by Carola Dunn
“Let me out of here,” she moaned. “Open the door, quickly!”
Before it was half open she slipped out, pulling Clive after her. Selena would gladly have followed, but Sir Aubrey had embarked on an endless, stammering disquisition in which medieval building methods and religious liberty figured largely. He seemed to be equally uninformed on both subjects. When she stepped towards the doorway he said, “D-do you not agree, Cousin?” so she turned back and murmured in agreement, though far from sure what he had asked.
Pretending to listen, she leaned against the cold stone wall, gazed out at the river, and thought her own thoughts.
What was Iverbrook doing in London? He had left so suddenly, with no effort to explain. What had happened in Oxford on Saturday night? Mama said all was not as it seemed; she must not jump to conclusions but wait to hear what he had to tell. Which was all very well, only after Cousin Aubrey’s announcement at the ball, it was difficult to imagine how Iverbrook could vindicate his disappearance.
Cousin Aubrey’s announcement: she looked at him in sudden suspicion. If it were not for that, they might have gone in search of the viscount. Until that moment it had been a wonderful evening. Hugh had been charming, amusing, attentive. When they were apart she had felt his eyes on her, had believed that he longed to be at her side. Then Cousin Aubrey’s voice shattered her dream.
Cousin Aubrey’s voice was abruptly cut off as the door crashed shut. A loud thud followed, the heavy sound of wood striking wood. The monk’s cell suddenly seemed to shrink.
Selena reached the door in two strides and pushed, then threw her weight against it. It did not move.
Nor did Sir Aubrey.
“Come and help me!” she demanded.
He joined her and half-heartedly leaned against the solid wood, to no result.
“It’s stuck,” he said inanely. “The wind must have b-blown it.”
“It’s not windy.”
“I expect a beam f-fell against it. The ceiling is quite rotten in p-places.”
She looked up. “Not in here,” she noted, then shouted, “Clive, help!” No answer. “Clive! Mr. Hastings! Help, somebody!”
The dank stone absorbed the sound, giving in return only the gurgle of water outside and the distant quacking of ducks.
Selena went to the window. The thickness of the wall made it hard to see out except straight ahead, where only the wide, green-brown river and the far bank with its towpath were visible. Standing on tiptoe she could see further. It was not easy, for the opening was small. Too small, she thought, to squeeze through, even if the river did not wash the base of the wall, just as her cousin had described it.
Downstream the river divided, to flow on each side of a small island. One pier of the bridge rested on this island, and a tavern stood there, the Nag’s Head, the upper story of which opened directly onto the bridge. It blocked Selena’s view of the far end of the bridge, but she could see the near end. The current sped slickly under the arches with a violent swirl. Above, she could see a cart, a horseman, and two people on foot.
“Help!” she cried; none of them looked around, or even paused. “They are too far off. If we keep shouting, Clive and Mrs. Parcott, or Delia and Mr. Hastings, are bound to come. Even if they do not hear us, they will look for us when they are ready to leave. What an excessively ridiculous situation to be in!”
It was not only ridiculous, it was tedious. Sir Aubrey had no conversation beyond mere commonplaces, and she could not listen to his lecturing with any show of complaisance. Alternately pacing up and down, four steps one way and four steps back, or huddling in a corner, she shouted from time to time. No one answered.
The afternoon passed and dusk brought swift darkness to the gloomy cell. As Selena grew more and more anxious, the baronet became calmer, lost his stutter, and began to look smug.
The last gleam of evening light faded from the river. Selena leaned by the window, looking into blackness, listening to the water lapping at the rough stones of the wall, the sound of voices floating across the river from the Nag’s Head.
She heard Sir Aubrey moving, and suddenly he was beside her, breathing heavily.
“No one will come now.” His voice was triumphant. “We will have to spend the night here, alone together!” He put his arm around her waist.
She pulled away. “Don’t touch me!” she snarled. “If you come near me again I shall scratch your face!” It was a pitiable threat, but remembering his vanity she hoped that it might suffice.
“You will sing a different tune in the morning, Cousin. Your reputation will be ruined unless you marry me.
“Believe me,” said Selena with calm deliberation, though her heart was beating wildly, “I should not marry you if my life depended upon it! I had rather live in the utmost disgrace than have you for a husband.”
“We shall see.” Sir Aubrey sounded sulky.
“Did you plan this? Did you arrange beforehand to shut us in here?”
“I’ve never been here before. How should I plan it? Besides, I could not shut the door from inside.”
“I suppose not.” Selena, though unconvinced, asked no more questions, turning her mind to the more important business of finding a way out. She had been so sure they would be rescued that she had not seriously considered the possibilities before. But despite her bravado, she was afraid that if she was indeed forced to spend the night with her despicable cousin, she would have little choice but to give him her hand in marriage.
There was no hope of opening the door. Sir Aubrey had not exerted himself to help her before and would not do so now. The window was the only chance of escape.
If she took off her pelisse, perhaps she might wriggle through and drop into the river. Her dress would weigh her down; that must come off too. There was no way to tell how deep the water was. She could wade downstream past the building and climb ashore, but if it was too deep to stand, swimming in that direction would put her perilously close to the bridge with its rushing, swirling currents.
She peered out into the darkness. The island stood out, a blacker black on the starlit river. Lamplight gleamed through a crack in the tavern’s shutters, illuminating the bridge's parapet. A sudden memory came to her: on the other side of the tavern, steps led down from the road to the island—she had seen them a hundred times.
Swim straight out to mid-channel (thank heaven Papa had made her learn to swim!); drift with the stream to the island; run across the bridge to the towpath on the other bank; then the long, slow, probably painful, barefooted trudge home in her shift.
Anything was better than marrying Cousin Aubrey!
The moon had been nearly full on Saturday. Selena was not sure when it would rise but it would make things so much easier that she decided to wait.
Huddled in a corner, she felt unbearably imprisoned, so mostly she stood at the window in spite of the cold draught. Aubrey had fallen silent some time ago, sulking no doubt, but now he began a monologue detailing exactly what he would do with her money once they were wed. Selena tried not to listen.
At last the sky paled in the east. She returned to her corner and started to strip, praying that Aubrey would not guess what she was doing, that she could climb through the window quickly enough not to give him a chance to stop her. She bundled her clothes together, shivering as the clammy air caressed her skin.
In one smooth motion she reached the window, threw the bundle out, and pulled herself up.
The baronet shouted. She kicked out, knocking him backwards and propelling herself forwards, twisting and scraping. She hit the river full length, impact and icy chill driving the breath from her body.
Desperately, gasping, she swam, fighting the current, the cold, the fear that whispered, “You’ll never make it. He’ll come after you. You’ll drown under the bridge. What a fool, what a fool, what a fool!”
There was mud under her feet. She clawed her way onto the bank, pushed through tangled bushes, saw the Nag’s Head rising on her right. She had ma
de it! A few staggering steps more and she saw in the moonlight the stone stairs built into the side of the bridge.
Seconds later she crouched in the shadows on the landing at the top of the steps and looked out onto the bridge. A rush torch burned in an iron holder over the inn’s sign and the door stood open. Several men stood there, arguing, then some went in while two of them, a tipsy woman between them, passed her crossing the bridge away from the town.
“Time to go home, Dolly,” said one soothingly.
Selena could not have agreed more, but another rowdy group was approaching from the Abingdon side. The slovenly woman, growing pugnacious, stopped her companions half way across the span. Selena shivered and tried to stop her teeth chattering.
The Nag’s Head seemed to be the most popular hostelry in Abingdon. Farm hands, unruly apprentices, stolid bargees, and loud-voiced drovers came and went, laughing and quarrelling. One or two dark-faced gypsies slipped by, the gold rings in their ears glinting. The moon sailed in a clear sky, lighting the bridge as brightly as any newfangled gas lamp.
Selena crouched miserably in the corner of the parapet. She was chilled to the bone, but she had rather die of cold than show herself in her torn shift to the boisterous patrons of the Nag’s Head!
Chapter 15
As the moon rose on Monday evening, Lord Iverbrook reached Milford Manor. He entered the drawing room with considerable trepidation, feeling very unsure of his welcome.
“Hugh, dear, I’m so glad you are come!” exclaimed Lady Whitton. “We are in quite a worry.”
“Is Peter ill again?”
“No, it’s Selena,” Delia put in. “At least, she is not ill, but she and Cousin Aubrey are not yet come home.”
His lordship frowned at the clock. “They went out together? Where did they go, and when?”
Mr. Hastings explained about the outing to Abingdon and the luncheon at the Crown and Thistle. “And now I come to think of it,” he added, “the fellow was acting very odd.”
“Yes, he kept looking round at the door, and he was stammering terribly,” agreed Delia.
“We were just leaving the inn when we ran into Mrs. P. Yes, yes, I know, my dear fellow, and maybe you could have got rid of her, though I have my doubts, but being a gentleman I did not tell her to go jump in the Thames! At all events, we went on to the abbey ruins and Miss Delia and I got to talking and before we knew very well what we were about, we were half way to Oxford and the others nowhere in sight. There’s no need to look at me like that,” Hasty added defensively. “Literary discussion, you know, mad monks and such.”
“So you turned back?” asked the viscount impatiently.
“Well of course we did. No sense in walking to Oxford, was there? It was nearly five by the time we reached the abbey again, and no sign of Miss Whitton or the others. When we got to the Crown, Mr. Russell’s carriage was gone so naturally we assumed he had driven them home.”
“So we came home,” said Delia, “and Selena and Cousin Aubrey were not here and if the carriage had broken down we would have passed them on the way and Mama said she expected they had gone in to see the Russells. And maybe they did, but I cannot see why they would have stayed so long, for Jane is not Selena’s particular friend and Lady Anne disapproves of Selena amazingly.”
“We must send to Bracketts and see if she is there.” Iverbrook strode to the bellpull and jerked on it.
“Do you think some harm has come to Selena?” asked Lady Whitton anxiously. “Surely not, with both Clive and Aubrey to look after her, not that she has ever needed looking after.”
Delia was thoughtful. “Remember,” she said slowly, “when Jem went with the invitation to Bracketts, what a long time he took? And it took Cousin Aubrey forever, just to go down to the stables to give him his orders. And when we went to the ball, they were talking together before we left, so that I thought we should never get going. It’s a plot!”
Mr. Hastings and Lord Iverbrook stared at her.
“Delia, you must stop reading so many romances,” protested her mother as Bannister came in.
“Send Tom to me,” ordered the viscount, “and I think we had best see Jem as well.” He turned to Lady Whitton.
“If you will,” she said helplessly, “though I am sure you refine too much upon trifles.”
His lordship paced up and down the room, looking grim. “You have not yet heard the full story of what happened to me at the ball,” he said, “and this is not the moment for it, but I am inclined to believe that Amabel and Sir Aubrey are on better terms with each other than we know. They have at least a common motive, in preventing a marriage between me and Selena. How well they have succeeded in turning her against me I cannot tell; I fear there is something more sinister afoot tonight.”
Lady Whitton and Mr. Hastings exchanged a glance of understanding. Delia gazed at the viscount in astonishment.
“You and Selena marry? But you are always quarrelling!”
Iverbrook flushed.
“No need to explain,” said Mr. Hastings hurriedly. “What sort of mischief did you have in mind?”
Before the viscount could answer, there was a knock on the door; Tom Arbuckle and Jem entered.
Tom received orders to ride to Bracketts and left at once.
“You wanted to see me, my lady?” asked the groom.
“Lord Iverbrook wishes to ask you some questions, Jem. I am sure you have done nothing wrong.
“You went to Bracketts with a message, or a letter, yesterday,” said Iverbrook. “Why did it take you so long?”
“There were t’other letter too, my lord. ‘Tis a fair way to Cowley and back.”
“To Cowley! Sir Aubrey sent you there?”
