The Heart's Companion

by Holly Newman

  Reverend Chitterdean trembled weakly, and leaned heavily on the marquis. He shook his head sadly, the gleam of tears in his eyes.

  "Damn," muttered Royce. He pulled himself slowly upright. "I wonder where Mrs. Chitterdean is?" he said, leaning heavily on the chair.

  Chitterdean brightened, and reached out to grasp his coat sleeve. He pointed upstairs. The marquis picked up the discarded knife and loped up the stairs. In a moment he was calling down that he’d found Mrs. Chitterdean and the maid, both trussed up like fowls to market.

  "Well, have you discovered anything?" asked a cool, light voice from the open doorway.

  Royce turned, surprised to see Lady Elsbeth standing there.

  "I was certain you’d have come and gone before I arrived."

  "We would, but we don’t know where to go. Chitterdean knows, but his voice is gone. Conisbrough’s untying Mrs. Chitterdean now."

  Lady Elsbeth, portmanteau in hand, glided over to Reverend Chitterdean’s side. "He’s burning with fever. Help me get him to the sofa to lie down."

  She fluffed a pillow behind his head and covered him with a blanket. "He seems lucid enough. Have you asked him to write their destination down?" she asked matter-of-factly as she rooted in her bag for a particular vial of medicine.

  Royce slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "No!"

  "I’ll fetch paper and pen," said Mrs. Chitterdean, coming down the stairs before Conisbrough. The little woman moved with a brisk efficiency, every line in her body rigid with anger over their ordeal. She swept past them all into the reverend’s study and returned moments later with an old, well-scarred lap desk.

  "Here, dear," she said, placing the desk on his lap and laying out paper on it. She even dipped the quill in the ink bottle before handing it to him.

  With a hand shaking from high fever, Reverend Chitterdean laboriously scrawled his message. His handwriting was nearly illegible. It was with agonizing slowness that letters took shape into a word.

  T u n b r i d

  "Royal Tunbridge Wells!" Lady Elsbeth said excitedly.

  Chitterdean nodded and collapsed back against the cushions, then almost immediately leaned forward again to write.

  Crawley.

  They stared at the word and shook their heads. Reverend Chittenden looked from one to another, hopelessly. Then he looked at his wife, and pointed back at the word.

  She started to shake her head no, then stopped. "Cranford Crawley?" she suggested.

  "It would figure," she said when her husband nodded. "He’d likely do what they wanted, for a price. For a man of God, he’s more in league with the devil. "

  "Where is this Cranford Crawley?" Royce asked, already straightening to leave. He was dismally aware of the time that had passed since the boys had seen the carriage leave.

  "Just this side of Royal Tunbridge Wells in the tiny village of Piddenhurst."

  Royce and Conisbrough backed toward the door as she spoke, and were out and mounting without a farewell. As one they urged their horses to a gallop. To the west of them the sun was turning brilliant orange as it dipped toward the hills and trees.

  They rode hard, without speaking, each man locked within his own thoughts, too grimly aware of their quarry’s lead on them. There was, as Royce predicted, no sign of carriage tracks to follow. There were no tracks at all—no sign of cattle crossing, no imprint of a tinker’s shoes and his heavy cart, no dog prints. Nothing then became their trail. But darkness was falling, and soon they couldn’t see the road. Finally, after about ten miles, they found a collection of bushes and branches, all knotted together, lying in a ditch by the side of the road. "They must feel safe, now," observed Conisbrough.

  Royce nodded. "Safe, and perhaps now in need of speed. Pulling that load would have been a strain on the horses. "Maybe they’re not so far ahead of us as we fear. "

  "Maybe," was Royce’s only reply as he spurred his tired horse onward.

  Georgie stopped the hard driven horses before a neglected cottage. Though evening shadows cloaked everything, Jane could discern an overgrown bed of roses just beyond the sagging fence that ringed the tiny property. The glow of a single lantern shone dimly through the smudged and dirty windows. Jane shivered at the sight, for it was not the warm glow one equated with a hospitable welcome. There would be no help for her here.

