by Cindy Anstey
Gritting her teeth, Lydia neither helped nor hindered; she observed and tried to plan an escape. Her resolve to wait it out—to see which way the wind blew—crumbled when lewd remarks about her skirts riding up proved to be too much for her delicate sensibilities. Writhing like a serpent, Lydia kicked out at Morley, catching him on the chin. The move proved to be very ill-considered. The nasty piece of work lost his grip, and her feet slammed to the ground. Les, juggling the whole of her weight, slipped and banged her head against the step.
In that instant, Lydia lost her hold on consciousness.
Chapter 8
In which words such as rats, cell, and rapid descent are strangely pertinent
Lydia was brought back to awareness by an odd sensation. A collection of pins ran up her leg, stopping somewhere about her hip. There was a slight weight associated with these pins, and her skirts shifted. It was almost as if a mouse were sitting on her.… But that was absolutely absurd.
Opening her eyes, expecting to see a cheerful blue-and-white coverlet, Lydia was momentarily confused to discover that she was lying on her side with her face mushed into straw … in a very dimly lit space that reeked of an unpleasant earthy odor. It made no sense until she suddenly recalled her abduction and the possibility of a mouse on her hip was no longer absurd.
With a gasp, Lydia sat up in a dizzy stupor and came perilously close to issuing a most undignified scream. Had her training at Miss Melvina’s Finishing School for Young Ladies been anything but exemplary, she might have done so, for the creature was not a mouse; it was a rat.
Lydia had nothing against rodents, but they were not her favorite animal, and she much preferred them in the stables or running through a cornfield—away from her. Certainly not sitting on her person. Fortunately, the process of sitting up served to dislodge the creature from its perch, and it scrambled across the room and disappeared through a hole at the base of the wall.
Grateful that there were no witnesses to her temporary loss of poise, Lydia looked around her enclosure and frowned. Perhaps her gratitude was misplaced; being alone was not a boon in this situation. A person could be worked upon, but this emptiness was not advantageous—certainly not to her.
The little room … stall, no, she would call it a cell, for it felt like a prison—not that she had ever had occasion to visit a prison, but it was what she imagined a jail cell to look like. This cell was long and narrow, the floor was covered with a less-than-generous helping of straw, and there was no window. Weak blades of light shone through the cracks and splits of the old wooden walls, where most of the chinking was gone. There was a door—Lydia pushed on it, shook the handle, and changed her description. There was a locked door. There was also a chamber pot, the remnants of her gloves, and the trussing ropes. Not a lengthy inventory.
Pressing her ear to the door, Lydia could hear a soft murmur of conversation. It would seem that the villains were nearby—though the volume of the chortling was muffled, giving the impression that the bounders were not close. Turning her attention to the far wall, Lydia ran her hands across the wood, looking for a board loose enough to pull off—to no avail. Squinting through one of the larger cracks, Lydia tried to see beyond her confines, but brambles and dense shrubbery prevented a long view. Still, she could see the sky; there was a hint of pink. The sun was going down? Already?
Lydia had to have been unconscious for quite a while. She lifted her hand and gingerly touched the goose egg on the side of her head. It was overly tender and the likely cause of the headache that had taken up residence behind her ear. A cool cloth at the base of her neck would have provided some relief, but she was certain that neither Les nor Morley would be accommodating.
Lydia frowned and settled back down on the straw to think. Not as easy a process as it might seem; her brain was decidedly foggy. After a great deal of concentration, she realized there was one other person to consider: the coachman. Was he friend or foe? Jailer or prisoner … or had he been pushed from his perch?
Staring at the hole where the rat had disappeared, Lydia wondered if the coachman—what did he say his name was—Mr. Boggs, no, it was longer … Mr. Brigmond … no, Mr. Burgstaller. Yes, Mr. Burgstaller. She wondered if Mr. Burgstaller was next door—locked in and feeling overwhelmed by the day’s events.
Kneeling, Lydia tried to look through the opening in which the rat had disappeared. She was forced to lie down before she could get her eyes low enough to see beyond the wooden barrier. Pausing to allow the dizziness to pass, Lydia breathed deeply through her nose and then squinted through the hole. The room on the other side was similar to the one she occupied, in size and condition. However, it was empty. No straw, no chamber pot, and no Mr. Burgstaller.
Lydia was about to rise when she noticed a great deal of nothing beside the door. In fact, it seemed to be a ribbon of dark, almost as if the door opened into an even darker room.
This presented a possibility. Several plans of escape swamped Lydia’s mind in a cascade of “what ifs.” Still, all was moot until she was in the room next door.
Sitting up cross-legged—her mother would be mortified—Lydia yanked on a board above the rat hole. A horrible and metallic scream echoed through her cell, and Lydia stopped. She held her breath and waited.
No footsteps. No shouting. No reaction.
This time, when Lydia continued, she tugged in slow increments and wiggled the board as she did. She was rewarded for her diligence, for while the wood continued to protest, it was a feeble complaint. After a quarter hour or so, she had loosened four boards and drawn them toward her with enough space to squeeze behind them. Well, she hoped there was enough room, for the boards would budge no farther.
