by Suzi Love
Three more blasts followed at roughly three-minute intervals, until their upper floor swayed like a wind-blown child’s swing. With her eyes squeezed shut, she huddled in the haven of his body and thanked God for the strong arms enclosing her in a tight hug.
Several minutes passed, while they waited with bodies tensed for another blast, one that would send them hurtling to their doom.
“For propriety’s sake,” she whispered, breaking the nerve-wracking silence, “we must cease meeting this way.”
His face pressed into her hair and his chuckles vibrated through her. “Only you, pixie, could make jests. Most women would be screaming.”
“As soon as I catch my breath, I’ll try that.” He shifted his weight, allowed her to breathe a little easier. “Will screaming help?”
“Any noise is likely to get us killed. Whoever set those detonations will be waiting to check they left no one alive. But they didn’t think of the mezzanine, which was probably built later. A balcony with reinforced supports angled back to the wall.”
She wriggled under him, turned to look upwards. “So there’s possibly nothing left of this building except the boards we’re lying on?” He gave a tiny nod of agreement. “So we’re like Pacific islanders clinging to the only atoll the volcano didn’t blow up?” He gave her a strange look.
“At least there’ll be nowhere for the culprits to conceal themselves. They’ll be outside. Or long gone.”
“Someone will come. They’ll find us.”
“The problem is, friend or foe?” He’d moved so they lay side by side, wedged securely into the corner, and spoke more to himself than her. “Second problem? First blast here. Next closer to the door.”
She frowned, waited for him to explain his train of thought.
“Main destruction at rear, next blast to bring down walls. Then the storage crates, and set to give the men retreat time after each one.”
She gasped. “They knew! Knew we were here. Even if we survived the first explosion, they thought we’d perish in the rubble before anyone found us.”
“If you weren’t such a quick-witted female, I could feed you some Banbury tale about rescuers digging through to us.”
“I trust you to tell me no lies.”
The wood beneath them creaked, shuddered, and tilted to the left. She slid towards the steps, or at least where they’d been, and this time a scream escaped. She thrust out her hands and used her feet to stop her slide.
“Ouch!”
“What? “His question came from a little above her, his hand latching onto her ankle and pulling her back towards him.
“Splinters. Hetherington didn’t spend money on his office.”
“I suspect this warehouse was a meeting place for gatherings to convince working men into handing over their savings.’
“It seems awfully large for a meeting.”
He shuffled them along the floor, rested his back on the cabinet and pulled her against him.
“Hetherington’s other establishments revealed some information. Things your brothers wouldn’t share with ladies.” He cleared his throat. “Two or three larger localities, possibly in rotation, were used for gatherings of men. Plus twenty or thirty women to entertain them.”
“They entertained them here? In a draughty tin shed.”
“Hmmm. I imagine it warmed up quickly. The entertainers danced, flirted, flaunted, and curtained areas would have been for…as you call it… things.”
“Oh!”
“Anyone who refused to join their syndicates—”
“The sham syndicates?”
“Mmm. They blackmailed them. Letters were to be sent to wives, families, or to a tradesman’s clientele, disclosing their romps here with prostitutes. They forced every man to sign their ridiculous proposals, and ensured they asked no questions.”
“No wonder Lady Hetherington claimed credit. It was far too ingenious for her pretentious husband to have concocted.”
Deafening screeches had them covering their ears, pressing closer to each other. Their loft shuddered, broke apart, the far support bending and tipping them sideways, so they were no longer able to find purchase with hands or feet.
“Hang on.”
He laced his fingers behind her back as she flung her arms around his neck with clasped hands and they entwined their legs, faint protection against the jerks and squeals of timber and iron. But his arms remained, firm and unyielding, shielding her body, as gravity tossed them through the cavity which minutes before had led to steps. During their downwards twists and tumbles, she screamed, a full-throated scream of dismay, horror and fear.
With a bone-jarring jolt, they landed, bounced, mercifully on something soft and rolled and ended in a sprawled heap on packed dirt. Above them, any remaining supporting beams were tearing away from the wall, creating an incredible ruckus and, with sick dread, she waited for life to be crushed out of them. Waited for death to find them.
Another scream, perhaps hers, she didn’t know. Chaos erupted around them, a multitude of noises indicated crates splintering, chinaware smashing, as beams dropped on them. Richard grabbed her harder, rolled them over and over, and brought them to a thumping stop against a disrupted pile of crates. Pieces of wood still fell on their heads and again he flung his body, like a protective blanket, over her.
They huddled for several more minutes, listening to debris falling, scattering and finally settling around them, until the only part not a pile of rubble must surely be the semi-circle of crates sheltering them. Through it all, she was clutched to his chest, the hard pound of his heart matching hers. Their lungs labored in unison, sucking air from within their cocoon, rather than attempting to breathe dust-laden air from the echoing cavern beyond.
Richard groped in his pocket and pushed a scarf over her chin, silently urging her to cover her mouth as she sensed, rather than sighted him do the same.
His intent was clear. Try not to inhale more filth into their already aching lungs.
