The Regency Romances of Mira Stables: Part One

by Mira Stables

  Obediently Giles went out of the kitchen, and then, on a sudden inspiration, put his head round the door to say, “Why don’t you enquire whether our friend Ransome left his leather waistcoat behind? Seems to me it would be just the thing—what the best chimney sweeps are wearing,” and with this final sally he retired in good order.

  In the multitude of plans and conjecture that had crowded through his mind, Charles had forgotten the drooping silent creature crouched on the stool in front of the hearth, even to the extent of discussing her disclosures with Giles. But at the mention of Ransome in Giles’s parting words she stirred to life, lifting a face of pathetic appeal to him as she faltered out, “Sir—do you know where he is? My Tom?”

  Charles’s heart was touched to pity. The poor woman had been far more sinned against than sinning, and she had done her best to put things right. Furthermore he had Emma’s word for it that she had tried to protect Nell. Perhaps above all he was moved by sympathy with her desperate anxiety over someone dear and precious whose present state and whereabouts were unknown.

  “Why, yes,” he said reassuringly. “He is at Trevannions—my home, you know. He had a fall yesterday, and sustained injuries to his head and arm, but they are not serious and he is being well looked after.”

  The look of relief, almost of bliss, on her face, caused him a few guilty qualms over this very much expurgated version of the truth, but what else could he have told the poor soul? Nell would have to take him in hand, he decided, over this business of telling the truth. Nell. Where was she now? And in what case? There was no one to tell him soothing half truths about her well-being. His only relief was in action.

  “Could you make me a meal of some kind? Anything will do, but I haven’t eaten since morning and we may be out all night. And I think Giles’s idea was a good one. Will you look in Ransome’s room and see if you can find that waistcoat? I am sure he will not grudge me the loan of it.” And as she bustled away, lightfooted and eager to serve him in her release from the fear that had haunted her all day, he took the stairs three at a stride, first to check the priming of his pistol, then to indite certain letters to be given to Giles for safe keeping should any accident befall him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The pride that had sustained Nell during the scene with her uncle and the innkeeper deserted her abruptly once her prison door was closed and she had heard the bar thumped into position. Helplessly she looked around for some shelf or stool on which to set the lanthorn. There was none to be seen, and at last, fearful lest her shaking hands should drop the precious burden, she put it down on the floor.

  She leaned against the wall, a trapped, trembling little creature, her terrified gaze seeking to penetrate the gloom of her surroundings. Gradually the shaking of her limbs subsided and her eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The lanthorn threw a small circle of light on the dusty boards, but here and there were other threads of light, light which must come from outside, blessed daylight.

  There were only a few inches of candle left in the lanthorn, but if she extinguished it with a view to saving it for a time of greater need, she had no means of rekindling it, and nothing, nothing, would persuade her to call her jailers to do so. It might be Rudd who answered the call. Best to use the light while it lasted to make a careful inspection of her prison.

  The task did not take long. The threads of light, she discovered, came from crevices in the rubble that blocked the windows, but her small hands could make no impression on the rough stones when she tried to pull them out, and when she had persisted till her fingers were sore, she gave it up. At one end of the room was a wide stone hearth, still powdered with the ash of the logs that had once burned upon it. Standing within it she could see, far above her head, a square of sky, but the chimney opening was far above her reach, and there was no box or stool on which she could climb. Escape did not lie that way.

  There was nothing in the room that offered either help or comfort. A few dead sticks and scraps of dried moss from a fallen bird’s nest lay scattered on the hearth. Perhaps, when the candle was almost done, she could gather them together and kindle a tiny blaze to hold back the terrors of the dark for a few more moments. She turned once more to the seaward wall and the blocked loopholes—and was granted a spark of hope. The last one, the one nearest the fireplace, was only shuttered. Under ordinary circumstances the fastening would have been beyond her strength, for the boards were warped with the damp so that they were jammed tightly against the rusted iron bar that locked them into place. She wrestled with the corroded metal in a fury of desperation, her hands torn and bleeding, until she succeeded in forcing one end of the bar out of its bracket. It yielded at last with a vicious spring caused by the pressure of the shutter, and the end caught her cheek, inflicting a deep ugly scratch. She did not even notice it. With the utmost caution she eased out the other end of the bar and lowered it softly to the floor with one hand, holding the shutter pressed into position with the other. She was consumed by terror that some sound might betray her activities to the men in the room below. Then they would come and stop her—perhaps tie her hands, so that she would be completely helpless. A little sob, half fear, half fury, escaped her, as she struggled to lower the heavy oak shutter to the floor without a sound.

  Then it was done, and light poured in to illuminate a portion of her prison. But after the first moment of triumph her heart sank. No more than the chimney did the window offer any hope of escape. It was built in two sections, separated by a solid stone pillar. Each part of the aperture was perhaps six inches wide and about three feet high. She could look out. She could thrust out an arm. But even for her slenderness there was no possibility of squeezing through, and to smash the stone pillar was quite beyond her, even if she attacked it with the shutter bar, while in any case the resultant noise would inevitably bring her jailers to investigate.

