by P. N. Elrod
“Very well—but Jonathan, the shooting. If one of their pistol balls should hit you while you’re holding the boy . . . it will go right through you to him. You’re taking an appalling risk with his life.”
And did I not clearly know it? “For all I know he might already be dead.” I pointed to Tyne’s partially uncovered corpse. “But if alive I’m ready to do anything to get him away from those monsters. I’ll take that chance rather than leave him with them.”
Her hand tightened, then fell away, and she said nothing more. When all was ready, I gave my sword stick and Dublin revolver into Elizabeth’s keeping, knowing they would only be a hindrance. “You should at least have the pistol,” she protested.
“It takes two hands to bring a new chamber to bear on the thing, and I’ll need both to carry Richard.”
“Then God go with you, little brother.”
I saw her prayer echoed in the faces of the others and suddenly felt a wash of fear. Not for myself, but for my helpless son. What if my actions brought him harm instead of deliverance? What if, God forbid, I got him killed? If I truly wished for his safety would it not be better to let him go? My brave words to Nora seemed but a hollow pretension. Clarinda could not possibly be so heartless as to hurt her own child. Surely some of the worry for him she’d expressed to me had had some tiny seed of sincerity within. The sensible thing would be to give her the money and hope for the best. It was entirely reasonable, much more preferable than the wild, perilous, half-thought-through plan I’d just improvised.
Much more preferable, but for the voice within telling me—all but screaming at me—to ignore sense and let my heart lead in this matter. Against all reason it cried alone. Undeniable, my instinct told me this was the right thing to do, the one thing I had to do.
But that did not make me any less afraid.
* * *
Confidence is an intensely ephemeral quality, flooding you fit to burst one instant and miles away the next, leaving you dry and gasping in the emptiness. I was wretchedly parched by the time I’d eased my invisible way down the cliff face to re-form and crouch immobile in a jumble of water-smoothed rock.
Oliver was already calling down from his now distant perch. He couldn’t keep them occupied forever while I wavered between sense and folly. Perhaps in a distant corner of my mind I’d anticipated this hesitation, and that’s why the pouch was filled with rock, not money. For then against its discovery would I be forced to take swift action.
But no matter the reasons—the time had come. Working or not, my heart had taken up lodging high in my throat, and I wasted precious moments trying to swallow it back into place.
I now drifted down and lighted just to the east of the men on the beach. The whole area seemed horribly bright, and I quailed each time a head swung in my direction. None saw me, though. None. What was like day to me was pitchy midnight to them.
“I don’t think the pouch is big enough,” Oliver bawled from on high. “It’s sure to be too heavy to throw very far.”
“Do the best you can, Dr. Marling,” Summerhill bawled back, sounding unflappable and thoroughly in charge. He was turned away from me, but I recognized his voice and bearing. He stood a prudent distance from the base of the cliff, cane in one hand and dark lantern in the other. He’d covered its light over; Oliver wouldn’t be able to see him.
“Silly ass,” grumbled one of two men hovering close by
“Long as ’e’s a rich ass,” put in the other, identifying the object of comment as my cousin and not their captain.
I slipped off my cloak, hat, and scarf, forsaking protection for ease of movement. Then did I also forsake solidity again and float low over the ground, skirting Summerhill and his men, as substantial as a ghost and just as silent. My vision limited, but still better than theirs, I made a straight line toward the boat and Clarinda.
Changes had taken place. She was no longer seated on a pile of rock, easy to get to, but was in the boat itself, with six more men standing around it. Richard was in her arms. My instinct had been true. She had no intention of leaving him after getting the money. No surprise was left in me concerning this woman, only fury, which carried me forward just in time, it seemed.
No sooner was I started than Summerhill shouted something to the men, and they turned upon the boat and began shoving it into the water. I heard curses for its coldness and rebukes to hurry as “the captain ’uz comin’.” I hurtled toward them.
And was stopped.
It wasn’t quite as severe as falling off a horse at full gallop, since my body was not solid enough for bruising, but the shock was just as brutal. The sea. The damned, free-flowing sea.
I was hard-pressed to cross running water normally; in this near-nebulous state I’d never do it. The limits of my condition utterly prevented me from pushing so much as an inch farther.
No time for thought about the consequences—I re-formed and plunged up to my waist into the surf. By comparison, the freezing immersion in Edmond’s well had been a summer lark. This winter sea was so icy that the cold burned, seeming to eat through my skin to the bone like acid. I must have cried out, for two of the sailors so diligently pushing the boat turned to look.
In no frame of mind to be polite or careful, I was on them like a storm, knocking them out of the way and devil take the hindmost. My hands found the gunwale, grasped hard, and I heaved up and into the boat, sprawling over the ribbed bottom, water streaming from my clothes.
Clarinda half stood, but the craft bobbed crazily, forcing her to sit again. She gave out an abortive screech, whether from the sight of me or from the danger of falling in, I could not tell. I had a single image of her staring at me, wide of eye and with a sagging mouth, of her trying to back away while holding tight to her precious bundle, of Richard’s dark head poking out from the illusory protection of the blanket she’d wrapped around him. His eyes were shut fast. Asleep or made insensible by more laudanum?
