The House at Bell Orchard (17 page)

“I will help you,” Charmian said impulsively. “You have both been good to me, and nothing can ever repay what you have done.” She paused, doubt stirring again in her mind, her eyes anxiously searching Amy’s face. “You
will
help me, will you not?”

Amy nodded. “Aye, but we must wait till we be certain Father’s not coming back. He’s beginning to mistrust Harry, and he half-believed what Mr. Miles said just now. I could see it in his face, and if he found I’d set ’ee loose, he’d likely tie me up as well. But he’ll be going down to the shore before long, for the lads have work to do tonight.”

Charmian correctly interpreted this as meaning that a cargo of contraband was being brought ashore, and realized that it must be Miles’s intention to take her aboard the ship that brought it. Aloud she said:

“My horse bolted. How can we reach Wychwood Chase?”

“Father’s boat be moored at the foot o’ the path. When he be safe away, we’ll cross the river and then go up the hill on foot. It be’ant far, if ’ee knows the way.” Amy paused and sat back on her heels, considering the situation. “Granny won’t wake! I were afeared she might try to stop me going wi’ Harry, so I put the potion she brewed for you into the broth I gave her for supper. Reckon she’ll sleep till noon.”

“The dog?” Charmian spoke anxiously, for the memory of the snarling, fierce-eyed brute was still unpleasantly vivid. Amy shook her head.

“Gone wi’ Father. It be trained to give warning if there be strangers about—more reason for us to bide our time! I’d best come with ’ee to Sir Piers. He be the only one likely to help me now, for I dursn’t stay here, nor show my face at Bell Orchard.”

“He
will
help you,” Charmian said with conviction. “You will be safe in his house, until Harry comes for you.”

Amy nodded, but absently, as though her attention were elsewhere. She got up and went to the door, opened it a crack, and stood listening intently.

“Someone be coming,” she said after a moment. “On horseback, and riding fast.”

Horror clutched coldly at Charmian’s heart. “Miles?” she said fearfully. “So soon?”

Amy shook her head. “No, he rode towards the shore, and this be coming from Bell Orchard. Belike ’tis Harry!” The hoofbeats drew nearer and it seemed to Charmian that more than one horse approached. A score of wild surmises flashed through her mind in the brief time it took the rider to reach the clearing, and then, as Amy threw wide the door, the horses came to a stamping halt and a man’s voice cried urgently:

“For the love of God, ma’am, come with me at once! Your husband is dying!”

Charmian heard Amy’s gasp, her involuntary, agonized denial, and then the manservant spoke again.

“The grooms found him lying in the stable, run through the body! I’ve done what I can, and Dr. Benfleet is with him now, but he cannot last the night. He is asking for you and the child, so for God’s sake, make haste! I have brought a mount for you.”

Amy swung back into the room. Charmian’s cloak, its fastening broken by Godsall’s rough handling, lay on the floor. She snatched it up and cast it about her, then, lifting her child from the cradle, wrapped a fold of the cloak about him. She was running again towards the door when Charmian, rousing herself from shock and dismay, cried out in panic.

“Amy, do not leave me here! For pity’s sake, set me free before you go!”

In the doorway Amy paused and looked back. She was deathly pale, and her eyes burned darkly with grief and hatred as she stared at the other girl above the child clutched in her arms.

“Damn ’ee!” she said in a breaking voice. “Harry be dying, and all on your account. I’d not set ’ee free to save ’ee from the Devil himself!”

Paying no heed to Charmian’s frantic protests, she dragged the door shut behind her, and a few moments later Charmian heard the horses move off. As long as the sound of their hoofbeats could still be heard she remained motionless, straining her ears, half-believing, even now, that Amy would relent and send the servant back to free her.

At last the heavy silence convinced her that the hope was vain. Terror swept over her, and she struggled wildly to free herself from her bonds, sobbing aloud with rising hysteria. But the rope was new and strong, and Godsall had knotted it with pitiless efficiency, and though it cut into her wrists until the blood came, it yielded not a fraction. She fought against it until exhaustion overcame her and she hung limply there, only the bonds preventing her from sliding to the floor.