Again they waited, listened, tried to distinguish individual noises and the direction from which the last movements of settling timber came.
“We need—work—out—path—least—blocked—yes?”
Her question, hissed between pulls of air into her pained lungs, was more to reassure herself that the body wrapped tightly around her was alive, than from the need of a reply. Despite knowing his lungs worked, she needed a word. A murmur. A reassurance he lived. That he was not simply her companion, the male defending her, but him.
It was useless to deny it here, now. As she’d tumbled into black-nothingness, her immediate thought had been of him. For his safety. Of his life. Of preventing his death. Her oft-times confident, her recent support, her present salvation, the man whose presence in her life had begun to mean everything.
He pressed a finger to her lips, whispered, “We can’t move yet.”
She nodded. Too soon to stand. To look. To breathe dust-smothered air.
“Listen.”
At his command, she strained to hear what had alerted him. Gasped. Felt his hand smooth over her head, soothe her. Heard voices, near the entrance to the shed at a guess. Searchers moving through rubble between them and the doorway, checking in case they’d managed to avoid the first larger blast and had started to run to the door. Rough dockside voices echoed as they yelled to each other, giving instructions, complaining of the futility of their searching.
Richard edged them further into the corner, slowly lifted a timber slat and laid it across their opening, while she prayed the searchers couldn’t see any better than they could through this haze. Moonlight streaked across some sections now, allowed in through openings blown in the high roof, though thankfully for them the major part of the roof has remained intact. A blessed relief that only wide lines of light split the haze and highlighted the twinkling of dancing dust-particles.
Buried in their hideaway, she prayed they’d not be discovered, and gave thanks that if this was to be her last moments on earth
, she was spending them in Richard’s sure and steady arms.
“Stay still,” he whispered, his tone as always calm, reassuring, wonderful. “There’s too much dust to see us. Even if they come this far.” His grip tightened, as if expecting her reckless side to take over; expecting her to leap from cover and do something rash.
Many long, anxious minutes passed before the voices faded, minutes during which she clutched his hand as if she were drowning and he’d thrown her a rope. Hoping he’d excuse her lack of courage in this dark, and to her, terrifying place, as normal behavior from a gently-bred young lady. Her hand trembled and he squeezed them, passed on his strength, allowed her to recompose herself. To push back the roiling waves of nausea bringing bile to her throat. To concentrate on her companion and not on her abject terror of holes exactly like this one: small, dark, suffocating.
A scrape, a long screech, distracted her and indicated the warehouse door was being pushed closed. A clank, a slam, and hopefully the bar was being fastened across it. Please let it be so. Please let nobody have remained inside. He eased her into a sitting position beside him, leaning on a crate.
“Could you,” she said, adopting a sure tone, yet leaving her hand resting in his, “understand their conversations?”
“Yes, unfortunately.” He patted her hand. “They’re returning at daylight to look for bodies. After the dust settles.”
He made no move to stand, but, in contrast, her restless spirit saw her climbing to her knees after another few moments to look around.
“Don’t you want to see?” She peered down at him, mystified as to why he remained seated.”
“You can tell me.”
She reached down, grabbed his hand and tugged to encourage him. Although he pushed to his feet, he kept a light grip on her fingers and didn’t swivel his head, as he’d done when viewing the chaos. Fingers of fear crept up her spine. Gooseflesh broke out over her skin.
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“No need to worry. The first explosion blinded me. I’m sure it’s only temporary.”
She gasped. “The bright flash. That’s when it happened.”
“I imagine so. I smelled gunpowder. Glass shattered. Everything went black.”
She shook his arm. “Why? Why didn’t you say before?”
He shrugged. “You might have had a missish swoon over a minor wound. Might have cried out. Better to wait ‘til they left. You might have done, what your aunt calls, an ear-splitting-Loud-Laura-screech.”
She whacked his arm, her slap sounding much as a wet fish landing in a boat’s bottom.
“Ouch!”
She scowled, realized he couldn’t see her expression, longed to plant her palm across his cheek but in deference to his injury, attacked his arm again.
He tried to grasp her hand, missed, shuffled backwards. “Cease! I inform you I’m wounded, perhaps mortally, and you…” He rubbed at his arm. “Damn you, why are you hitting me?”
“I didn’t hurt you. Though I am furious. You know perfectly well I wouldn’t have taken any missish turn. Do you truly think me so dim-witted as to cry out and reveal our position to those roughs? Do you truly not trust me at all?”
“No, no. To the contrary. I thought, with your kind heart, you might have cried out in sympathy for my distress. Or thought to summon aid. In fact, I’m trusting in your indomitable spirit to locate our escape route.”
She hesitated. “Do you believe we can escape? Truly.”
“We must escape. Before daylight. Before no bodies are found. Before they question where they saw our lantern.”
“Even if we find a way out tonight, they’ll chase us.”
“No, I don’t think they realized who was trapped inside. More likely they were ordered to torch this building, then saw our lantern upstairs. Decided to kill three birds with five explosions, so to speak.”
“Goodness. I do hope you’re deductions are correct.”