  An oppressive heaviness sat in her chest. She was tired, hungry, and frightened. It took every gram of fortitude she possessed not to succumb to tears. She clenched her jaw, in her mind imagining the texture of her Ice Witch cloak. She draped it about herself, willing the rents and tears it had suffered of late to disappear. She took a deep breath.

  Sir Helmsdon laid his bound hands over hers. He gently squeezed her hands, giving her what silent support he could. If Georgie and Sophie succeeded in marrying him to Jane—though what threat they would use if either said no, he was loath to consider—he would not be the winner he’d once anticipated. He found he admired Jane and that he truly loved her. His past protestations of love sounded hollow and false in his own ears. He knew now that it was because he loved her that he did not wish to marry her.

  He eyed Sophie as Georgie went up to the cottage. There was a grim set to her mouth that warned against unwarranted heroics. If he proved too recalcitrant, he did not put it past them to find the first available plowboy to stand as Jane’s groom. There had to be a way to avoid this situation. He’d learned when the duns pressed the worst, there was always a way to avoid them. Something came about. He didn’t know what it would be, but he had to be ready to grab for it when it came his way.

  Then Georgie was back, hustling them into the dimly lit cottage.

  Jane and Helmsdon strained their eyes against the gloom. There, standing by a faintly smoking fireplace stood a stooped, straggly-haired man dressed in rusty black. He stared at them with sharp, beady eyes reflecting red coals from the hearth. He looked more like one of those religious zealots than a Church of England clergyman.

  "So, this is to be the bride and groom?" he said with a laugh to match his attire. Stooped, and nearly hunchbacked, he shambled forward, cupping Jane’s face between long, dirty fingers.

  Jane jerked her head back, glaring at him.

  He laughed again and turned his attention to Sir Helmsdon. "I’ve heard of you, sir. You will stand to profit the most from this ah, transaction." He canted his head slowly toward the other shoulder. "Why do you resist?"

  "For the reason that I am being forced," he ground out, "which is a circumstance that should be abhorrent to you as a man of the cloth."

  "A reg’lar little fire-eater, ain’t you? A pocket knight," he observed, laughing again.

  "Enough chatter," Georgie growled. "Will you do it or not?"

  "For a price, my friend, only for a price."

  "Well, of course! I ain’t so lost to reason."

  "To be sure, to be sure," the man murmured, patting his pockets for the spectacles that rested among grizzled locks on his head. He finally found them and pulled them down on the bridge of his nose. He stooped to pick up a worn black bible. "Eh, what price?" he asked, looking at Georgie sideways, a ghoul in the dim light.

  "Fifty pounds," Georgie growled.

  The scraggly man putted about, muttering to himself; then he straightened staring Georgie in the eye. "Not enough," he said.

  Georgie’s mouth worked with rage. Nothing this day was working out right. They should have been far away by now, on the road to London. He seemed ready to slug the man, until Sophie laid a staying hand on his arm.

  "One ’undred pounds, you old robber, and not a penny mor’r you’ll find word of your not-so-Godlike activities lodged with Bow Street," she threatened.

  Crawley scratched his whiskers. "You have a right persuasive way about you. All right, one hundred it is. But I still can’t do it if you don’t have a license."

  Sophie reached into her reticule and pulled out a crumbled piece of paper. She unfolded it and smoothed it out, then handed it
to him. "’Ere, this’ll make it legal, like. "

  He took it from her and shuffled over to the lamp, leaning down to read by its weak light.

  A horrible coldness began to grip Jane. It spread throughout her body, working its way toward her heart. The oppressive dread made her limbs lead weights. Her mind struggled against the invading cold. Her eyes were drawn repeatedly to the single lamp and the warmth of its flame. She began to feel she needed that flame, that she needed its warmth to melt the icy miasma of gloom. She scarcely heard what the others said around her. She walked forward like a puppet to stand by the table, facing the hearth, as Crawley read the marriage vows. His voice was like a bee buzzing in her brain. She hung her head down, concentrating on that pure flame burning in the glass globe. Next to her Sir Helmsdon was tense, but she couldn’t tell him what she intended, couldn’t warn him. Suddenly Crawley was at the part where they must answer, he was muttering words of honor and obedience.

