CHAPTER 15
Kit drove like a madman through the city streets and out onto the highway.
Eventually, Smiggs, white-faced, begged him to slow down. “Won’t do your Miss Buckleberry any good if you wreck this rig.”
Kit could see Durley Hill rising ahead. He grunted and consented to ease the pace, knowing that, regardless, he had to save his horses for the long climb into Keynsham, or they’d be blown when they reached the town.
They’d found Ned at the junction where the road to Wells peeled off to the south. Ned had scrambled up beside Ollie and confirmed that the gig had gone on toward Bath. The boy had run like a Spartan and had managed to keep the gig in sight until then.
Kit sent up a prayer of gratitude for the boys’ efforts. If they hadn’t acted as they had... He thrust the thought away. What was before him was bad enough; his imaginings were no longer relevant.
While managing his horses and avoiding catastrophe, he’d dredged his memory, going over his conversations with Sylvia as well as the snippets he’d heard of her background and home at the wedding.
As the increasing grade slowed the horses even more, Kit raised his voice so the boys could hear. “It’s possible the man is taking Miss Buckleberry to her father. This road goes through the village of Saltford, where Reverend Buckleberry has the living.”
After a moment, Ned called, “Does that mean her father preaches in the church and lives at the vicarage?”
Despite all, Kit’s lips twitched. “Yes—that’s exactly what ‘having the living’ means.”
But given that was the case...
After several minutes of wrestling with the issue, Kit said, “Boys, I want you to think very carefully over all you heard the man say. As he is driving Miss Buckleberry toward her home, is there any chance at all that he might actually be doing what he said and fetching Miss Buckleberry to her dying father’s side?”
He glanced over his shoulder to see the boys exchanging a long glance. Kit faced forward and waited.
Eventually, Ollie said, “The man said as he’d been staying next door to the vicarage, but we know he’s been living in the city and his rooming house is off the Butts. We saw him yesterday, parading around with his boards, so how could he have been staying at this village?”
“And that’s not all he lied about,” Ned piped up. “He told Miss Buckleberry his name was Mr. Hillary—I heard her call him that. But when we were following him to learn where he lived, we heard other people call him Nunsworth. So he lied about that, too. Why would he do that if he wasn’t up to no good?”
“And,” Ollie said, in the tone of one sealing an argument with irrefutable logic, “why’s he been watching Miss Buckleberry, all secret-like, for the past week?”
Kit stared ahead, digesting all that.
From beside him, Smiggs growled, “Those are three good questions, and it doesn’t sound as if this Hillary bloke would have any good answers.”
“No,” Kit conceded. To the boys, he called, “You’re right. Hillary or Nunsworth or whoever he is has to be a villain.”
And the situation was shaping up to be as bad as Kit’s instincts were insisting.
Given the boys’ information, he couldn’t see how the man could be genuine, but at this point, he really didn’t care. It was more important that Sylvia and Jack came out of the incident safely; if it turned out Kit and the boys had made fools of themselves over nothing, so be it.
Kit chafed as the horses plodded up the long incline; he knew both incline and pace would only get worse closer to the top of the hill and resigned himself to frustration. They were roughly halfway to Saltford; he didn’t dare push his horses too hard.
The thought drew his attention to the relative speeds of a gig pulled by a single horse versus a well-sprung curricle with two top-notch carriage horses in the traces. Estimating the difference distracted him as they toiled up Durley Hill.
Even with the additional weight of Smiggs, given the quality of Kit’s horses and curricle, they would be faster over any distance than Hillary’s gig could possibly be.
Despite this interminably slow stage, the distance between them and the gig had to be closing.
They could—and would—reach Sylvia and Jack in time.
* * *
Sylvia was clutching the side of Hillary’s gig with a white-knuckled grip when the first roofs of Saltford came into view. She felt rattled to her back teeth, but as she’d urged Hillary to get her to her father’s side as fast as he could, she could hardly fault him for taking her at her word.
Although she’d questioned him further, he’d sworn he didn’t know anything more to tell her. She’d spent the drive imagining the worst.
But she would know all soon.
Scanning ahead, she knew just where to look to spot the top of the church tower, away to the left of the main road. Seeing it made her stomach clench even tighter. Her father couldn’t be dying—her mind simply refused to accept that.
Hillary had to slow his horse as they approached the village proper, but instead of turning left along the lane that led to the church, he drove straight on.
Surprised, Sylvia stared back at the lane, then rounded on Hillary. “You’ve missed the turn!”
“Ah, sorry.” Hillary didn’t lift his gaze from his horse nor did he slow the beast. “I should have said. There’s been subsidence after the recent rains—a huge pothole opened up in the lane. I have to go around via the Shallows.”
Sylvia sank back against the seat. “Oh.” She knew the alternative route he spoke of; the lane known as the Shallows started just beyond the other side of the village and looped back along the banks of the river, ultimately connecting with the end of the lane that led to the church.
Inwardly grimacing, she told herself that going via the Shallows wouldn’t be that much longer—especially if the pothole was close to the highway and she had to walk most of the length of the lane.
