by Ella Edon
Ignore him. Answer him, but don’t engage with him.
He shrugged. “I have never seen a lady work like a fish-wife before.” The insult was delivered casually. “You seem to be less well-bred than you think.”
“I think it’s nearly dinnertime,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken.
She saw his eyes narrow in annoyance. Being completely ignored had the same diminishing power against him as it did against Osburne. To complete the indifference, she turned her back and walked to the window.
“It’s almost seven o’ clock, and the sun’s set,” she observed. It had, outlining the roofs in paler blue where they met the horizon as the sky darkened to night above.
“You think you’ll get dinner?” he asked, his voice goading.
She turned around, one brow raised. “I think an intelligent captor would feed me,” she said mildly. “I am no use at all dead.”
She saw him shut his eyes in irritation and she tried not to laugh. Just like Osburne, he couldn’t bear being mocked, or having his intelligence called into question.
“You will be given dinner,” he said. He made a humorless smile. “Since it’s so important to you.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling back as if she hadn’t heard the last comment. “And you can thank the cook for me, if you please.”
He groaned and half-shut the door. She cleared her throat.
“I suppose you are armed, are you not? When Cutler comes to fetch me, he will be. And he has a new Wogdon dueling pistol.”
She didn’t even know if the last was true, but she said it to provoke him. It had an effect.
“When he comes, I will be ready for him,” he said.
When he had gone, Raymonde felt her lips stretch in a big grin. She had actually enjoyed tormenting him, watching his self-importance wither under her mild disinterest. And, she thought, sitting down on the chaise-lounge, she had obtained some important information. He wasn’t alone in this building – there were at least some kitchen staff besides the youth.
More importantly, she knew – or at least, had reason to suspect – that he was unarmed at present. If he had a pistol, he would not have resisted showing it to her.
“Not bad,” she told herself, half-smiling. Oddly enough, seeing how easy he was to trick had lessened her fear of her captor. But even so, she felt herself shudder as she thought of rushing him. Even with surprise on her side, there was little chance that she would be able to withstand his greater strength. And if he was angry, he would have reason to harm her. She shuddered.
She heard footsteps again and stood, feeling herself sway a little on her feet. She was beyond feeling hungry; instead, she felt weak and disorientated. She leaned back on the wall, bracing herself as the door opened.
“Supper, Miss.”
“Thank you,” Raymonde whispered, her whole being almost melting with relief as the boy who had visited before carried a plate to the table and took off the cover, letting out a small cloud of steam. She felt her stomach clench as the savory smell reached her.
“I’ll come back for the plate, see?” he said with a nervous smile. Raymonde nodded, wondering, as he shut the door, if Cutler’s uncle had told the staff that she was mad.
She nodded, deciding to do nothing that would belie the impression. The more they believed her a harmless madwoman, the less likely they were to be overly-attentive.
“And I’ll get a fire going, see?” he added, bending down to light the logs that filled the metal grate. Raymonde watched, not sure whether she was grateful he’d stayed to light the fire, or whether she was itching for him to leave so she could eat. The door was open, but the room was such that, when he knelt at the fire, his body blocked the doorway.
“There,” he said, standing up once there was a small fire blazing in the grate. “Eat, Miss. You must be starving.” He motioned at the plate, hesitantly. “I’ll be back later.” He went out through the door, closing it hard.
“Good,” she whispered, sitting down at the table, her stomach clenched with hunger. There was gravy, two helpings of Yorkshire Pudding cooked to a rich brown, and peas. She felt her mouth water and she lifted the knife and fork, eating hungrily.
When she was done, she felt suddenly weak, her whole body too tired to even digest her meal. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, shivering.
“Cutler,” she whispered to the emptiness. “I wish you were here.”
She was full for the moment, her fingers finally starting to tingle and her body starting to shake as the new warmth flowed through her. She was also, she realized, extremely tired.
Before she could think about it, she had curled up on the chaise-lounge near the fire and was fast asleep. Her last thought was for Cutler, and how she wished he was here.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Shocking Discovery
Cutler gritted his teeth as he rode. The countryside sped past, his back jarring and jolting with the motion of his horse. He was tired, sore and weary. He was also possessed of a feverish uncertainty that drove him like a madman across the countryside, changing horses at regular intervals to keep up speed. He had done the ride in two days.
The countryside was more hilly here, less rolling fields and more stark outcrops. He was feeling more at home again.
“Not…much longer,” he panted to himself. Alford Heights – the home where he’d been raised – was perhaps two miles from the hill he rode down now. He gritted his teeth, making himself think of home.
Raymonde would be there, he told himself firmly. He would not entertain, even for a second, the idea that something had happened to her. She was there, and they would laugh about the misunderstanding, which would turn out to be something utterly harmless.