  "NO!" Jane shrieked as she threw herself against the round oak table, pulling Sir Helmsdon with her, knocking him off-balance. He fell to his knees. The table was heavier than it looked. Watching it tilt and topple, Jane felt like she was watching something in a dream. It seemed so slow. The lantern finally crashed to the floor, shattering. With a whoosh, a bright yellow and orange flame shot up. It caught the fabric of the greasy, stained tablecloth.

  Behind her Sophie screamed. Sir Helmsdon struggled to stand up. He pulled at Jane to get her away from the flames. Swearing, Georgie picked up a pillow and began beating at the fire, shouting at Crawley to help him, but Crawley had other interests. He ran to a cupboard and pawed frantically through the contents, throwing things every which way.

  Thick smoke stung Jane’s eyes and burned her throat when she breathed. She coughed, stumbling after Helmsdon toward the door. Georgie saw them escaping, and his rage blossomed. "Witch!" he yelled, dropping the pillow and abandoning his fruitless efforts to stop the spread of the blaze.

  He grabbed for Jane, using his bulky weight as an anchor. Suddenly caught between Helmsdon and Georgie, Jane felt her arms would tear from their sockets. She fought, twisting and turning. Helmsdon charged Georgie like a bull, butting him in the stomach. Georgie fell back, letting go his grasp. The edge of his coat caught fire. He screamed, beating at his clothing like a madman.

  Crawley retrieved a heavy sack from the cupboard. Clutching it closely to his chest, he scuttled toward the door. Sophie was in front of him. He would have pushed her out of his way, but she fought like a wild thing. Finally together they pulled the door open to be confronted by two large black shapes with pistols pointed straight at them.

  But they all gave way before the screams and the terrifying image of a burning man, a denizen of hell, charging toward them.

  With even his hair on fire now, Georgie ran screaming past them to fling himself into the long grass outside the cottage. He rolled frantically to smother the fire. Jane, with Helmsdon in tow, ran after him. With her bound hands she beat at the remaining flames on Georgie. She scarcely noticed when the rope binding her to Helmsdon parted until the last of the fires on Georgie were out.

  The smell of burned flesh rivaled that of burning wood, causing the others to gag. A blackened, distorted mass of flesh and bone lay on the ground, barely conscious. Tears welled in Jane’s eyes. "Oh, Georgie," she murmured.

  His cracked lips parted, blood-red against black. "I just wanted to show my Mama . . ." he rasped, straining to get the words opt. A gurgling sounded in his throat, then silence.

  Gentle hands pulled Jane up and away. Sobbing, she found her face pressed against a broad chest with a familiar masculine scent. Her head was stroked as soothing words were murmured in her ear. Behind her, the fire burned hotter. A loud boom and crash warned everyone that the cottage was doomed. Barely conscious, Jane found herself lifted off her feet and carried away from the heat and smell of the blaze.

  She curled against the solid warmth that held her, her confused mind fractured into a thousand pieces. She whimpered as she was carried to a nearby horse. Like a mechanical puppet, she waited docilely by the animal while her benefactor mounted and lifted her into the saddle before him.

  A wail pierced the quiet of the crackling flames. With dim surprise Jane realized the sound came from her. A choked sob caught in her throat as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. She pressed her face against the solid masculine warmth, clinging while he kept up a litany of soothing words. Slowly Jane relaxed her muscles. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Then everything went black.

  The night became a crazy kaleidoscope of sensations and scenes. For awhile Jane was conscious only of the gentle, rhythmic plodding of the horse accompanied by murmured words of endearment. Later, she was transferred carefully to a carriage. A warm lap robe was wrapped about her and a distasteful liquid forced between her lips.

  She fell into a light, uneasy slumber from which she often jolted awake as much from the poor carriage springs as from the fiery pictures that haunted her mind. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the carriage rolled to a stop. A swath of light pierced the night. Again she felt herself being lifted, this time carried up steps into that light. Around her a murmur of voices rose and fell; but she paid them no more heed than she did to the sound of crickets in the night. She was laid down, the warm arms that held her sliding away. She murmured a protest. Gentle hands raised her head and coaxed more of the foul liquid past her lips.

  Snatches of low-voiced conversations reverberated in her aching head, pounding viciously against the edges of her consciousness.

  "It was a mercy ..."