“He give me the letters, my lord. One to young Mr. Russell, to wait for an answer, and t’other to Mrs. Parcott, no answer expected. So I leaves the one at Bracketts and calls for an answer on me way home.”
“Did not you think that strange?”
Jem looked puzzled. “What, my lord?”
“Never mind. What about Saturday evening? Sir Aubrey ordered you to fetch Mrs. Parcott on the way to Oxford?”
“Yes, my lord. He said he were afeared my lady and Miss Whitton might of forgot, what with the excitement of the dance and all. They did, too. Begging your pardon, my lady. I weren't too sure of the way, but the Bart, I mean Sir Aubrey, give me directions and I found the place all right and tight.”
“And you did not guess that Lady Whitton might not know of the plan to pick up Mrs. Parcott?”
“No, my lord! I knows she’s a friend o’ theirn acos she keeps coming by. I ain’t done aught to harm Miss Whitton?”
“I hope not, Jem. In any case, you are plainly not to blame. You may go now, but have my horses ready to put to the curricle at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, my lord.” The groom looked at his mistress. “My lady, I wou’n’t do nowt to harm Miss Selena!”
“I know, Jem. I trust you absolutely. Now go and do as his lordship ordered.” Lady Whitton turned to Iverbrook. “Hugh, I cannot believe that Aubrey acted with malice, any more than Jem did. His understanding is not superior. He surely meant only to give Amabel pleasure by inviting her to join us.”
“Possibly, though I think it unlikely. You are too charitable, ma'am! How, pray, do you propose to exculpate Amabel?”
Her ladyship sighed. “Perhaps Lady Anne was right and I ought not to have welcomed Amabel. But how could I guess?”
“Guess what, Mama?” queried Delia.
Iverbrook had the grace to colour and ponder momentarily the unfairness that excluded his mistress, but not him, from polite society. Lady Whitton looked flustered. Mr. Hastings stepped into the breach.
“Never you mind, young lady,” he said, conveniently forgetting that it was he who had revealed to her mother the relationship between the viscount and the Merry Widow. “Hugh, what do you mean to do now?”
“Nothing, I suppose, until we hear from the Russells.” He resumed his pac
ing, with increased energy. “If that loose fish has harmed a hair of her head, I shall horsewhip him!”
“No, no, I say, my dear fellow, can’t do that! Fellow’s a gentleman. Have to call him out.”
“Gentleman!” snorted his lordship. “If the Bart is a gentleman, then I am a dandy!”
Mr. Hastings took one look at his friend’s ruffled hair, loosened neckcloth, and dusty boots, and conceded the point.
Lady Whitton, striving for calm, discovered that Hugh had not dined; she sent for refreshments. He was methodically disposing of a plate of cold beef and plum tart when young Mr. Russell burst into the room.
“My lord, your servant says Miss Whitton did not come home with Delia! I’d never have left had I guessed . . . had I not supposed . . . I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I hold myself to blame.” He looked wretched.
“Oh fustian, Clive!” said Delia firmly. “Of course you supposed that Selena would go with us, and when we found you gone we supposed she had gone with you.”
“I should have left a message at the Crown.”
“It might have helped,” said Lord Iverbrook, abandoning his meal. “The best thing you can do now is to tell us exactly what happened at the abbey.”
Clive flushed to the roots of his hair and studied his boots. “Dee went off with Mr. Hastings,” he said in a low voice, “and I was telling the others a bit about the place. Ghost stories and such. We went into the building where the monks lived and . . . and Mrs. Parcott wanted to see what it was like to be shut up in a cell. We went into one—all of us went in—that had an undamaged door. Most of them are rotted away, you know. And I closed the door and she was frightened—Mrs. Parcott, that is. It was sort of murky in there, with just a tiny hole in the wall for light. So I opened the door again and she rushed out. She was holding onto my sleeve and she pulled me with her. Miss Whitton and Sir Aubrey stayed in the cell, talking.”
“Selena never talked to Cousin Aubrey,” Delia said with conviction.
“Are you calling me a liar, Dee?” demanded Clive belligerently.
“I expect she was listening politely to one of his discourses,” soothed Lady Whitton.