Isabella gasped. “But why? What can they hope to do there?”
“Gain knowledge of what goes on in that place — knowledge which your sister hopes may make you turn from Charles in loathing and disgust. Believe me, if she should succeed in entering the Abbey, she will certainly find sufficient there for her purpose.”
“Dear God!” exclaimed Isabella faintly. “Do you mean —?”
“That it is a stronghold of depravity and debauchery, and no fitting place for a young girl.”
“Then we must go at once!” cried Isabella, distracted. “Why do we linger here, when already Mandy may be in the midst of dear knows what terrors? Take me to this place, I beg of you!”
His face was devoid of expression as he answered her.
“My carriage is waiting below; when you say the word we may go at once.”
Afterwards, Isabella had no very clear memory of her journey in pursuit of Amanda. A pulse in her head seemed to echo the beat of the horses’ hoofs on the roads. The streets and buildings, coaches and sedan chairs were left behind: in their place appeared trees and hedgerows, the country taverns, the toilers in the fields. Gradually the fierce June day waned, giving way to an opalescent twilight which threw into relief dark shapes of foliage against the skyline. The coach rolled on, stopping only to change horses; and in all that time she had not moved, and scarce spoken a word.
The silence was broken at length by a low rumble of distant thunder.
“I feared we should have a storm,” muttered Roger Thurlston, mopping his brow. “No matter, we have not far to go now.”
Isabella said nothing, but shrank into her corner every time that a flash of lightning lit the sky. Country-bred as she was, she had yet a strong dislike of storms. This one was slowly gathering in intensity: the rain was long in coming, but finally burst against the sides of the coach in a metallic tattoo.
Presently, far along the road, a light winked. The coach began to slacken pace.
“Is this the place?” asked Isabella, starting to life as the vehicle stopped.
“As near as we may get for the moment,” answered Roger Thurlston, and threw his traveling cloak about her shoulders and head. “Come, my dear, we must run for it if we are not to be drenched.”
She noticed the familiarity with a vague resentment, but was too preoccupied to take him up on it. He helped her from the carriage, and putting his arm about her, broke into a run. A vivid flash of lightning illumined the building for which they were making. It was a round toll house, built of stone and with a thatched roof.
The rain lashed about them as they stood by the door, while Mr. Thurlston produced a key. He unlocked the door, and urged Isabella gently inside. Half dazed, she removed his cloak from her shoulders, and looked about her. They stood in a small room, sparsely furnished with a deal table and chairs, and an old wooden settle which stood over by the fireplace. On either side of the small chimneypiece were shelves, on which stood cooking utensils, plates and mugs. The stone floor had no other covering than a layer of clean straw.
A lantern was set in the small, uncurtained window. Roger Thurlston removed this to the table, and closed the wooden shutters which were set at each side of the window. As he did so, Isabella noticed that the carriage was moving away from the front of the toll house. The sight shook her out of her apathy.
“Where is the driver taking the coach?” she asked in surprise. “Are we not going to this place that you spoke of — this Abbey? What of my sister — we must go to her at once.”
For answer Mr. Thurlston moved over to the door, and turned the key in the lock. This done, he deposited the key in a pocket. Isabella watched him in startled surprise.
“We are going nowhere, my dear, for the present,” he replied coolly. “As for your sister —” he shrugged — “she must do the best she can.”
“What do you mean?” cried Isabella in alarm.
“Sit down, my dear.”
He indicated the settle, and tried to draw her towards it. She shook him off angrily, though panic was in her heart. He went and sat down, leaving her standing in the middle of the floor.
“My meaning should be plain,” he said calmly. “I made you an honourable offer of my heart and hand: I was willing to be patient for a while, if you would promise to be mine. You gave me no hope. Wed you I must, so this —” he shrugged again — “was the only way.”
“Are you mad?”
She tried to keep her voice from shaking, but only partially succeeded.
