Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Malcolm ran toward the stable, his torn cloak sailing, and Exchequer followed after, stirring the waterfowl that had just fled there for safety into another churning mass of shrieking frenzy as the stallion's careless hoofs dispersed them.

  Still grappling with Ted for the pistol, Colin groaned. The sound sobered the boy, and he ceased his struggling, gasping for breath that the wind siphoned off as he tried to fill his lungs from air, become whitewashed with irate birds.

  Wrenching the pistol free of the boy's vise-like grip at last, Colin roared as he flung it high over the cliff with his wild right arm. Dazed, he soothed his left as he sank to his knees in the tall, swaying grass.

  Sobbing, Ted scrambled to his side. “Oh, my God! Oh, Uncle Colin, I've hurt you! That's fresh blood there."

  "Doesn't, matter, Ted,” Colin panted, biting into the pain with clenched teeth.

  "Oh, but it does, sir. I don't know what came over me just now. Oh, my God, I'd rather die myself than hurt you, sir. What have I done here?"

  Colin groaned. “It's all right, son,” he said, struggling for breath himself. “Where has the bastard gone?"

  "He rode off toward the south road just a moment ago. Oh, Uncle Colin . . .” He stared at the blood soaked bandages.

  Still breathless, Colin's voice became soft and controlled. Dazed with pain, he spoke haltingly, “You were listening at the door weren't you, son?” He knew.

  The boy nodded the head he'd dropped low.

  "Ted, you asked me before about your father,” Colin forced. “Do you have any idea how ill he really is?"

  Ted stared. “O . . . oh, my God, ‘tisn't serious . . . I mean really serious, is it, Uncle Colin?” His moist eyes pleaded.

  "Ted, you're not a child anymore. You're fifteen...you're a man now. I was a man at fifteen...before. I had to be!” He swallowed dry. “You're old enough to stand something...rather unpleasant I should imagine."

  "Oh, Uncle Colin!"

  "You love your father, don't you, son?"

  "You know I do, sir."

  "But you don't show that love all that often do you?"

  Bothered by the question, Ted clouded. “I try, Uncle Colin, really I do, but . . . Father and I, well, we don't have all that much in common, sir. He doesn't understand my passion for the sea, and I don't understand his passion for his God. But I do so want to please him."

  "Ted, he loves you very much."

  "I know that, Uncle Colin."

  "So do I, son."

  "I know that, too, sir."

  "I couldn't love you more if you were my own flesh and blood, nor could I love him more were he."

  "I . . . I know, sir."

  "Ted,” said Colin, looking him in the eyes, “your father's heart is failing."

  The boy gasped.

  "I'm sorry, son . . . the medicine he takes . . . he can no longer live without it should a seizure come upon him."

  Ted groaned. “I had no idea it was as serious as all that, sir, I swear it!"

  "I know that, Ted,” soothed Colin. “Lad, this here just now . . . if it had been anyone else standing there with that pistol, I wouldn't have lifted a finger to stop it, as God is my judge. But you, Ted . . . had you succeeded you would be facing the gallows. Had you failed you'd be dead. Either thing would have finished your father. Ted, were he to even learn of what just happened here, it might well bring him down. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, son?"

  "Y-yes, sir."

  "I shouldn't want him to discover what you tried to do here today. I don't want to lose him, Ted."

  "Neither do I, sir,” sobbed the boy, wiping his running nose.

  "I don't want you to come here again,” said Colin, his voice barely audible.

  Tears flooded the boy's eyes, glistening in the half light. “N-not see you again, sir?"

  "Oh, no—no! I'm not angry with you, son. I'll come to the vicarage. I'll be there often now, but you mustn't come to Cragmoor again. You must stay away from Malcolm. He's a coldblooded murderer. He killed Harris, my stabler."

  Ted paled. “Mr. Harris? Oh, my God!"

  "I cannot prove it, though I have proof. Unfortunately I cannot use it. Your father doesn't know that, either. Oh, he suspects, but he doesn't know for certain. Ted, you must not go near Malcolm again. I've told you that in the past and you've disobeyed me. You cannot disobey me here now. You are no match for such as that . . . I'm beginning to doubt that I am, though I wouldn't admit that to anyone but you, son. I must impress upon you the importance of this, Ted. You must not put yourself in the way of danger. If you should come to harm it would kill your father outright, and that is just what Malcolm wants. Do you understand me, son?"

  The boy nodded, hiding his tears behind a shaky hand.

  "There is no shame in your tears, Ted. I've shed many a tear over your father myself over the years, and I am no less of a man for it. Now be a good lad. Take Ely there . . . and go back ‘round to the vicarage. Can you ride without a saddle, son?"

  "Yes, I think so, sir."

  "Good. Take the footpath. You might meet Malcolm if you take the road. And Ted, tell no one what's just happened here. Go straight home at once and take care of your father. He needs you, lad."

  "But, sir . . ."

  "Don't argue, son. Just do as I've said."

  "But your arm, sir. I've hurt you badly, I know I have. I can see it.” He scrambled to his feet. “I'm going to send Dr. Howard out here as soon as I get back."

  "Don't tell Howard, