by Nina Mason
Twenty-Four
As Georgie drew the sleigh to a stop outside the abandoned squatter’s cottage, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Despite the brandy she’d imbibed on the way, she was still shivering with cold and anxiety.
The ride through the woods had been bleak, dark, and bitterly cold. The snow on the ground had frozen into a hard, thick crust and all the trees seemed to have eyes … and skeletal arms reaching to grab her. The only light had been her carriage lamps; the only sounds, the occasional rustle of leaves, creaking of branches, and howling of the wind, which assaulted her with icy gusts as she drove the horse along the narrow, bumpy trail.
Having arrived at her destination brought no relief. In fact, she was now more trepidatious than ever. Withdrawing her “weapons” from their hiding place, she redistributed them for easier access. The letter-opener went down her cleavage and the pen-knife into her demi-boot. The spirits of Hartshorn, she was unsure what to do with, so she put the vial back in her corset.
Would these trinkets be enough to protect her? Perhaps, if she was ruthless enough. Could she be? Could she find it within herself to plunge a letter-knife into Jinny’s black heart?
Possibly, if she was provoked into a murderous rage.
It would be better, of course, if Sir Thomas came to her aid before she was forced to defend herself. But to count on his coming would be imprudent. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Taking another deep breath, she detached one of the lanterns and exited the sleigh. Upon reaching the door, she stopped for some moments to listen. She heard voices from within, two people speaking softly. A man and a woman, as far as she could tell. Presuming the speakers were Jinny and Christian, Georgie breathed a small sigh of relief.
A cold blast of wind made her shiver. It also opened the door. By the light of a fire within, she perceived two shadowy figures seated upon the hearth. The woman was Jinny Stubbs, without a doubt, but the man was more difficult to identify. Straining to make out his features, she saw, with crushing disappointment, he was not he whom she hoped he was.
All at once, things made more sense—and appeared vastly more dangerous. The man, she was reasonably certain, was the same one she’d seen leaving Jinny’s room.
Jinny, spying her on the stoop, leapt to her feet and rushed forward. Georgie, frightened by her approach, stepped back a few paces and drew the letter knife from her décolletage.
“Look, my pet,” Jinny said to the man on the hearth. “Juliet has brought her own dagger. Is that not fortuitous?”
Troubled by her nonsensical remarks, Georgie looked about the room in quest of Christian. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
With dramatic flourish, Jinny said, “‘Where is my lord?’ fair Juliet asks. ‘Where is my Romeo?’” She released a cruel laugh and pointed to what looked to be a pile of rags in the corner of the room. “Your Romeo there lies dead. Poison hath been his timeless end. Go to him now and kiss his cold lips, for some poison might yet linger on them.”
A chill went through Georgie’s bones. Was she joking? Was she insane? Or was she, in fact, a murderess? Georgie hurried to where Christian lay, praying she’d been misled. Fear and fury erupted inside her when she saw him tied up and stripped to his shirtsleeves. Crouching beside him, she set down her lantern and drew the penknife from her boot. Then, with some effort, she cut the ropes binding his wrists and ankles.
As his body fell limply into her arms, her heart wrenched and a sob caught in her throat. His flesh was so cold, so deathly cold. Heart sore and trembling, she removed her cloak and laid it over him as she silently, desperately pleaded with him: Oh my love. My one and only. Please do not be dead. For I cannot bear the agony of living without you.
In the light of the lantern, she searched for signs of life. His flesh was cold and pale, but there was yet color in his cheeks. She bent to kiss his mouth. His lips were warm and there was the odor of almonds about them.
“What did you give him to drink?” she asked to confirm her suspicions.
“What does it matter?” Jinny said tauntingly. “He is dead and gone.”
“Tell me, goddamn you!”
“Well, if you insist upon knowing, I gave him Laurel Water. But I still do not see that it matters a jot, unless you know how to bring the dad back to life.”
Cherry-Laurel Water was a powerful sedative that killed almost instantly if the dose was too high. The fact that he was still alive, albeit barely, gave her hope that Jinny had not administered a lethal dose. He was, however, still in danger, and would need an antidote to weaken the poison already in his system. She must, therefore, act with extreme haste.
Frustratingly, her panicked brain refused to bring forward the remedy she needed. She could remember how to counteract hemlock, henbane, and opium poisoning—evacuation of the stomach by pump or vitriol, followed by copious amounts of acidulous fluids—but not the treatment for a prussic acid overdose.
She scoured her memory until finally it came to her: brandy, containing in each glass from fifteen to thirty drops of solution of Ammonia, or a teaspoonful or two of Hartshorn, should be administered, at short intervals, until the habit is roused, and the influence of the poison is overcome.
Laying Christian gently on the floor, she got to her feet and drew the letter opener. As she made for the door, Jinny’s accomplice caught her around the waist and clapped a hand over her mouth. She flailed and fought like a demon to free herself, but to no avail.
When Jinny came at her, Georgie pulled up her legs and shot them out with all the force she could. Her feet struck her attacker square in the chest, sending her flying backward toward the wall. Georgie, desperate to get to the brandy, raised the letter opener and brought it down with all her might. As the blade lanced the man’s thigh, he screamed and let her go.
