by Cindy Anstey
Silence returned to the carriage, but this time it was companionable. Cora looked relieved, as if by imparting the reason for her melancholy she had eased it somewhat, and Lydia now understood that the true source of her friend’s distress had nothing to do with her residency at Roseberry.
The quiet accompanied them for another mile or so before Lydia voiced a possibility.
“Cora, as I recall, Gloria Granger was known for her prevarication. It is possible that she was cutting shams when she wrote of Mr. Granger’s engagement.”
“To what end? There is no need for her to lie.”
There might be if Gloria guessed the purpose of Cora’s letter and was less than pleased with her brother’s association with a lady of no means. But this might be a little too honest an opinion.
“Did she need a reason to splash ink on Venetia Winworth’s favorite gown? Or accuse the gardener of lechery?”
“We were schoolgirls then, Lydia. I’m sure Miss Granger is no longer the careless girl she once was.”
“It’s nice to think that adulthood has tapped us all on the head equally, Cora. But while some of us have undoubtedly matured, not all the girls will be so affected. Some characters need a little more time to ripen. And we are only talking about last year. Not a decade or two.”
“All right, if we suppose Gloria was not telling the truth, why has Mr. Granger not sought me out?”
“He can hardly do so if he does not know where you are.”
“But Suzanne would have—”
“Would she? Suzanne has not been blessed with a genial nature.”
“Then my brother—”
“He is often from home several hours at a time. Visiting the tenants and the like.”
“Yes, avoiding Suzanne.”
“Exactly.”
“So there is a possibility that it is not true … that Mr. Granger is not engaged and … well, doing everything that he can to find me.”
Not overly attached to romance, Lydia found this statement a little too emotional for the situation, but she refrained from saying so. After all, the man only had to visit the minister to ask for Cora’s direction … or the grocer. Any number of village people near Fardover could have supplied the information—but Lydia would not allow common sense to wipe away the bright grin on Cora’s face.
“I think we will have to be direct in an indirect way.” Lydia threw her hand down to maintain her balance as the coach negotiated a rather sharp curve.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let us write Miss Melvina and ask her if the rumor is true. Her school is near enough to the parish of Fullerton that gossip about the Grangers will have traveled to her.… And you know how she loves to share tittle-tattle.”
“Oh, Lydia, that is an excellent idea.”
Lydia nodded, barely aware that she was approving her own words. Her mind was occupied with other thoughts. It had skipped away from the fictitious engagement—as she was certain it would prove to be—and landed on the next hurdle. How could they contact Mr. Granger without upsetting propriety, and then, how could Cora ease back into his society, where the courtship could begin anew?
As they approached the outskirts of Bath, Lydia was reminded of Mr. Newton. She couldn’t help but put the two together. Might she not prevail upon Mr. Newton to facilitate a meeting? It might require a little subterfuge, but Lydia was fairly certain he would be pleased to offer assistance. It was a reasonable expectation.… And Mr. Newton was a reasonable sort of gentleman—reasonable and interesting, with engaging eyes, a winning smile, and a character that drew one closer.… Yes, indeed, she was quite certain he would help.
Lydia turned her grin to the window.
Chapter 7
In which a person is tossed and a person is trussed
Yawning, Robert glanced at the mantel clock on the other side of the office. Miss Lydia Whitfield would be there in ten minutes, precisely. And here he sat, half asleep at the desk outside Mr. Lynch’s closed door.
Another yawn suggested to Robert that he stand up, walk about, or get some fresh air before he was obliged to think clearly. Of all nights for Cassidy to knock on his door, last night couldn’t have been more poorly timed. While there was no doubt that Cassidy was in a pickle, it was not a new occurrence; Cassidy was always getting into one scrape or another and relying on Robert to get him out. This one, however, might require significant intervention, even if that involved tying Cassidy to a chair next week.
A duel.
Robert sighed and shook his head. How was it that Vincent Cassidy, who only a few months ago agreed on the general stupidity of the rite, had been manipulated into participating in one?
