by Ella Edon
“My uncle’s crest.”
He tucked the handkerchief in his pocket and stood up. His eyes were dry, his throat too tight to weep. He nodded to Lewis.
“What’s wrong, sir?” the man asked. He was watching him with wary eyes.
“I found something, Lewis. I think I know where she is.”
He was going to Alford House, his childhood home, to find her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Escape Attempt
Raymonde woke feeling stiff and sore. Her back hurt as she stretched, blinking in the morning’s brightness. The curtain – she hadn’t even tried to draw the single remaining one – admitted stark daylight. She stood and went to the window, stifling a yawn.
She stiffened as she looked at the door. She had fallen asleep so swiftly that she hadn’t thought to pull the table across it. On the balance, that was no bad thing, she realized, for somebody had been in and left her a plate of breakfast. She assumed it was the youth from yesterday and went to it, her stomach twisting with anticipation.
The breakfast consisted of two croissants and some toast, a tray of butter, and even a small dish of jam. Raymonde bit into a croissant, feeling her stomach clench as she tasted the buttery pastry.
“At least he seems to see merit in feeding me,” she added to herself. There was a pot of tea, too, and it had not gone over-cold.
Raymonde finished breakfast, surprised by how energized she felt.
She had, she thought, been in here for four whole days, this being day five of her capture. She nodded to herself. It would, she planned, also be her last. Rinsing her face and hands in the bowl that the youth had refilled on the windowsill, she scraped her fingers through her hair and contemplated escape.
She couldn’t tell exactly when Cutler’s uncle – she was sure now that was the man’s identity – might enter. He had turned up at odd hours during the previous day. She shrugged. Much as she hated to do it, she was going to have to rush the youth who came to bring her meals and change the chamber-pot. She didn’t want him to suffer for her escape, but if she was free, perhaps she could protect him.
In here, I can do nothing for anybody.
She sighed, stretching and yawning. In here, she couldn’t even have a proper bath.
That, she thought, adjusting her hair as she looked at her reflection in the glass, was something to plan. The first bath she would have on returning home.
It was easier to contemplate that, than anything else.
I’ll tell Cutler and he’ll have a bath drawn, and then we’ll take a walk about the grounds.
She made herself keep that image in the forefront of her mind. Her hand on his elbow as they took a leisurely stroll around the garden, the scent of herbs in the clean air. The dew on the grass and the sound of the gardener raking leaves: the only noise in the quiet evening air.
She was busy shaking out her blanket, lost in thought, when she heard the door open.
She straightened her back, feeling tense and shaky. She had planned almost all the previous day for what she would do in this moment. Now was the time she would have to stand and rush him.
“You’re awake early,” her captor said. His flinty eyes darted around the room, taking in her makeshift bed, the tea, the open curtains. She swallowed hard. Even having him in here felt like an invasion, and his inquisitive glances made her feel even more violated.
“I’m awake,” she commented, fixing him with a stare. Inside, she was shaking. She tried to act as if there was nothing bothering her. “You had something to say?”
He shrugged. “I just came to see if you were still alive. You seemed somewhat fevered yesterday.”
Raymonde felt her hands ball into fists and she locked her knees, which were shaking. Having him pretend he cared about her health was even more disturbing than anything else. He could not have made her feel smaller than he did in that moment.
Stay calm. Keep your face neutral.
“I am not unwell,” she said, feeling how dry her mouth was. Her hands trembled. Soon, very soon, she would run at him and knock him over.
Just wait for him to get a little closer, to step away from the wall.
“I heard from Dalton that you finished your dinner,” he said mildly. “But that surprised me. You were shaking yesterday.” His eyes traveled down her body in a way that made bile rise in her throat. Assessing, interested.
“I assure you, I’m quite well,” she said, stepping back so that there was more space between them. She had an idea. “The window doesn’t fit very well – a draft blew in and chilled me. That was why I was shaking.”
“It does?” He frowned. As she had hoped, he came further into the room. His hand went to the window, his face annoyed and puzzled. He was five paces away from the door now, two paces from her.
Now.
Screaming, she rushed him.
“What in..?” he swore, but he was utterly off-balance and he twisted around, taking a side-step to regain his balance, by which time it was too late for him. She was at the door.
“Help!” she screamed. She was in a modest corridor, the wood floor bare, light flooding in through the windows and shining off white, un-papered walls. “Help! Murder!”
She was still screaming as she ran down wooden stairs. She heard feet in the hallway behind her.
“She’s mad! Ignore her. She’s locked up for her own good…”
“Murder!” she bellowed. “He’s trying to kill me!”