  Bitterly disappointed, she leaned her cheek against the stone bar and stared out at the deserted seascape. Away to her right the setting sun was turning the sky to golden glory. A solitary kestrel was hovering against the glow. She watched it drearily, envying its freedom to come and go at will. If only it could carry a message to Charles. With the thought, hope and courage revived. Giles must have missed her by now, and he and Charles would already be seeking her. She must be ready when they came. And at least, now, she could signal if anyone came near enough. Also, came the next thought, she could perhaps tie something to the stone bar to indicate where she was held.

  Her handkerchief was too small, and a search through her ridicule produced nothing suitable, but it did disclose the tiny scissors that she usually carried. As quickly as possible, for the light would soon be fading and a signal would be no use in the dark, she cut away the ruffled flounce that trimmed the hem of her dress and then wrenched at the gathering threads until they broke, so that she had a long strip of fabric to tie, streamer fashion, to her prison window. The little breeze that always came with the rising tide caught it and fluttered it gaily which cheered her a little, though she wished that she had chosen to wear white, or at least some other colour than green which would have shown up better. Eagerly she scanned the distant slopes to either side, but could detect no sign of life. As a final measure she tied her handkerchief to the end of the green streamer. Then there was nothing more that she could do except watch and wait.

  It was already growing cool in the barn-like room, but not for worlds would she replace the shutter. She shivered a little and wondered how long she had been imprisoned, and what her uncle meant to do with her. There had been a grimly frightening note in the remark he had made about her bestowal. In the failing light, chilled and faint with hunger, many things seemed possible that she would have laughed to scorn in normal conditions. She was, she found, by far too familiar with the various classic legends of wicked uncles in old romances. She tried hard to fix her thoughts on Charles and the imminence of rescue, but found herself instead wondering whether it was really possible for her uncle to have
her shut up in a lunatic asylum, as had happened to the heroine of one particularly lurid novel. Her growing hunger made it appear much more likely that he intended her to starve to death. She wondered when he would bring her food, and water, too, for she was very thirsty, then recollected that it would probably be Rudd who came to wait on her, and decided that she would rather endure the pangs of hunger and thirst than endure the man’s foul presence. It was perhaps fortunate that she had not heard her uncle promptly negative Rudd’s suggestion that he should carry some of the food that he had brought to the prisoner. “By morning,” Sir Nicholas had added, “she’ll be so devilish sharp-set, she’ll not stop to wonder whether the food’s drugged or not.”

  Kneeling on the floor beside her open window, Nell stared into the darkening sky. Already the first pale star was pricking out. Beside her on the dirty floor the candle flame guttered in a pool of tallow, but her spirits had sunk so low that she made no attempt to kindle the few twigs on the hearth. At least, she thought, gazing thankfully at the calm heavens, she was not condemned to total darkness. Last night—was it really only last night?—the storm had quite obscured the light of the moon, but tonight there was scarce a cloud, and she could at least rely on that faint illumination. Once again she tried to estimate how long she had been shut in this room. It sounded as though the tide was in, but as the little bay lay in the shadow of the bluff she could not be sure. Till the daylight was quite gone she had strained her eyes for signs of rescue. Now, hungry, cold and frightened, she kept her listening vigil under the moon, until the dark head drooped sideways against the rough stone sill, and, worn out by her exertions and her fears, she slept.

  In the room below, secure in the knowledge that the rising tide had filled the gallery, her captors relaxed their watch and made such dispositions for their comfort during the next few hours as the miserable amenties of the place allowed.

  Still deeply unconscious, Jim Cooke lay oblivious of the miseries of cramped limbs and insidious cold that awaited his awakening.

  A darker patch of shadow that resolved itself into a small boat rounded the headland and crept quietly into the bay.

  *

  It was an odd little scratching tapping noise that awakened her. She tried to spring up, but subsided into a small heap on the floor as chilled and stiffened limbs refused to obey her will. Realisation of her miserable situation flooded in upon her at once.

  She fixed her scared gaze on the door, fearful lest she should see a widening line of light appear, but nothing happened. The sound of her own breathing seemed unnaturally loud, but not loud enough to muffle a gentle pattering noise which seemed to emanate from the fireplace. Rats? Oh! Surely there could not be rats in this bare attic. What could there be for them to eat? She licked her dry lips and peered about her nervously in the gloom, then struggled to her feet and groped about her for the shutter bar. Thus armed, she retreated into the corner by the window, prepared to hit out at anything that squeaked or scuttered.

  Out of the darkness a hollow voice whispered, “Nell?”

  She must be dreaming. There was no one in the room with her. Yet surely—She held her breath, listening intently.

  “Nell!” come the eerie whisper again, louder this time, and followed almost at once by the same pattering noises that had so startled her before. But a rat couldn’t speak. Hardly daring to believe that her ears were not playing tricks, she crept out of her corner into the patch of moonlight. “Yes,” she whispered back. “I’m here. Where are you?”