“Yes,” he told himself, wincing as he felt the horse’s steps jar his spine. “It’ll be…fine.”
He saw the cottage on the rise of the next hill, the cluster of other small cottages offset from it, grouped around the village church and school, where he’d been educated.
“Almost…home.”
He was surprised, as he raced along the road, that he thought of the place as “home” now…all his life, it had seemed as unwelcoming a place as he could imagine: the very opposite of anything like home. Now, though, he was excited to get there.
It’s Raymonde being there.
He smiled to himself as he slowed his horse, first to a trot and then a walk. Raymonde was there, and he would kiss her and all would be well. He halted at the house, swinging his leg over the saddle and shouting for the stable-hand.
“Sir?” Mr. Lewis appeared, eyes tense at the edges, manner wary, as if he expected a reprimand.
“Make sure he’s rubbed down well,” Cutler said, indicating the horse. “He’s just ridden ten miles at top speed. And give him good bran mash, please.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Cutler gave him an odd look as he walked past. Something about the man’s manner concerned him. Lewis had never been particularly talkative, but he was usually less taciturn, less wary. Something had happened. He just could not fathom what it might be.
Feeling his brow lower in a frown, he lifted the knocker and beat on the door.
“Mr. Hanford?” he called loudly. “Are you in?”
No answer. He thumped on the door again, this time using his hand to knock. Surely somebody was in? The cook, Seaforth…They couldn’t all be out?
His heart went cold as a thousand scenes played through his mind of destruction and horror. Somebody had killed the household. Somebody had poisoned them. Raymonde was in there, dying like his father died, like Lady Edmore.
“Hanford!” he yelled, thudding the door. “Let me in.”
The door opened so swiftly he almost fell inwards sharply. He felt his heart surge with relief, despite the shocked face of the steward.
“Hanford. You’re here. Let me in!” he demanded, feeling relief lift the corners of his lips. He had never been so pleased to see the man in his life.
“Yes, sir.” Hanford stood back to let him enter. He stepped inside hurriedly, kicking off his riding-boots. It was only as he straightened, pulling on his indoor shoes, that he noticed Hanford’s face.
He was looking at him strangely; the same sheepish expression as he’d noted with Mr. Lewis. His eyes were empty, unsmiling. It was an odd expression, even for Hanford, and he cleared his throat.
“Hanford?” he asked. “Is there aught amiss?”
Hanford shrugged, licking dry lips. Cutler felt himself start to reach utter desperation. It was all he could do not to grab the man and shake him. He struggled to keep himself quiet.
“Hanford, what the Deuce is going on here?” he asked. “Lewis is strange, you’re on edge…what happened? Is Raymonde…”
He almost stopped as Hanford looked at the ground, throat working. “Lady Raymonde is…” he licked his lips again, voice tense. “…is gone.”
“What?” Cutler couldn’t hold back anymore, and he grabbed the other man, shaking him. “What…did…you…do?” he demanded. He felt his fingers clawing for his throat, felt the rage and pain and sorrow of a small boy growing inside him and blinding him, setting him alight from within: making him want to kill.
He realized what he was doing and stepped back. Hanford, gasping, fell sideways. He caught the balustrade, hauling himself up. Cutler shook his head.
“I’m… Sorry,” he whispered. He was shuddering, the rage dissipating as abruptly as it arrived. He looked at Hanford and realized he’d come close to doing actual damage.
“Sir…” Hanford gasped. “She was here the day after your departure.” He cleared his tight throat, coughing as he told the story. “About two hours before midday, she decided to go out riding. She said she’d be gone for two hours. We held back luncheon when she hadn’t arrived by twelve. By two, we sent out a search-party. They found nothing, though they searched the roads. At four, one of the villagers came back with news. They found her horse, walking about in the woods.”
“Her horse…” Cutler felt his heart clench. She’d been thrown! She’d fallen off her horse. She was lying out there, somewhere, wounded…He took off his shoes, reaching for his riding-boots swiftly. “Where was the horse?”
“Sir…” Hanford cautioned.
“Where was she found, damn you?” Cutler snarled, then let his hand drop before choking the man. “Sorry,” he said again, feeling his cheeks flush. “I’m beside myself with fear.”
“I understand,” Hanford said, with a dry sniff that suggested that he did nothing of the sort. “You are overwrought. You always were hot-tempered, even as a boy…”
“And you are so feelingless you’d let a child cry himself to sleep for a year, rather than comfort him,” Cutler snapped.
He saw Hanford’s eyes widen, and the man took a step back, then another. Cutler felt a strange satisfaction at seeing the man who had tormented his youth so diminished.
“Sir, we have done everything in our power. I suggest the authorities…”
“I don’t give a damn for the authorities,” Cutler said succinctly. “They will come, they will leave; they will report back and write to London, and by then it’ll be too late.” He recited it grimly and when he looked up, he saw a glimmer of understanding in Hanford’s eye.
