by Deana James
She had made her first mistake, but she could not help her habit. She had no money to buy a suitable dress and no place to stay while it was being made. She advanced, her skirts and veil flowing around her, like the Mother Superior in full sail. From a large black bag, she pulled a leather-bound Bible and whipped out her first communication from between its leaves. She presented it to the secretary, who eyed it distastefully, no doubt believing she was presenting him with a plea for money.
As he read it, his face changed. Still he passed it back to her. "Mr. Barnstaple will not be in the office until two."
Vivian did not even flinch. She had not expected to get an appointment so easily. She turned the page and extracted a second note from her Bible.
"Mr. Rowling is in conference at the moment. I might be able to make an appointment for you at the first of next week."
Frustrated, but determined to remain calm, Vivian pulled out a third note.
"Miss Vivian Marleigh," the secretary read aloud. He eyed the habit skeptically. "Would that name mean something to him?"
She nodded firmly. Her pulse beat a tattoo. She would not leave this office until she had seen one of the two men. She would have preferred Barnstaple because she remembered him. But Rowling would do.
"If you'll come back later," the secretary continued, "I’ll take the note in to him when he's free."
She nodded. It was the best she could hope for, but she would not leave. Neither Rowling nor Barnstaple would walk through this office without her confronting them. She lowered herself onto the bench against the wall.
The secretary frowned heavily. "You're liable to have a very long wait," he told her. "Sometimes these conferences go on for hours." He paused. "And Mr. Barnstaple is frequently late."
Pointedly ignoring his suggestions, she arranged her skirts around her. For the better part of an hour, she sat on a slat bench that hurt her thin posterior more with each minute. She tried shifting to a more comfortable position, but each movement increased her discomfort.
She was aware that the secretary kept glancing up at her each time she stirred. His sly regard irritated her. He was waiting for her to give up.
Her intense discomfort fueled her resentment. What was she waiting for? Rowling would surely see her. She had been informed that the firm had represented her family for many years before her birth. Perhaps her own father had employed them.
She took a deep breath. Rising, she strode across the office and opened the inner door.
"Here! Wait! You can't go in there!" Too late, the secretary sprang to his feet to prevent her passage.
In a musty book-lined office, two men, one behind a desk, one in front of it, stared at her in amazement. The man behind the desk started to his feet. "What's the meaning of this? Clarence!"
"I couldn't stop her, sir," the secretary apologized, his voice quivering. "She's been sitting there quietly and then suddenly, she bolted across the office."
Vivian pulled another note from the Bible and offered it to Rowling. He looked at her, then opened the note. She watched his eyes as he read it. They changed from angry to puzzled to incredulous.
He laid the note down and stared at her. What he saw was a gaunt, anxious face, almost as white as the wimple that framed it. One blue-veined hand braced itself on his desk. Its fingers looked incredibly fragile. Every tendon created a ridge in the procelain white skin.
The solicitor turned to his client. "If you will excuse me for just a minute, Wyman, I’ll just see to the comfort of this lady."
Wyman had risen, too. He now bowed politely.
"If you'll come this way," Rowling said, leading her through still another inner door. "Clarence, fetch some tea and perhaps some scones from the bakery. My dear, you must be very tired after your journey."
In a matter of minutes, Vivian was seated in a comfortable leather chair, a pot of steaming tea in front of her. She lifted the pot and suddenly, her hand began to tremble. The tea sloshed onto the napkin that lined the tray, and into the saucer. She bit her Up at the mess.
Abruptly she set the teapot down. Helplessly, she stared at her shaking hands. Then, unable to control herself any longer, she began to sob.
Chapter 4
"Oh, Miss Marleigh, I didn't have the least idea that I was deserting you. Your cousin, Mr. Dawlish, told me that you didn't need me anymore. Paid me so handsomely, he did. How could I doubt him? He said you'd decided to stay in the abbey and take holy orders. And with you bein'-well-the way you are. How could I know?"
Frances Eads was bleating her excuses for the third time as she poured greenish black tea into a china cup. Admittedly, she had become less shrill, but still Vivian looked at her with a pained expression.
Frances chose at that moment to look around her appreciatively. "This is a real nice set of rooms. So pretty. And comfortable. Mr. Rowling's not one to pinch the penny for them that he likes."
Vivian, still clad in her nun's habit, looked around her as she was bid. She had to admit that in the forty-eight hours since she had forced her way into his office, Rowling had done much to make her comfortable. He had installed her in a fine hotel. He had found and engaged her former maid servant. He had ordered sumptuous meals to be served in her room and sent a seamstress in to measure her for new clothes. When she looked back, Frances passed her the tea. She sipped it, then drew back, grimacing at the taste.
Still he had not granted her the long desired interview. She looked again with dissatisfaction at the beautifully appointed suite. The damask draperies and Turkish carpets delighted her eyes as did the silk cushions on the chairs and the linen and silver on the tea table. Then she thought about the bare hard furniture in her apartments in the abbey. A shudder coursed through her.