  "... prey upon her mind. "

  ". . . laudanum. Let her sleep. It's the best . . ."

  Jane tried to capture each wisp of murmured voice, but the words scampered nimbly away, teasingly beyond comprehension. The effort to hear and understand exhausted her. Finally, she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  When next she woke there was brightness against her closed eyelids. Sunlight? She moaned and stirred restlessly. She was vaguely surprised to discover she lay on a soft mattress and was covered with cool, fresh, lavender-scented sheets. Such comfort seemed wrong, out of place; though she couldn’t think why. Jane tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy. It was like lifting great weights.

  Slowly her eyelids fluttered open. Everything was blurred and dizzyingly swirling. She closed her eyes, then tried opening them again. She blinked, and the world focused. She turned her head, gazing about. Dispassionately she realized that she recognized the bed hangings. They were from her room at Penwick. How did she get here? Last night she’d been near Royal Tunbridge Wells, hadn’t she? Last night...

  The vision of a blackened and blood-blistered body swam up to her consciousness.

  "Aa-hh!" she softly wailed, the sound catching achingly in her throat. She bit her knuckle as sobs wracked her slender body. "I killed him," she whimpered. "I killed him!"

  "Hush, hush, Jane!" came an urgent, soothing voice from the side of her bed, the face indistinct yet comforting. A cool hand was laid against her brow. "It could not be helped. No one faults you. "

  The blurred image with its gentle voice coalesced into Lady Elsbeth.

  "I warned her. She dinna heed me warnins," mourned an Irish voice from somewhere near the end of the bed.

  "That’s enough, Mrs. O'Rourke," snapped Lady Elsbeth over her shoulder. Then she turned back to Jane, gently pushing fine strands of black hair away from her face. "That woman—Sophie? She’s convinced it was a form of release for him. She says Georgie couldn’t reconcile his rough and crude existence with the knowledge of his better blood. He felt he should have naturally been refined and well-spoken. It tore at him that he could not rise above the circumstances of his upbringing; that his mother, having all the advantages in the world, could give him away as easily as one would a cast-off dress or jacket. I know he planned to present himself to his mother dressed and accoutered as befitted her station. He believed dress ma
de the man. In the end, he would have been bitterly disappointed. I shudder to think what he might have done when that happened."

  Jane nodded, then swallowed around the lump in her throat. "It is hard to believe he had all that in him, when one considers the bluff, hearty gentleman he played."

  "I believe throughout history it has always been the same. Those who would act the buffoon for other’s enjoyment are generally people lacking joy in their own lives. Perhaps that’s what always gives the piquant flavor of truth to their antics, a sort of larger-than-life hopelessness that lessens our own."

  Jane nodded listlessly. "But that still doesn’t excuse his death. Any man’s death diminishes me. He did not deserve to die."

  Lady Elsbeth leaned back, her hands folded in her lap. "Now that will be enough maudlin missishness. I beg you to remember he was not beyond doing violence to you to achieve his ends," she said sternly.

  "I suppose," Jane conceded, absently plucking at the sheet. Her lips twisted as she thought over the events of yesterday. "What time is it?" she asked suddenly, her expression serious.

  Lady Elsbeth looked down at the pendant watch pinned to her bodice. "Almost one-thirty. Why?"

  "One-thirty? In the afternoon?" Jane threw off the bed covers. "You must have been heavy-handed with the laudanum! Why did you give it to me? You know how I hate the stuff. And don’t try to deny that you did, for I won’t believe you! I heard you last night. At least, I think I did," she amended as she levered herself up to a sitting position.

  Lady Elsbeth thought it wise to ignore Jane’s questions. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  "Getting up." She swung her legs to the floor.

  "Jane! I’m not convinced that is wise. You have been through a terrible ordeal!"

  "Elsbeth, I cannot put off maudlin missishness, as you call it, if I am relegated to this bed. Besides, I have business with the true author of this little fiasco. "

  Lady Elsbeth sighed and stood away from the bed to let Mrs. O'Rourke help Jane into her wrapper. "I’m afraid you’ll not get satisfaction there. I don’t know how, but she feels entirely justified in her actions. How can one chastise another if that other sees no wrong? Believe me, I have tried. All I get from her is how she wished to free me."