And then the narrow boat was full of men, cursing, shouting, all their anger and fight centered upon me, the unexpected intruder. I had no thought for anything but to get to Richard, though. They were merely obstacles in the way, inconvenient, but surmountable. Even as a man raised a pistol level with my face I kicked out with one foot and knocked him right over into the water. Two more had slid aboard, one of them falling upon me more by accident than design because of the boat’s erratic rocking. They got in one another’s way in the confining space, and I took advantage of it by striking the nearest senseless, then pushing him back against his friend.
The way clear, I found my feet and surged forward again. Now Clarinda let go with a fully realized shriek. I heard Summerhill distantly barking commands, trying to instill order upon the chaos, and succeeding. There was one man left with the wit and speed to act; he bent and picked up one of the oars, bringing it hard around with intent to clout me flat. Fast as he was, the movement seemed slow to my perception. I caught the stave of wood before it could do me harm, and wrenched it from him with a strong sideways twist that sent him flying overboard.
The last man, recovered somewhat from being pushed, tried to drag me down, and promptly discovered himself to be on the wrong end of the oar for his trouble. I slammed the blunt end into his chest and he, too, tumbled into the water.
The boat had drifted far enough from shore that Summerhill and his ruffians were no immediate threat. The rest of the men were unconscious or floundering. None stood between me and Clarinda now. Unsteady from the boat’s motion, I moved closer to her.
“Give him to me,” I said, reaching out with one hand.
She half rose, but could not back any farther away. Thrice now I’d returned from the dead, from the fight in the mausoleum, from the attempt in the bath, from the push down the stairs in her own home, the last being the most impossible to deny. What thoughts were in her mind I could not guess, but the emotions were obvious, being equal parts
of rage and terror. Her white face contorting into something inhuman, she lifted Richard’s limp form high, and hurled him into the sea.
Of the horrors that had run through my mind since she’d taken him, this had never once shown itself. It was too abominable. My reaction was without thought and instantaneous. I swung the end of the oar wide toward her and hard.
Very hard.
With all my terrible strength behind it.
The impact traveled up the wood to bruise my hand.
I had a fleeting impression of the oar paddle end striking her head edge on, of her swift and abrupt drop; impression only, for by then I was diving into the corrosive water after my child.
No time to register the pain; all my effort was concentrated on maintaining a solid form against the overwhelming urge to vanish. He was not far, little more than five yards, but they might well have been miles for my slow progress. I lived lifetimes until my hand thrashed against the edge of his blanket, eternities until I found his small body in the mass of soaked fabric. I got his head clear of the smothering water. After all this his eyes were yet shut. Dear God, no. . . .
The shore. Where? That way. Close and yet too far.
Hurry.
More eternities until my toes brushed and caught on the rocky bottom. Staggering, holding him tight, I lurched from the sea’s caustic grasp, then fell to my knees. Sobbing with dread, I tore away his wet clothes, searching his pinched blue face for sign of life. Pressing my ear to his chest I forced myself to silence, listening with all my soul.
There, I thought I heard it. . . a faint flutter like a bird’s wing. His heart. His living heart. . . .
“You murdering bastard,” said Summerhill, almost conversationally.
I looked up at him, up into the barrel of his pistol.
“You—” he broke off, recognizing me. His aim wavered as amazement finally cracked his imperturbable manner. I’d seen such uncertainty before, such hesitation; it would not last. With Richard close in my arms, I rose and bolted like a deer.
Ten paces, I’d said. Ten paces and they’d lose me in the dark. I’d been wildly, fatally optimistic, and Richard would be the one to suffer for my misjudgment.
Shots. A veritable hail of fire. I ran faster.
A second volley.
I flinched and sought shelter behind the low mass of stones where I’d left my cloak.
“Run!” someone called in a thin, faraway voice. Nora.
I glanced up the cliff. Yes. They were firing down at Summerhill and his men, scattering them, giving me the chance to get clear.
“Run!” Elizabeth now, strident with urgency.
I swept up the dry cloak for Richard and fled east, threading madly between the stones, skidding, nearly tripping, but always rushing forward, and nevermore looking back.
* * *
It was a fine, clear Christmas eve, not too cold, not too windy. Tomorrow promised a continuation of the good weather, though I’d sleep right through it, as always. No church for me, alas, but we’d made a merry party of it tonight having trooped out for evening services. I had innumerable blessings to be grateful for—though some weren’t fit for the peace of the sanctuary, like my grim thankfulness for Clarinda’s death.
But others, like Richard’s recovery, brought me to kneel before God with sincere and humble gratitude.
Thus far the boy had shown no ill reaction from his kidnapping. Clarinda had apparently kept him insensible for nearly the whole time, as he had nothing to tell us of the experience, not even a stray nightmare. I know, for since then I’d taken to watching him in his sleep when the mood struck, sitting close by with a book and alert to any change that might indicate distress. Mrs. Howard complimented my zealous concern and at the same time reproved me for being overly protective. I smiled and told her she was right, but begged her to indulge me until I felt more secure about his safety.