Sprinting to the sleigh as fast as her legs would carry her, Georgie grabbed the bottle by the neck and raced back to the cottage. Just inside the door, the man charged toward her like an injured bull in a ring. Georgie, having no other weapon, swung the bottle blindly. It caught the ruffian across the cheek. His head snapped to the side with a hideous crack before he dropped to the floor.
Miraculously, the bottle remained unbroken.
Dashing to Christian’s side, Georgie dropped to her knees, yanked out the cork, and fished the Hartshorn out of her corset. Estimating that the equivalent of five glasses remained in the bottle, she emptied the whole vial into the brandy.
The potent ammonia smell of the Hartshorn made her sinuses burn and brought tears to her eyes.
Supporting Christian’s head, she opened his mouth and poured in the antidote. He coughed, but failed to rouse, so she fed him more. To her mounting dismay, he did not revive. As she administered the third dose, a low moan sounded behind her. A quick backward glance showed her that Jinny was insensible, but coming around. Apparently, her collision with the wall had knocked her out cold.
As rage and desperation surged through Georgie, she grabbed the empty vial of Hartshorn and waved it under Christian’s nose. He instantly awoke with a slurred cry of “Judas God! Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, dearest,” she said, brushing a wayward curl back from his forehead. “I’m trying to save your life.”
Jinny had gained her feet and was staggering toward the prostate body of her accomplice. Kneeling beside him, she checked for signs of life before lifting her angry gaze to Georgie’s. “Whore, cuckolder, murderess!” she screamed. “You have destroyed all my hopes for a better life.”
When horse-thunder sounded in the distance, Jinny gained her feet and looked out toward the noise. “Who comes? Who comes?” Then, turning back to Georgie with a venomous glare, she hissed, “Who did you tell?”
“Only the High Sheriff,” Georgie replied.
A wild look came over Jinny’s face. For a moment, Georgie feared she would attack her again, but instead, she ran outside screaming hysterically, “Murder! Help! Help! I am cuckolded, robbed, undone. Villains! Th
ieves! Murderers! Help! Help! Help!”
“She seems much disturbed,” Christian said, trying to sit up. “I believe madness is upon her.”
“It would seem so,” Georgie replied, feeling afraid. “But at least, now that Sir Thomas and his men have come, she cannot get away with killing us.”
“She had in mind to re-enact Romeo and Juliet … with you and me in the title roles.”
“Yes, I deduced that much when she called us by their names.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Did she? I must have missed that part.”
“Yes, I believe you were unconscious during that scene in the play.”
Georgie stopped to listen to the ruckus outside. Jinny was still carrying on, but her cries were now much diminished by the thundering hooves of several horses.
“Do you think Sir Thomas will believe her assertions that we are the villains?” she asked Christian with genuine concern.
“Probably not, given that she has no proof.” He paused some moments before adding weakly, “Those lines she shouts, by the way, are from a play titled The Woman-Captain by Thomas Shadwell.”
Knowing very little about the theater, Georgie had never heard the name Thomas Shadwell before. But rather than admit her ignorance, she decided to change the subject. For only now had she remembered why she’d gone looking for him in the first place. “Pray, what did your father have to say after I left you this afternoon?”
Before he could answer, Sir Thomas came in bearing a torch and gripping Jinny by the arm. Squinting into the darkness, he asked, “Miss Bennet? Are you here?”
“I am, Sir Thomas.”
“And who is there with you?” he asked, extending his torch.
“Christian Churchill, the man the lady with you kidnapped and tried to murder by forcing him to drink Cherry-Laurel water.”
“Does she speak the truth, sir?”
“She does,” Christian feebly replied.
“And he would have died, I’m quite sure,” Georgie interjected, “had I not administered the antidote.”
“Then it’s a lucky thing you got to him in time.”
“I nearly didn’t, because of Miss Stubbs and her accomplice’s interference.”
Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “Miss Stubbs claims you murdered her friend in cold blood. Is there any truth to her accusation?”
“I did kill him, I confess,” Georgie told him uneasily. “But in self-defense rather than cold blood.”
“Are you saying he attacked you?”
After Georgie explained what happened in detail, Sir Thomas turned to Jinny. “Miss Stubbs, I am placing you under arrest on the charges of kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“You cannot arrest me,” Jinny protested, trying in vain to wrench her arm from his grip. “For I have done nothing wrong.”
“That is for the magistrates to decide when next they assemble,” Sir Thomas told her as he escorted her out of the cottage.
Alone again with Christian, Georgie decided to wait to ask again about the conversation with his father. His health was more important. He needed a doctor and rest, not more jibber-jabber. “I should get you home. Do you think you can walk as far as my sleigh?”
“I believe I can manage it … with a little support.”
With no small effort, she helped him to his feet, wrapped her cloak around his shoulders, and supported his weight as they proceeded to the sleigh. When they were settled side-by-side in the seat, she took up the reins and clucked to the horse.