To Robert, all sides of a duel were the wrong side—no matter what the reason. His tolerance for the illegal but still prevalent manner of defending honor was never high, but his brother’s needless death had erased any acceptance he might have had for something that could only be described as a perilous huff.
If feathers were to be unruffled before the momentous day of stupidity, Robert would have to gather as much information as possible before approaching the offended person … a person who must have known that Cassidy had dipped far too deep and was well in his cups. How could a gentleman be insulted by the words of a young man making a cake of himself? Robert needed to understand the motives of the man involved; his investigation would begin with a conversation, a long conversation with a sober Vincent Cassidy. Tonight.
Standing, Robert stretched and glanced at the clock; five minutes before Lydia’s arrival. It was time for a breath of air to clear his head and get him out from behind his desk. With a glance at Mr. Lynch’s door, Robert headed down the stairs. He would wait on the sidewalk, ready to hand her down.
The fresh breeze brought some revival, and pacing smartly in front of the tawny stone building for a moment or two brought the remainder. At one, precisely, Robert was in position, standing straight and proud. Glancing around, he saw that the busyness of the street was limited to a milk wagon, two drays, and a tilbury. A mother and child meandered across the road, and two men loitered, leaning on the corner streetlamp. It was quiet in a semibustling way. Perhaps stating it was quiet in a non-Lydia sort of way would be more apt to Robert’s way of thinking, for the street was decidedly Lydia-less.
With a frown, Robert pulled out his pocket watch. Hmm … five after one. Looking around yet again, Robert saw that the two men were no longer leaning, sauntering instead in his direction, and the mother and child had been replaced by a gentleman in a bowler, marching with purpose on the opposite side of the road. And still no carriage or travel coach appeared—nothing that would indicate the arrival of the usually punctual Miss Lydia Whitfield.
With a sigh of resignation, Robert was about to determine that Lydia was late when he spied a small coach rolling down the road from the right direction. It was still too far away to ascertain that the driver was Mr. Hodge, and yet Robert was fairly sure that the young lady was indeed about to arrive.
He was rather surprised by the quickening of his heartbeat and the sudden need to throw out his chest. Ignoring both, Robert replaced his foolish grin with a benign smile and nodded to the coachman as he pulled up in front of the law office. The driver was not, in fact, Mr. Hodge, nor was the face at the carriage window that of Lydia’s. However, there was no mistaking Miss Shipley, so Robert immediately opened the door and offered her his hand as she stepped down to the curb.
While greeting the young lady, who was all blond curls and polite smiles, Robert presented his hand again and was very pleased to see Lydia lean into the light. However, just as she gripped his fingers, the carriage door on the other side slammed open, and Lydia glanced over her shoulder. The coach dipped on its springs as if someone had entered. Lydia gasped and was jerked backward.
Hauled halfway into the coach by Lydia’s hold, Robert sprawled across the threshold, feet pedaling for the step. Catching the edge, he launched himself inside, only to land on his knee
s on the carriage floor. Intending to spring up, Robert was instantly halted in his ascent by the press of cold, hard steel against his neck just below his jaw. It was an untenable position, kneeling with a knife at his jugular, while Miss Shipley’s piercing scream filled the air.
The carriage dipped again, and a guttural voice barked out from the driver’s bench. The coach pulled away from the curb, picking up momentum as it sped away. The door banged shut behind Robert, and Miss Shipley’s distress faded into ominous silence.
Blinking hard to adjust to the semidark carriage, Robert tried to turn his head.
“Ah, ah, no ya don’t. Make yer self comfortable right there.”
The rigidity of his muscles was meant to mask Robert’s fury, his planned attack. But the knife was pressed deeper.
“I’d sooner slit your throat, my boy. Don’t give me the excuse.”
A gasp from Lydia stilled his fury. Suddenly he was cold with fear—fear for the safety and sanity of Lydia Whitfield. He had to protect her at all costs. Swallowing with difficulty, he breathed deeply through his nose, struggling for calm and balance.
Would she faint and become entirely vulnerable? How could he reassure her? Would she cry in terror—
“Here, take my bag and be done with it.” Lydia’s tone was almost as sharp as the knife against Robert’s throat.
“Don’t want yer bag, silly cow.”
Suddenly the carriage jerked, rattling into and out of a deep rut; Robert tensed against the inevitable slice and was surprised by how little it hurt.
“Have a care!” Lydia shouted with obvious distress. “You have cut him.”
“Oh,” the villain snickered. “Look at you. Red after all—ay. Not a blue blood—ay. Not to worry, just a nick, me boy. Don’t get yer drawers in a bunch.”
And yet the pressure was eased—the damage to his throat minimized.
“Are you all right, Mr. Newton?” There was a slight tremor to her query, but Robert could neither voice an answer nor move his head.
“Ah, don’t you worry none, me girl. Just a drop of blood … thimbleful at most.”
“How can you be so cavalier? You are putting his life at risk,” she snarled. “And for what? What do you want?”
“Ah, Missy. Not gonna answer any a yer questions. I were warned about you.”
“Warned? You know who I am? Have you been watching me?”
“This be me not answerin’ again. Told ya I wouldna. Now, lean yer pretty self forward and pull them drapes. That’s a way. Oh, Oh. Careful. There. Now, sit back and enjoy the ride. Don’t get no ideas.”
As the light inside the coach dimmed even more, Robert tried to assess the situation with a clear head. It was hard to do, as his awkward position was becoming more painful with every jolt and turn and his thoughts were occupied with the necessary task of avoiding the knife at his throat by maintaining his balance.
“Perhaps now you might let Mr. Newton up off the floor. He is dripping blood on your boots, and you cannot continue to hunch over him in such a manner if we are going any distance. Are we going any distance?”
Robert would have laughed if there hadn’t been the danger of slitting his own throat by doing so.
“Thinking of my comfort, are you, my girl? So kind. No, no. The boy will stay right where he is fer now. Won’t be long.”
Silence reigned in the coach for some moments as Robert, and likely Lydia, considered the ominous meaning of “won’t be long.” However, the villain’s idea of not long was not the same as Robert’s. The time seemed very long, indeed; he was still on his knees, after all—still in pain, and still trying to avoid the knife.
“I will do as you say if you remove your weapon from Mr. Newton’s throat—”
“Leave off, my girl. Knife stays right where it is till I say so.” There was exasperation in the villain’s tone.
“Holding a knife on Mr. Newton is counterproductive. If you cut … kill him, I will most definitely not cooperate.”
The laugh was nasty and harsh. “Yah, but till then, you’ll be a little lamb, now won’t you, my girl. Quiet little lamb that makes no fuss, no bother. So good I don’t need to tie you up. No need to put the gag to ya. So quiet and calm I won’t get twitchy—don’t want a man with a knife to get twitchy, do ya?”
“No, indeed. Twitchy would be disadvantageous.”
More likely fatal, but Robert was not about to quibble.
“Knew you’d see it my way.”
As the eon of ten or so minutes passed, the noise of the city diminished, and Robert was certain they were being taken out of Bath. The irregular rattling across cobblestones gave way to the haphazard ruts of packed earth. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the shaking or the dipping.
Finally, the villain directed Lydia to lift the curtain, allowing him and Robert a quick glance outside. The amount of greenery flashing by confirmed Robert’s fears; they were, indeed, passing through the countryside, well away from prying eyes that might alert the Watch.
As he squinted at the window, Robert’s pain-fogged brain was slow to understand the release of pressure on his neck and the unexpected rush of air behind him. Suddenly he was pitched backward through the door, out into emptiness. Robert landed hard in a tumbling, violent roll, and his momentum left him breathing in dirt, winded and confused … but only for a moment.
A scream brought him to his senses, and he was up and running before he could put two thoughts together. But his legs no longer worked, and he landed on his poor, abused knees, shouting out in useless frustration as the coach raced away.
“Lydia!”
