by Eve Silver
Miss Canham would not walk that road in the dark. She had not snuffed that lamp.
But someone had.
Isobel pressed right up against the glass, her breath coming fast and the glass going white where her mouth huffed against it.
Where was Mr. Waters? Last she had seen him, he had rouned the bend, gone from her sight.
Both palms pressed flat against the cold windowpane, Isobel strained to see some sign of Miss Canham.
Then she saw a curricle outlined by the shine of the moon. A curricle moving at a brisk pace along the bright ribbon of road, rushing away into the night.
Into the darkness.
And Isobel felt certain that curricle took Miss Canham away from her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Stepney, London, March 15, 1818
Henry Pugh swallowed at the sight of the blood. He had known there must be some. Still, he would have preferred that there be none.
The midwife glanced at him, her frown fierce and furious. She had not wanted him here in the birthing room. Had not wanted him in the house. But he had been adamant.
His wife was birthing his babe, and he had no intention of leaving her.
“No pushing, now, Mrs. Pugh. You just breathe like I told you,” the midwife said as she leaned close to take a better look.
Melanthe panted, short sharp breaths, her brow furrowed with pain and concentration. Her eyes met his, locked there, and he stepped forward as she reached for him with her scarred hand.
“Almost there, love,” he murmured, weaving his fingers through hers. “Almost there.”
“Push, Mrs. Pugh! Now!” the midwife cried.
Her face contorting with her efforts, Melanthe pushed, gripping his hand like a vice. He was amazed that she could find such strength. Her belly undulated and rolled, squeezed in the fist of another mighty contraction.
Leaning down, he brushed her sweat-damp hair from her brow. She groaned and pushed, her face red, her shoulders rising from the pallet.
There was a saying in Stepney, that to marry a laundress was as good as a fortune. As Henry looked at his wife, he thought he had found the truth in that, though for him the fortune was not in coin, but in healing.
“Again! Push again!”
Melanthe cried out, a long, low groan.
“Lovely,” the midwife murmured, and Melanthe fell back, a look of wonder washing away the pain that had etched her features only seconds past. Her gaze sought his, and she smiled, a tired and weak smile, but beautiful to him.
Henry saw not her scars. He saw not the place above her ear where her hair had burned away in the fire and never grown back. He saw only the woman he had come to know in small smiles and shared laughter, the woman who had made emotion unfurl in his heart, a little at a time. The woman he loved, the mother of his—
“A son,” the midwife said, her voice pitched to carry above the infant’s sudden cry. “You have a son, Mr. Pugh.”
A son.
Tears stung his eyes and he leaned down to press a kiss to Melanthe’s brow. She was laughing and sobbing, his sweet wife. Turning her gaze to his, she offered a watery smile. A special smile.
Their life together was a surprising gift, unanticipated and extraordinary.
Neither had expected to find love in this match. Neither had expected anything.
They had married with the sole intent of saving the child. The Trotters’ granddaughter. With no relatives to care for her, and the Black Swan worth nothing after her grandfather’s debts were paid, the Parrish had meant to send the girl to the poorhouse.
No one wanted her, a cursed little girl whose parents had died of plague and whose grandparents had died of foul and bloody murder. The child herself had barely survived. For a time, the doctor had said she would not, for the wound in her side had bled so much, and the infection that followed was so vicious.
But Henry had wanted her. Wanted her though they said he could not have her. That an unmarried man could not raise a little girl.
As if the poorhouse could raise her better.
He was determined not to let her go. He was the one who had found her in the empty linen chest, bloodied and silent, her lips blue. He was the one who had lifted her out, his chest working with uncontained sobs, his arms tight about her as he carried her through the street to the doctor.
Ginnie George was dead, murdered, and he had not saved her. But he had saved this little girl, the Trotters’ granddaughter.
And the Parrish meant to deny him, to rip her from his care and send her to wither and die in a terrible, sad place.
When he had failed to sway the tide with rational argument, he had found another way. With the memory of his beautiful Ginnie bright in his mind, and the heartbreak of her loss a burden he could scarce carry, he had gone to the fire-scarred laundress, Melanthe Smith, asked her to marry him, asked her to be a mother for the child and save her from the poorhouse.
And, bless her, sweet Melanthe had agreed.
“Bring our daughter,” she whispered now, cuddling their newborn son to her breast. “Bring our daughter to meet her brother.” She glanced at the window. “But first, open the curtains. You know she cannot bear it when they are closed.”
“I know, love.”
And so, despite the clucking and protests of the midwife, who warned of evil spirits and the dangers of vile humors, Henry opened the curtains, let the sunshine flood in. Then he went to find his daughter, his Elizabeth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Northallerton, Yorkshire, October 7, 1828
Beth woke in darkness. There was a pounding ache in her head and the sound of breathing, harsh and wet, close behind her.
Confusion surged, and with it, a tide of fear.
She could smell damp earth, feel the coolness of it against her cheek. She was lying on the ground.
Disoriented, she tried to move, to sit up, tried to call out, but her hands were held tight, one to the other, and her mouth was filled with something that left her tongue dry and dusty.
It took seconds for her to come to herself enough to realize her hands were bound together before her. And she was gagged.
She writhed and jerked, testing her bonds, desperate to be free, her fear no longer a tide, but a swelling, crashing wave. Awkwardly, she reached her bound hands toward the gag, frantic to tear it from her mouth, but something stopped her. A hand on her arm?
Panting through her nose, she tried to move her feet and found she could. Though her hands were tied, her feet were free.
Who—
Where—
Beside her, her captor shifted, moved to stand behind her, his feet shuffling along the ground. He touched her, a strong grip on her upper arms, holding her still, then he dragged her to a sitting position and held her there as she wove and swayed and finally found her balance.
She could barely breathe, the gag and her panic combining in a sickening brew, her heart thudding a desperate rhythm.
But she forced herself to be still. To listen.
Who was he? What did he want?
He squatted behind her, what felt like his bent knee bumping her shoulder. She jerked as he touched her hair. He had unpinned it, or perhaps her pins had come free on their own, and she could feel him stroking the length of her curls where they fell along her shoulder and arm.
Again, he shifted at her back, his hot breath on her neck.
Bile crawled up her throat, bitter and stinging. Beth swallowed, forced herself to repeat the action again and again, willed herself not to vomit.
Through her terror, she forced herself to assess her situation, to hold on to what shreds of calm she could gather. She was gagged. She was bound. And she thought he had tied a cloth over her eyes, for she could see nothing, but she could feel a slight pressure, like a scarf around her head.
“Be still. That’s a good girl,” he whispered, his lips against her nape.
The sound of his voice made a chill skitter across her skin. She struggled then, though
she knew it was useless. Her hands strained against the rope until they were numb from the pain, and she screamed into the gag, though little sound escaped.
“Be a good girl.” Another stroke of his hand on her hair, his tone a low caress. “No tears and tempests, now. No tantrums.”
The sound of his voice was familiar. Frightening. A nightmare slithering out from the past.
No tears and tempests, now.
She knew those words, that voice.
She trembled, willed her emotions under her control. Terror would mean her death. Her only hope lay in keeping her wits about her, her mind sharp.
The pounding throb of her fear was a knife piercing her, a bludgeon beating her. The power of it swelled and rose, a black, oily torrent that obliterated reason.
Oh, she knew this feeling, this attack of dismay.
Knew how to fight it, to control it. She had spent her life learning those lessons.
A slow breath in. A slow breath out. She counted the seconds for each breath, blocking all else. There was only the feel of her lungs filling and deflating. Slowly. Slowly.
“That’s a good girl.” His voice was far away from her now. She made it far away. Down a long empty tunnel where it could not touch her. She had lived with panic for so long, her fine companion. She could control it. She could do this. She could do this.
“Nod for me, Elizabeth.” The sound of his voice was familiar. So familiar. If he would only speak in a normal tone, raise his voice above a whisper, she would know him. “Beth. Nod so I know that you hear me. So I know you will be a good girl.”
She heard him. She nodded.
And all the while she counted the seconds for each breath, felt the swelling tide of dread and horror threatening to tear free. She held it back. Forced it back.
Because to let it free would mean her death.
She tried to gather every clue, to understand what she knew in order to cipher what she did not. She remembered taking the lantern and following Mr. Waters. She remembered seeing him disappear around the bend. She remembered a grunt and a thud, as though something heavy hit the ground. She remembered walking faster, drawing closer to the curve in the road. And then she remembered nothing.
Was it Mr. Waters who held her captive?
She took a deep breath through her nose, focusing on the smells. Damp earth. Something astringent. A hint of lemon. But not bay rum. Mr. Waters always smelled of bay rum.
Panic clawed at her, but she held it back, focused on her thoughts, on the clues, on the details.
Her captor’s fingers moved at the back of her head. The cloth that wrapped her eyes was pulled free and she blinked against the light of the candle.
Keeping her head bowed, she breathed in a careful, steady pattern, one contrived for composure. One-two-three-four. A slow count in. The same count out.
She glanced about from beneath her lashes, a rapid assessment of her surroundings.
A shack? Wooden walls. Wooden roof. Dirt floor. And in the center a... coffin... buried in the dirt, with the top open.
Do not put me in the box. Do not put me in the box. Oh, please, do not put me in the box.
But in the touch of his hand on her hair, the rapid cadence of his breathing, the way he leaned close and breathed her scent, she read his excitement. And she read the truth.
He meant to put her in the box. Bury her in the box.
Before or after he kills me?
o0o
Isobel flung her door wide and ran down the passage, her bare feet flying. She had no candle to light her way. No lamp. She did not care. Miss Canham was afraid of the dark, but Isobel was not, and there was moonlight enough spilling through the windows at the far end of the hall.
At the top of the staircase she paused only long enough to feel the solid curve of the banister before rushing into her descent. Sliding her hands along the polished wood, she hurried down the stairs, terrified that she would fall.
More terrified that she would be too late.
She had seen her. Miss Bodie-Stuart. From the window at Burndale Academy, she had seen Miss Bodie-Stuart climb into that very same curricle.
And Miss Bodie-Stuart never came back.
Instead, she went into the ground in the churchyard on a cold, gray winter day. All the students from Burndale had attended her burial. They had cried, and the teachers had cried, and Miss Percy, as well. And Isobel had stood to the side, dry-eyed, and never thought about the curricle.
Until now.
Gripped by an awful terror, Isobel thought of Miss Canham, of the churchyard and the cold ground, and she stumbled, her feet sliding off the edge of a stair. She gripped the banister with all her might, panting as she righted herself, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then she rushed on, urgency and fear driving her.
A sob of relief burst free as she reached the gallery, and she ran to the staircase at the far end as fast as she could, her long nightdress swirling about her legs. Finally, she took the last stairs, slipping and sliding and almost falling, her chest heaving, her heart racing.
She flew to the library door, flung it wide.
Found the room empty.
No! Frantic, she spun, ran back into the hall, and froze.
Where would he be? Where would her father be?
Where?
She looked right. Left. Took a step in one direction, then the other. No time. There was no time.
Daddy.
Her throat worked convulsively. Her mouth shaped the word, but no sound came.
Daddy.
Harder, she tried harder, her breath coming so shallow and fast that she felt sick.
Daddy.
“Daddy!” The word was barely a sound, barely a breath, but she had done it. She had said it.
Hope burgeoned, and she tried again, and finally the sound did break free, rising through the dark, quiet house, a high, keening cry.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Again and again she cried out, the words tumbling together until they were only noise without form. Endless noise.
She screamed, wordless shrieks, even after she heard the echo of running feet, even after she saw the flicker of a lamp moving fast along the gallery, even after she saw him coming down the stairs in great leaps, his expression stark and tense.
Only when he grabbed her and hugged her close did she stop. Not abruptly, but more a slowing of the flood, a quieting of the torrent.
“Daddy,” she whispered.
He drew back so he could see her face and she could see his. His cheeks glistened, wet with tears.
Reaching up, she laid her fingers flat on his cheek.
He cried. For her.
She had never seen her father cry.
“Isobel, my beloved. I am here. I am here,” he murmured, pulling her close against his chest once more and stroking his big hand along her back.
“Daddy, he took her. He took Miss Canham.”
“Yes, Isobel. Mr. Waters took Miss Canham back to Burndale. We knew he would. Miss Percy sent a note.” Another gentle stroke of his hand along her back. “But you shall see her on the morrow.”
She shook her head, swallowed. “The curricle...”
Her father drew back, studied her face, and said, “The footman said that Mr. Waters came to fetch her in the cart.”
“No.” Her voice failed her, the word fading to a croak. Isobel dug her fingers into her father’s arms, forced her lips to shape the sounds, prayed he would understand. “Not the cart. He took her in the curricle. He took her, Daddy. Like he took Miss Bodie-Stuart.”
o0o
Beth’s gaze darted to the coffin, buried in the earthen floor save for the open top, and she found that she could not look away. The single candle that sat in its holder on a low stool in the corner cast creeping shadows along the walls and floor, into the open coffin, a black pit that would swallow her.
Her terror knew no confines. It was a swelling, bulging mass that stole her breath, stole her thoughts.
No!
Thi
nk of nothing but each breath. Think of this second, this breath, and nothing else. And as the crushing panic bore down on her, she breathed and counted and listened for the sounds of him behind her, her focus and the force of her will the only things keeping her from dissolving in a sobbing, whimpering heap.
She could feel her captor close at her back, feel his hands on her hair, touching her. The smell of old sweat mingled with the scents of damp earth and hair tonic and tallow from the candle.
“Be a good girl,” he crooned. “Be still.”
He lifted a curl. Inhaled deeply. Her stomach pitched and rolled.
She held herself as still as she could, though her limbs shook and her teeth chattered against the cloth of the gag, and she ached to fling herself to her feet and run and run and run.
Not yet. Wait your chance. Do not waste your one chance.
Was there anything she could use as a weapon? Anything at all? A quick glance about. There, in the far corner, a heavy wooden bucket.
“Be still. Be silent.” His lips were at her ear, and his voice was low and soft. “And speak only when I bid you.”
She nodded again, without prodding. He seemed pleased by that, for he took the gag from her mouth.
“You are not to soil yourself,” he said, his tone chilling and void of inflection.
Her gaze shot to the bucket in the corner once more, but she held herself as still and silent as she could
“Foul refuse makes a haven for vermin.” Again, a long slow stroke of her hair. “I cannot abide vermin.”
She cringed as he grasped two strands of her hair, drew them apart and leaned close. This he did again and again... looking for vermin. Shuddering, she fought the urge to jerk away, to cry out in horror.
Beth ran her dry tongue over even dryer lips.
“May I—” The words came out as little more than an indistinguishable rasp. She ran her tongue over her lips once more, and tried again. “May I speak?”
He made no reply, and so she dared to continue. “M-may I p-p-please go just beyond the door to... um... to... s-s-see to my needs? So I do not soil myself and invite... vermin.”