In his grave, the cynic in her chimed silently.
After sending the men back to the barn with the vehicle, Victor stepped gingerly over a large rock, which put him on a small path that rimmed the outer wall, much of which was no longer there. “This way,” he said. “Watch your step.”
She followed him, minding the ground. Now was not the time to turn an ankle. She thought about using her pistol to force him to order one of those men to take her home. But first, she needed to see Monsieur.
There was a dilapidated, partial wall on her right, almost completely concealed by overgrown bushes that might once have been planted by design but which now grew wild. She stumbled over a few loose stones. She should have worn her sturdy boots, she grumbled to herself, the ones she always wore to paint outdoors. They’d have been warmer too.
“No wonder his friend is ill, if he lives here,” she muttered. They were now nearing the back of what had doubtless been a thriving monastery centuries ago. On another day and in different circumstances, she’d have been eager to spend hours sketching these ruins. But, right now, she was too focused on preparing herself to react to whatever was about to happen.
Abruptly, Victor halted and reached into an opening in the vegetation to push hard against an unseen object.
What on earth? She heard the creaking first, then watched as an ancient wooden door opened inwards. A gust of cold musty air wafted out at them. A quiver of dread quaked through her. Was he planning on throwing her into a dungeon from which she would never emerge? Her hand was in her pocket grasping her pistol, ready to use it. She’d unstrapped her knife from her thigh at that first inn, to be ready to use should she need it, but removing it from her sketch bag, where she’d stashed it, would make noise that he might hear. Unfortunately! It would be of more use in the circumstances because it wouldn’t alert the men in the barn if she was forced to use it.
She peered into the murky yawning and saw that there were stairs leading down. She stepped back quickly. The acrid smell of damp was overpowering. Lord in heaven, could Monsieur still be alive in such a place? She shuddered. She didn’t want to be left alone down there! Maybe she should use her pistol before they descended into the dank darkness.
But worry about his uncle kept her silent. By now, she was one continuous shiver. If Monsieur had been down here for any length of time, she was not looking forward to what they might find.
“He isn’t visiting an ill friend, is he?” There was no use in holding onto her faint hopes any longer.
Victor snorted with derision. “You didn’t believe that tale, did you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He flushed at her quiet response. Maybe he felt some remorse for what he was doing, maybe she could–
“Enough talk.” Grabbing her elbow, he held her in place. He hesitated, then said, “This is your last chance to change your mind.”
“About what?” She knew very well what, but hoped acting unaware would stave off this moment.
“About marrying me.” This time, he didn’t trouble himself to make it sound tempting.
“Why?”
“If you do, we can forget all about this and go live in France. You can paint to your heart’s content and–”
“Paint? What do you mean?” So he knew! How? Monsieur would never have told him! She shook her head at her foolish thoughts. What did that matter now!
“You can drop the innocent act. I read your letter to mon oncle.”
How naive she’d been to think he wouldn’t look at private correspondence!
“You imagined I would come all the way out here to deliver it to him without reading it?” His jarring laugh sounded unhinged to her.
Her skin crawled and her fingers tightened on her gun.
“I was astonished to learn that the paintings mon oncle has been so carefully storing, were painted by a chit like you.”
She flinched when he shook her roughly.
“I can still sell them to help me settle in France and enjoy a nice lifestyle…” He was gloating now.
That was what he’d meant when he’d said it would be easier to find a Parisian artist to keep him in style! He planned on escaping to France... for good!
“I’m sure I can even convince your father to let me sell his paintings on the continent for him, given that my poor uncle has disappeared.”
Malice poured from of him now. How was it possible to look so angelic yet be so evil? Then something he’d said struck her. “But my paintings were all burned in the fire, weren’t they?” That was why he’d come running to tell her about the fire! He’d known they were hers.
“Were they?” He gave a sly smile. “So what do you say?”
She wanted to shout, how stupid do you think I am? How could he think she’d ever consider wedding him now? But she had been blind. It was no wonder he believed her stupid. Her finger slipped into the trigger slot. She’d wait a few seconds more, until she got to see Monsieur… or what was left of him. Was she again being stupid? But she dared not shoot now and alert his associates, before she knew if it was too late to rescue Monsieur or not.
“Well, since you put it like that, I might consider it.” She tried to inject a more positive note into it, though the very idea revolted her.
“Huh,” he grunted. “I thought not.” He jerked her almost off her feet. “You aren’t much of a liar. I can hear the distaste in your voice.”
Damn, damn, damn. She couldn’t even lie to save her life! Because that was what was in the balance here. Now she was certain of it.
He yanked her in front of him and pushed her to start down the stairs into the darkness. To her relief, it was not completely dark. Large cracks in what was left of the wall allowed enough light through so that she could see where she was stepping. The stairs were in terrible shape and she wanted to refuse to descend them, only he again manhandled her elbow. Her painting arm! He had it in a firm grip and was forcibly steering her down in front of him.
She couldn’t draw her gun on him, even if she wanted to, because he held her arm so tightly she was unable to move it.