Frances saw the movement. "Oh, are you cold, milady? Have a little more of that good hot tea, and then maybe you'll want to lie down for a nap?"
Vivian shook her head. Instead she added more milk in an effort to kill the taste. It was a fermented tea, not her favorite. As she stirred, the green-black color stained the milk. It made her faintly nauseated. She started to set the cup down.
"Oh, do drink it, milady," Frances begged. "It'll do you good. It's just the right temperature. It'll be such a shame to waste it."
Frowning again at the taste still not entirely disguised by the milk, Vivian drank it down.
Frances took the cup and saucer from her. "That's a good girl," she said in a peculiar singsong voice.
Vivian glanced at her sharply.
Frances smiled tenderly. "Will you have anything else, milady? These scones are ever so lovely-with raisins. Mr. Rowling said you was to have anything your heart desired."
Vivian took a deep breath. She reached for the pad and pencil.
Frances read the note and shook her head. "Send for him at this time in the evening, milady. Oh, I don't think that would be a good idea. He's probably gone home to his wife and family."
Vivian glared at the companion, who was beginning to irritate her more by the minute. Why had she ever engaged her?
Then she remembered. She had not engaged her. Sebastian Dawlish had. On the excuse that Vivian needed someone younger and more her own age, he had pensioned off her old governess. Frances Eads had appeared the next day and had taken over. Thereafter, Vivian had hardly left her apartments by herself.
A cold sweat broke out on her palms. She swallowed hard against a rising nausea. For the first time, she suspected the magnitude of her danger. Had she come to London thinking to win justice only to put herself into the lion's mouth?
Was everyone against her? Why had Piers Larne been so eager to help her? Had Frances been conveniently "found" because Rowling had known just where to look? Why was Rowling refusing her an interview?
Forty-eight hours was a long time for a lawyer not to have any free time for one of his clients, especially one whose situation was so grave. In such a long time a message could reach Sebastian Dawlish and summon him to London.
She pushed h
erself to her feet. Horrified, she realized that her head was swimming. She tried without success to focus her eyes. The tea! The damned tea that Frances had insisted that she drink.
"Ready for bed, milady." Frances was by her side in an instant, firmly taking hold of her arm.
Vivian shook her head vainly. Concentrate, she told herself. Concentrate! Keep your head. Fight the drug. She straightened, pushing at Frances. The effort toppled her sideways making her stagger.
Frances threw an arm around Vivian's waist and pulled Vivian's other arm across her shoulder, clamping the wrist tightly. "Now, milady, let's get you lying down, so you won't hurt yourself. You're just feeling sleepy right now. And that's as you should. You'll have a nice sleep. But when you wake up, you'll be just fine. No headache nor anything. You’ll be ever so much happier. You won't have any worries."
Stupid woman. Stupid. Stupid. She actually believes she's helping me. Vivian clawed with numbed fingers at the woman's thick wrist.
Frances dragged her resisting charge into the bedroom. Vivian could not keep her balance when Frances tipped her over onto the bed. "Now you just let me lift your feet up and make you comfortable. No need even to undress. Believe me, milady, it's for the best. You'll be—"
Vivian could not understand any more. Could not feel Frances's hands lifting her by the ankles. Her tongue felt too heavy and thick to protest. Her eyes closed of their own volition. She could not fight the whirling, resonating blackness that dragged her down.
************************************
"—taking her to Dr. Moorstead. He’ll certify her with no problems." Rowling grated. "But I don't like this, Dawlish. Not above half. What if Barnstaple finds out she's not at the abbey anymore? He won't stand for it."
"Old fool. He's sharing in all this without getting his fingers dirty."
"He won't stand for it," Rowling repeated.
"Silly bitch." This from Frances. "Helpless as a baby. Putting her somewheres so she can be taken care of proper's the best thing for her."
"How easily you salve your conscience, Miss Eads." Rowling's voice dripped sarcasm.
The woman uttered a disgusted grunt. "Just pay me my money and let me go. I've wasted enough of my time on the quality and their doings."
Paper rustled. Coins clinked. A door closed with a sharp slam.
Vivian jumped. Or at least she thought she jumped. Pain lanced through her head. Her nerves jumped. Her muscles might have twitched.
"Will she keep her mouth shut?"
"Oh, yes, Rowling. No question about Frances's loyalty. It's cast in stone-prison stone if she—”
Vivian could no longer understand their words. Their voices faded into nothingness.
************************************
"Who are you? You're not the one. Here, you can't come in here?" The cry of outrage changed to one of pain.
Vivian barely managed to open her eyes. The room seemed to be floating in dark gray mist. The bed on which she lay swayed gently back and forth.
"Settle down, fancy man. I've come to pick up a bird."
"You get the hell out of here. You're not—”
The thwack of a rod striking flesh cut off the protest followed by the thud of a falling body.
Vivian pushed herself up on her elbow. Desperately, she bit down on her lip. The pain helped her focus on the dark silhouette in wide-skirted coat and tricorne.
"Easy, lady-bird. Don't make this hard."
Fear sent a surge through her muscles. She managed to roll across the bed and stagger to her feet on the opposite side.
