His gaze followed the length of his leg to where his left foot rested high on a stack of cushions. Yet another padded bandage was wrapped around his ankle, making it twice the normal size. Egads! How many other damages had he sustained? Quickly, he scanned the rest of his body, from his muddy and torn trousers to his bloodstained shirt. Lord only knew what had become of the waistcoat and overcoat he’d pilfered.
“I’ve left a bell within reach.” The woman tinkled a small silver chime in front of his face, jerking his attention back to her. “Ring if you want for anything, but for now I think your most pressing requirement is sleep.”
He stifled a snort. Sleep was the least of his needs. No sooner did the thought cross his mind than an incessant banging carried in from the corridor. Someone at the door. Oliver’s gut clenched.
God, no. Not when I’ve come this far.
The woman set down the bell and rose. In one fluid movement, she grabbed a woolen wrap from the back of a chair and draped it over him. “Good night, sir. Malcolm, come.”
Without a backwards glance, she swept from the room. The dog hesitated, his black eyes gleaming a threat, then he turned and trotted after her.
Gritting his teeth, Oliver shoved off the wrap and once again pushed up, this time swinging both feet to the floor. The room spun. When it stopped, he stood and hobbled to the door, sweat beading on his brow, grunts catching in his throat. His head, his arm, his ankle, all throbbed white hot. Only the cold plaster wall he leaned against held him upright. It was too soon to be standing, and far too soon to run if the woman opened the door to Barrow.
“Thank you, Nora.” The woman’s voice traveled like a shadow on the night. “I’ll see to it.”
Footsteps padded nearer. Sucking in a breath, Oliver eased away from the door, molding his body against the blessed wall. Thank God for sturdy bulwarks.
The footsteps stopped just past the threshold. He clenched his teeth. If the woman—this Nora—peeked in, what was he to say of prowling about like a common thief? And if she accused him as such? He squeezed his eyes tight, staving off ugly memories.
But the footsteps padded onwards. Oliver edged back to the opening just in time to hear the grind of hinges from an opening door.
A man’s voice. Bass. Commanding. Yet so removed and low, it was hard to distinguish what he said. Oliver dared a step nearer to the corridor.
“I am.” The woman answered in her resonant tone, the same she’d used when speaking to him. “What is this about?”
Oliver leaned closer to the passageway, listening with his whole beat-up, broken body.
“Not to alarm you, but I have reason to believe an escaped convict is in the area. Inch or two taller than I. Dark hair. Brownish-green eyes. Wounded in one arm, leastwise had been. Have you seen such a man hereabouts?”
Oliver’s heart stopped, his skin suddenly clammy. That gravelly voice belonged to Barrow. One word from the woman, just one, and he’d be dead.
Shoving away from the wall, he gasped. Darkness closed in. Pain screamed and muscles quivered. He pushed through it all, lurching towards the sofa. Then the table. Finally, to the window. He gripped the sill, summoning the last of his strength. How long of a drop would it be? How loud the thud of his body? How far before hounds or bullets or both ripped out another piece of him? No matter. He had to get out of here.
Now.
He is a hairy man, this beast at my door. Constable Barrow’s black side-whiskers blend into a moustache then twine into a beard that scruffs against his blue collar when his jaw moves. I don’t like it. I don’t like him. Nor does Malcolm, judging by the low growl in his throat. It’s ironic, really. Why should I feel safer in the presence of the injured stranger—who is perhaps a criminal—than I do with this man of the law?
“A convict?” I wonder aloud. Is it true? Could I be harbouring a prisoner? Not a far-fetched idea, especially since the man made it very clear he wished to leave. And there had been a certain caginess in those hazel eyes of his. Indeed, a very real possibility. Goodness. Must trouble follow me everywhere?
Then again, how do I know Mr. Barrow speaks truth? I’ve been lied to before by those in authority.
“Aye, missus,” the constable rumbles. “Ran off nigh a week ago now.”
Gooseflesh rises on my arms as I meet his gaze. “Is he very dangerous?”
The constable shifts his weight, loosening a spray of droplets from the brim of his hat that have condensed from the pervading night mist. “No saying what a desperate man might do. So, you’ve seen him then? When and where?”
