by P. N. Elrod
Then from the square of darkness his head emerged. It lolled backward, jaw sagging; there was a nasty-looking graze seeping red along one side of his scalp. I gave another turn on the crank until his shoulders were visible. He swung to and fro ponderously, a man on a gibbet. Not trusting the ratchet pawl to hold, I reached across with one hand while bracing the crank with the other as he swung toward me again. I snaked my arm under his and around his chest, then let go of the crank. He abruptly slumped away, threatening to drop back in. I got my other arm around him in time and pulled.
It was a hard hauling. He was a big bear of a man, wet right through, and utterly motionless. His clothes snagged on the sides of the opening. I heaved him as high as I could and finally lugged him past the edge. He’d have scrapes and bruises—if he lived. I lay him flat on the cold ground and pressed an ear against his chest. For a terrible moment I heard nothing, then nearly crowed with relief when a near-indistinct thump announced he was still on this side of the veil.
Determined to keep him here, I slapped his white face, shouting at him to wake up. He was past responding, though, and not like to do so soon unless I got him out of this winter air and inside next to a fire. More lifting and dragging, this time toward what I hoped was the scullery door. Cursing like a heathen, I had to stop once to find the knife again and cut him free of the rope. It had played out like a leash and we’d reached its limit.
The door did turn out to be the scullery entry and had been left unlocked. Clarinda and the others must have come this way to get to the carriage house. That simplified things. I pulled Edmond up the step and inside, bulling through to the kitchen, the warmest room in the house owing to the need for a constant fire. I blundered inside with my sodden burden, for once was glad to have the stink of cooked food assaulting my senses.
The fire was little more than a mass of glowing coals, but easily remedied. I lay Edmond on the warm stones of the hearth and threw on fresh dry kindling, knocking over the fire tongs and other things in my shivering haste.
The noise attracted notice. I heard a sudden loud banging and a chorus of calls for help coming from behind a solid-looking bolted door.
Edmond’s missing servants.
* * *
It’s amazing how much calamity can be turned about in a quarter hour’s time. And what a wonderful, luxuriously wonderful relief it is to turn one’s cares over to others and let them deal with the work.
Most of Edmond’s people had been locked up in one of the pantries, except for two women who were found shut away in an upstairs cupboard. Fortunately, the pantry door had been bolted, not locked with a key, so I soon had everyone out, blinking in the growing firelight after being in the dark, and asking a hundred questions at once. All were agitated in one form or another from red-faced anger to teary-eyed fear, but were otherwise no worse for wear. I determined a middle-aged woman named Kellway was in charge, told her who I was, and after one glimpse at her master’s desperate condition she forgot about her own difficulties. She instantly set things in motion, shouting orders for brandy, bandaging, blankets, and hot water, sending people scurrying in every direction.
Evicting all female members of her staff but herself from the kitchen, she commanded two of the footmen to strip off Edmond’s wet clothes. By the time things reached the point where she would be forced to leave as well the blankets arrived, preserving decorum. She made me strip down, also, which I did not mind, and questioned me closely over what had happened, which I did mind. It worried me at how easily I took to lying and improvisation when forced to by the demands of an uncomfortable situation. Hardly honorable, but necessary.
Wrapped in dry blankets and with a perfectly smooth face I told of my appointment with Edmond and of being surprised by Summerhill and knocked unconscious.
“I woke up lying on the ground next to the well. In want of water to ease my injury, I tried to draw some, then discovered Mr. Fonteyn was inside.”
A general murmur of dismay went around.
“He’d tied the rope about himself to stay afloat, so I managed to haul him up. The poor man collapsed as I got him out.”
This inspired a general murmur of approval. Considering my cowardly delay in getting started, I did not allow myself to bask in their admiration.
“But how did you get so wet, sir?” one of them asked, having observed my own drenched and half frozen condition. I’d been too thoroughly saturated for them to think I’d gotten in such a state merely from dragging Edmond around. At least the immersion had cleaned all the blood from my face.