  He was beside her as she spoke, strong arms gathering her up completely and holding her close, and she clung to him with all her strength. Relief at finding her apparently unharmed held him dumb for a moment, and if one or two tiny sobs escaped from the overwrought girl in his arms, such a weakness was very understandable. Almost at the same moment they both dragged themselves back to a semblance of normality, the girl blushing furiously in the darkness as she realised the shocking impropriety of her behaviour, and releasing her frantic clutch, Charles considerably assisted in a rapid re-orientation by the discovery that along with an armful of clinging feminity he was clutching a remarkably unyielding iron bar.

  He set her gently on her feet, still keeping one steadying arm around her shoulders, while with his free hand he removed the intrusive bar from her grasp and laid it quietly on the floor.

  “Have they hurt you?” came the urgent anxious whisper again.

  She shook her head. “No. I’m all right.” Then, with a sudden access of joyous realisation, “Quite all right, now that you’ve come. But I was so frightened. I thought you were a rat, and I was going to hit you with that,” and she nudged the shutter bar with her toe, and suddenly giggled. “I s-seem to make a p-practice of hitting you over the head, don’t I?” she whispered, half-way between tears and laughter.

  Charles hoped she wasn’t going to succumb to a fit of hysterics, though goodness knew she had cause enough. “A most reprehensible habit,” he replied gravely. “Perhaps it is fortunate that I rarely choose to enter the house by a window, and never by the chimney, so perhaps we shall not come into collision too often.”

  Nell quite missed the pleasant implication in this remark, having seized instead on its offered information. “The chimney! Of course! It was too high up for me to reach without something to climb on, but I did look,” she urged, anxious that he should not find her inadequate as a comrade in adventure.

  Apparently he did not. “Did you? Well done, little soldier,” he said gently. “I, on the other hand, found it a remarkably tight fit, and twice at least I thought I was stuck for good. I began to have visions of Giles lighting a fire below to force me out, as I’m told they sometimes do to the poor brats who sweep our chimneys. And I very much fear that Ransome’s waistcoat will never again be the same handsome garment that it was,” he went on, divesting himself of it, shaking it free of soot and dust, and putting it round Nell’s shoulders. “But it certainly saved me from one or two scratches, and now it will serve to warm you, for you’re as cold as a little stray frog.”

  The waistcoat still held the warmth of his body. Nell folded the scuffed leather close and hugged it to her, with a queer but delightful sensation of a warmth that penetrated to her very heart.

  Charles meanwhile was unwinding a coil of rope which had been bound around his body under the waistcoat. “’Twas this pesky thing that nearly brought me to point non plus,” he explained. “I dare not drop it down, lest it should fall down the other flue and be lost to us.”

  Nell was puzzled, not understanding that a flue from one of the downstairs rooms opened into this one, but there was no time to pursue the matter just now. There were more important matters that she wanted to know.

  “How did you discover where I was,” she asked curiously, “and which room I was in?”

  “Why, Miss Smithson directed us to this place, God bless her, and once we saw your signal it was all quite simple. You did well to think of that, my girl,” he commended.

  Nell was quite glad of the darkness which hid her blushes at this precious praise. “Where were you then? When you saw my signal?”

  He perked a head laconically over his shoulder, busy in checking that the pistol had not suffered in his rough descent. “Back there. On that little hillock.”

  “But I looked and looked until it grew too dark, and I never saw you.”

  Charles chuckled. “My colonel would have had me court-martialled if you had,” he grinned. “You forget I’m a soldier, and a Light Bob at that. They don’t exactly encourage us to go exposing ourselves on the sky line. I saw your signal, and I even saw you tie your handkerchief on it. After that we were able to lay our plans quite accurately. Now—” he had laid pistol and axe on the window ledge and the coil of rope on the floor below it, together with the shutter bar—“you and I are going to see if those plans will work.”

  “Are we going up the chimney?” enquired the lady with deep interest.

  He shook his head “No. I could
n’t expect a lady to make so undignified an exit.” It seemed unnecessary to tell her that the council of three—for Jasie had returned to the Fleece with Giles—had unanimously agreed that no female, however plucky, would manage the difficult traverse of the slippery roof and the dangerous descent over the loose surface of the chasm. “You are going out through the window in the best romantic tradition, though I cannot, alas, promise a waiting post chaise and four—unless they be sea horses. You’ll have to make do with Jasie and a boat. He’s below your window now, though you can’t see him.” He leaned close to the embrasure and whistled a few notes of Lilliburlero, and from far below the softly completed phrase drifted back to them.

  Charles smiled contentedly. “I take it your captors are snugly established in the parlour below, waiting for the poor simple fly to walk into the trap. How many of them, do you know? Was Cooke in league with them?”

  Nell uttered a little cry of distress. “Oh poor Jim! I had quite forgotten him. No—he cannot have been an accomplice, else why should Rudd have struck him down? He said he was bringing me to meet you, and I am persuaded he really believed it.”

  If this were so, it seemed to Charles unlikely that Jim was still alive. In any case Nell’s safety was his first concern. Jim, poor innocent blunderer, would have to wait.

  “So there’s just the pair of them? Sir Nicolas and Rudd?”

  “Yes. But Charles—I can never get out of that window. I did hope so myself when first I found that I could open the shutter, but it’s much too narrow. And if we try to break out the stone bar they’ll be bound to hear us and come up.”