Unexpected Danger

by Lisa E. Pugh

  With an old handkerchief, she lifted the letter off the floor. She placed it between two sheets of blotting paper and slipped those into the pages of a cheap romance novel she’d bought on a whim at the village post office.

  She slid the whole thing into her handbag. She would need it if anything happened. It was proof of her persecution, if nothing else. However, the accompanying bundle met its fate in the fireplace.

  She cleansed her floor of every spot of blood. Then she bleached the boards and washed them all over again. After she dried the wood, she burned the cleaning rags.

  She still did not feel safe. She prowled the house checking and rechecking all points of entrance. She could not sit down for more than two minutes at a time. She could not eat or read. It maddened her to think that a simple letter could terrify her so, but her nerves would not unwind.

  When she forced herself to lie down in her bed, she arrayed porcelain vases along her upper-story bedroom window. She shifted a desk in front of the locked inner door. In the end, she went to bed and placed a carving knife within easy reach.

  Even with all her precautions, her body and mind refused to relax. She felt a malevolent gaze boring into her refuge. Relentless and diabolical, it searched for her as if hunting prey.

  Her nerves were strung to breaking point throughout the night. She tossed and turned. Her eyes flew open at the slightest creak or squeak.

  It was early morning before she finally drifted off to sleep, too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

  The day dawned with almost mocking brightness and sunshine. Birds flew about and sang happily at the top of their lungs. Bees hummed. White clouds drifted lazily across the sky. The whole world seemed cheerful and carefree.

  Exhausted and irritated, Margaret pulled herself out of bed. She did not slept well when she finally did sleep. Nightmares plagued her sleeping mind with images of violence by a shadowy assailant. He chased her down dark streets and pursued her through narrow alleys. She felt she had barely shut her eyes when morning light draped across her bed.

  Getting up groggily, she walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. The shock brought all her faculties into sharp focus. The memory of the message returned as well. Shuddering, she ran to the commode to retch again.

  When the attack was over, she coughed and washed her mouth at the sink. She downed a few glasses of water as well. Stretching her arms and shoulders to loosen her stiff muscles, she returned to her room to dress.

  Today was supposed to be an exciting and delightful occasion. The entire day was open, so she and Christopher could spend as little or as much time together as they wished.

  Perhaps she should give the letter to the police before she left. That would let them know of the issue, and they could work on it while she was away. Lara should be told also. Always good to have people aware of what was happening.

  She wouldn't use the telephone. The situation could not be fodder for gossip. If nothing else, it would alert her secret persecutor, and he or she would be ready for whatever followed. Margaret would go in person to explain this horrific mess and show them the evidence.

  Christopher expected her to come at eleven. She should have time to talk to Lara and the local police before leaving for the Tobias mansion. She simply had to time it correctly.

  Chapter 15

  The fates were conspiring against her. That was the only explanation. Lara was helping her parents at the school. Inspector Vincent Matthews was away on business at a distant farm. Only one policeman was left in charge of the station, so he could not leave his post to find his superior. As a result, none of her goals were met.

  She was forced to find another plan. Margaret assumed she would not be home until late afternoon. Therefore, she left a note at Lara’s house saying it was extremely important that the young woman contact her that evening.

  At the police station, the young constable offered to take a message. Maggie felt uncomfortable explaining herself to him, an earnest young man named Ian Daniels. Blond, tall and thin, the constable took his duty very seriously, but he was inexperienced.

  He had a reputation for good manners and diligence. She knew he would never spread malicious rumors. However, a story like she would tell might be too exciting not to discuss with others. She simply said that the matter was a sensitive one, and she would call on the Inspector later that afternoon. There was something serious to discuss with him.

  She loitered at the station house as long as she dared. When the time came for her to leave for Christopher's manor, the commanding officer had not returned. She could not wait any longer. Thanking Daniels for his courtesy, she headed for the estate with a heavy sigh.

  The drive to the manor house was a nightmare. She had trouble staying awake at the wheel. Again and again, she had to force her concentration back onto the road.

  Her mind frequently wandered to the horrible images of the letter. The fantasies would not leave her alone. Blackness flooded her vision and receded like ocean waves. More than once, her eyes snapped into focus to find her car drifting toward a ditch.

  When she finally pulled the car to a stop outside the house, she set the brakes and took a deep cleansing breath. The estate was around her, miles of land between her and the outside world. She was safe at last. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the stress slide from her body.

  Darkness settled over her, and she lost track of time. She must have dozed. When she opened her eyes, Mrs. Niles stood next to the car looking at her with a worried expression.

  Margaret sat up quickly, opened her door, and climbed out, her face flaming red. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Niles. I didn’t mean to drowse in my car. I had a bit of a difficult night.”

  “Indeed, Miss Taylor. There’s nothing to apologize for. I’m sure his lordship would prefer you to sleep on his front doorstep rather than at the wheel while driving.”

  The older woman paused. “If you’ll pardon the liberty, miss, you do look a sight. Would you like a cup of tea before you join Lord Yawron?”

