He was so intent on the task before him that he never heard the rustling in the bushes behind him.
Nor the excited whispers of girlish voices.
He stepped up to the front door and had just rung the bell when all hell broke loose behind him.
High-pitched, ear-piercing shrieks and yelling, the sound of running feet.
“What the—”
Before he had a chance to fully turn around, something was thrown over his head, and the world went dim and dusty.
He sneezed.
A musty-smelling sack.
“I’ll be—” He struggled but somebody quickly wound rope around his torso and pulled tight, trapping his arms underneath the sack.
“Bloody—”
His horse whinnied.
Another rope was wound around his ankles.
“Hey!” He turned this way and that, trying to evade the myriad small hands that were grabbing at him. They pushed and shoved and he fell, helpless, into what felt like a wheelbarrow.
“What about the horse?” he could hear a little girl’s voice ask.
“There was no mention of a horse in the book, was there?” another little girl’s voice replied. “Then we don’t need a horse.”
Little girls?
Griff struggled to sit up, well aware of the ridiculous figure he must cut. “Will you let me go!” he roared—though his voice was sadly muffled by the sack over his head.
“Stuff it!” yet another little girl said curtly, then a weight cannoned into his body. With a grunt, he fell back into the wheelbarrow, banging his head against hard wood.
Spots danced in front of his eyes.
Something—someone—sat on his chest like a nightmarish demon.
“Go go go!” it shouted in its little-girl voice, and the wheelbarrow heaved and shifted, and then was moving, faster and faster, away from the house.
~*~
There was a knock at the door, and Miss Pinkerton entered Charlie’s new bedroom cum study. “My dear, did you just hear the bell?”
Charlie looked up from the books and papers that lay strewn across her desk. She was preparing her very first lesson—Miss Pinkerton had very kindly offered to let her take over the lessons in French and needlework for the youngest pupils.
“I haven’t heard anything,” she said. “Do I talk French throughout the lesson and assume the girls will understand me?”
“Oh yes, yes. You know how our girls are. They find out things so very quickly,” Miss Pinkerton said absentmindedly, while she looked around the room as if the person who had rung the bell might be hiding underneath the bed. “I distinctly heard the bell,” she murmured. “Really, I could have sworn…” Shaking her head, she went over to the window.
Charlie turned her attention back on her notes. Tomorrow she would take over the first French lesson. Such a huge responsibility! Such a—
“My dear?” Miss Pinkerton’s voice cut into her reveries. “There is a horse grazing on our lawn. Most peculiar, I say!”
“A horse?” The French lesson momentarily forgotten, Charlie got up and walked to the window.
“Indeed.” Miss Pinkerton lifted the quizzer she wore on a ribbon around her neck and peered through it. “It wears a saddle. But I can’t see a rider.”
Charlie looked past the school mistress’s shoulder. There was indeed a riderless horse on the lawn. “Oh dear.”
“That is exactly what I thought. Most peculiar. What can these girls be up to now?”
“The twelve- to thirteen-year-olds have just read ‘Tam o’ Shanter,’ I believe,” Charlie offered after a moment’s thought.
Miss Pinkerton shook her head. “They would have needed the horse for that.”
Another knock on the door. As the two women turned, they found Mr Bernstone looking into the room. “Miss Pinkerton, Miss Stanton, I perceive you have already spotted the horse on the lawn.”
The school mistress nodded vigorously. “Indeed, we have. But it is the saddle that worries me.”
Mr Bernstone cleared his throat.
“Indeed.”
“Oh Miss Pinkerton, there you are!” The two elderly Dooey sisters bustled into the room. “Have you seen?” Miss Dooey began.
“The horse?” Miss Eliza finished the sentence. “Quite astonishing!”
“Most extraordinary!” her sister added. “Whoever would do such a thing? Leave a horse on our lawn!”
Charlie glanced again at the horse in question. Nobody would leave a horse grazing with the saddle still on. “What did the girls read last week, Miss Eliza?” she asked. “Except for ‘Tam o’ Shanter’?”
The round, kindly woman turned to her and blinked. “Why, the older ones read The Blossoms of Morality—most insightful for young ladies—and the little ones read Robinson Crusoe. A most instructive book, Robinson Crusoe. So many lessons that can be drawn from it. Surely you remember, my dear?”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “Yes, I do remember.”
~*~
The wheelbarrow finally and mercifully came to a stop, but not before all of Griff’s bones had been rattled around his body. He groaned.
There was a high-pitched scream. “OOOOOH! You’ve found one!”
Excited girlish chatter broke out around him, and more than once a small finger poked his arms or dug between his ribs.
“…so clever…”
“Do you think he will do?”
“…come from?”
The weight on his chest crowed, “Isn’t it spiffing? Just when we need somebody to eat, he turns up!”
To eat?
“Wha—” Griff began.
Somebody poked him in the side. “But there is no fat. I’m not sure he will do at all.”
“Rubbish,” the weight on his chest retorted, and finally got off him. “He will do splendidly. Here, help me.”
By now, Griff had found his wits again, and roared, “What do you think you—”
The wheelbarrow was overturned, and with a painful grunt he landed on rough ground… pebbles. He tried to sit up, but already multiple small hands were grabbing at him, lifting him.
“A pole! You’re sooo clever!” one of the girls exclaimed.
“And Marianne’s dolls,” another said, slightly breathlessly.
Once again, he was dumped on the ground. Groaning, he tried to roll away, when he was dragged upright and stood with his back against what felt like a wooden pole. In vain, he struggled to shake the little monsters off, but with his legs and arms tied, there was not much he could do.
“Keep him still!” somebody said, as rope was tied around his legs and his torso, tying him against the pole.
“What about the sack?”
“There is no mention of a sack in the book, is there?”
“Well, look it up, then.”
Paper rustled. “Hm, hm, hm. I took my Perspective-Glass and went up to the Side of the Hill, blah-dah, and found quickly, by my Glass, that there were one and twenty Savages, three Prisoners—”
“And we have those, too!”
“Shh!”
“Three Prisoners, and three Canoes—”
“Ooooh, what shall we do about the canoes?”
“Ach, never mind the canoes. Does it mention a sack?”
“No, no sack.”
“Well, what shall we do about the sack, then?”
“I tell you what you shall do,” Griff gritted out. “You will untie me at once—”
“Why is he talking? Does anybody understand what he’s saying? That’s not in the book, is it?”
“Stop it!” he roared—and inhaled dust from the sack that had him coughing and wheezing for breath.
“Gosh, he’s loud.”
“How about we cut the sack open at the bottom and drag it down? Then it’s almost as if there’s no sack.”
“Good idea. Give me a hand, will you?”
Griff felt as if he were slowly going mad. Surely this was merely a nightmare, an evil hallucination his tired brain had co
njured up.
But no, several of the girls surrounded him, and somebody started tugging at the thing that still covered his head.
“Keep his head still, or he’ll end up with the scissors sticking in his brains.”
Dear God. They were mad. Truly mad.
He didn’t dare to move a muscle while the girl snipped happily away, humming under her breath, until the sackcloth fell apart and he could finally, finally see daylight again.
Breathe freely.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled deep lungfuls of fresh, clean air.
When he opened his eyes, he could see a horde of little girls milling about him. They were at the edge of some lake, out of sight of the house.
His heart sank.
There were two more poles next to him. Against those two very pretty dolls had been tied.
“The water is boiling!” one of the girls shouted, directing his attention to a giant cauldron that stood a few feet away on the pebbly beach. A row of raggedy wooden dolls sat around it like the audience at a play.
“Aww, why did you have to drag the cauldron along? There is no cauldron in the book!”
“I know there isn’t. But it’s the Macbeth cauldron. Remember how much fun we’ve had with it?”
Griff took a deep breath. “Whatever you are doing, you will stop this at once,” he said in his most commanding voice. “Untie me.”
A dozen heads swivelled around, and the girls stared at him as if he were some exotic curiosity.
“Why is he talking?” one of them finally said. “That’s not in the book.”
Another one, with carroty-red pigtails, rolled her eyes. “Grown-ups. They have to ruin everything.” With an annoyed huff, she walked towards him.
“That’s a good child,” Griff said, trying to keep his voice calm even though his heart thundered in his chest. Who would have thought that little girls could be such mad, little monsters? “You will untie me—”
Her reddish brows puckered, she fumbled around in her pocket of her dress.
“—this very moment and—”
“Ha!” she crowed triumphantly, and waved a large grubby handkerchief about. “Got it!”
“Wha—”
Rolling the handkerchief up, she shoved it into his mouth and knotted the ends.
Griff choked.
Hell!
He tried to suppress the urge to cough, tried to calm his breathing, to…
Dear God.
“That’ll stop him,” the red-haired horror said, her voice oozing satisfaction as she turned to her companions. “Now, where do we start?”
Desperately, Griff tried to fight down the panic that welled up inside him. He was utterly at the mercy of this horde of bloodthirsty girls. Goodness knew what they planned to do with him. It was ridiculous to be afraid of small girls, he told himself, but—dear God!
“Let’s boil Eugenie first.” A plump, dark-haired girl untied one of the fine dolls from the other poles and gave it a fierce scowl. “What a stupid thing you are with your stupid French dress and all! Stepmama thought if she gave me a French doll, I wouldn’t mind being sent away from home.”
“Boo!” the other girls shrieked. “Death to the French doll!”
“Well, she was wrong! And now you will die!”
The other girls clapped. “Throw it into the pot,” they started to chant. “Throw it into the pot!”
The dark-haired girl threw her head back. “You will be eaten by savages! Die, doll!” With an ear-splitting scream, she threw the doll into the boiling water.
As the doll’s waxen head slowly started to melt, the group cheered, dancing around the cauldron like maniacs.
At the sound of their shrill cries, the blood froze in Griff’s veins.
Yes, savages, that’s what they were, that’s—
“And what do you think you are doing?” A new voice cut through the mayhem from behind him.
At once, the girls fell silent, and their heads whipped around to stare at the newcomer.
A woman strode past Griff—no, not any woman. That tall, lean figure was unmistakable, even in that dark dress.
Charlie.
His Charlie.
He sagged with relief.
“We are cannibals, Charlie,” the devilish redhead began, only to be cut short.
“That would be Miss Stanton for you, Susan,” Charlie said sharply. “And yes, I did reckon you were re-enacting the more exciting bits of Robinson Crusoe.” She glanced at the cauldron. “Marianne, are these the remains of one your dolls that are bubbling away over there?” She shook her head. “Girls, I don’t mind you melting wax dolls, but this—” She threw out her arm to indicate Griff’s bound form. “—this is not at all acceptable.” For the first time, she turned towards him. “I must apolo—” Her eyes widened. “Chanderley!”
Chapter 20
in which love wins all
Charlie hardly believed her eyes. It couldn’t be… surely… “Chanderley,” she repeated wanly.
Her gaze darted over him. She could feel the blood ebbing from her face, leaving her lightheaded, as she took in his bedraggled appearance, the gag in his mouth, the ropes that bound him to the pole.
She swayed.
Immediately, the girls pressed forward. “Miss Stanton!”
“Are you alright, Miss Stanton?”
“Do you think she has heatstroke?”
His eyes bore into hers. Alarm registered on his face.
“Chanderley,” she repeated a third time—rather stupidly, she had to admit. Pea-goose!
Charlie took a deep breath. “I am alright.” Another breath to allow her to gather her composure. “Now, girls—” She clapped her hands. “I want you to douse the fire. And then you will go back to the house.—And don’t give me that scowl, Marianne. What you all did was truly wicked, and I’m most disappointed in you. You will all go back to the house.” And as one of the girls opened her mouth to protest, “Now. Since you are so fond of Mr Defoe’s novel, I trust you will find it no hardship to copy the first twenty pages in your neatest writing.”