Richard continued healthy despite his plunge in the freezing sea water. I’d run nearly the whole way along the beach to the tiny village mentioned in Clarinda’s note and had all but broken into its one tavern seeking help. One look at us and our bedraggled condition and the owner’s anger changed to instant concern as he took us for shipwreck survivors and roused the rest of his house to beneficent action.
As fires were built up, broth was heated, and our clothes were set out to dry, I improvised a poor tale of an overturned boat for their many questions. This inspired even more queries as they wanted to know where the boat was like to be found, why I’d been out at sea at night, how I’d upset the boat, and other annoying details. I was spared from additional bad lying by the timely arrival of Nora’s coach driver, soon followed by Nora herself and the others. Oliver, taking charge as the one doctor on the premises, pronounced that I was too addled for talk and told me to rest while he tended Richard, something I was more than glad to carry out. What with the number of our party and everyone obviously being well-to-do, the interrogators retired to watch and draw their own conclusions about the strangeness of the situation.
The following day, as Nora and I rested insensible under the coach benches, we stopped long enough on the return trip to Fonteyn House for Jericho and the coachman to rebury Arthur Tyne. His improvised grave went undiscovered for more than a week and was quite a mystery to the Brighthelmstone magistrates as was stated in the one paper we found that reported the incident. The man’s murder was popularly blamed on smugglers or pirates, and in a way the conclusion was perfectly right. Certainly no one of us stepped forward with further information for the inquiry.
Oliver stayed on in Brighthelmstone and kept an ear open to the news. When talk came of a woman’s body found on the beach near the Seven Sisters, he went along with the rest of the curious for a look and, putting on a convincing show of surprised sorrow, proclaimed her to be his long missing cousin, feared lost at sea. Thus was he able to bring Clarinda back for interment in the family mausoleum. Her terrible head wound was dismissed as having been caused by a rough encounter with the rocks when she’d washed ashore. So far no one had connected her in any way to Arthur Tyne.
I was thankful also for Edmond’s full recovery from his own dance with the Reaper.
He eventually got the full story of all that had happened from me—or most of it. There were certain aspects I chose not to include, like my extra-natural abilities and the exact manner of Clarinda’s demise. I baldly perjured myself, saying she’d fallen and hit her head in the boat during the fight. He grunted, and asked no other questions. The official story given to the rest of the family was that Clarinda had run away from him and drowned at sea by misadventure—something just scandalous enough to put off deeper inquiry. Edmond, already in official mourning for Aunt Fonteyn, didn’t have to change much of his outward show of grief, only to extend its duration. I think he did grieve in his heart for his wayward wife. Apparently he had been happy with her, once.
I was also thankful for the end of all persecution from Ridley’s Mohocks.
It was but small work to find Royce and Litton, his would-be avengers, as well as a few others who had been connected to him. Though the task of reforming the lot of them into good citizens seemed rather overwhelming, I was willing to take it on, but upon discussing the prospect with Nora, I gladly adopted her suggestion. Rather than trying to convert them, I simply instilled in each an irresistible desire to take a grand tour of the Continent. Some were bound for France, others for Italy, and none was like to return anytime soon. They could have Europe and the rest of the world if they’d but leave me and mine in the peace of England.
The only dark spot was Captain Summerhill’s escape.
Oliver was yet busy making diligent inquiries about him. It seemed the man was from Brittany as he’d said, and had in the past engaged Edmond’s services for certain legal matters, none of it connected with smuggling, though. Edmond had little to add about him, except to say that Clarinda
had liked him. As Clarinda had taken to quite a number of men, Edmond had paid no more attention to this particular indiscretion than the others. Since she had been adept at using, then discarding a man when another more useful one appeared, I wondered whom she might have had waiting when she’d finished with Summerhill or if he was indeed her final conquest.
It mattered not now, but I would keep my eyes open for the captain. He’d bear watching against future mischief, I thought.
But for now, our house was at peace. We’d moved back to Oliver’s home in town, once more leaving Fonteyn House to the care of trusted servants. The parlor fire roared with warm comfort for the body, while the excellent Christmas sermon we’d recently heard did the same for our souls.
Nora and Oliver were seated near the fire showing Richard how best to toast bread. Elizabeth was at her spinet, engaged in learning a new piece of music, an occupation that held her attention only until Jericho came in with a tray laden for tea. According to the others, supper was too long a wait for refreshment. Elizabeth played the hostess and served all but Nora and me. We thought it best not to indulge our own specific appetite in front of an actively curious four-year-old.
“I hear Jericho gives a good report of a certain French dancing master,” Oliver said. “What do you say to sending for the fellow after the New Year, see if he suits?”
“Indeed?” I arched an eyebrow at Elizabeth, the obvious source of my cousin’s information, since I’d imparted it to her only last night as but a distant possibility.
She shrugged prettily. “One cannot start too soon teaching a boy the finer points of gentlemanly behavior.”
“He’s very much the little gentleman now,” I said in mild protest. “Though I might consider employing someone. In the not so near future, mind you.”
“Brother, you just don’t want to share him with anyone else.”