As Hillary’s gig rattled along what had become the village street, she sat woodenly beside him, feeling hollow inside as she waited to learn the terrible truth in a way that would force her to believe it.
Doctor Moreton would be at the vicarage. He was an old friend of her father’s and could be counted on to tell her as much as he knew without any roundaboutation. How could her father, who had seemed in his usual robust health only three weeks ago, have faded so quickly?
She saw several villagers who, recognizing her, waved and smiled...
Presumably, they hadn’t yet heard. She forced herself to raise a hand in return, but she couldn’t manage a smile.
Gripping her hands in her lap, she mentally urged Hillary to go faster. She needed to see her father, needed to hold his big hand.
Finally, they were through the village, and Hillary slowed for the turn into the Shallows. Seconds later, they were bowling along, with the river—the Avon—murmuring darkly beside the road.
She raised her head. Through a break in the trees, she glimpsed the church tower again. Nearly there—
Hillary swung the gig sharply to the right—so abruptly Sylvia nearly lost her grip and went flying. She half smothered a shriek as the gig shuddered and plunged at breakneck speed down a short track and into the clearing before the brass mill.
At the last second, Hillary hauled on the reins, and the carriage slewed, throwing Sylvia against his shoulder.
It was a shock to come to a halt.
Before she could even drag in a breath, Hillary seized her hands, first one, then the other, wrapping a fine cord around her wrists and cinching the cord tight.
Sylvia stared at her now-bound hands, then she jerked her head up and looked daggers at Hillary. “What on earth—What?” She gasped as Hillary tore off her bonnet and looped a scarf about her face, tugging the scarf tight and knotting it into an effective gag.
Her heart was racing. Sh
e fought to catch her breath. What on earth was going on?
Hillary spared not so much as a glance for her as he leapt to the ground, rushed around the horse to reach her side, then he hauled her down and half dragged half carried her toward the mill, until he could shove her to sit on a bench set against the mill’s front wall.
Sylvia landed hard. Before she could blink, Hillary had crouched and wound another strand of cord around her ankles, hobbling her. Stunned, she fell back against the wall.
From inside the mill, she heard slow, heavy footsteps heading for the mill door farther along the wall.
The mill was never locked as the fires to melt the metal were kept constantly stoked, and a watchman was always on duty.
She looked at Hillary, who had stalked back to the gig, and horror crept up her spine as she saw him draw a heavy iron bar from the gig’s footwell. He strode to the mill door. Holding the bar down beside his leg, he hauled the door open and walked inside.
Sylvia sucked in a breath—as much as she could—but she couldn’t push any real sound past the gag. Desperate to warn the unsuspecting watchman, she drummed her feet on the ground, but this close to the river, moss covered any available soil; her soles raised nothing more than soft pats.
She heard cheery voices—Hillary’s and the watchman’s—then a heavy thud reached her. The watchman had hit the ground.
She slumped against the mill wall as panic stole through her.
She glanced at the gig—then sat up as she saw the lid of the boot slowly rise.
A tow-headed lad peered out. He saw her, and his eyes flew wide. Quick as an eel, he slipped to the ground.
He started toward her—just as she heard Hillary’s heavy steps returning.
Violently, she shook her head at the lad. No! With her eyes, she signaled to the door, willing him to understand.
The lad’s eyes swung to the door, and he halted. Then he turned tail and whisked around the gig, freezing where Hillary wouldn’t see him.
Sylvia sagged with relief. Then Hillary reappeared in the doorway, and panic surged once more.
She kept her eyes locked on Hillary and prayed he wouldn’t spot the lad. If the boy could get away, he could summon help...
But the lad was likely from Bristol. He wouldn’t know where they were or which way to go to summon help quickly, and there were no houses along that stretch of the river.
She didn’t have time to think further. Hillary strode out and halted before her.
She kept her gaze apparently lowered, but watched him from beneath her lashes. With his Good Samaritan mask long gone, he was surveying her coldly through narrowed, piggy eyes.
Then a chilly smile curved his lips. He reached down, seized her arm, hauled her up, and propelled her before him into the mill.
* * *
Kit drove the curricle into the outskirts of Saltford without having sighted the gig. From the position of the church tower well away to the left, he surmised the vicarage, no doubt close to the church, lay some distance off the Bath Road, closer to the river.
Kit eyed the tower.
Hillary had said he would drive Sylvia to the vicarage, but Hillary had lied about multiple things. What if he’d lied about that?
If Kit drove to the vicarage and Sylvia wasn’t there, he would lose precious time—time she and Jack might not have.
Kit swiftly weighed his choices; as they reached the village proper, he drew on the reins. As soon as the horses had halted, he handed the reins to Smiggs. “Follow along behind us.” Kit swiveled on the seat and looked at Ned and Ollie. “Boys, we need to ask everyone who might have seen it if the gig passed this way. We need to be sure which way it went.”
The boys nodded and scrambled down to the road.
They joined Kit in ranging along the road, asking anyone they saw if they’d spotted a man and a lady driving past in a gig.
Soon, Kit came upon an old lady, a basket on her arm.
When he asked his question, she blinked at him “By lady, do you mean Miss Buckleberry, dear?”