Time crawled by—how much time she did not know, for every minute seemed like an hour—and the evil in which those ancient walls seemed steeped pressed like a crushing weight upon her. The candle guttered, the embers chilled to white ash on the hearth, and the shadows crept closer and closer, as though they were her terror and despair made visible. Too spent to move, she crouched there with her head resting on her outstretched arms, a pathetic, defeated figure entreating the uncaring night for a mercy she could not hope to find. Outside, the mist lay like a shroud over the silent woods, and the river glided, quiet and cold as a snake, towards the sea.

15

Daybreak

Charmian had fallen into a stupor of hopelessness and fatigue, a merciful dulling of the senses from which she was roused at last by the weird shriek of hinges as the door of the cottage was thrust open. Wearily she lifted her head, knowing already what she would see, and watched Miles step into the room. He looked at the deserted kitchen and the empty cradle, and smiled.

“So someone brought the news from Bell Orchard,” he said, half to himself. “Well, no matter! I shall be safe out of England tonight.”

He strolled across to the fireplace and stood looking down at Charmian, who stared back at him with horrified fascination. It seemed incredible that this was the young dandy whom she had once regarded with tolerant but faintly contemptuous amusement, whose persistent courtship she had found merely tiresome. He looked still as he had always done; the delicately handsome face, the powdered curls, the faultless riding-dress—these were the marks of the exquisite, the man to whom dress and manner were the only things of any real importance. Yet, to her knowledge, he had the blood of three men on his hands, and one of these his own brother. It was grotesque and horrible that evil should appear in so harmless a guise, and she shuddered and shrank away. This seemed to amuse him, for he laughed softly.

“You are not very welcoming, my dear,” he remarked mockingly, “and yet one would suppose you eager to be delivered from so uncomfortable a situation. Damme if I ever saw a more dreary hole than this! No wonder the villagers tell such awesome tales of it.” He took a penknife from his pocket and began to hack at the rope securing her to the wall. “However, you will soon have seen the last of it! Godsall’s boat is ready, and I have brought a sturdy fellow to man it. He will row us downstream and out to the
Pride of Sussex,
which at present lies at anchor offshore, and in this very convenient mist no one will see us go. So there is not the smallest chance that you will evade me again.”

The last strands of rope parted, but Charmian was powerless to move, for her wrists were still pinioned together and she was numb and cramped in every limb. Miles lifted her to her feet and held her there, one arm about her waist, while with his other hand he turned her face towards him and studied it searchingly by the light of the guttering candle.

“I have always wanted you,” he said reflectively, “and if you had taken the trouble to know me better, you would have realized that what I want, I take, no matter who stands in the way. Your father would not consider your marriage with a younger son; Rob Dunton risked his life to tell you the truth about me; Harry tried to place you beyond my reach. All three are dead, or dying!”

Charmian stared, fascinated and repelled, at the handsome face so close to her own. Her mind seemed as numb and powerless as her body, but slowly one thought took shape, bringing with it a kind of bitter thankfulness. Of the men who had tried to save her, Piers at least had escaped unharmed; she was beyond his protection now, but she would cling to that small shred of comfort, the only one left to her in this hour of utter despair.

Miles’s hold upon her tightened, he bent his head and kissed her lingeringly upon the lips, but she was beyond feeling now, and lay inert as a dead woman in his arms. Her lack of response infuriated him, and he thrust her away and into the chair beside the cradle. There was an evil expression in his eyes.

“Still so damned indifferent?” he said viciously. “No matter! I will teach you otherwise once we are safe away from here.”

He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it tightly across her mouth with a callousness which betrayed the ugliness of his mood. Then he gripped her arm and heaved her to her feet, forcing her across the room and out through the open door. The first grey glimmerings of dawn were in the sky and the grass beneath their feet was heavy with dew, but the mist still lay white and ghostly over a sleeping world. Charmian tripped on her trailing skirts and nearly fell, and with a muttered curse Miles hoisted her up across his shoulder, and, thus burdened, went on across the clearing and down the winding path to the river.