"Here now, settle down." He caught her by the shoulder.
She swung wildly away. Her arm caught the side of his head, but he did not let go. Instead, as she sprawled forward, he was left with her veil hanging from his hand. She fell to her knees and tried to crawl away from him.
He cursed her mildly as he tossed the garment onto the bed and planted his boots on the skirt of her habit.
Her hands slipped out from under her and she fell on her side.
He bent and caught her by the wrists. Lifting her up by them, he spun her around and twisted them behind her back. "Some gels like it the hard way," he mused coarsely as he caught her wrists together and wrapped a leather strap round twice and buckled it.
The gesture was unnecessary. By the time he hoisted her to his shoulder, the drug had closed in again and she was unconscious.
************************************
The whistling wind carried snow mixed with rain to pelt against the windows of the coach. As Vivian struggled up out of the nightmare, she weakly flexed her numbed hands. No nightmare this. The stiff strap that bound her wrists behind her was terribly, painfully real. She was in a closed coach galloping at breakneck speed through the night. Mindless terror sank its claws deep into her.
The thunder of the horses' hooves and the rumble of the coach merged with the thunder of the winter storm. Lightning flashed, sliding in from the tiny slits between the leather curtains and the glass windows. Where was she going in such a storm?
She could barely remember a fight between two men. Dawlish certainly. And someone else. And who had won? She twisted her hands behind her, feeling the hard leather weal her wrists. Who held her captive now? She lay in the floor between the leather seats, her cheek scratched by straw and grit. Struggling around to her hip, she managed to sit up.
Her hair fell in a tangled snarl over her shoulder. Her veil. She had lost her veil. Its absence bothered her disproportionately. Without the veil she felt vulnerable. She became just another woman in a black wool dress. A helpless woman, alone, without support. At that moment the coach swung wide on a curve. Its speed slung her against the door. Her temple struck the hard wood with a punishing thwack.
The next time she awoke, she was nauseated. Her stomach rolled and heaved and gave up its contents into the dirty straw. Disgusted but a little stronger for being rid of the last of the drug, she drew up her legs and waited for her chance.
In a few minutes the coach started up a hill. Its slower pace plus the angle of the interior enabled her to push herself up onto the seat. Though the penetrating cold tormented her, her head was beginning to clear. Somehow she knew she was not with Dawlish. She remembered his voice protesting. She remembered his cry of pain. But who? Who had her?
Convulsive chills racked her as vicious draughts whirled up through the floorboards under the hem of her habit. Frances-the traitorous wretch-had left her dressed but had thoughtfully removed her shoes. Uselessly, she rubbed one stockinged foot against the other. Her feet and ankles were like ice as were her poor bare hands.
Suddenly, she became aware that the coach was slowing. Hastily, she squeezed herself against its padded side and tried to see behind the curtain.
The storm seemed to have moved off, or perhaps they had outdistanced it. She heard the noises of other horses and coaches, the sounds of men's voices calling instructions, cursing, objecting. They had halted to change teams. She felt the coach sway as her driver left the box.
Desperately, she slid off the seat onto the floor. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she drove her stocking feet with all her might against the door. If she could just break it open, or at least attract the attention of some passerby to her plight, she might cause some delay. But no one came to the door. In the hurly-burly of a busy inn yard, her few feeble thumps went unnoticed.
Next, she tried to hook her toes under the handle of the door. With teeth sunk into her lower lip and her hands and arms crushed beneath her, she struggled until the handle actually came down, the mechanism clicked. She pushed with all her strength against the door. It would not move.
Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. Her abductor had undoubtedly locked the coach from the outside. Anger sparked through her tears. Damn him! She would get out of here. She pushed herself to her feet, bent over in the coach and caught the edge of the leather curtain with her hands.
Just at that minute she felt the c
oach sway. He was climbing onto the box.
No.
But the coachman called to the leaders. The whip whistled and snapped. The coach lurched forward. The curtain ripped away in her hands as she was thrown off her feet. Her face smashed against the leather seat; her knees cracked against the floorboard. Tumbling helplessly, she ended up in a heap on the dirty floor.
The coach gathered speed, the coachman calling to the fresh team in a hoarse voice. She was too exhausted to pull herself back onto the seat. A cold, miserable figure, she huddled in the filthy, musty straw.
Morning came without sun. Merely a grim gray sky, scarcely less dark than the night. She could see it through the window where she had torn the curtain away, but she had neither strength nor spirit anymore.
Her tired brain refused to function. Limply, she lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest for warmth. Occasionally a faint twinge reminded her of her numbed hands. Her belly had long since ceased to cramp with hunger. Whenever her eyes flickered open at some particularly hard bump, she focused dully on the gray rectangle of the sky.
At last it began to blacken again. The horses seemed to be slowing. With a lurch forward and a sway to either side, the coach drew to a halt. It tilted as the driver dismounted from the box. His boots echoed against stone as he moved away. Vivian heard the sound of voices as light shone through the window. She tried to lift her head, but she was too ill.