* * *
Lydia glared. There was not much else she could do at this point and time as she was trussed like a Christmas goose.… Well, as she thought a Christmas goose might be trussed. She was not a cook, after all. Her bonnet lay in tatters on the coach floor, and her gloves were rags held on more by the rope around her wrists than the delicate stitching around her fingers.
And, the most insulting of insults, she was gagged.
As her only weapon, glaring really was quite ineffectual. The villain seemed unmoved by her outrage, frustration, and appraisal of his character. Breathing in as deeply as she could around the tightly bound rag in her mouth, Lydia decided that a scowl might penetrate the man’s calm better than the glare—but he seemed not to notice the change.
He was a thin brute with hardly any hair and a ragged ear; his complexion was swarthy in a weather-beaten way. Though he did not have the demeanor of a farmer, perhaps a fisherman? No, what was she thinking; he was a kidnapper. That was enough of an occupation for any man; it would keep him very busy.
Abducting innocent girls, asking for money—she thought this his most likely motive—collecting his ill-gotten gain, and then running from the law. Yes, that was why he was out in the sun. Running, running away. Coward!
Lydia tried to shout the word, but it came out more like a grunt than an accusation and only brought a smile to the villain’s mouth—revealing a maw of rotten teeth.
“Almost there, Missy.”
Lydia shook her head in disgust and turned her gaze to the window. It was not much of a view as Robert’s awkward exit had precipitated the trussing—despite her valiant struggle—and a reclosure of the curtain.
Lydia swallowed in discomfort. Poor Mr. Newton. What a terrible landing he must have had. She knew him to have survived; she heard him call out to her as they raced away. Flushing slightly, Lydia heard the echo of her name in her mind. So distraught, Robert Newton had used her first name. Highly irregular—she wasn’t sure whether she should mention this slip when she saw him next … whenever that might be. Perhaps it would be best to ignore the overly familiar address—after all, in distressful situations, it was easily done.
Despite the heartfelt conviction that she should not consider Robert’s possible condition, Lydia found her mind continually returning to that very subject. It became apparent that approaching it directly and then moving on would serve he
r better.
So, at worst, Robert had broken something—a leg, an arm, his head … yes, no, she wouldn’t get carried away. And at best, he was fit as a fiddle and chasing down the coach … or a magistrate. It was likely somewhere in the middle, and rather than allow her imagination any more rope, she should deal with her own pickle.
No sooner had that thought entered her head than Lydia felt the coach slow and negotiate a sharp turn—to the right. They continued to travel farther, but at a much-reduced gait and not for long, a minute. Perhaps two. Another sharp turn, this time to the left, and then the carriage pulled to a stop.
Lydia’s heart began to beat at a rate more akin to a brisk walk of some miles than a half-hour sit. Suddenly she felt that there was more security in the foreign coach than the out-of-doors and deplored the idea of stepping into the unknown.
For the first time in Lydia’s life, she didn’t know what awaited her. It was a very strange circumstance—one that she would not recommend to any but the most frivolous of persons.
The door was jerked open from the outside, and yet another thug made his presence known; he thrust his head inside, taking a long look at Lydia before turning to his mate.
“Yer late,” the new villain barked his words—shooting spittle onto the vest of her traveling companion. “Startin’ to think ya weren’t comin’. Thought we were in the suds.”
“Hey now, Morley, calm yerself down, relax and help me get this here baggage inta the barn.”
Barn? Did the villain say barn?
“What’cha tie up ’er feet for, Les? I’m not carryin’ ’er.”
“Lazy sot. Help me get her down, an’ I’ll do the rest.” And so saying, Les shoved Lydia’s feet out the door toward Morley and yanked her off the seat.
Within the confines of a coach, the distance to the floor is not excessive; however, as the move was sudden and unexpected, Lydia did not have time to prepare. Though how she could have been ready, she could not conceive. As it was, she connected with the floor in a bruising jolt. That pain had barely subsided when Les grabbed her shoulders and shoved her out the door, banging her elbows and then her shoulders against the sharp edges of the jamb. The process was obviously not a practiced maneuver.