Borne thus unceremoniously, Charmian could see nothing, but now and then wet leaves brushed her face, and she could smell the damp, earthy scent of the woods. Then the quiet lap and gurgle of water reached her ears, and it seemed to her overwrought imagination that the river was chuckling to itself in soft, sinister mockery of her helplessness.

Miles set her on her feet again, supporting her with one arm, and she saw the dim shape of a boat against the misty glimmer of the stream, and the figure of the man seated in it. He sat with bent head, his elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden in the shadow of a shapeless hat, and the white of his shirt, for he wore no coat, a patch of lighter colour in the dimness.

“Jem!” Miles said curtly. “Good God, man are you asleep? Bestir yourself and take the lady from me!”

The man rose slowly, balancing himself in the gently rocking boat, and Miles thrust Charmian into his outstretched arms. These received her gently and closed about her with a curious sense of comfort, and though she could not see his face, a wild, incredulous suspicion awoke within her, kindling a tiny, tentative flicker of hope. Surely she had been held thus before, only yesterday, in an embrace at once strong and tender? Either she was mad indeed, or the man now holding her was Piers himself.

He laid her down in the stern of the boat and turned again towards Miles, but something in his appearance or manner aroused the other man’s suspicions and he drew back, his hand going swiftly to his pocket.

“What trickery is this?” he said sharply. “You are not Jem Channock!”

Piers, reading correctly the purpose of the movement, wasted no time in affirming or denying this, but with a leap which left the boat rocking wildly, flung himself ashore and grappled with Miles before the pistol could be brought into play. They crashed together to the ground, and Charmian, from her lowly position in the boat, could see nothing of the ensuing struggle, and could only judge of its violence by the sounds which reached her.

Miles, balked thus on the very brink of success, fought viciously in spite of being at a considerable disadvantage. He had no liking for the more brutal forms of combat, and not only was Piers larger and stronger than he, but he had been uppermost when they fell. Miles was shaken and breathless, but, urged on by the certainty that defeat would mean not only the loss of Charmian and her fortune, but imprisonment and execution, he gave a good account of himself.

He would not have hesitated to use the pistol, but it had been knocked from his hand by the shock of the fall and was lost somewhere in the undergrowth, but as he struggled to free himself from Piers’ grip another weapon presented itself. The fingers of one hand, groping blindly across the ground, came in contact with a large stone half buried in the earth; he wrenched it loose, and struck with all his remaining strength at his opponent’s head. The blow was a lucky one. Piers uttered a grunt and became suddenly limp, and Miles, thrusting his inert body aside, rose shakily to his feet.

He staggered to the water’s edge and clambered into the boat, and Charmian uttered a moan of desolation. So her fate remained unaltered, and Piers had not, after all, escaped unscathed. She would never know, now, what had befallen him, and could only pray silently that he had escaped with his life.

Miles’s movements were clumsy and he was breathing heavily. He had lost his hat, and his powdered wig was tilted rakishly over one eye, but there was nothing laughable in his appearance as he fumbled to loose the boat from its moorings. Even his victory over Piers could not soothe the viciousness of his mood, for he dare not stay to discover what had become of Jem Channock and must make swift to row the boat himself. He had learned as a boy to handle the oars, and they would be travelling with and not against the stream, so there was little risk of not reaching the ship, but this was not at all as he planned it. Thanks to Piers Wychwood, he must now appear ridiculous to the captain and the crew of the
Pride of Sussex,
and the knowledge roused him to a simmering hell of fury.

Piers himself had been only momentarily stunned. He came dizzily back to consciousness, and then, as recollection returned, dragged himself to his knees in time to see Miles casting off from the river bank. Knowing that it was the last, slim chance of saving Charmian, and spurred by that knowledge to supreme effort, he stumbled to his feet and launched himself desperately across the widening strip of water.

He landed anyhow in the boat, which rocked perilously under the impact, and Miles cursed and flung himself at him again. As the little craft, caught by the strong current, was carried towards midstream, the two men fought desperately for supremacy. The boat pitched and rocked beneath their shifting weight, and water splashed into it, but neither paid any heed. Only Charmian, bound and helpless in the stern, realized the inevitability of disaster, and she could not cry a warning because of the gag about her mouth. Beyond fear and beyond hope, she watched the boat tilt farther and farther, and then water rushed over the gunwale and it capsized. She heard one of the men give a yell of terror, and then, as chill, black water closed over her head, her senses left her.

