Elliot pulled down her skirt, tore off his mantle, and covered her naked breasts with it. Then lifting her gently, he gathered her into his arms.
Colin had reached him. His lantern hadn't failed and he thrust it close. “Oh, Christ, Elliot . . . is she . . .?"
The vicar's head flashed toward him, his moist eyes gleaming in the lantern glow. “She's alive,” he murmured.
Howling like an animal, the boy reached out to take her from him just as the heavens opened and the promised rain poured down soaking them in seconds.
"No!” Elliot thundered. Crushing Mary closer in his arms, he staggered to his feet. “I'll see to her,” he insisted. “Get hold of yourself. Go quickly and fetch a doctor. Hurry, Colin . . . in God's name, hurry!"
But Colin had already disappeared in the darkness. Running on long, sinewy legs, he was racing up the path before the vicar had cleared the ring.
Stricken, Elliot cradled the ravaged girl against him as he waded through the undergrowth ignoring the nagging pain inching along his collarbone and the irregular pumping of his heart. Behind him lightning found the ring and struck one of the thin, flat capstones that crowned it, cracking it in two in a shower of hissing sparks. Though the slab shifted, it remained in place, but Elliot scarcely noticed. He struggled on, his head bent low in the wind, with only one thought driving him. He had to reach Cragmoor with Mary and deliver her into Amy's capable hands while the girl was still breathing.
* * * *
It was nearly two hours before Colin returned with Dr. Howard. At the height of its fury, the storm had slowed their progress. The road was flooded in spots and more than once the boy had to dismount and put his shoulder to the wheel of the doctor's surrey to push it out of the ruts along the washed-out roadway. When they finally arrived, he left the all but expired horse with Harris and joined the vicar in the study while Amy and the doctor tended Mary in her chamber.
The pitiless wind leaned heavily on the terrace doors flaring the portiers, and the damp fingers of a draft snaked their way over the floorboards teasing the crackling flames in the hearth. Colin shed his water-soaked mantle and raked his wet hair back from his forehead. His boots were caked thick with mud. His britches were torn, and likewise plastered with ooze and dried blood where the thorns had gouged him earlier.
He took a bottle of brandy and two snifters from the liquor cabinet, poured a measure into one of the glasses, and strode to the leather wing chair where Elliot sat slumped with his head in his hands.
"Here, drink this,” he said. “Christ, you look awful."
"I don't want that, Colin,” the vicar murmured.
The boy forced the glass into his hand and crimped his fingers around it. “Drink it, Elliot,” he charged. “God knows what Howard's going to say when he comes down. Drink it!"
While Elliot took a swallow from the snifter, Colin poured a glass for himself, tossed back its contents roughly, and poured another. “I'm going to find whoever's done this and I'm going to castrate him, Elliot,” he groaned, pacing before the hearth. “How long could she have been lying out there like . . . like that?"
The vicar shook his head. “I . . . don't know,” he said. “Is he a good doctor, Colin?"
"Howard? He's tended us since I can remember. He doesn't like me much, but that's no hardship—nobody does. Father swears by him."
"You ought to go up and get out of those wet things,” the vicar said. “My God, look at you! Your lips are blue."
"Not ‘til Howard comes down,” Colin said through a swallow from the snifter. “Father will have to be told. Christ, this will kill him, Elliot."
"I don't want to think about that now,” said the vicar. “There's no use in any case until we know what to tell him. For the love of God, must you pace like that, Colin?"
"It's either that or maim something,” the boy gritted. “But for this blasted storm, I'd be out on those moors right now hunting the animal that's done this. The bloody rain is going to wash away any tracks he might have left. We're never going to find him, Elliot. By the time this blasted storm is done he will have gotten clear to the Highland."
"We're going to have to leave that to the constable. There are more important things to be dealt with. We have to think of Mary. That's all that matters here now. She was barely breathing, Colin . . . and the blood. There was so . . . much . . . blood.” He looked in dismay at his hands, and at the cuffs and yoke of his blouse. They were covered with it.
Colin met the desolation in the vicar's ashen face with misty eyes. “Oh, my God, Elliot, I'm so sorry,” he murmured, gripping his shoulder.
"Settle down and drink your brandy,” the vicar charged. “Let me think—let me pray. That's all we can do."
But Elliot struggled with those prayers for over an hour, watching Colin finish half the bottle in a self-confessed attempt to achieve oblivion before the doctor finally joined them.
When George Howard entered the room, both Colin and the vicar sprang to their feet, their eyes begging as he set his satchel down with a sigh and strolled toward them. He was a portly, distinguished looking man of medium height, with a thick mustache and piercing hazel eyes behind rimless spectacles. Though he had clearly passed forty, there was very little gray in his auburn hair, except at the temples. But the eyes were key. They missed nothing. Just then they had focused upon Elliot, to whom he extended his hand.
"Vicar Marshall?” he said, “George Howard here. How've you been keeping? You're just this side of a nasty broken clavicle and a few cracked ribs, so I'm told."
"I'm fine, Dr. Howard,” Elliot replied, “but I'm not important here now."
"Well, you don't look fine to me,” said the doctor flatly. “I'll be tending you next, by the look of things. Sit down—the both of you."
The vicar ignored him. “Miss Mary . . . is she . . .?"
"She's alive,” said the doctor. Elliot's posture collapsed in relief, and Howard frowned. “But we have to talk,” he said. “Now sit! I've enough on my hands with that girl upstairs without you coming down on me, too."
Elliot sank back into the wing chair, but Colin stood his ground.
"You, too, young Chapin,” Howard barked. “This isn't pretty here. You're going to want something substantial underneath you."
"Whatever it is, I'll hear it standing,” Colin informed him.
The doctor dismissed him with a rough hand gesture. “Have it your way,” he said. “If you come down you can tend yourself, you cheeky young upstart."
"What is it, Dr. Howard?” Elliot begged.
The doctor sighed. “I've managed to stop the hemorrhaging,” he said, “and I've had Mrs. Croft brew an herbal draught to keep her under for awhile. She's been pretty brutally savaged. I've treated victims of rape before, but in all my years I've never seen anything quite like that up there. She's covered head to toe with lacerations and contusions. There are teeth marks on her breasts and thighs—not just impressions, mind you, she's been bitten. It's almost as if she's been mauled by some kind of wild animal."
The darkness had spared the vicar much of what the doctor was describing, and he swallowed hard. “My God,” he breathed, glad, indeed, of the chair supporting him.
"She has internal injuries as well,” the doctor continued, “but that's to be expected with rape, and they will heal in time without permanent damage—if we're lucky. However, it is vital that she have complete bed rest until I say otherwise."
"But she will live?” Elliot urged.
"Yes, she will,” said the doctor guardedly.
The look in his eyes as he pronounced the words triggered more alarm than relief, and Elliot's heart began to thump in anticipation of some new dread. “There's more,” he knew. “What aren't you telling?"
Again the doctor sighed. “As critical as the condition of her body is, I'm less concerned over that than I am over the condition of her mind."
"What do you mean?” Elliot breathed.
"Rape causes trauma, not only to the body, but to the
mind as well,” the doctor replied. “Sometimes it is the mind that suffers most. I fear that's what we may be dealing with in Miss Mary's case. It may, of course, be only a temporary condition brought on by shock. It's too early to tell."
Silent until then, Colin stiffened. “Oh, Christ!” he cried. “Do you mean to say she's mad?"
The doctor scowled at the boy. “I mean to say, young man, that the ordeal has affected her mind—to what extent remains to be seen."
They both converged upon him.
"She's regained consciousness, then?” cried Elliot. “How is her mind affected?"
"Did she tell you who did this to her?” Colin interrupted. “Was it the Gypsies?"
"One at a time,” said the doctor with raised voice. “I cannot answer both of you at once, and I shan't answer either of you at all if you don't remain calm."
