With trembling fingers Roland took the insubstantial garment Sir Richard withdrew from his pocket. He had never replaced a lady’s stocking before. Of course he had undressed Venetia many times. She’d enjoyed all forms of bedroom sport. Dismayed, he reflected this may well have been one of the party games his late wife had enjoyed in company with Sir Richard and which her erstwhile lover was now enjoying at his expense.
No words were exchanged but Sarah pointed her foot obligingly so Roland could roll the stocking over it with clumsy, trembling fingers.
“You tie it,” he whispered, leaving the slip of silk to fall slackly over her ankle. Not only did he feel incapable, physically, but honour dictated. The lady had suffered enough indignity. She’d not want to feel yet another man’s hands climbing her leg. How she must despise him now. His manliness had been torn from him with as little effort as her stocking.
“I can’t,” she responded unsteadily. “Please …” And she held out her leg again. A spasm engulfed her and he realised her fear was far greater than she displayed.
Feeling the contours beneath the smooth silk he eased up and over her calf was little consolation. His fingers were clumsy and tying the bow almost beyond his capabilities. Pausing in his difficult task, he glanced up at her face. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He felt the light pressure of her hand on his head as he finished his task. An exoneration? A farewell to what they might have shared? Unable to stand he had to be helped to his feet.
“Douse him with cold water!” Mrs Hollingsworth’s command echoed stridently through the room.
Blinking at the shock, Roland opened his eyes in response to Sarah’s sudden cries. Until now she had been self controlled in her bravery. But now she sobbed as Sir Richard removed the pins that secured her hair and which now fell in a mass of thick, chestnut curls over her shoulders. It was glorious. Glossy, abundant, with a life of it’s own. Roland’s heart rejoiced at the vision of splendour, then shrivelled. Memories of this corrupt toad would forever mar whatever might have been between them. Roland had been stripped of his honour, and without honour his life was meaningless.
With another cry of helpless rage he lunged forward. A glint of silver caught his eye as his fists made contact with Sir Richard’s skull.
And then the murky darkness that had punctuated the last hour or more enveloped him and he surrendered himself to the oblivion that so effectively extinguished his honour and dignity.
Chapter Sixteen
SARAH AND CARO huddled together for warmth beneath the thin blanket. Neither spoke although Sarah knew sleep eluded Caro who so desperately needed it.
In the silence of the attic she soon became accustomed to the sounds of the house: the insistent scratching of mice, the muffled thumps and groans of its occupants plying their trade, and the muted sounds of the city.
After what seemed like hours she became aware of a new sound from behind the adjoining door. Muffled groans, but not like those others.
Joy banished her fears. Surely it must be Roland.
Though it felt like days, it had probably been only two hours since they’d been dragged up the stairs by Garth and locked into this hole of a room.
There was no light. Sarah had no idea how long it was before dawn, if they would be released or what their captors’ plans were. Her greatest fear was reserved for Roland. He had been unconscious, blood trickling from a wound to his temple throwing into relief the pallor of his parchment skin as he’d been carted out of the room while they had all looked on. The indignity of it. To be humiliated before his own daughter and the woman he loved would be a near mortal wound to his pride.
The mood of the evening had quickly degenerated after Roland’s departure. Mrs Hollingsworth clearly felt cheated of her sport and Sir Richard had become despondent. Slumping into a chair, apparently more in his cups than Sarah had suspected, he looked liverish as in answer to the brothel madam’s question he’d muttered, “No, I haven’t the faintest idea what we should do with ’em. Lock ’em up and we’ll worry about it in the morning.”
Sarah feared Sir Richard might consider the girls and Roland posed too much of a risk to be allowed their freedom.
Yet surely he would release them? Any petitions for Sir Richard to face justice would be dismissed as the manufactured grievances of a cuckolded husband towards his late wife’s former lover.
Another, equally insidious thought intruded. If Sir Richard really were arrogant enough to believe he could get away with his crime, would he decide to prey upon the girls once more, now that Roland were out of the way? Or was it really only entertainment if Roland bore witness?