Whether or not it was true, the stronger her claim was, the more likely somebody was going to help her. She ran, fell down the last two steps, grabbed the railing and ran on down another hallway. This one was decorated, the floor covered with a carpet and the walls ornamented with candle-stands or pictures here and there. She guessed she was in the main part of the dwelling.
“Stop her!” Cutler’s uncle roared. “She’s insane…”
“Help!”
Raymonde ran down the stairs and into an entrance-way. A small part of her was aware of how crazy it must look – her screaming, the uncle roaring in frustration as he sought to grab her – but that was only a small part. The rest of her was desperate.
I have to get out. Find a door somewhere.
She screamed as she saw the youth from the kitchen, but he was only staring at her with round, wide eyes.
“Help!” she screamed and grabbed the door-handle of the front door. It was locked. She felt raw terror and turned the key, just as her captor appeared behind her, grabbing at her dress.
“After her, Dalton!” he screamed at the youth, but the boy only stood where he was, too shocked, it seemed, to move.
Raymonde whirled away, feeling smooth flagstones under her feet, half-falling down the front steps, and then out into the garden.
“Help!” she screamed, gathering up her skirts, feeling her riding-boots sink into the muddy pathway as she ran. “Murder! He’s trying to kill me!”
She was running out of breath to scream, but she kept it up as she ran down the path and through the front gate. She couldn’t hear feet in pursuit, and she wondered why, but then she realized why as she heard hoofs behind her.
“No…”
She almost collapsed, then. Her legs were weak from days of inactivity, her heart pounding and her chest hurting, but she couldn’t stop. It was, she realized, also fruitless to try to outrun a horse. All she could do was hide or find somewhere horses couldn’t go.
The alley!
She ran left and up, spotting a small village perhaps twenty paces away. The house she had been in was slightly offset from the village, a tall building that must have once been an inn. She twisted left and heard hoofbeats getting dangerously close. She screamed as she twisted right and found herself face-to-face with a rearing horse.
“No!”
She gathered her skirts and ran down again, the rider in pursuit. She was running along a forest track, now, her boots slipping on the wet leaves, the horse almost level with her.
“You won�
�t get away,” her captor yelled. “I’ll ride you over.”
“No…” Raymonde panted. Her chest ached, and she had a pain in her side that was getting steadily worse. She knew she couldn’t keep running for much longer, but she also knew that she had to, if she wanted to live. She slipped and almost fell, dodging off the path into the trees. She could stay off the track, keep ahead. The horse could not follow her in dense woodlands.
“Help!” she screamed.
Just as she heard the sound of pursuit nearing, she heard another sound that was more beautiful, more blessed, than she could imagine.
Another horse-rider.
“Help!” she screamed, running towards the source of the sound. “Please…help me!”
She ran towards the source of the noise, slipping and almost stopping. She looked up.
“Raymonde?” Cutler said in utter disbelief.
“Cutler!” Raymonde said, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Oh, Cutler! You found me.”
Chapter Thirty
Discovery
Cutler brought his horse to a rearing halt, his heart aching. He couldn’t believe it! But it was her. Here she was, on the street in front of him, her hair loose, her eyes wide and her chest gasping.
“Raymonde!” he shouted, throwing his leg over his horse, making a jarring dismount. He took her in his arms, holding her tight. She clung to him, her body pressed to his. He could feel her shivering and he knew how exhausted she was.
“Cutler,” she whispered, and she started sobbing as he held her. “Oh, Cutler. You’re here…” She looked up at him then, and he saw the wonderment turn to horror. “No!” she whispered. She turned and pushed him back towards his horse, making him frown.
“Raymonde?” he asked. “What is it?”
The sound of hoof-beats in the clearing distracted him. He looked up. He gasped.
“Uncle!”
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but there was no denying who it was, as his uncle, tall and grim-faced, strode across the ground of the clearing. He looked frankly furious.
“Let her go,” his uncle demanded. “Or I’ll shoot the pair of you.”
Cutler stared. This was the man who had killed his father, who had murdered Lady Edmore. This man had sent him to certain death in the war. Now he was threatening to kill Raymonde? He felt his hand go to his side. He had brought his pistol but had never intended to use it. He drew it now, stepping in front of Raymonde.
“I think you should leave.”
His uncle raised a brow.
Cutler felt his hand shake, even as he clutched the hilt of his pistol and drew it. He was afraid of this man; more afraid of him than he had ever been on the battlefield – than he had ever been of anything. This man had taken his father, subverted his life. Threatened him. In his presence, Cutler wasn’t twenty-eight and a veteran of battles: he was a nine-year-old boy, confused and helpless.