“The bucket came up with him and was full of water. When I cut him free of the rope the damned thing tipped and slopped it all over me, then fell back into the well.” I left it to their imaginations to work out just how that kind of clumsiness could have possibly happened. “You’ll want a replacement.”
“God bless you, sir, as if we cared about an old bucket,” said Mrs. Kellway, wiping tears from her eyes before bellowing at a distracted scullery boy to keep heaping wood on the fire.
Indeed, but I wanted to account for everything. They might suspect me of being in on the foul deed, after all.
While Mrs. Kellway gently dabbed salve on Edmond’s head wound and bandaged it, I learned from them that Summerhill, Tyne and two men dressed like sailors had suddenly appeared in the house, brandishing pistols, then smartly locked everyone up. Not long afterward the coachman and a groom were also forced into the pantry, bearing the news their master had arrived home, but not knowing what had happened to him after their own capture. All waited in vain for him to either rescue them or join them, taking turns to listen, but hearing nothing until my noisy entrance.
No one knew how the men had gotten in, but after a quick head count by the butler, a missing footman was promptly declared to be the traitor who had likely given entry to the intruders. An enthusiastic round of invective aimed at the fellow started up, with each declaring him to have ever been an untrustworthy rogue and listing his bad points, slights they’d suffered from him and various other character flaws. So many piled up in such a short time I wryly wondered how the man had ever been employed here in the first place.
Under Kellway’s ministrations, Edmond looked a bit less blue than before, but remained unconscious. Having myself been through a similar experience of nearly freezing, I told them to start massaging his limbs and cover him with hot, wet linens, replacing them as they cooled. People were sent off to fetch more water for heating and to find the household’s bathtub. I meant to have him fully immersed in steaming hot water, but that good intention was dashed when a boy hefted the unwieldy thing in. It was not much more than a wildly overgrown tin punch bowl a half-foot deep. The bather was to sit or stand in the thing and have water poured over him, I supposed. Oh, for the soothing delights of Mandy Winkle’s house.
“But hasn’t he had enough water already, sir?” asked a dubious Mrs. Kellway, when I explained my disappointment at the limits of their “tub.”
“As long as the stuff was good and hot this time. It would have warmed him over.” Then I recalled what Oliver said of people believing anything about my birthplace. “It’s something I learned in America. We know all there is to know on this sort of thing.”
It worked a charm on her, and thus enlightened, she gave a sage nod of agreement.
Oliver. I’d have to return to Fonteyn House and tell him and Elizabeth about this latest disaster. Clarinda’s mischief was not over yet; we’d have to be doubly on our guard. Edmond needed a doctor anyway, and Oliver was nearest.
I raked my bedraggled hair back with my fingers, retying it with a damp ribbon. Now that work had calmed them, some of Edmond’s people found time to stare at my revealed features. My sharp ears plucked Richard’s name out of a medley of whispered comments. So, Edmond had not seen fit to confide family secrets to them. I didn’t think that was even possible, but he’d apparently managed. Would this weaken
my position of assumed authority with them? Might they not think I was somehow allied with Clarinda since I’d so obviously once been her lover? Better to leave quickly before I found out.
Then Edmond stirred and gave a thick, water-choked cough, distracting us. I pushed in close just in time to see his eyes open.
“Thank God!” cried Mrs. Kellway, saying it for everyone.
He had a stark staring cast to his expression. Understandable; then I had a swift flash of perception and told them to gather as many candles as they could find.
“Sir?” questioned a hesitating butler.
“He’s been in the very heart of hell, man, give him light for pity’s sake.”
My urgency and insight got through, and soon the kitchen was brighter than a ballroom. Whether it was a help to Edmond or not was hard to tell, but it could do him no harm. When his eyes looked a bit less feral, I pressed a cup of brandy to his lips. He took that down easily enough, which was most encouraging.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” I asked him. “Just nod, no need to speak yet.”