It took a great deal of pushing various body parts, folding others, and contorting the rest to make her way through the opening. She ignored the sound of rending cloth—her skirts were ruined anyway, and it was likely the same could be said about her spencer. At last, Lydia stood on the other side, breathing heavily—in silence. She tiptoed over to the door and was pleased to find that it was ajar, just as she had surmised. The voices were still muffled, and there seemed to be no threat of discovery as yet.
Just as she was about to step forward, a loud, nearby thump forced her to reconsider. Suddenly made of marble, Lydia did not move or breathe.
Another thump and the sound of munching brought understanding, and Lydia’s knees threatened to fold in her relief. Taking a deep breath, she touched the wall as if to pat the horse in the next stall and shook her head—amused, temporarily, by her skittishness.
Slowly, using her foot, testing for unseen obstacles, Lydia inched toward the wide barn doors. These, too, had seen better days, pocked and splintered by years of wear and tear. Partially open, the pattern of disturbed dust told Lydia that the doors were fixed open—likely hanging from rusted hinges.
Hidden by the dappled patches of twilight, speckling a derelict cart, Lydia stared and sighed. She had an excellent view where she stood and now knew the answer to one of her “what ifs.” She would have to find a less direct escape route. Thugs Les and Morley were acting sentry in the yard just outside the door. And they were not alone. A third man had joined them, and while she couldn’t give him a name, the villain looked familiar.
But of poor Mr. Burgstaller, there was no sign.
* * *
Running his hands across the rotted wood of the barn wall, Robert searched for a board that might be pried away from the dilapidated building. But Lady Luck, who had been playing hide-and-seek with him all day, had disappeared yet again. The boards did not shift.
Curling his fingers into a fist, Robert gave into his frustration for a moment. He clenched his jaw and silently shouted at the Fates for bringing him so close only to stop him now.
With deliberation, Robert loosened his fingers and began to search the wall again. He had absolutely no intention of failing, not now. Not after coming so close. There was a way in; he would find it, come hell or high water. Then, of course, h
e would have to get back out … with Lydia—even if he had to carry her.
Robert shook away his dread, as he had done all day. Best to focus on her rescue … only that. Soon. Soon he would free her. Soon they would head back to Bath—back into the loving arms of her family. That might be doing it up a little too brown, but it served to keep his thoughts from dropping into the treacherous waters of blame.
As a logical creature, Robert knew that his sense of guilt was misplaced. Perhaps it was the uncertainty that sat so heavily on him. The sense of responsibility. He should have done something. Over and over he replayed the scene in the coach. What could he have done differently? How could he have protected her?
As soon as he was able, Robert had given chase. The cut on his neck was easy enough to stanch, as it was not deep. It took longer to get the feeling back in his knees. But when it did return, he ran, then jogged, and then, as the fatigue set in, he walked. Three miles down the road he found a farmer willing to sell him a bay mare for the value of his pocket watch.
He rode for miles—following one side road after another until it petered out or a passerby assured him that no coach had come speeding by. Back to the main road and then down the next country lane. And so it went for hours.
Just as exhaustion grabbed Robert by the throat, Fate nodded in his direction. He was passing through a collection of cottages—the number was too small to even call it a hamlet—and there he heard raised voices. It took only a casual inquiry to learn that a farmer had been forced into the ditch by a speeding coach. The man was not best pleased—complaining and explaining in detail the process of dragging a wagon out of the mud.
Sharing his indignation was a tinker, who had seen activity at the old Beyer farm where there was no reason for anyone to be. The house had burned down four years ago, taking most of the family with it. Tales of hauntings kept all but the most stalwart away.
Curious, the tinker had driven into the yard to offer his services. After all, even squatters need to fix their pots. The rude greeting that he suffered was uncalled for. He was just a man plying his trade—just trying to make a living.
Within a quarter hour, Robert found the Beyer farm, tied the mare to a sheltering tree, and slunk through the overgrown shrubbery to spy on the persons who had upset the locals.
Robert squinted at three men sitting outside the dilapidated barn, trying to verify their identity. Only one figure was familiar—the knife-wielding thug from the coach—but that was enough. Robert then circled around to the back.
* * *
Lydia was exploring the outlying regions of the barn when she heard a strange sound. A strange but somewhat familiar sound—that of complaining old wood. It would seem that someone was pulling at the wallboards in a surreptitious manner.
Why? Who?
Naturally, Lydia’s mind was suddenly swamped with theories. The cavalry was coming to her rescue … no, curious locals. No, Robert had found the parish constable … and a magistrate. Hmm, none of the above, for all would have come through the front door. It could mean only one thing … one individual. Well, one of two, if she thought it through properly. Mr. Burgstaller or Robert.
Affable though he was, Mr. Burgstaller was not anyone’s idea of a gallant knight—however, Robert most certainly was. Yes, Robert was coming to her rescue. It had to be him.
Lydia was quite taken aback by the sensations that coursed through her person upon that conclusion. Her heart beat faster, and it had not been plodding along to begin with, and she felt light-headed, overcome by excited anticipation.