She groped around their immediate area and uncovered some necessities: a half-tub of water she presumed the entertainers would have used for washing. Plucking up her courage, she sniffed.
“What are you doing?”
His voice showed his already-rising frustration with his role as bystander, while she portrayed the intrepid explorer.
“Smelling water.”
Silence, as she realized his agile mind would be working, that his others senses would be on high alert to compensate for being sightless.
“No rank smell?”
“Clean enough to bathe your eyes.”
As she spoke, she collected her make-shift remedy and cleared a small area in which to perform her medical treatments. She slipped into a natural rhythm, this healing coming as easily to her as speaking. Something her family teasingly told her she was an expert in. And she’d applied home-remedies a hundred times, probably a thousand, for family, friends and servants.
But this time was more important than any of those others, and she wished sincerely her knowledge was greater. Wished her knowledge of gunpowder was as extensive as her youngest brother’s, hoped her treatment would restore his eyesight, because she, of all people, understood how much Richard’s life depended on being able to see pages.
To see writing. To absorb the written word through his sight. She knew his secret fear, just as he knew hers.
“I’m nearly ready. I need to cleanse your eyes of any gun-powder residue, the sooner the better.”
Chapter Twelve
Richard slid down into position beside Laura, a small smile hovering around his mouth. If he had to be in this predicament, there was no one he’d prefer tending to him. Her skills as a home-healer were remarkable and he’d trust her with his life. Or in this case, his sight.
He heard cloth ripping and turned his head. “If my ears aren’t playing me false, you ripped your linen.”
“Just a frill from my petticoat. For a bandage.”
He tensed, forced himself to remain still. “Damnation. Of all the times to not to be able to see. To ease an injured man’s troubled mind, you might at least show mercy and describe your actions.”
She chuckled, then began to dribble water over his left eye.
“Describe how you tore your petticoat. Slowly. How high did you lift it? Were your ankles exposed?”
“Did I mention you’re incorrigible?”
“Several times. Now, continue with your trim ankles… encased in red silk stockings… with matching garters…” Her tinkle of laughter soothed him as much as the cool water she applied to his burning eyes.
“Your imagination, sir, does you credit.”
After her washing duties were complete, he felt a damp cloth placed over his closed eyelids, a gentle pacification to the increasing sting which had begun to worry him. Permanent damage was unthinkable, and he’d no time to even consider the dreadful possibility in their present circumstances.
He issued instructions, and listened as she investigated the circumference of their dusty prison. As she worked her way around, foot by dusty foot, searching for a door and testing windows, she called back to him. A constant stream of typical Laura dialogue that he welcomed with open ears and a thankful heart. With her own fear of the dark, she’d understand better than anyone how this grated on his nature. How much he loathed being blocked from the light, forced to sit still for fear of stumbling into fallen debris and worsening his injury.
“Keep talking, please, so I know you’ve come to no harm.”
“The windows seem to be crisscrossed with bars. Barricaded from the outside. More than likely rusted.”
“Don’t try climbing too high and hurt yourself. Even we could shift one, it would be a long drop to the road outside.”
“Whoever owns this warehouse,” she called in an indignant voice, “should be ashamed. It’s falling to rack and ruin.”
His laughter rumbled up. “Should I point out the irony in that? Several blasts were set here not half an hour ago, my love. The most likely culprit being the owne
r. I don’t think upkeep weighs heavily on his mind.”
“Hers.”
He considered in silence, before calling back, “I assume you’re referring to Lady Hetherington.”
“Richard, tell me you’re not moving.”
“Goodness, what acute hearing. And yes, I shifted a crate directly behind me because I heard water. Perhaps there’s a pipe running into that barrel.”
“A pipe?”
He listened to the clatter of rubbish as she clambered over rubble to return to him and held his breath, waiting for a cry of distress, ready to go to her if she fell. Christ, sometimes he wished his Laura wasn’t quite so fearless. It literally robbed him of breath when she did things like that, things that put her life in danger.
Not until she touched his arm did he breathe easily, reassured when she knelt beside him on the floor. She took his fingers and directed them to the pipe she’d uncovered; a solid metal pipe.
“You’re wonderful,” she cried, and he felt her lips brush past his cheek in a quick salute of gratitude. “I didn’t think to follow the water source. What sort of scientist am I?”
“A beautiful and courageous one,” he replied automatically.
No reply from Laura. He cursed at not being able to see her face. Not being able to read her expression after his slip of the tongue.
Had he given too much away?
“Ah…the…ah…pipe,” she announced, her voice fading as she moved away from him, “runs into a barrel and water fills the wash basin from a side tap.”
He sighed. Had he ruined their friendship by saying too much? He’d long ago decided nothing could come of his never-ending infatuation with this woman, but he’d always hoped they could retain their camaraderie long into the future. Long after they were both wed to the type of spouses they’d pronounced many a time they desired.
“…and it disappears here, I think into the wall. Stay back while I climb in and look.”
By instinct, he moved in her direction, drawn to her voice like a child following the pied piper. “I smell water.”
