wet and stained unmistakably with blood. Along her neck there was a thin, terrifying gash.
It took a bit for the Tidmores to assure themselves that Arabella was not fatally wounded. The wound was surface, hardly a scratch, but it bled profusely and when mixed with the water from the pitcher it looked like there was much more blood than there actually was. Mrs. Tidmore was all for cleaning and caring for the wound immediately, but Arabella impatiently brushed aside her concerns.
"I am not going to die, or even faint," she muttered, touched by their concern, but aware that the seconds were fleeing—as was, no doubt, her assailant. "It is the veriest scratch, and in the meantime, the devil that did this to me is getting away. There is not a moment to lose."
Seconds later, an old-fashioned flintlock rifle held tightly in his hands, Mr. Tidmore began a stealthy climb to Arabella's bedroom. He was closely followed by Arabella, who carried a lamp in one hand and one of her grandfather's dueling pistols in the other. After Arabella came Mrs. Tidmore, a solid maple rolling pin gripped menacingly in her hand. Pressing close in the rear was Arabella's maid, Martha, also carrying a lamp, and crowded behind her were the two young housemaids who slept in the house.
Throwing wide the door to Arabella's room, Mr. Tidmore called out, "Come out. Come out or I shall shoot."
Silence greeted his words. Motioning Arabella to cast the light of her lamp fully into the room, they slowly crept forward.
"He's gone!" Arabella cried with dismay, when a swift search of the room revealed no hidden assailant. The wide-open French doors that led out to the upstairs veranda showed his avenue of escape.
"That may be," replied Mr. Tidmore grimly, "but he left behind his little toy."
The "toy" was a wickedly curved knife of fearful size. Staring at the long, gleaming blade in the candlelight, and remembering the feel of it against her throat, Arabella shuddered.
The crisis over, Mrs. Tidmore put down her rolling pin and set the girls to changing the soaked bedding. Clucking to herself, she picked up the empty pitcher, which miraculously had not broken. "There is a smear of blood on the rim. You must have struck him soundly."
"Not soundly enough," Arabella half snarled as she slipped a yellow-cotton wrapper over her damp nightgown.
Further inspection of the room revealed no more clues, and a search through the rest of the house and the grounds turned up nothing new. Having sent the other servants off to their beds, the Tidmores and Arabella settled comfortably in the Tidmores' neat little parlor at the rear of the house.
Arabella's wound had been tended to Mrs. Tidmore's satisfaction and, in view of the circumstances, Mr. Tidmore had broken out a bottle of brandy laid down by Arabella's grandfather over a decade earlier. All of them were partaking.
As the liquor slid warmly down her throat and settled comfortably in her stomach, Arabella felt the last vestiges of fear and fury dissipate. Besides, it was difficult to feel the least fearful sitting in the Tidmore's cozy parlor with the pair of them happily sipping their brandies just as if this were a normal evening ritual. But it wasn't.
After a moment, Arabella looked across at Mr. Tidmore, and said, "At first light, I want you to select four of the stoutest men we have and, until I say differently, have them patrol the exterior of the house during the hours of darkness." Her fine mouth tightened. "I do not want to wake up and find a stranger with a knife in my bed again." She made a face. "Anyone with a knife."
"I just don't understand it," Mrs. Tidmore said anxiously, her ruffled nightcap slightly askew. "We've never had such an incident before. Why, I've never heard of anything like this happening to anyone we know. If it weren't for that knife we found on your bed and the wound on your neck, I would think you had a bad dream."
"It was no dream," Arabella replied grimly. "But like you, I find it inconceivable that such a thing could happen. I would much prefer that it had been simply a nightmare."
Mr. Tidmore shook his gray head unhappily. "Makes my blood boil, it does, to think that a respectable young lady like Miss Arabella can't even sleep safely in her own bed! Shocking."
"I just can't understand what he was after," mused Mrs. Tidmore. "If he was just a common thief, why did he attack you?"
Arabella shook her bright head. She had not told the Tidmores everything. Until she had time to think things through, it had seemed wiser to keep quiet about the fact that the intruder had been after something that belonged to him, an item he'd been convinced that she possessed. Better to let them think it had been just a queer happenstance.
"I have no idea why he acted as he did," Arabella finally said. "I am only happy that I managed to escape."
There was no question of Arabella's returning to the bedroom where the attack had taken place. Despite her brave front she found herself, at least for that night, uneasy at sleeping alone on the upper floor. Taking a few quilts from a protesting Mrs. Tidmore, she waved them away and proceeded to make herself a bed on the sofa in the main saloon.
Sleep took a while in coming to Arabella. Her nerves were jangled and taut and for several minutes after the Tidmores had departed and the house began to settle back down, she started at every sound. Her grandfather's dueling pistol lay by her side, and she took comfort from its solid presence. Next time, if there ever was a next time, she would have an unpleasant surprise for anyone who thought to attack her while she slept.
Eventually she did sleep, though it was broken and restless, and she woke at first light and, for the second morning in a row, out of sorts. However, having enjoyed a relaxing bath and a tasty breakfast, and having been petted and fussed over by Mrs. Tidmore and Martha, she was feeling much more herself. She was even able to dismiss Martha's concerns about the attack the night before.
"The man must have been mad," Arabella said calmly. "I can think of no other reason for what happened. And you needn't worry that it shall happen again—Tidmore has arranged for the house to be watched at night. Put it from your mind. I have." Which was not strictly true, but the explanation seemed to satisfy Martha. And following her own advice, Arabella did not allow herself to think overmuch about what had happened. But despite her best efforts, the incident nagged, lurking all the while at the back of her mind as she went about the day.