  “A cup of tea sounds lovely, Mrs. Niles. Thank you.” They walked to the kitchen together.

  As she poured the tea, Mrs. Niles watched the young woman with concern. Miss Taylor had obviously not slept well. The circles under her eyes were too dark for mere makeup to conceal. Her movements were slow, halting, and uncoordinated. She fumbled with her cup, splashing a little. In short, she seemed completely exhausted.

  There was definitely something else bothering her, something more than a poor night’s sleep. There was a haunted look in her eyes. Disturbing thoughts must be on her mind.

  Mrs. Niles tried to find out what was troubling this young lady, but, despite her best subtle probing, the housekeeper could not discover the cause of Miss Taylor’s unease. The young woman was intelligent and cagey. What’s more, she wanted desperately to forget the problem, whatever it was. From her failure so far, the goal did not seem possible. Yet she seemed determined to try.

  After a delicious and invigorating cup of tea, Margaret stood and, thanking Mrs. Niles, left the kitchen. She was late, and she knew Christopher would wonder what had delayed her. She hoped he would not think she had changed her mind about coming.

  Meeting a young footman on the stairs, she inquired about Lord Yawron’s whereabouts. The servant directed her to the drawing room. She thanked him and hurried on to the main floor.

  She reached the room and knocked. He called for her to enter. Softly, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  The French doors stood wide open, letting in sunlight and fresh air. Every bit of wood gleamed. All the silver and gold decorations glistened. Overall, the room was bright, cheerful, and pleasant.

  The earl paced back and forth across the floor, seemingly unaware of the salubrious atmosphere. His carriage was tense. He rubbed his hands together nervously. Everything about him spoke of irritation and restlessness.

  He stopped before the fireplace and stared at the banked embers for a long moment. Slappi
ng his hand on the mantelpiece in frustration, he turned around. He saw her then, and his whole posture changed.

  “Maggie!”

  He stepped toward her. Relief radiated in every line of his body, and there was delight in his every step. She smiled. That he was so happy to see her was more than enough recompense for the hellish drive.

  “Good morning, Christopher.”

  He stopped suddenly. “Good Lord, Maggie, are you all right?”

  “Yes, Christopher. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

  He put forth a hand. “Come, sit down here. I’ll get you some sherry.”

  “I’m fine, Christopher, really.” Despite her protests, she accepted a place on the settee.

  “Well pardon my use of the idiom, but quite honestly, my dear, you look like death only slightly heated.” He handed her a glass.

  She sipped the red-amber liquid slowly and then admitted, “I feel like it too. I’m so tired, and my head hurts.”

  He sat beside her. “You didn’t have to come today. I’d have understood if you’d sent your regrets.”

  “I will survive this, Christopher,” she chided fondly. “I wanted to see you again, and I wasn’t going to let anything…” or anyone, she thought to herself, “dissuade me.”

  “Oh, Maggie,” the earl replied, grasping her hand. “Thank you. I really am most grateful.”

  “I'll admit that the drive here was an adventure. I had trouble focusing on the road.”

  He started, his carriage stiffening. A shiver of horror skittered down his spine. More solemnly, he remarked, “Then I’m very glad you got here in one piece. And I insist you rest before you get back into your automobile.”

  “And I shall take you up on that offer. I certainly don’t want to run that gauntlet again.” She rubbed her face and pressed her eyes with her fingers.

  “Would you like to rest now? You could use a room upstairs. Or I could have Brenlaw bring some pillows downstairs, and you can take your repose here.”

  She scowled in frustration. “I came here to spend time with you, not to bed down in one of your guestrooms.”

  “Yes, but what company would you be if you're too exhausted to keep your eyes open?” he countered gently.

  Margaret smiled. “I didn’t think about that. I’m very worn out. I’ll lie down for a bit, but I'll try to stay awake. I will only take my rudeness so far.”

  “Awake or asleep, I’m just delighted you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Margaret watched as Christopher tugged the bell-pull. Brenlaw appeared a moment later, crisply dressed and attentive. Even he stopped and stared at Margaret for a split second before his professional mask slipped back into place. That, more than anything, told her just how shocking she must look.

  “Brenlaw, I need some pillows and a duvet for Miss Taylor. She experienced a rough drive here and needs some reclining time.”

  “Very well, sir.” The servant left with a bow.

  Maggie watched the older man leave and asked dryly, “Do you think he may wonder whether I’ll be under the eiderdown alone?”

  “I don’t think so. The sofa isn't broad enough for two.”

  “You’ve tried it then, have you, Christopher?” she asked with a sly grin.

  The earl shifted, cleared his throat, and did not answer. Color flooded every bit of exposed skin. Margaret laughed, “I always thought it was an expression, but you really can blush down to your fingertips.”

  “Maggie!” He fidgeted, his tone pleading. “For my comfort’s sake, please…”

  She raised her hand. “Very well. I retract the question.”

  “I'm very grateful,” he replied with obvious relief.