“I…” I clear my throat, stalling. What if the man in my sitting room is desperate? Regains his strength and lashes out at me or Nora? We are two women alone out here at the edge of the moor. Of all the inopportune times for Dobbs to be away! I grip Malcolm’s collar all the tighter. “Excuse me, Constable, but if this runaway is potentially volatile, ought I hire extra protection until he is caught?”
“Probably no need for such extreme measures, missus. I am all the defense you should require. However, I cannot protect you unless you tell me everything.”
I bite my lip. Perhaps I should tell him. Lawmen are discreet, are they not? There’s no reason anyone should know the convict—if that’s the stranger’s true identity—was found here. Maybe I should let Mr. Barrow have a look at the man.
I open my mouth to say as much, but the constable’s voice rings out before I get a chance.
“More than that, Mrs. Dosett, you’ll be a hero. All of Lydford will sing your praises if it’s your information that leads to the capture of this wily fellow.”
A sour taste rises up at the back of my throat. While it is right and good to comply with the law, to turn in a criminal and see justice prevail, I cannot risk the chance of my name getting out. One word, just one, and I will be worse off than before. I will not go back—I cannot go back—not for the sake of one runaway offender. I’d rather take my chances with the bedraggled man on my sofa. Besides, for all I know, the fellow might be an innocent farmer caught unaware and turned around by the harshness of the unforgiving moor.
I lift my chin and don a stage mask perfected by years and applause. “If I discover anything I believe you ought to know about, Constable, I will be sure to inform you. I wish you all the best in your search.”
A tic near his left eye twitches in a rhythmic pulse. His dark gaze narrows. “All right,” he concedes, yet it is a strained concession, pushed through a sieve of distrust. Part of the job… or part of the man? “But if you should happen upon him, send word to town. He’s not the sort you ought to invite in for tea, if you get my meaning.”
I reach for Malcolm, my rock, my comfort, and take courage in the feel of his coarse fur against my fingers. “Yes, I understand. Thank you.”
The constable dips his head, releasing more drops from his hat onto his beard. “Good night, missus.”
“Good night.” I shut the door, then lean against it, second-guessing myself. The lantern on the vestibule table flickers from the rush of air. Shadows dance as wild as my pulse. What if the man lying in my sitting room is dangerous? Dobbs is gone. Nora can’t even scream should she be attacked. No one would know if the stranger finished us off in the dark of night.
Pah! What am I thinking? The man can hardly sit upright without swooning, and he certainly cannot make any swift movements on that swollen ankle of his.
Malcolm pushes his nose into my hand, and I stoop to pet him. “And there’s always you, eh boy? My keeper and protector. I think we shall manage just fine.”
Even so, I straighten and collect the lamp, then stride down the corridor to the kitchen. I bypass the table, taking care not to crack my hip against the corner, and grab the meat cleaver from the shelf. It is heavy in my grip. Too heavy. Fine for the breaking of bones but not light enough to offer any real protection. I put it back and finger the handle of the boning knife. Light cuts a line along the sharp edge of the blade. Perfect.
I turn away, armed,
and debate my next move. Sleep with the weapon beneath my pillow or confront the man and find out the truth—if he speaks truth? A great sigh bellows out of me. It is ludicrous to think an escaped convict would actually admit he’s a fugitive. No, better to just douse the light in the sitting room and let the man sleep, then send him on his way in the morning.
Malcolm glances at the larder, likely hoping for a late-night bone, but soon joins my side as I slip out the door and make my way down the darkened passage. Light creeps out in a triangular swath from the sitting room door. My throat tightens as I near it. A ridiculous response. He is the one at my mercy.
Hiding the knife behind my back, I hold up my lantern and enter the room—then frown. The woolen wrapper lies in a heap on the floor. So do two cushions. The sofa is empty. But where? My stomach turns.
I grip the knife tight as I raise it high. Never again will I be caught unaware. My gaze darts around the room and lands on a curtain pulled from the rod. Setting down my lamp, I creep towards it. I skirt the sofa, round the side of the high-back chair near the hearth—then lower my knife and rush ahead to where Malcolm has already darted.