“Go – leave us,” he made himself say, though his throat had closed up and he was suddenly unaccountably shaking. The man he faced had haunted his nightmares and he couldn’t bear the thought of facing him down. He felt Raymonde take hold of his arm, though she stayed behind him. That touch made him feel strong. It reached through the memories of childhood fear, reminding him of who he was.
His uncle took a step forward, forcing him to cock his pistol. He held it level, trying to make his arm stop shaking. He had shot in wars, but he had never had to kill a man he knew; a man who stood before him unarmed and dared him to do it.
“Come on, boy,” his uncle said derisively. “Put down the gun. Put it down, and I’ll let you live. You and your doxy.”
Cutler felt his heart twist, suffused with a black rage that choked him. He lifted the pistol, aiming at his uncle’s head. The pistol was rifled; an adaptation that made its fire more accurate. If he shot now, he could kill him, and hearing him insult her made him want to.
“Raymonde is my wife.”
His uncle grinned, an incredulous expression crossing his face. “Really? Well, then. She can’t be as much a lady as I assumed. No lady would want to waste herself on a second-rate officer. You’re nobody.”
Cutler straightened his back. “I am a Lieutenant, but I got that by my own merit. You got an earldom for being born.”
He saw a strange expression cross his uncle’s face then. Almost amusement. He wondered why.
“I got that by merit, too, lad,” his uncle said, “and my skills.”
Cutler frowned. He didn’t know what he meant by that. His brain took those words and ran through them, slowly. Merit. Skills.
Visions from the past followed: his father, dead behind his desk. Lady Edmore, so still and pale. His uncle, quietly organizing everything, from the moment he had arrived at the manor. Walking in from his own home, he had taken control efficiently and without question.
“You took the earldom?” he said, his mind reeling. Had his uncle confessed? He had murdered his father and his guardian to take Alford for himself? Was that what he meant?
At that moment, he was distracted, lost in his own troubled thoughts. He realized that too late – too late to stop his uncle swinging up into the saddle, grabbing his own pistol, and riding away.
“Hey!” Cutler shouted. “Stop!”
He fired into the air, knowing it was a useless waste of a bullet – his uncle was out of range already, racing down the road.
He felt his arm fall to his side, useless. He shook his head, feeling defeated and foolish. He had let the man escape, just at the moment when he might have confessed to murder.
“Cutler?” a voice said from behind him, and he felt her hand gently clasp his wrist. He turned around and found himself looking into soft eyes.
“Raymonde,” he said softly. He reached out to embrace her. “My sweetling. Are you hurt?”
She nodded. In that moment, his uncle was forgotten. All he cared about was her. She looked exhausted. There was dirt streaking her face, her eyes damp with tears.
“We need to get home,” he said gently. He held her in his arms, stroking her hair. “Are you able to ride?”
She looked so frail, he realized. He didn’t know how she’d been treated, if she’d been looked after. Anybody left at the mercy of his uncle was utterly unsafe. He lifted her in his arms.
“Come on,” he said softly. “You sit in front. We’ll ride back together. It’s not far.”
“I can ride,” Raymonde replied. Her voice was soft. Her eyes were wide, but not afraid. He realized, as he swung up into the saddle behind her, that she was not frightened – not as he would have imagined being himself, under similar circumstances. Belatedly, he realized that she’d escaped his uncle, all on her own.
“How did you escape?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, the reins in one hand.
She grinned at him over her shoulder, though her eyes were weary. “I ran,” she replied, with a shaky laugh.
Cutler had to laugh, too. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. “Raymonde, you’re incredible.”
She leaned back against him, and he felt some of the tension go out of her back. “No, I’m not,” she whispered. He felt her hand tighten on his.
“I can’t believe that I got here in time,” he whispered, as they rode on. They were heading up to the road, and then along it in the opposite direction to the way his uncle departed. The village was not far from his home – he still couldn’t believe how close she had been all this time.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered back.
She leaned against him and they headed onwards. He thought she might be sleeping, but then she turned and looked at him, a shy grin on her face.
“What is it?” he asked softly. He had no idea what she wanted to say, but whatever it was, he would be glad to hear it in that moment. He had longed for her so much.
“Can we go a bit faster? I’m hungry.”
He couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. Of all the things he had thought she might say!
He squeezed her tight, kissing her hair, her neck, her arm.
“Oh, my dearest,” he whispered into her hair. “We can go as fast as you wish.”
They arrived at the house a few minutes later. He slowed the horse to a walk, dismounting and then reaching up to help her down, shouting for Lewis.
“Lewis!” he yelled. “Come, take my horse! And tell Cook we need a feast.”