Regret constricted her chest when she recalled her sister’s party. She’d missed the whole thing, but it could not be helped. Besides, there was still the Twelfth Night Ball to look forward to. And now that Miss Stubbs was out of the way, she and Christian could go together and dance as often as they liked.
Unless, of course, he changed his mind about marrying her after she disclosed the things her father had done. For, now that she remembered, it seemed only fair that he should know what he was getting before they became formally engaged.
But that, too, could wait until he recovered. For now, she would do her best to keep the conversation light and gay.
“Happy Christmas, Christian,” she said in a cloud of white vapor.
“Happy Christmas, Georgie,” he groggily replied. “Thank you for saving my life.”
* * * *
The sleigh streaked along until it reached Greystone Hall. There, after being helped up to bed, Christian caught snippets of conversation as he slipped in and out of awareness.
“We all thought you two had eloped”… “You may give him a little tea and dry toast when he awakes”… “I am exceedingly grateful to you for saving my son’s life” … “Have the pair of you made plans to wed?”
The sun rose and sank and rose and sank again, and still Christian lay on his uneasy bed, weak-limbed, queasy, and dazed. When he awoke at last, from what seemed a long and troubled dream, he raised himself in the bed and looked anxiously around. With the bed curtains drawn, he could not determine if there was anyone else in the room.
“Hallo. Is anyone there?”
He uttered these words faintly, but they were heard at once, judging by the speed with which the bed curtains drew back. “What can I get you?” Georgie asked, her face etched with fatigue.
“Something to relieve my terrible thirst … and the chamber pot to relieve my discomfort elsewhere.”
“Which are you in need of more urgently?”
His bladder was so full his cock was hard. “The chamber pot.”
Bending over, she retrieved the necessary from beneath the bed and set it on the bedclothes beside him. “Can you manage?—or do you require my assistance?”
He gave her a weak smile. “I can manage, if you will be good enough to turn around.”
When she showed him her back, he burrowed through the layers of sheets and blankets until he found his aching penis. It took some effort to get the urine to flow, but he eventually finished his business and covered himself. “You may turn back around.”
“I’ll fetch your tea first.”
There was a pretty china tea set on the table beside her chair. Going to it, she picked up the pot and filled one of the cups. “I’m afraid it has gone cold, but it will quench your thirst even so. The doctor instructed me to give you all the liquids you will drink, in order to flush the remaining poison out of your system.”
Bringing the cup, she put the saucer into his hands and took away the chamber pot. He drank the tea quickly and set the cup on his lap. When she returned, she smoothed back his hair from his forehead and looked so kindly and lovingly into his eyes, that he was compelled to take her hand. “Sit with me, Georgie. There are things I must say.”
“Are you sure you feel up to talking?”
He nodded. To tell the truth, he was completely exhausted by what he’d already said, but he was determined to say his piece before another day passed. “I have a great many questions,” he began, too weak to get out more than a few words at a time.
“About what?”
“Your past and future life.”
She looked away from his gaze. “Go on.”
“First, I should tell you what happened the day I was abducted.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was wondering when you would get around to telling me.”
He took a moment to gather his strength before saying, “My father told me several things that day that astonished me exceedingly, one of which is a rather delicate matter.”
“Having to do with me?”
“Yes. You and your father.”
She blushed and tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast. “What did he say?”
“That there were rumors in London … about your father’s conduct … toward his wife and daughters.”
Avoiding his gaze, she bit her lip. “What sort of rumors?”
“The worst sort imaginable,” he grimly told her.
“And you want to know if the gossip is true, I suppose.”
/> “I do.”
Her lip trembled as she asked, “Will it make a difference?”
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“So that I can understand you better … and offer comfort insofar as I’m able.”
“That is very kind of you,” she said tautly.
“It is not out of kindness that I say these things, Georgie.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It is out of love.”
She began to weep and, while her tears made him feel like a cad, he could not spend the rest of his life pretending not to see the monster in the cupboard. “Can I safely presume by your response that the rumors have some merit?”
“I wish … I could say … they do not.” She looked away from his gaze. “Though, to own the truth, he did not go as far as might have been implied. He only touched me, but never … that is to say … he left me intact, as you well know.”
Heart twisting in agony, Christian pulled her onto the bed and into an embrace. “That bastard. If he was not already dead, I would run him through with my cutlass!”
“And I would let you,” she said, sobbing into his nightshirt.
He held her for a long while before, wishing to bring up a happier subject, he said, “I don’t suppose this is the time to ask how you would feel about marrying a ship’s captain … or going along with him on some of his missions.”
She sniffed, but still would not look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about us, dearest.” He took a breath and blew it out to chase away his worsening fatigue. “My father has offered to pay off my creditors and buy me a ship, so that we might marry right away.”
Now she looked at him, her red, puffy eyes wide with amazement. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“I am.”
“And to live aboard ship with you?”
He attempted to grin. “Only when I am at sea.”
“When do we set sail?”
Tickled by her enthusiasm, he said, “Not for a while yet. First, I must find a seaworthy ship and then I must decide what to do with it to earn my livelihood.”