Sarah’s ears were so busy monitoring Roland’s laboured breathing that it was Caro who jerked upright at the faint scrape of a key in the lock. She gripped Sarah tighter as the door eased open on rusty hinges.
Someone moved stealthily towards them.
“Quiet! I’ve come to help you escape,” came a breathless whisper. “If you have money and take me with you I know how it can be done.”
“Miss Morecroft!” whispered Caro.
“Hush.” The young woman raised her candle. In its dim glow she looked frightened. Wearing only a thin nightgown, her feet bare, she shivered. “There are ears everywhere.”
Sarah rose from the bed. “Of course you want money.” The softness of her voice did not hide her anger. “Isn’t that behind this whole charade? You wanted revenge, Miss Morecroft – for your father’s well-deserved banishment. I have read your diary.”
The candle flickered and Miss Morecroft’s dull countenance flamed. “Mr Hawthorne destroyed my father, but I wrote of my anger, not revenge. I’m as much a prisoner as you, thanks to the dreadful day I met Archie Hollingsworth. Do you want me to help you? I assure you, there’s no one else here who will.”
“Yes, please,” whimpered Caro, shivering beneath the blanket.
Shifting restlessly, apparently to get warm, Miss Morecroft continued in her frightened whisper. “I want ten pounds upon your safe deliverance so that I may buy respectable clothes.” Her teeth chattered. “I’ll need a reference, too, to secure a position. Do I have your word?”
“Respectable?” Sarah went on. Doubt had formed as to Miss Morecroft’s role. “Surely you’ve been well rewarded for orchestrating the whole plan?”
“Well-rewarded? I’ve been ruined by a sham marriage. Duped into believing Archie’s questions about Mr Hawthorne and his family was husbandly interest. Now, come. Dawn is nearly here and with it our only chance.” Leaning across the bed she drew back the curtains.
“First we have to find Mr Hawthorne.”
“There’s no time.”
“If Mrs Hollingsworth finds us gone, she’s more likely to dispose of him in the Thames than provide him with the proper nursing he needs,” argued Sarah. She glared at Miss Morecroft, ready to do battle. “I think he’s in the adjoining room, only the door’s locked. At least just try the key you used for this chamber.”
“And if he’s ill?” Miss Morecroft asked, looking in two minds as to whether to object as Sarah took the keys and candlestick, from her. “I’ll not let Mr Hawthorne jeopardize our only chance.”
Striding towards the adjoining door, Sarah turned to whisper angrily, “Do you know why your precious father was banished? Not because of his affair with Mr Hawthorne’s wife, or that he gambled freely upon old Mr Hawthorne’s generosity. No! It was because he put his men in the greatest danger on the battlefield through his ineptitude. It was only thanks to Mr Hawthorne that he wasn’t court-martialled and shot!”
“Liar!” Miss Morecroft hissed. “All right, I’ll take my chances, alone. Believe me, I’d not put it past madam to dispose of you with as much impunity as … as the chickens whose necks she breaks for Sunday dinner.”
Both froze at a new sound. Stealthy footfalls.
“We came as soon as we could,” came a breathless whisper.
In the gloom Sarah could just make out the tawdry gold and mauve gown of the yo
ung girl who’d let them into the house.
“With stockings,” came a deep, throaty voice which trembled on a chuckle. “I saw Her Fat Ladyship strip the sheets from the bed, so if leaping from the window was your plan, Miss Morecroft, you’ll need these.”
Raising her candle, Sarah stared with amazement at a tall, flame-haired woman with the most enormous pouter pigeon chest she’d ever seen. From her hands dangled a pile of variously coloured stockings.
“I can’t countenance what Dicky’s gone and done to you girls,” she said, drawing her painted brows together disapprovingly, “so I’m donating the spoils he brings me.”