It was precisely what happened with his father.
“Sir…” Hanford said. The sorrow in his eyes was real this time, his voice kind.
“Wait,” Cutler said, not unkindly. “If I find her, I will need something ready for her. She could be wounded. You will stay here, and have the doctor called up from Alford Village. Have Cook get hot water for a bath.”
“Yes, sir.” Hanford nodded. “And what can I do?” he asked. He looked genuinely distressed. Cutler cleared his throat.
“Stay here, Hanford,” he said gently. “I’ll be needing someone in charge.”
He reached for his cloak and hat, and then turned in the doorway. “Send Lewis down with me – he will know the whereabouts the horse was found.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cutler went outside, feeling his heart twist and ache. It was afternoon, the sun starting to move towards the horizon. He had perhaps three hours before the darkness fell. He had to find her!
“Sir?” Lewis asked. He was alert, already shrugging into his coat.
“Come with me, Lewis,” Cutler said. “We’re going to where her horse was found.”
“Sir…?” Lewis pointed at the sky, as if indicating how late it was becoming. Cutler raised a brow.
“We’re going to be out there all night, if we have to be,” he said stiffly. “We’ll find her, Lewis.”
Lewis nodded, his face grave. It seemed as if he was inspired, though, for he went into the stables and started tacking up two horses. Soon, side-by-side, with Cutler riding a horse from their stables, they rode into the night.
“Her horse was found up this way, sir,” Lewis said, taking them along the left fork that Cutler knew well. It went up to the hills overlooking the cottages. He had ridden there with her, a week or two ago. He felt his heart twist with sorrow.
“She must have gone to Alford Acres?” he asked.
“Yes, sir… Could be.” Lewis looked unconvinced. “But, in any case, sir, she wasn’t going far.”
“No,” Cutler nodded. He wasn’t at all sure if he thought that reassuring. If she hadn’t gone far, why had she not been able to come back? She would have had to be gravely wounded if she hadn’t attempted the walk home.
Gravely wounded, or set upon by ruffians.
He didn’t want to think about that.
“Lead me to where her horse was, Lewis.”
His companion, grave and sorrowing, nodded. “Yes, sir.”
They reached a clearing after about an hour. Cutler swung down off the horse, wincing as his ankles received the impact. He looked around.
“Raymonde?” he shouted, hoping for a reply. “Raymonde? Where are you?”
“Hush, sir,” Lewis cautioned, gripping his sleeve. “There could be all sorts listening.”
Cutler didn’t know what his face did, but he saw terror flare briefly in Lewis’ face as he stepped closer. He sighed, turning away. “I know,” he agreed. “But we have to find her.”
“We’ll search together, sir. I’ll go this way.”
Cutler nodded, and went to his left, heading into the thick growth of trees. He searched, feeling like a fool. “Raymonde?” he called softly, as he followed the faintest hints of paths through the trees. They were oak trees, the ground covered with yellow leaves. He slipped on the leaves, his hands landing on the ground. He hauled himself upright.
“Raymonde?” he shouted. Tears were starting to sting his eyes.
He looked between the trees, not sure how far he should go. Then, as he heard Lewis in the clearing, retraced again.
“Raymonde?” he called, feeling desperate. “Raymonde? Where are you?”
He shut his eyes, struggling to hide his feelings before he returned to the clearing. He saw her face so clearly, those brown eyes wide and filled with humor, those full lips stretched in a smile. Her pale skin shone in the firelight, her body scented with cinnamon.
“I found nothing,” he said as he stepped into the clearing, facing Lewis.
“Me neither,” he said, clearing his throat. “Maybe we could…”
“Wait!” Cutler demanded, holding up a hand. He looked down at the ground. Something there had caught his eye; something that glowed in the darkness of the tree-lined space. Bending down, he picked it up, holding it before his eyes.
It was a handkerchief. He sniffed it, but it didn’t smell of her – she scented her handkerchiefs with lavender and other herbs. He held it up to the light, not even sure of why he did so. He had no reason to believe it was even connected to her presence.
He felt something at the edge, under his finger. It was monogrammed, the initials sewn in delicately. He held it up to the light, tracing over the stitching, straining to read.<
br />
There were initials written there, loops of white cotton on the cream linen, just clear: G.J.S.
He dropped the handkerchief.
The initials were his uncle’s initials. The handkerchief belonged to his uncle. On its own, it proved nothing – simply that somebody with his handkerchief had passed through the woods and dropped it. It might even be that somebody else had the same letters in their name.
No, he thought, shaking his head. There was more to it than this. The handkerchief was here, where she’d disappeared. As he felt over the handkerchief, searching for information, he felt another embroidered patch, and in the faint light he just made out the crest of Alford House.