“Never more sane, I assure you. Come and sit here beside me, and I will endeavour to teach you to love me, after all.”
“How dare you!” she stormed, lashing herself into a fury in order to hide the terror that now assailed her. “Let me out of here at once!”
He laughed softly, and shook his head. “Oh, no; not now. Tomorrow, if you wish — but you will not. You will be only too glad, then, to accompany me to a reverend of whom I know, who will wed us without asking any questions. He would murder his own mother, that one, for a fee!”
“Tomorrow?” gasped Isabella, turning pale as the significance of this word dawned upon her reeling senses.
Again he nodded. “Tonight you stay here with me,” he said softly. “I fear I cannot offer you luxury, but we shall be snug enough together.”
She stood stock still with horror for a while. Outside the storm was abating, but she noticed nothing.
“You can’t do this,” she stammered, through bloodless lips. “Papa —”
“How is he to know?” he asked easily. “Your sister is not at home to give the alarm, remember. In any event, by the time help reached you it would be too late.”
She threw herself on her knees beside him. “Mr. Thurlston!” she begged, with tears in her eyes. “You can’t do this to me — if you pretend to have any feeling for me at all — if you have any claim to the name of gentleman —”
“What use are my claims to that title without money to back them up?” he asked bitterly.
“So that is it!” said Isabella, starting to her feet, and fixing him with a look of withering contempt. “Your avowal of love was a falsehood. All this is to force me to wed you so that you may enjoy my fortune.”
“Precisely,” he said, coldly. “But I see no reason for you to be in such a heat on that account. Was it any more noble that your parents would have sold you for the sake of Charles’s title, and position in the world? Were you any more virtuous than I when you agreed to marry a man you could not love?”
She hung her head. “No,” she whispered. “No, I was not. Mayhap I deserve some punishment for that. But not this!” she cried vehemently. “Not to be tied for life to a man such as you! ’Pon rep, they give Mr. Barsett a bad name, but he is as an angel beside you. At least he is no hypocrite!”
He rose, and came menacingly towards her. Far away, a last faint roll of thunder sounded.
“We have talked enough,” he said, fixing his eyes upon her. “The time has come for action.”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” cried Isabella defiantly.
Suddenly she was quite calm. She knew that she meant to fight him to the last ounce of her strength. Desperately she prayed for release.
He continued to advance upon her, and she moved away, putting the table between them. He laughed softly, and made as if to move round it.
With the strength of desperation, she put both hands under the table, heaved, and succeeded in overturning it in his path. The lamp which stood upon it went crashing to the floor, exuding a gush of oil. A tongue of flame licked hungrily along the stream of dark liquid; in a moment the nearby straw was blazing merrily.
“Good God!” he cried, alarmed as he saw the fire rapidly spreading to other parts of the floor, “you hell-spawn, you!”
He began stamping his feet upon the crackling straw in the vain hope of extinguishing the blaze. He soon realised that this was not to succeed, however; the dry straw made perfect kindling, and already the whole floor was alight, while
tongues of flame crept round the legs of the table and chairs. If something was not done quickly the whole room would be ablaze.
He looked wildly about him: Isabella was for the moment too stunned by the unexpected result of her action to move. His eye chanced upon his wet travelling cloak, slung over one of the chairs. With an exclamation of satisfaction he seized it, and began a frantic attempt to beat out the flames by holding it in both hands, and wielding it about him. He began to gain a little ground, but as fast as he extinguished the fire in one part of the room it gained a hold in another. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the settle by the fireplace had caught alight.
He moved over to that part of the room, and raised his cloak to deal with this new menace. A wild flourish of the garment caught at a large stone ewer which stood upon one of the shelves. It wobbled uncertainly for a second, then plunged into space, landing upon Roger Thurlston’s head. From thence, it rolled to the floor without sustaining a single crack: but Roger Thurlston dropped in a heap, senseless.