Now that they were on their downward course, Victor appeared to have come to terms with whatever had been bothering him on the way here. A malevolent calmness oozed from him. How had she missed that about him? He’d seemed such an amiable, harmless sort. Now all she sensed from him was a depraved disregard for anyone who got in his way.
Each step increased her worry about what she was going to find at the bottom. Now that she knew he was responsible for Monsieur’s disappearance, she steeled herself for what she was about to see.
Was he bringing her to view his uncle’s dead corpse? He was evil enough, she knew that now. Did he intend to leave her locked in this dungeon with Monsieur’s dead, rotting body?
On the long journey here, she‘d been hoping he wasn’t taking her on a wild goose chase, hoping to coerce her into marriage or worse, violate her. She’d been confident she could prevent that with her weapons. Now, though, she understood his intentions were far deadlier.
She didn’t really want to shoot him. But she knew she could and it looked like she was going to have to do it. If she could shoot Reed, then she could certainly shoot Victor, especially if he had killed Monsieur.
They arrived at the bottom and she found herself facing a thick wooden door. He loosened his hold on her to reach around the corner for a large key that must have been hanging on a hook on the wall. Quickly she pulled her pistol out and hid it in the folds of her gown alongside her thigh. She was prepared to use it, but was bracing herself to run for her life after she’d shot him. Those brutes in the barn had a cruel, callous look to them. Before she acted, though, she needed to see if Monsieur was alive. If he was, she’d still run, but to get help to come back and rescue him. Her escaping would be their only chance.
He inserted the key in the lock and turned. It screeched with rust, echoing loudly against the stone walls.
A frisson of fear snaked through her at th
e eerie sound, imagining Monsieur stuck in this hellhole for days... weeks... on end.
Victor pulled the door open and, gripping her arm hard, ushered her in. She tried to hold back, poking her head in to see if anyone was there, but suddenly, he thrust her forward, pushing her hard on the back, and she went flying onto the floor. Next thing she knew, the door was creaking closed.
She’d never even got the chance to use her gun!
She leapt to her feet and rushed to the door. “Mr. Dubuc! Victor!” But all she heard was the pounding of footsteps disappearing upwards and a triumphant crow of laughter cascading down from above and then a loud slam.
The devil was gone!
She leaned against the door for a moment, stunned at the speed with which catastrophe had occurred. “You waited too long, you simple-minded fool!” Why had she thought he’d give her the time to see if…?
Monsieur!
Turning quickly, she gazed around the room. There! A small cot against the far wall. A body was huddled on it in a fetal position. It looked lifeless!
Oh my God! Please no. Monsieur!
She rushed across the room, heart racing with alarm. Almost afraid to look, she forced herself to crouch down and grab the wrist to feel for a pulse.
“Thank God!” She almost fell backwards, her relief was so great.
But there was no time to waste. The beat was faint and she had to get him… It was Monsieur, wasn’t it? She turned the head to see and almost cried at how his dear face had withered and thinned. “Monsieur! Monsieur Moreau!”
He moved and muttered.
That was encouraging. He hadn’t lapsed into complete oblivion.
She fetched her sketch bag from where it had fallen on the floor, and withdrew the small flask Foster had handed her as she left. “For Monsieur,” he’d said. “He might need it.”
How prophetic he’d been!
She removed the top, then reached behind Monsieur to lift his head up high enough to dribble a few drops of brandy into his mouth.
He choked and coughed up a little of it. Setting the flask aside, careful not to spill it, she held him with both arms and patted him gently on the back. Her heart ached at how little he weighed. His body was all angles now. The slight paunch he’d acquired with age was gone. He was mere skin and bones. “Oh, Monsieur. What has your nephew done to you?”
His head lolled weakly toward her.
He’d heard her! She reached for the flask and dribbled a little more of the restorative alcohol into his mouth. This time his lips closed on it. So she drizzled a little more. His mouth moved on the flask, searching for more. She leaned it further and one of his hands lifted and shakily tried to hold it against his mouth.
“Careful. You don’t want to drink it too fast.” She pulled it back and lay the man down gently. Putting the stopper back in the flask, she placed it at the bottom of the cot.
It was frigid in here! Monsieur was shivering so hard she feared he’d swallow his teeth from their unceasing chattering. She looked around and spotted a small fireplace with barely an ember left to light the scant wood and kindling sitting beside it. Monsieur had become too weak to care and those men hadn’t the decency to light a fire to keep the old man alive. He’d been here for several weeks! How strong he must be to have survived this cold for so long.
Her fingers fumbled as she tried to remove her pelisse too fast. Finally, she had it open and pulled it off to place it around his emaciated body. He groaned. She hoped in thankfulness and not in pain.
She knew better than to offer him food yet. Earlier, she’d noted several plates of congealed food sitting by the door, untouched, but they didn’t look at all appetizing. She rubbed his shoulders and back gently to get his blood moving and hoped it was also offering him a measure of warmth and comfort.
She could have used some of that herself.