Her first sensations, when she again became aware of anything at all, were of cold and extreme discomfort, and then she realized that she was lying upon grass, the gag was gone from her mouth, and someone was loosening the last strands of rope from about her wrists. Vivid in her memory was the last scene upon which she had looked, and, fearfully, she opened her eyes, but it was Piers who was kneeling beside her. She whispered his name, and he caught her up in his arms, holding her tightly as though he could never bear to let her go.

“Piers!” she sobbed. “Oh, Piers, I was so frightened!”

“I know, my little love, I know!” he murmured. “But it is over now, thank God, and you are safe!”

She knew that this was true, but the ordeal had been so prolonged and her despair so absolute, that she could not yet wholly believe that she had escaped it. Pressing closer to him, and looking fearfully about her, she whispered questioningly: “Miles?”

Piers shook his head. “He could not swim,” he replied quietly, “and my only thought was to bring you safely ashore. He had no hope of escaping.”

Charmian looked at the faintly glimmering water sliding past close beside them, with white trails of mist drifting like ghosts across its surface, and felt a shiver not wholly due to the clammy chill of her wet clothes. Miles had deserved death; if Piers could have made him prisoner it would have been merely the first step along a road leading inevitably to the gallows, but it would be a long while before she could forget the manner of his passing.

“I do not understand,” she said faintly. “How did you come to be in the boat? It was like a miracle!”

“It was no miracle, dear heart! I approached the cottage from Bell Orchard as Miles reached it from the other direction, and I heard him tell you he had brought a man with him to row you out to the ship. I realized that I must somehow dispose of the fellow and take his place, for I had to get you away from Miles before making any move against him. I could not risk his using you as a hostage.”

Still not fully comprehending, she would have questioned him further, but he laid his hand gently upon her lips.

“All the rest can wait,” he said firmly. “It is far more important that you should be properly looked after, and the sooner I get you into my mother’s care, the better it will be.”

He got up and helped her to her feet, and for a few moments held her close as she leaned weakly against him. After a little she looked up into his face, uttering a little cry of alarm at seeing it darkly streaked with blood.

“Piers, you are hurt!” she exclaimed in dismay. “I did not know!”

He lifted a hand to his forehead and then glanced at the red stain on his fingertips. “It must look a deal worse than it is,” he said ruefully, “for I had forgotten it. Forgive me, Charmian! I did not mean to frighten you. Believe me, ’tis little more than a scratch!”

She was not altogether reassured, but said no more, realizing that the longer they delayed, the longer his injury must wait for the attention which she was convinced it needed. Only, when he would have lifted her to carry her up the hill, she shook her head, saying shakily but with determination:

“It is too far! I am sure I can walk, if you will help me a little.”

He let her have her way, hoping that movement would do something to dispel the effects of cold and shock, for she was shivering violently, and he was himself aware of the discomfort of wet clothes and the chilliness of the air. It was high summer, but in that grey, misty hour before sunrise the world seemed drained of warmth as it was of colour. So side by side they set off up the hill, and Charmian struggled resolutely on until they reached the foot of the steps leading to the lowest of the three terraces below the house, though she stumbled with increasing frequency, and leaned ever more heavily upon Piers’ arm. The sight of the broad flight of steps sweeping upwards, however, and the knowledge that two more flights lay beyond it, conquered her determination, and she said faintly:

“I am sorry, but I cannot ... walk any farther.”

“It does not matter, my dear!” Piers looked down at the drooping figure beside him, aware of a deep thankfulness that she was safe at last in the protection of his home. Then he lifted her in his arms, and slowly, for he was very tired, began to climb the steps towards the house.

Miss Dorothy Wychwood, sunk in that blissful slumber of which not even profound anxiety could rob her, was rudely startled out of it by some sound which, on waking, she could not immediately define. As she lay staring perplexedly before her, it came again, a sharp, rattling noise from the direction of the window, as though someone had flung a handful of earth against the glass.