Colin and the vicar fell silent, and Howard cleared his voice and continued. “She regained consciousness for a brief time before I sedated her,” he said. “During that time she was disoriented, babbling—she made no sense. She didn't recognize Mrs. Croft or myself, and her hysteria was such that I dosed her at once to prevent her thrashing about and undoing all the good I'd done to control the bleeding. She's a strong girl of sturdy stock. There is no reason to doubt that her body will recover. As to the rest . . . well, we shall just have to wait and see."
"Ahhh, God,” the vicar moaned, sinking into the chair again.
"I've taken the liberty of inviting myself to stay the night,” the physician said.
"Of course,” Elliot said vacantly.
"There's no use trying to get back to the village ‘til the storm slacks and some of the water drains off the road, in any case. Mrs. Croft and I have arranged to spell each other looking after the girl in shifts. She shouldn't be alone now—not ‘til we know where we stand. I'll have a better view of that in the morning."
"How long ago did it . . . happen, do you think?” said Elliot
The doctor shrugged. “It's hard to tell—probably just before dark. She's suffering from shock and exposure, and she's lost a good deal of blood. Let's just say . . . if you hadn't gone out there when you did, well . . ."
"We've got Elliot to thank for that, then,” Colin offered. “He insisted we go there straightaway when she didn't come down for dinner and we couldn't find her."
The doctor frowned. “What the devil was she doing out there anyway?” he wondered.
"The devil, indeed!” Colin put in.
"She's fond of the site,” the vicar explained. “She goes there often."
"That's a damned queer site to be fond of,” Howard blurted. “Well, there's no sense going into all that now, it's after the fact. I'll notify the constable as soon as I get back to the village. You'll want to send word to Sir John. I'll arrange for a messenger in the morning.” He turned to Colin. “Now then, young Chapin,” he said, “go up and get out of those clothes. You're soaked to the skin and I don't need you down with pneumonia."
"Elliot, are you going to be all right?” the boy worried.
The vicar nodded. “Do as he says, Colin."
"I'll see to the vicar,” said Howard. “Clean yourself up and go to bed. Tomorrow isn't going to be easy for any of us."
Colin snatched up the brandy bottle and started toward the door.
"Leave that,” said the doctor, “you've had enough as it is."
Colin glowered, waving the bottle roughly. “No, sir,” he said, “I'll have had enough when it's rendered me senseless, and even if I drank the cabinet dry, that wouldn't happen this damnable night!"
The doctor bristled, but before he had a chance to speak, Colin had disappeared into the corridor slamming the door behind him.
"Leave him be,” the vicar said emptily. “He's devastated with all this."
"Devastated, is he? Insolent young churl. Into the bottle at fifteen—hrumph, what does he think he's about?"
"Sixteen,” the vicar corrected, “he turned sixteen today. I'd planned a birthday celebration for him. Cook prepared a feast—his favorite foods. It's all grown cold in the kitchen."
"All right, Vicar Marshall,” said the doctor opening his satchel, “off with that collar and undo the blouse. I'll just have a look at old Smythe's handiwork, if you please. If you carried that girl all the way up here from those stones in this storm, God alone knows what you've done to the mend."
"Doesn't matter,” Elliot murmured.
"I think I've got the drift here,” said Howard, “and I can't tell you how sorry I am, but I don't like your color, young man, and we're going to address that for the moment."
Elliot stripped off the collar and fingered it absently. “A lot of good this has done me today,” he said bitterly. “You don't know how I've prayed, but God hasn't heard me. I doubt He ever will now."
The doctor looked him in the eyes. “Oh, He's heard you,” he said, “never doubt that, but what you've got to remember, young man, is that God has a mind of His own."
* * * *
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Chapter Nine
* * * *
The following morning dawned thick with cottony fog moving in from the headlands. Drifting aimlessly over the cliff, it crept inland past the dripping furze and black heather, and swept down the eastern rise to collect in the hollow like a shroud over the ring.