While thankful Monsieur was not dead, she shuddered at the thought of what was to come. Would she live her last moments in this cell, with her dear teacher’s dead body decomposing beside her? For the first time, a feeling of hopelessness crept in. Her rescuers would never find this place! Even if her sketches brought them as far as the Abbey, they’d see the ruins and never imagine anyone could be beneath them.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Reed silently motioned to Mason. They dismounted and began leading their horses through the woods that flanked the ruins, rather than take the drive. He was thankful they’d made it here before nightfall. It should make finding Tally or, at least, finding a good vantage point to view the situation, much easier.
“While you secure the horses, I’ll go see if there’s anyone around.” Mason said as he took off into the trees.
Reed calculated the others would be more than a few hours behind them. He had no intention of waiting for them before acting. He was too worried about what could happen to Tally in the interval. Foster had recognized the urgency. Indeed, his last words to them had been to “fly like the hounds of hell!”
There was no doubting the butler’s devotion to Tally. Back at the Inn, while Mason was arranging for fresh horses, Foster had explained how she had come under his care.
“I promised her Great Aunt Ida I’d take care of her, and now she’s been kidnapped!”
“She’s a strong and resilient young lady. Look at how she shot me!” He kept his own fears well buried, while he tried to encourage her stalwart servant. It was good to hear Foster give his signature cackle.
Reed hoped he was right about her ability to save herself, because if anything happened to her, it was going to break the old man’s heart. He dared not think what it would do to his own!
Now he understood better how Foster and Tally’s bond had been forged. It was solidly built on trust and love. She certainly loved the old coot, and it appeared that his crotchety old heart melted for her. Like a grandfather’s for a beloved granddaughter.
A rustling of branches snapped him back to attention. Mason signaled that the way forward was clear and Reed forced his mind to focus on their present circumstances. He had to find her and quickly.
They moved quietly ahead and crouched behind the wild shrubbery near the trees. Any activity in this deserted part of Cranridge’s vast estate must be taking place in the old stone barn off to the left and at the back of the ruins that made up the Abbey now. It appeared abandoned, but a plume of smoke rose above the barn’s old chimney. They’d encountered numerous ‘do-not-trespass’ signs, as well as hedges and closures meant to keep interlopers out. It was certainly not a welcoming place and the innkeeper in the nearby village had warned them that the steward was very unfriendly and even threatened those who wandered there, with his rifle.
He had to give Dubuc credit for choosing the almost-perfect hiding spot to conduct his illicit undertakings.
Reed wasn’t prepared to wait much longer and was about to suggest they go have a closer look, when the barn door opened and a small man walked out, carrying some kind of open wooden box. The careful way he was holding it suggested he had something in it that he didn’t want to spill.
“I know, I know.” He yelled back. “Open the door and just slide the box in. Don’t go in!” He muttered to himself. “I got it. Don’t ya worry, I ain’t gonna touch her. Women are just a whole bunch of trouble.”
“The man may not be as dumb as he appears,” Reed couldn’t help quipping.
He couldn’t tell if the sound Mason made was appreciative or disapproving of his poorly timed wit.
They watched the squat, coarse-looking man head for the ruins. A city ruffian if ever there was one. Reed’s opinion was confirmed the next moment, when the thug jumped with fright, twisting his head around with fearful eyes, at the sudden, raucous call of a woodpecker.
He seemed to be headed straight for a heap of rocks beside part of the medieval abbey’s crumbling tower. Where the hell was he bringing what looked to be food? Reed’s unfinished question was soon answered. The man shoved his arm through a gap between a clump of bush
es and pushed. The creaking of a door that sounded like it hadn’t been used much in recent times, was almost shocking.
What the hell? He and Mason looked at each other, incredulous.
Then the man disappeared. They heard the echo of his footsteps clomping down stairs.
“I hope she’s not afraid of the dark,” Reed muttered quietly.
Mason nodded his agreement.
Reed forced himself to wait while the man made his delivery. He wanted to rush down there, beat the man to within an inch of his life, and carry Tally to freedom. But that would be foolish. They had no idea how many men were guarding the place. If they were feeding her, she wasn’t near death yet and patience would win the day.
The man emerged from the bush, pushed the door shut — no sign of him locking the door, that was good — and scuttled back to the barn. Reed was willing every furry animal known to these forests to come out and give the wretch apoplexy.
Mason had gone to have a look in the barn and reported four men, counting this one. Dubuc was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around. He might even be down there with Tally!
That was enough to get Reed on his feet and moving. But he knew it was folly to attract the attention of the guards, so he forced himself to wait another ten minutes until darkness blanketed the area. By then, they could hear the men playing cards and laughing boisterously. Alcohol was clearly involved.
“Let’s go.” He led the way to the place where they’d seen the little man go and he thrust his hand in to locate the door. That done, he pulled a small container from his pocket and squirted dobs of oil onto the hinges.
“I see you’ve done this before,” whispered Mason.
“It only took one squeaky door to ensure I always carry a little lubrication oil with me on such ventures.” He opened the door, slowly, lifting it up at the same time to prevent it from dragging on its sagging hinges. “I hope you’re watching in case they see us.”
An impatient sound indicated what the investigator thought of Reed’s questioning of his abilities.
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