Isabella let out a frightened exclamation, and, seizing his cloak, tried to continue his work. But the room was now a mass of quickly starting flames, and one person unaided could not hope to cope with it. She beat about her desperately, panting and afraid.
She paused, breathless, for a moment, and all at once noticed that the hem of her gown was alight. With a little cry of fear, she stooped to beat out the flames with her hands, dropping the cloak in order to do so. She succeeded in extinguishing the flame, and leapt wildly towards the door. She must escape quickly, before it was too late. There was no more to be done to save the building from total extinction.
She tugged desperately at the handle, before recollecting that the door was locked. The key! She must have the key! But where had he put it?
Sobbing now, she ran to Roger Thurlston’s side. He lay where he had fallen in a crumpled heap, the flames licking perilously about him. She raised her skirts about her waist, and tied them, as she had been wont to do in the far-off days when she had climbed the apple trees with Amanda and John in the orchard at home. Swiftly she bent over him, and began her search.
She turned out his pockets ruthlessly, flinging down the unwanted articles which she unearthed from them. At last, her fingers closed over something metallic in a waistcoat pocket: with a thankful sob she dragged forth the key.
She was beside the door in an instant. Her trembling fingers made several fumbling attempts before finally she succeeded in turning the key in the lock. With a wild exclamation she flung wide the door, and ran into the road.
From behind her rose an angry sound, as of a giant sigh. She turned to look. The sudden draught of air admitted by the open door had added fury to the fire. The toll house was now a blazing inferno.
She turned and ran, her skirts dropping once more about her ankles. She neither knew nor cared where she went; she was unconscious even of movement. Some deep instinct carried her on, away from the dangers of the toll house.
She fled over a little wooden bridge which spanned the nearby river, and came to the coach road, gleaming white in the moonlight. The rain had stopped, and the night was set fair, but she did not notice. Along the road she stumbled, unseeing, unthinking, her mind a whirl of horror.
The distant sound of horses’ hoofs recalled her a little to herself. She gazed anxiously ahead of her. Far down the wet road the winking lights of a coach were drawing even nearer. She paused in her flight, her bosom heaving, her breath laboured.
As the vehicle drew nearer, she could hear that its horses were at the gallop. Dimly, she realised that she must stop these travellers, and ask their help. She stood still in the path of the oncoming vehicle, like one turned to stone.
The coach thundered onwards. Nearer it drew, and even nearer, and still Isabella did not move, or call out. Now she could see the outline of the horses: they were almost on top of her.
Suddenly the coachman saw the immobile figure standing in his path. With a fierce oath, he reined in his horses violently.
A head popped out of the window as the vehicle drew to a sudden halt.
“What’s amiss, Smith?” asked an impatient voice. “Why the delay?”
“There’s a pesky female in the road, y’r honour, and she don’t move out o’ the way,” replied the man. “Seems women are takin’ to the High Toby nowadays!”
There was a startled exclamation, and the door of the coach was opened. Isabella, coming suddenly to life, ran towards it. She opened her lips to appeal for help.
Before she could utter a word, someone had leapt from the coach with a bound, and was taking her arm, to turn her face towards the light.
“Bella!” cried John Webster’s voice, in accents of amazement and love. “Oh, Bella, my dear, what on earth are you doing here?”
For answer, she fell into his arms, sobbing.
He began to draw her into the coach tenderly, and Charles Barsett came forward to help; but all at once she shook them off, and gasped, “Mr. Thurlston! You must save him!”
“Roger?” asked Charles Barsett quickly. “Save him from what? Where is he?”
“The toll house!” panted Isabella, pointing down the road. “Over there — in flames — he is unconscious — I —”
She collapsed on to the seat of the coach, spent for the moment. John settled her as comfortably as he could in the corner, then joined Charles Barsett, who was standing in the road, peering anxiously in the direction she had indicated. The toll house was now a beacon in the night sky.
“Good God!”
Charles Barsett broke into a run.
“Look to this lady, Smith,” ordered John tersely, and followed him.