The man sprawls on the edge of the rug, in the cold space between carpet and moulding. I drop to my knees. He doesn’t move. Sweet merciful heavens. If he’s expired, how am I to explain a dead man in my sitting room?
“Sir?” I press my fingers against his shoulder. Malcolm paws his leg.
No response.
Dread hammers loud inside my head. “Sir?”
I lift my hand to his nose to feel for breath, praying, hoping, and… Warm air, albeit faint, clings to my skin.
I sink back on my haunches. So does Malcolm, looking from the man to me, then back again. The man lives, praise God. That danger is past, but its removal does nothing to lessen the doubt incited by Constable Barrow.
“Who are you, Mr. Stranger?” I whisper. “And why were you out on the moor?”
Chapter Six
Some nights, sleep comes hard, like a long and grueling wrestling match, the sort that outweighs and outmaneuvers you by worries and fears and what-ifs. Ahh, but when slumber finally does seep in, gifting body and mind with blessed relief, it is a welcome boon, a treasure—one that is rudely snatched from me by a nudge on the shoulder.
Gripping my knife, I bolt upright, bed frame creaking from the sudden movement. My heart bangs hard and fast against my ribs. Nora’s eyes widen in the grey light of early morning, and she retreats a step.
I lower my weapon but do not lessen my grip. If that vagabond has hurt her in some way, he’ll feel the slice of my blade. “Are you all right?”
By now, Malcolm has left his rug near the hearth and stands at my maid’s side, looking from me to her.
She reaches for my arm and pulls me from my bed, head vigorously nodding. If not her, then…?
My gaze slides past her, as if the stranger might suddenly appear in the doorway. “It’s the man, isn’t it?”
Once again she nods, then leads me out of my chamber. Malcolm trots ahead of us both. Thank God last night I’d been so worn as to flop atop my counterpane fully dressed—though the nip of my corset is sure to leave a lasting mark. For at least the hundredth time since Dobbs left, I repent of allowing his absence. It is a foreign feeling, this desire to have a man present—one that swells as I enter the sitting room. I have no idea what I’ll face from the stranger.
The curtains are drawn back, casting the first ray of sunshine onto the sofa where the man lies. His eyes are closed. His face is flushed. Unnaturally so. Has the fever I feared come calling?
I hurry ahead, and when I press my fingers against the thin line of brow peeking out from his bandage, a putrid stench hits my nose. His skin burns, but even more alarming is the greenish-yellow liquid oozing from the plaster on his arm. Clearly the egg poultice isn’t helping.
“Oh dear,” I breathe out. My stomach sinks with the inadequacy of my words. This is obviously more than an oh dear situation.
I rise and cross to the bookshelf, running my finger along the spines until I happen upon Buchan’s Domestic Medicine. The cover is frayed at the corners, but the information inside matters most. I page through until I reach the chapter on inflammations and abscesses, then scan the paragraphs. No wonder our simple egg and vinegar mixture didn’t work. The man needs more than a homespun remedy. I snap the book shut and glance across the room at Nora. “Have we any lixivium?”
Nora shakes her head.
“Bran?”
She shakes it again.
Drat! My shoulders slump. Defeat never comes easy, but I will not give up. There’s too much at stake. A man’s life. Nora’s safety. My anonymity.
Malcolm joins my side as I pace from bookshelf to door, then back again—and again—weighing the possibilities. If I do nothing, the stranger might die. If I send Nora to town, she will more than likely be taunted and pelted with gravel just like the previous time I sent her. And if I go myself, my identity could be compromised. All rocks. All hard places. I lift a silent prayer to the ceiling.
What am I to do, Lord? Which one of us do I sacrifice?
My flesh tells me to leave the man be. Clean the wound as best as possible and consign him to heaven’s arms if God so wills it… But my heart constricts at the thought. I have no idea to which eternity he might be headed.