He did nod, but ignored the rest. “That bastard Tyne. Where?”
“He got away—for now.”
“Clarinda?”
“She went with him. I think they’re going to try getting away by ship.” And would do so unless I got moving myself and arranged to cut them and Summerhill off.
“Riddance,” he sighed out. “Good. . . riddance.”
By that I could assume Edmond wanted no more to do with her, but it was out of his hands. I had my own special plans for his wife and her charming friends. Half-formed, but doubtless when I caught up with them the other half would be fully matured.
“Tyne shot at me,” Edmond said, responding to Kellway’s question of how he got in the well. “Dismissed the coach. Alone at the front. He and others came up. Tried to shoot him. Saw his pistol go off. Couldn’t hear either of ’em. Strange. Thought someone hit me from the side.” He gingerly touched his head and encountered the bandages.
“Just a graze by God’s good will,” I said, pulling his hand away “Leave it for now until a doctor can see it. Do you recall aught else?”
His eyes shut a moment, then snapped open, focusing on the nearest of the candles. “Blackness. Cold. Water. Thought I’d been killed. Hard to breathe. So cold. Woke me a bit. Heard you next to me, jabbering on. Wanted to box you sharp and shut you up, but I couldn’t move.”
“That was after you were out of the well,” I said carefully, hoping he’d accept it. “You got things jumbled.”
“The well?” He tried to sit up, but the feeble state of his body won out over his disposition. “I was in the well?”
“It’s a miracle, sir,” pronounced Mrs. Kellway. “The good God and his angels took your part tonight and saved you, and that’s a fact. If Mr. Barrett hadn’t been there to pull you out we’d be praying for your soul’s rest now instead of for your recovery.”
He fastened his dark glower on me, still trying to take it in, I suppose. “How?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “You did the real work tying the rope around yourself.”
“But I didn’t—you were there . . . I know you—”
“And you damned near broke the winch with your weight,” I pressed, not giving him a chance to continue. “I’d have had an easier task of it if you were built less like Hercules and more like Mercury. Next time you fall in a well I’ll leave you there and spare myself a strained back.”
I’d hoped a brusque manner would put him off and counted upon raising a snarl from him at least. Instead, he gave me a long, hard look. I’d have been worried, but his eyes cloudy. He put a hand on my arm and squeezed once with a bare ghost of his usual strength.
“Thank you,” he whispered, then fell into a doze.
I expected to be hanged there and then by the staff, but Mrs. Kellway only dabbed at her face again and gazed at me with the sort of unaccountable fondness usually reserved for favorite children and small dogs. “Bless you, sir, for saying just the right thing.”
“But I—oh, never mind.” I stood, nearly tripping on my blanket. “Blast it. I need to borrow proper clothes. I’m sure my cousin won’t mind if I raided his cupboard.”
“But, sir, you’re in no fit state to be—
“I’m quite recuperated, thank you, and someone has to go for a doctor. My horse is out front and saddled, so if you please. . . .” I’d put on a firm unarguable manner, asserting my place again after the previous near-familiarity, and it worked, at least in this household. Jericho would have offered considerably more resistance—and have probably won.
Dry garments from Edmond’s wardrobe were found, all rather large, of course, and I had to wear my own damp riding boots, but none of it was of concern to me. My cousin needed help, and Oliver was but a few miles down the road.
I sent one of the stablemen to find Rolly, absentmindedly omitting to explain why I’d left my horse that far from the house. Donning my reclaimed cloak and hat (both found on the stair landing) I was ready to rush outside before anyone else decided to ply me with questions best left unanswered, when a commotion at the front door halted my progress.
To my surprise, Oliver strode forcefully in past a protesting maid, looked quickly around and spied me. Had Elizabeth gotten impatient for news and sent him? No, that couldn’t have been it.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” I asked, not bothering to check my utter bewilderment. But even as the words came out I grasped that something was dreadfully amiss. My otherwise cheerful cousin wore an awful expression and visibly trembled from head to toe. “What is it? Is Elizabeth—?”