  Brenlaw came in with two footmen. The young men’s arms were full of bedclothes. “Where would you like these, my lord?” Brenlaw asked.

  “Just put them on the table there, and then you may go.”

  “Very well, my lord.” He signaled to the other servants who obeyed instantly. Then they all withdrew.

  Margaret moved to rise from the couch. However, his lordship raised his hand, indicating she should stay where she was. His manner was polite but firm.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll attend to the blanket and pillows.”

  “Very well,” she agreed, flushing slightly. Just how frail did she look?

  He arranged the cushions at one end of the settee. When she laid down on them, he spread out the duvet. He even tucked the edges around her. Then with a flip of his jacket’s coat-tails, he sat in a nearby armchair.

  After a slight pause, she remarked, “I feel like I’ve been put to bed by a parent. This is a rather awkward position to hold any sort of conversation.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not your father, but I do realize what you mean. Perhaps we could do something else.” He thought a moment. “Do you like music, Miss Taylor?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied with equally jesting formality. “Why?”

  “One doesn’t wish to brag, but I was once credited with quite an acceptable voice. It is one of the few social talents I have which the accident didn't mar and time hasn't diminished. Would you be interested in a song, perhaps? I won't be insulted if you say no.”

  “Of course, I’d love to hear you sing. It’s a gift few men possess, and even fewer admit to having.”

  He stood and thought for a moment. “I may need your help. The only song I can think of that is even slightly appropriate has a call-and-response element to it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t sing. I do several things well, but that’s not one of them.”

  “It's just one line. Whenever I sing ‘I’ve got a song to sing, O,’ you reply ‘sing me your song, O.’ The second time, however, it changes to 'What is your song, O?' After that, it goes back to the original line.” He demonstrated the lines in a beautiful baritone.

  “That, I should be able to do, but I must sit up.” As she raised herself up against the arm of the sofa, he adjusted the pillows to support her back. Then he took a quick sip of water.

  He started to hum to indicate the tune. The song was vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn't identify it. She seemed to remember hearing it on the old phonograph her father once owned. The tinny sound of the record, however, paled in comparison to the piece sung live by a well-trained voice.

  “I have a song to sing, O!” He began.

  “Sing me your song, O!” Her voice sounded like a weak croak next to his, but she straightened her shoulders, determined to see it through.

  He smiled. “It is sung to the moon

  By a love-lorn loon,

  Who fled from the mocking throng, O!

  It’s a song of a merryman moping mum,

  Whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum,

  Who sipped no sup and who craved no crumb,

  As he sighed for the love of a lady…”

  Mr. Brenlaw and Mrs, Niles walked down the corridor discussing manor business. Suddenly, a noise caught Brenlaw’s attention. He turned his head to the source, the drawing room. He stopped and pivoted toward the sound.

  The housekeeper noticed his alert expression. “What is it, Mr. Brenlaw?”

  “Do you hear that?”

  She paused. “Yes. What is it?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  Stepping close to the door, he tilted his head to listen. His eyes widened when he recognized the sound. He hadn’t heard it in over a decade.

  He smiled. Swiftly beckoning, he called Mrs. Niles to him. Together, they listened.

  In a robust and well-trained baritone, their master sang, “I have a song to sing, O!”

  Miss Taylor, with more gusto than skill, replied, “What is your song, O?”

  Suddenly, as clear and ringing as a church bell, Lord Christopher Tobias laughed. It was free and delighted. Not a drop of sarcasm or cynicism laced the sound. He nearly botched the next line because he was laughing so hard.

  Mrs. Niles turned to Br
enlaw with tears in her eyes and a smile lighting her face. From the dampness blurring his vision, he was obviously in a similar state. Neither of them had heard such simple joy from their master in a very long time.

  Putting his finger to his lips, Brenlaw signaled that they should be on their way. He advised in a whisper, “We should let them have their privacy.”

  As they turned away, Mrs. Niles remarked, “I knew she was good for him.”

  As they came to the end of the song, he sang:

  “Hey-di! Hey-di!

  Misery me, lack-a-day-dee!

  His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more,

  For he lived in the love of a lady!”

  Echoing the last version of the chorus again, he ended the song holding a pitch-perfect note.

  She applauded, laughing. “That was marvelous! You have a truly beautiful voice.”

  “Thank you, Maggie.” He bowed. “Not too bad for an impromptu performance. I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I did! It was exciting, fun, and different.”

  He sat down in his armchair, brushed at his coat, straightened his cuffs with a flourish, and sighed as if slightly winded. “Different?” he asked idly.

  “Well, music isn’t usually that tame anymore. And Gilbert and Sullivan aren’t exactly en vogue.”

  “How old you make me feel! When I was growing up, they were still quite well received, if not a la mode. Elgar was more the fashion, but none of his songs fit the occasion.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”

  He shrugged. “It’s not surprising, I suppose, when one loses touch with popular culture in 1913.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her face. “I'm so tired! I’ve never had so many horrible dreams in one night.”