Her first inclination was to rush toward the sound, but common sense offered another possibility. Might it be a stranger—someone wholly unconnected to this mess? Someone who was there for his own nefarious deeds, like a thief? Well, that made less sense, but she should not jump to any conclusions. Caution was the order of the day. Prudence and caution.
With a slow and calculated approach, Lydia neared the source of the sound—it was not loud, but it was persistent. All of which reinforced the possibility that Robert was the cause. Choosing one of the widest and closest splits in the boards to peek through, Lydia squinted. A waistcoat—albeit a well-made, thoroughly dirty, stained waistcoat. This aspect was not at all helpful. Shifting a little to the side, she found a knothole, pushed out the center, and was rewarded.
“Robert.” It was a sigh and a call at the same time. She ignored the lump in her throat and called again.
In an instant, her view was obscured. “Lydia!”
They were eye-to-eye, and neither said anything for a moment or two.
Finally, after an audible gulp, Robert spoke in a whisper. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve had better days,” she said in seriousness, and then realized the absurdity of her words and chuckled. “I’m covered in dirt, cuts, and bruises and sporting a lovely goose egg above my ear. One of my favorite gowns is nothing but a ruin, but other than that, I am fine. And now that you are here, I am better.”
“Thank the Lord. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear you say so. I have been imagining all sorts … well, let’s talk about this later.”
“Yes, when we don’t have to whisper through a wall.”
“Indeed.”
“So what is the plan?”
“Hmm … well, plans are a little lacking at this moment. I had expected to rush in and simply grab you, but there are three guards by the door. I procured a thick stick, but three to one … well, not good odds. My second idea was to loosen some of these boards and pull you out. I have also acquired a horse. So once out, we can sneak or run, whichever is the most prudent.”
“Yes, but the getting-out part seems to be the problem. For, if I am not mistaken, none of the boards on this side of the barn are loose, and the other sides are too close to the villains.”
“There does seem to be a decided lack of cooperation on the part of the building. I have, however, noticed something that might offer another possibility. It would require a great deal of trust on your part.”
“Oh?” Lydia was almost certain she was not going to like this new possibility.
“Yes. There is a hay door above me. Is there a loft inside?”
“Are you thinking that I should climb a rickety ladder to the loft and then try to escape through the hay door?”
“Just a thought.”
“How would I get down?”
“That would be the trust part.”
“Ahh. I would jump, and you would catch me.” Lydia visualized her descent, skirts every which way, and a very hard landing that might produce a broken body part.
“Yes. Not a brilliant plan. Do you have another?” Robert sounded hopeful.
“Not really. But might I suggest a variation to yours?”
“By all means.”
“I will return to my cell and get the rope that the thugs used to tie me up.”
“They tied you up?”
“Yes. But don’t let it bother you.…”
“No?”
“No. Because if they hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have a rope to lower myself from the hay door. I can use the one they used on my feet; it’s thick and long.”
“I like that so much better than watching you fling yourself from a high perch.”
“Me too. It might take a few minutes as I must return to my original cell—I escaped, you know.”
“I didn’t. That is quite impressive.”
“Thank you. Anyway, I must return to my cell for the rope, climb the ladder, cross the loft to the door … et cetera, et cetera. All in silence, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It might take as much as twenty minutes.”
“I promise to wait. Won’t wander off … pick flowers or party with the thugs.”
“Good to know.”
“Just warn me before you jump.”
“Oh, yes. I will most certainly let you know.” With a deep sigh, Lydia headed back to her cell, slowly and quietly.
* * *<
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Robert leaned his forehead against the rough wood of the barn as he listened for Lydia’s departure. Nothing, not a sound. It was both relieving and disconcerting at the same time. It left him uncertain once again … not knowing where she was, if she was safe. Still, up until some moments ago, Lydia had been hale and hearty. While Robert had not actually seen her, and it was conceivable that she had tossed him a bouncer, he doubted it.
Robert smiled in recollection. It was remarkable. This resilient young lady had been kidnapped and held in a barn for hours against her will. Yet far from being overwhelmed by the whole ordeal, she had escaped from whatever it was that she had called her cell, had been devising a getaway and was, even now, preparing to descend a rope. Miss Lydia Whitfield was rather extraordinary.
Slowly lowering himself to the ground, Robert settled into the tall weeds to wait. Watching the shadows lengthen did nothing to ease his anxiety, especially when they crept up to the barn and scaled the wall. The peak of the roof was half in shadow when the hay door finally opened and something was flung out from within.
Jumping to his feet, Robert reached for the dangling rope to secure it. But it was too short. The bloody thing stopped a good three to four feet above his head. He was going to have to catch her after all.
Arms wide, legs apart, Robert stood directly under the rope, braced and ready. Eyes glued to the door, he barely blinked. He held his breath as he watched Lydia back out of the opening on her knees, hooking one foot and then the other around the rope. Leaning halfway across the threshold on her belly, Lydia pulled her skirts outside. She then slid the rest of her body through the doorway until she reached the tipping point. To go farther, she would have to relinquish her hold on the door frame.
Not surprisingly, Lydia did not move for some minutes. Robert could almost hear her take a calming breath, preparing for the plunge. Her hesitation seemed to last an eon or two, and then she did it; she let go.