Groans met this statement. “But, Miss Stanton—”
“No. I don’t want to hear a thing,” Charlie snapped. “Have you managed to douse the fire yet? Good, then take your dolls and get back to the house!” Her hand’s trembled with the force of her anger.
Or was it worry for Chanderley?
She cast him a quick glance.
Lud, he looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge!
Charlie forced her attention back on the girls. With eyes as wide as saucers and a few mouths trembling at her harsh tone, they hurried to comply with her command. In no time at all, the group marched back to the school, clutching their dolls. They left the cauldron with the sad remains of Susan’s French doll behind—and a wheelbarrow. That explained how they had managed to transport Chanderley to the lake.
As soon as the last pigtail had disappeared over the small hill that hid the lake from view, Charlie dashed to Chanderley. Up close he looked even more bedraggled. His hair was tousled; a bruise was forming on his cheekbone; and why was his lower face covered in stubble?
She untied the handkerchief and took it out of his mouth.
“Hell,” he said hoarsely, then, “Thank you.”
She stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
His brows drew together and meshed in that way she found so fascinating. “Those little monsters ambushed me and threw me into that infernal wheelbarrow and—”
“I know that.” She made an impatient gesture. “But what are you doing here, in Scotland?”
“Ah.” His features relaxed. He glanced down his body. “If you’d release me—”
“No.”
His brows rose. “What do you mean, no?”
Charlie crossed her arms in front of her chest.
He flexed his shoulders, and heaved a resigned sigh. “You are one of the most aggravating females I know, do you know that? It’s a good thing I love you
to distraction.”
Charlie gaped at him. Her arms fell to her sides. “You what?” Suddenly she had trouble getting enough air into her lungs.
He gave her a crooked smile. “That is why I am in Scotland, Miss Stanton. To tell you how very much I love you and adore you.”
Oh my. Oh MY. She put a hand over her stomach, where a thousand butterflies fluttered about.
His expression sobered as his eyes roamed over her face. “I’ve come to tell you what a deuced dunderhead I’ve been. You have gifted me with your affection, with…” His jaw worked. “With your innocence even—and I would have thrown away that most precious gift.”
Her thoughts whirling, Charlie shook her head. “You feel honour-bound to comply with the wishes of your family; I understand that. Your father—” She broke off as his eyes darkened with anger. “What? What is it?”
“My father,” he snarled. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word honour! I will never—God!” He closed his eyes with some strong emotion.
Charlie watched the muscles in his throat move as he tried to control whatever demons had him in their grip. He grimaced as if in pain, and she felt her heart clench, aching for him.
Without thinking, she reached out and laid her hand against his rough, stubbly cheek. “It is alright,” she whispered, and had to blink back tears when he leaned his head into her palm, cherishing her touch. “Ah, George.” She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “Everything will be fine,” she crooned.
His lashes fluttered, then he opened his eyes and stared directly into hers. What she saw in his gaze made her want to hug him tight. Instead, she lightly stroked his cheek.
“My Aunt Burnell came to me and told me about her… her marriage,” he said with effort, his breathing laboured. “Charlie, you can’t imagine—they basically sold her to the highest bidder, and that swine Burnell, he… he…” He swallowed hard.
Mrs Burnell’s remarks at her party—about women being so often helpless—suddenly acquired new, dreadful implications. Charlie had thought Mrs Burnell had been talking about her niece, but no, it would appear she had been talking about herself. “Burnell was violent,” she said.
Chanderley’s chest moved as he took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, he was.” His face spasmed. “She showed me her hands, Charlie, her poor hands. They are covered in scars, so many; you can’t imagine how many.” Tears began to trickle down his face. “Dear God, Charlie, what that swine did to her! She tried to tell her family, her father and brother, but they did not see fit to help her. Can you imagine?”
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