“This is Queenie,” whispered Kitty in hurried explanation, though her tone conveyed a certain reverence. Queenie was certainly impressive in her tight fitting gown of gold topped off by a matching turban sporting half a dozen peacock feathers. “She’s Sir Richard’s favourite—”
“His One and Only,” Queenie corrected with a haughty toss of her head. “But Queenie’s not one to abide an injustice, though there’s also me job to consider, an all,” she said, crossing the room to deposit the stockings on the bed. “They’re all nicely knotted, too. Did it mesel’ while I was passing the time waitin’ fer Dicky to come to me. Serve him right for the humilatin’ things he was doing downstairs.” In another few strides she was back at the door. “Dicky was asleep last time I checked but I ain’t taking any more risks. Wicked he might be, but he’s me bread and butter. Come Kitty. You gotta consider yer own skin, too.”
Sarah watched the door close behind them before turning to Miss Morecroft. “Why don’t you start tying them to the bed post? It crossed my mind to wonder if the hay carter could be relied upon.”
Miss Morecroft’s scorn followed Sarah from the darkness as she struggled to locate the keyhole of the door to the adjoining room. “Very clever, Lady Sarah. Yes, he parks his wagon in the same spot every morning at dawn. But hurry, for if the key doesn’t fit—”
“It does!” Pure, sweet relief surged through Sarah as she pushed open the door and raised the candle, her eyes drawn by movement to a pile of sacks in the corner. There was Roland, sweat-soaked and shivering, lying beneath a thin coverlet. His sunken eyes flickered the faintest recognition as she cast herself at his side and held one of his limp hands to her lips. He managed, hoarsely, “Are you alright?”
“Better than you, I’d wager,” Sarah murmured, kissing his knuckles and stroking his lank hair back from his forehead. When she skimmed her hand over his sweat-soaked shirt, she shook her head. It was freezing outside and he had nothing warm or dry to wear. “Put your arms around my neck so I can help you up,” she whispered. “Caro and Miss Morecroft are waiting in the adjoining room us. We’re going out through the window.”
He gave a weak laugh as he obeyed, and she managed to haul them both to their feet. “I’ll go – in as much as I’m able – on one condition.”
“There’s no time for conditions,” she said, struggling under his weight as he managed a few unsteady steps. “I will not leave you.”
He stopped, panting with the effort of their progress and Sarah was dismayed by the heat from his burning forehead when she laid her hand upon it. “I need to rest,” he rasped. “Sarah, I’m too ill. I’ll … just hinder you.”
She’d have stamped her foot at his stubbornness were there not the need for silence. “I said I won’t leave you,” she repeated. “Freedom is just through that door.”
“Sarah!”
“Roland, please!” she burst out, stopping when she saw his pallid face, limned with dawn light. Suddenly she was afraid. “Roland, you’ll be well soon,” she told him as he sagged against her. “You will!”
“Perhaps.” With a ragged breath he drew himself upright again and managed to drag another footstep across the bare boards. His hand struggled to her cheek, touched it briefly, before falling away. “But swear you’ll not sacrifice your freedom on my account.”
“I’ll promise, if only to urge you on. When this is over,” Sarah panted, “you’ll realize all that matters is that you love me” - with relief she reached the doorway and they collapsed against the frame — “and I love you.”
He did not reply. His head was upraised, his eyes closed. He looked as if he’d lost consciousness on his feet. Then, with lips barely moving he managed faintly, “Love does not last.”
Anger gave her the energy to drag him the final steps to the bed by the window. “Give me the chance to prove you wrong.”
“I’d not be so cruel,” he rasped as Caro rushed towards him.
“Papa!” she cried, joy turning to alarm as she helped him to the mattress where he crumpled.
The clank of harness and clopping of hooves entering the courtyard cut the morning air.
“Roland!” Sarah shook him. “The cart’s below. You must get yourself to the windowsill.”
Moaning, he struggled to follow her directions, his eyes vacant as he grasped the knotted rope of stockings Sarah thrust into his hands.
“Into the darkness,” he managed between cracked lips. Weakly, he gripped Sarah’s wrist. His eyes flickered open. “If I miss my mark, I hold you to your promise—” His voice was now so hoarse she could barely hear him — to ensure your safety before mine.”
“I promise.” Sarah knew it was the only way to secure his cooperation as she and the two girls helped him into position.