Oliver bit his lip and gave a violent shake of his head. His hands were clenched into quivering fists, and he looked ready to burst from inner agitation.
“Th—they got into the house,” he finally said in a voice, a terrible broken voice I’d never heard him use before.
My belly turned to water. I did not have to ask who “they” were. “Held pistols on us. Took him away. You must come.”
“Took who?” But in my heart I knew.
“Oh, Jonathan.” Tears started from his eyes. “They’ve kidnapped Richard.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“They won’t hurt him,” Elizabeth told me. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“That bitch would dare anything,” I whispered, staring past her at nothing but my own rage blasting against the confining walls of the room. I couldn’t risk looking at her in this state. Too dangerous.
“She’d never endanger her chance of collecting the money for him. You have to believe that of her if nothing else.”
Yes, it was one thing we could trust about Clarinda: her avarice. But if she was capable of holding her own son for ransom, might she also get rid of him the moment he became useless? Or if once she had her money would she give him up? Not because she held any maternal affection, but to make him a continual source of spoils from the family coffers. How was he being treated? Like my anger, my anguished uncertainty was bottomless.
Oliver came into the blue parlor from his latest trip down to the front gates. I didn’t quite look at him either as he paused just inside the door, only swung my head part way in his direction, keeping my gaze from touching his. “No news yet,” he said in a subdued voice.
“We should have heard something by now,” I rumbled, glaring at the mantel clock. Useless thing. Last night Clarinda promised to communicate with us, but she’d not said when. Forced into hateful rest by the rising sun, I’d lain oblivious in the cellar through the whole helpless day and upon awakening was insensed near to madness to learn no word from her had come.
“It’s meant to make us more anxious,” Oliver added
And working all too well on me. I paced to the fireplace and back, too restless to sit. That wasn’t enough, though. Hardly aware of the act,
I curled my hand into a fist and smashed it into the wall above the wainscoting. I pounded right through the paper and plaster and whatever lay beyond. Something wood, no doubt, to tell from the pain shooting up from my knuckles. I pulled free, scattering plaster dust mixed with the smell of my own blood. A quick vanishing and I was whole again, ready to do more damage.
“I say,” said Oliver, shaken. “I say—for God’s sake, Jonathan. . . .”
I understood now why Clarinda hadn’t been overly distressed at not finding Edmond’s money. With or without it, she’d planned all along to take Richard away; he was her surety of a clean and profitable escape. She’d made careful arrangements, indeed, and had smoothly carried them out with Summerhill’s help. Last night Clarinda and her friends forced themselves into Fonteyn House in much the same way Edmond’s home was invaded, with help from a turncoat.
In our case it had been one of the maids. The same one who had brought Richard’s milk. He’d fallen asleep so quickly because of the laudanum she’d put in it. A half-full phial of the stuff was discovered hidden under her bed. Thank God she’d not given him the lot, though what she’d done was harsh enough. I’d been right there holding him while it had done its work. I should have sensed something was wrong. I should have known.
At about seven of the clock, apparently in accordance with instructions from Clarinda, the traitorous maid then snuck out to the front gate to distract the guards there from their duties. So successful was she in her mock flirtations that Summerhill and two of his sailors had the easy advantage of them, knocking them senseless. Then the whole party came rolling onto the grounds in Edmond’s carriage. They halted far enough from the house so its noise would not be marked, and went in through a door the maid had left unlocked for them.
Summerhill and his men kept everyone in place at pistol point while Clarinda rushed upstairs to fetch the sleeping Richard out of his nursery bed. Mrs. Howard had pleaded and finally screamed at her to desist. Clarinda knocked the tiny woman to the floor with one swipe of her hand. With Richard’s unconscious form wrapped in a blanket, she carried him down to face Elizabeth and Oliver.