Isabella leaned back wearily in the corner of the carriage.
“Be you all right, ma’am?” asked Smith. “Mebbe you’d like a nip o’ something — there’s a flask o’ cordial in the carriage —”
“No, I thank you. I need nothing but rest.”
She closed her eyes as she spoke.
Pray heaven she don’t go after faintin’, thought the man uncomfortably. That would be a fine kettle o’ fish, an’ no mistake!
But Isabella was no longer in danger of a swoon. She felt curiously drained of emotion, and almost at peace, after living through what seemed to be the feelings of a lifetime. John was near — she was in his care — nothing now could harm her ever again…
It was not above a hundred yards to the toll house, but it seemed a very long time before at last she saw the two men returning. They bore a body between them. Isabella knew a sudden stab of returned fear. Was he — would he be — dead? She had never looked on death before, and scoundrel though he was, she did not wish it for Roger Thurlston. Her new-found calm deserted her, and her heart began to pound uncomfortably.
Silently the two deposited Roger Thurlston gently inside the carriage, placing a cloak beneath his head to serve as a pillow.
“We must get skilled attention for him at once,” said Charles Barsett crisply. “We’d best take him to the ‘Bear’ at Maidenhead — it’s less than a mile back, and they may know of a doctor.”
“Is he — is he — much hurt?” asked Isabella, fearfully.
“He’s conscious, at any rate,” said Charles Barsett abruptly. “But he’s badly burnt, I fear.”
He bent over the injured man, a furrow between his brows.
Roger Thurlston stirred, groaned, then spoke faintly. “So you got me out, did you, Charlie?” he said. “How like you! I doubt if I should have done the same in your place.”
It was years since he had called the other by that name. Charles Barsett winced, and his frown deepened.
“You’d best not talk now,” he said gently. “Try to conserve your strength for the journey; I fear it may be — painful.”
He gave the coachman the order, and the vehicle turned back along the road to Maidenhead, the horses at the gallop.
John had seated himself by Isabella, and she leaned a little towards him. Charles glanced
at them curiously. There had been no mistaking the way in which Isabella had turned to Webster in her need, instead of to the man she was to wed; nor was there any doubt of the affection and concern that had tinged John’s voice when he spoke to her. It was obvious to the most casual observer that these two were in love.
A sudden sharp misgiving twisted Charles Barsett’s mind. What of Amanda? If he had read the signs aright, she also had fixed her affections upon this young man. Was she, then, that bright, fearless child, doomed to a fate similar to his own?
Roger Thurlston moaned slightly, and recalled his unhappy thoughts to the present need. He bent over his cousin to try and ease his suffering, but there was little he could do. He lowered the window, and shouted to the coachman, “For God’s sake, hurry, Smith!”
“I’m givin’ ’em their heads, y’r honour!” Smith shouted back. “They can’t do more!”
There was a faint sigh from the recumbent form on the floor. Charles saw with relief that his cousin had once more relapsed into unconsciousness. At least he would feel no pain for the time being.
His gaze wandered from the inanimate form, and fixed itself upon his two travelling companions. They were still sitting close together, without speaking, but a little colour had returned to Isabella’s face.
“If you should now feel sufficiently recovered, Miss Isabella,” he said quietly, “would you be good enough to try and tell us what happened?”
Until this moment Isabella had been conscious only of the balm of John’s presence, after the horrifying experience through which she had recently passed. Charles Barsett’s question recalled sharply to her mind the cause of it all. She sat up in sudden alarm.
“Mandy!” she exclaimed, in agony of spirit. “Where is she? Her note said she was with you, John. Can it have been —”
“Hush, dearest,” interrupted John, smoothing her rumpled curls with a gentle hand. “Mandy is safe enough; she is staying with Barsett’s nurse.”
Unconsciously he had dropped the formal title. Charles Barsett looked up, momentarily surprised.
The Georgian Rake Page 21