The flaw was over, but not without cost. It had uprooted half the wall of pink rhododendron along the path to the gardener's cottage, torn one of the stable doors off its hinges, and snapped a dwarf pine tree in two on the northern ridge. The house itself came through the fury for the most part unscathed, though the northwest turret had sacrificed part of its roof to the wind.
Colin didn't wait for the doctor to notify the constable. He was off at first light astride Gideon to make the report himself and join in the search for Mary's attacker. The vicar didn't try to dissuade him. The boy needed an outlet for the pent up emotion that was driving him then, and Elliot needed time to diffuse his own. He spent that time in the chapel awaiting the doctor's report. It came just before the breakfast hour.
George Howard looked strained as he entered the room. He hadn't slept, and the furrows in his brow seemed deeper than they had at their last meeting. One look into his eloquent hazel eyes turned the vicar's away.
"I'm sorry,” said the doctor. “I had hoped to bring you good news this morning, but her condition is unchanged."
"I've been sitting here trying to pray,"—Elliot shook his head—"but the words won't come. It's as though God has shut me out. I've failed here so miserably."
The doctor strolled closer. “How have you failed?” he said.
"Sir John left her in my charge and look what's come of it."
"That's no adolescent up there, she's a grown woman. Short of locking her up in her chamber, I don't see how you could have prevented this. I've had the whole of it from Mrs. Croft. What got into that girl—playing at witchcraft and terrorizing the household?"
"Loneliness and lack of supervision,” said the vicar. “I had hoped to change all that. Dr. Howard, is there no hope?"
"I haven't meant to presuppose that,” the doctor replied, “but the mind is a very complex thing. I had hoped to see some improvement after she'd rested. That would have made it easier to evaluate what's to be done here. She may still come ‘round on her own, of course, but I believe her derangement to be much more deeply rooted than the sort caused by temporary shock, and treatment in that area is quite beyond my skills. It's too early to say for certain. She's been through a ghastly ordeal, Vicar Marshall. All we can do now is wait. I know that's difficult, but there's nothing else to be done. I'm going to the constable straightaway. He's likely to be out here before tea."
"Colin has already done that,” Elliot told him. “He left at daybreak to report the assault and join the search. He's certain that the Gypsies who come and go in the marshes are responsible for this."
"Ummmm,” the doctor grunted, “he'll be i
n a cell by midday, the reckless young scoundrel."
"You don't like Colin much, do you, sir?” said Elliot.
"I don't like the cut of him, no. He's a disrespectful young whelp—a disgrace to his father, tearing about the countryside getting up to his scurrilous antics amongst the female population hereabouts. Colin Chapin pleases himself at the expense of others. That's going to cost him one day. He may be to-the-manor-born, as they say, but he's no gentleman, nor will he ever be."
"That's something else I'm hoping I can change."
Howard popped a cryptic laugh. “Good luck. Right now it's Miss Mary we need to be concerned with. You're short staffed out here, and as things are she's going to need constant supervision. If her condition persists, you're going to have to think about having her to asylum, where there are trained professionals able to deal with this sort of thing."
"No!” the vicar cried. “Her father would never agree to that. You know what those places are, sir. The inmates are more often than not cruelly abused and mistreated—at the very least they're subjected to gross neglect. I've ministered to some of the poor, wretched souls in asylums. How could you even suggest it?"
"You may have no choice. A middle-aged housekeeper, two serving maids, a lovesick vicar, and a hot-tempered young libertine are neither sufficient nor qualified to deal with the likes of what's up in that chamber. If she hasn't improved by the time Sir John arrives, I shall have no choice but to suggest that she be committed. Under the circumstances, I see no other option."
The vicar sighed. “He must be sent for directly,” he regretted. “If you could arrange for the messenger you spoke of? I don't dare leave here as things are."
"Of course."
"Don't tell him all of this, sir. She could have recovered herself before he arrives and he will have suffered needlessly. Just send word that he is wanted at once in regard to his daughter. That will bring him, and I'll deal with the rest when he arrives."
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