“Yes.” Kit managed to keep his voice even. “We’re trying to work out which way she went.”
The old lady pointed down the street. “On along the Bath Road.”
“Thank you.” He wanted to rush on, but paused to ask, “How long ago was that?”
“Oh, not much more than five or so minutes,” the old lady said. “I was just on my way into the shop, and I didn’t spend that long in there.” She paused, then added, “I did wave, but dear Sylvia seemed a tad distracted.”
Kit flashed the old lady a smile. “Again, thank you. I’ll mention that when next I see her.” Quickly sobering, he moved on.
He called the boys to him and told them what he’d learned—that as he’d feared, Hillary hadn’t driven Sylvia to the vicarage. “We need to keep going as fast as we can and see if he continued on toward Bath.”
Letting the boys go ahead, Kit dropped back to tell Smiggs the news.
Smiggs frowned. “He must’ve spun her some tale about where her father is, else she’d have kicked up a fuss when he didn’t head to the vicarage.”
Grimly, Kit nodded. Smiggs was right. But their only option was to follow the gig’s trail, such as it was.
Ollie found an older man seated outside a cottage, watching the passing traffic. The man remembered the gig and Sylvia; Kit came up in time to hear him say, “Aye. ’Bout five minutes ago, it were. Odd, I thought, seeing our Sylvia up beside that ramshackle fella.”
Ollie turned wide eyes Kit’s way.
Kit halted beside Ollie, dropped a hand on the lad’s shoulder, and nodded to the man. “Why ramshackle?”
“Well, it was that Nunsworth fella.” The man gestured with his pipe. “He was run out of the village years ago. Claimed to be a churchman, but all he was interested in was stealing from those silly enough to listen to him.” The man paused, then looked struck. “Mind, that was a good long time ago. Sylvia was just a child then—she might not know.”
Kit’s heart sank. He gripped Ollie’s shoulder and dipped his head to the man. “Thank you.”
He and Ollie swung around and hurried on down the road.
They went as fast as they dared, but there were several lanes leading into the countryside; they had to be sure the gig hadn’t taken one of them.
Urgency rode Kit’s shoulders, gaining weight with every passing minute.
They reached the other end of the village proper; ahead, the road continued on through fields dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage.
A farmer driving a yoke of oxen pulling a heavily laden cart was toiling up the slight rise.
Kit hailed the man and asked if a gig carrying a man and a lady had passed him.
The farmer studied Kit for an instant, then said, “Not passed, no.” When Kit blinked, the farmer turned and pointed. “I saw them head down the lane there.”
The entrance to the lane lay ahead on Kit’s left. His heart thudded. “How long ago?”
“Not that long—say ten minutes. Might be less.” The farmer gestured down the rise. “Me and the beasts were just rounding the corner down there when I looked up and saw them.” Kit opened his mouth to thank the man when the farmer went on, “Odd, really, to go that way.” The farmer glanced at Kit. “It’s called the Shallows on account of following the river along.” The man shrugged. “Scenic, I suppose.”
Reining in his impatience, Kit thanked the man. Smiggs drew up the curricle. Kit leapt to the box seat; while the boys scrambled up behind, Kit stood and peered down the lower-lying lane. All he could see were the tops of trees.
He turned and called to the farmer, “What lies that way?”
The farmer looked back. “It’ll eventually land you near the church, but along the way, there’s just the brass mill. Not much else.”
Kit saluted the f
armer, then, grim-faced, sat, picked up the reins, sent his horses pacing forward, then swung them in a tight arc and plunged down the narrow lane.
CHAPTER 16
Sylvia struggled to make sense of what was happening. Hillary had all but flung her to the ground so she was sitting with her back to the side of the huge stone platform on which the brass was pounded into sheets. He’d squinted at her for a moment, then gone off muttering, apparently searching for something.
She tugged and twisted, trying to free her hands. The lad, at least, knew she was there. She had no notion who he was, but he’d known her; perhaps he was a friend of one of the schoolboys. Regardless, she had to believe that he would find and tell someone eventually.
She wondered whether she could get her feet under her and, hobbled though she was, make a dash for the door, but Hillary loomed out of the shadows to her left, clutching several lengths of rope.
He came to stand over her, his boots thudding down on the floorboards, one on either side of her knees.
She glared up at him, but he appeared oblivious. Indeed, he seemed to be smiling to himself.
“This will do nicely,” he muttered, then he reached down, seized her bound hands, and hauled them high.
Sylvia gasped as her arms were wrenched.
Hillary didn’t seem to hear. He drew a small knife from his pocket and, with a quick flick, sliced through the cord binding her wrists. With one big hand, he held both her wrists while he maneuvered to wind separate lengths of the heavier rope around each of her gloved hands, the ropes passing over her palms.
Then he released her left hand, leaned to her right, and secured her right hand to the base of the railing of the stone platform, tying the rope securely so her arm was stretched wide.
Confused, she stared, then Hillary stepped to her left and secured her left hand in a similar position on her other side.
Hillary drew back and surveyed his handiwork. There was nothing in his gaze as it passed over her to suggest he saw her as anything more than an inanimate object—a prop for some scene he was constructing.
The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh Page 25