She looked down past his shoulder. It was as Miss Morecroft had predicted. The cart, laden high with hay, provided an ideal landing pad.
“I’m ready.” His eyes flickered open for the briefest moment as Sarah gave him a gentle push.
To her relief he landed well before dragging himself to the side.
Caro quickly followed her father to the window sill before easing her way down the length of makeshift rope.
Tensely, Sarah waited for her to drop.
Grimly, Caro clung on.
“Caro, let go!” Sarah whispered, urgently. She could hear the early stirrings of the servants.
Frozen by fear, Caro stared up at her as purposeful footsteps sounded on the stairs at the end of the corridor.
“Caro!” urged Sarah, but still the girl did not release her grip.
The footsteps came closer. There was no choice. Leaning dangerously far out of the window, Sarah prized open Caro’s fingers and with a scream, Caro dropped the distance, landing safely amidst the hay.
“Your turn, Miss Morecroft! Hurry!” cried Sarah, running back to the door, her trembling fingers battling to fit the key into the lock as Mrs Hollingsworth’s strident tones came from the other side.
“What’s going on?” demanded the brothel madam, beating upon the door before managing to force it open a fraction. “Let me in!”
Sarah screamed when she realised she’d been too slow in turning the key, her weight insufficient against Mrs Hollingsworth’s determined bulk. She swung round at the sound of more running footsteps, this time inside the room, gasping with relief as Miss Morecroft threw her own weight against the door and at last Sarah was able to grind the key, locking them in.
She’d earned them a reprieve but there’d be little time before Mrs Hollingsworth arrived with reinforcements in the stable yard.
“What the devil!” cried the carter, running towards his vehicle as the two girls hurled themselves into it from the window, Sarah scrambling from the box to take possession of the reins.
With an expert flick of the ribbons she coaxed the cart horse into movement, fending off the pursuing carter with a crack of the whip.
“She’s gone.”
Roland was hardly surprised by this. What did surprise him, however, was that Miss Morecroft – the real Sarah Morecroft – was bending over him, her familiar features arranged in a look of concern.
“Her father fetched her yesterday.” Miss Morecroft set a tray before him, then lowered herself onto a chair by the side of the bed. “Eat your soup, sir. It’s been some days-”
“Did Lady Sarah say if sh
e’d return?” His throat was dry and his head ached. But his thoughts, at least, were lucid.
“No, sir. At least not that I heard. She’d been here four days. She couldn’t stay longer.”
Four days since they’d left the Hollingsworths? The sketchy details of their escape were not something he cared to dwell upon. Certainly not the indignity of being helped by two young women through an open window, although the image of Sarah driving a hay cart through the streets of London was one he would treasure. The carter had caught up with them soon enough and been easily bribed to take them to safety.
He stared at the steam rising from his dinner, unable to return his gaze to Miss Morecroft’s face. She seemed content, however, to sit in silence and to help him when he struggled with his mug of water.
Five days since he’d banished Sarah. Barely four since she’d shown him how ill he had served her.
“The Hollingsworths,” he murmured. “Are you one of them?”
He couldn’t make her out. She looked like Godby but there was none of the mobility of feature which, in Godby’s case, had always provided strong hints as to what he was thinking. This young woman had regarded the entire proceedings at the Hollingsworths with stony-faced detachment. And yet, she was here.
“I met Mr Hollingsworth aboard the Mary Jane. I did not know it at the time but he’d been soliciting girls from the Continent to work in his mother’s establishment.” With an ironic pursing of her lips she added, “Apparently there is a craze for French mademoiselles.” She sighed as she twisted the wedding band she had moved onto her right hand. “When we were the only two washed ashore near a small Belgian village I thought Providence had entwined our fates. We were married by special license but soon I was living a nightmare. It was a sham marriage.”
Although she told her story calmly, her eyes revealed the extent of her trauma.
“Perhaps it was better that way.” He looked at her with sympathy before forcing down a spoonful of soup. Losing one’s virtue to a Hollingsworth might be preferable to being legally bound to one.
Lady Sarah's Redemption Page 17