Nora blocks my path, ending my pacing. She holds out her palm and angles her head towards the front door, indicating her willingness to go to town. I am tempted to grab my reticule and supply her with the coins, and I take a step closer to the door to do so—until a horrid image flashes in my mind. Nora, cheek cut and bleeding. Hands scraped from a hard shove to the ground. She is a favorite plaything of the cruel pack of village boys—and an even crueler man—which was the reason I’d chosen her in the first place to serve me out here at the end of the moor.
I glance past Nora’s shoulder to the man lying still and sweaty on the sofa. Are you worth this much trouble? The thought barely surfaces when I stifle a gasp. How often might God think the same of me?
It’s settled, then. I face Nora. “I will journey to town. Clean the man’s arm as best you can and keep him cool until I return.”
The fine lines on her forehead smooth, and she nods, clearly relieved she won’t be required to venture into the village after all. But my own brow tightens as I ready myself and head to the stable to outfit Black Jack. If anyone recognizes me, all the care I’ve taken to conceal my identity these past nine months will be in vain.
As the pony eats up miles on the way to Lydford, I attempt to give my anxiety to the Lord, yet like the persistent breeze howling off the rugged landscape, my worries do not go away. Quite the opposite, especially as my horse rounds the last bend and we trot into town. I’ve not been here since the day I stepped off the coach and secured my lodgings at Morden Hall.
This time of morning, people are out and about. I refrain from meeting the stares of a few women near the dressmaker’s, tuck my chin to avoid the gawk of a serving girl who shakes out her apron into the street, and I turn my face completely away from the glimmer of interest in the eyes of a sandy-haired man taking a draw from a pipe as he leans against a doorframe. It is not soon enough that I find the apothecary shop and slip inside.
A bell tinkles as the door shuts behind me. I cross to a long slab of a counter, breathing in the tang of mint oil mixed with the sweet, earthy scent of licorice root.
Behind the counter, the apothecary turns and wipes his hands on his stained apron, a Mr. Blandin, according to the sign out front. White hair sits like an afterthought atop his head, as if the straight ends whisking out at all angles might just get up and walk away. White eyebrows bush into a thick line above his spectacles. For all his crazed hair, however, he is clean shaven, his face lean and stretched over high cheekbones. “Good day. How may I be of service, madam?”
“I should like to purchase a lixivium and bran poultice.”
With the lift of one finger, he shoves
his spectacles closer to his nose, then studies me closely. “Suffering an inflammation, are you?”
“Yes—n–no,” I stutter. What kind of woman does he think I am? “It is not for me personally, but someone I am caring for.”
“I see.” He peers at me over the rim of his glasses. “You’ll be needing a bottle of laudanum to go with it, I suppose?”
“Yes, I suppose I do. Thank you.”
“Give me a moment.”
He turns his back and begins pulling out drawers and bottles and other ingredients that Buchan’s Domestic Medicine never mentioned. Still, he ought to know his business. I wander the aisle nervously, then bend and gaze into an enormous carboy filled with yellow liquid. The bell tinkles once again, and I inadvertently turn to the sound. A woman in a green cape with a plaid ruffle enters, a young boy at her side.
The apothecary glances over his shoulder. “Be with you shortly, Mrs. Porchdale.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blandin.” The woman’s green eyes sweep over me.
The boy turns his whole head and gapes. “Pretty lady, Mama.”
“William!” She whisks him to the other side of her skirt, scolding as she does so. “It is vulgar to stare. Don’t be rude.”
I turn away, as saddened as his mother by the boy’s response, though for different reasons. His breach of etiquette doesn’t concern me nearly as much as the lusty man he might grow into.
Once again the bell tinkles. Goodness. Must half the population of Lydford be in need of medicines today? I stand resolute with my back to the door.
“Ah, good day, Mrs. Porchdale.” Another woman’s voice, this one more of a soprano, albeit in an off-key tone. “Don’t tell me little William’s ear is troubling him again?”
“No, this time it’s Betty. She’s too poorly to…”
The women’s chatter continues, but I pay it no heed. The only voice I want to hear is Mr. Blandin’s announcing my order is ready. I work my way to the far end of the shop, but as Mrs. Porchdale sucks in a gasp, I cannot help but be drawn back in to hear what made her react with so much shock.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 4
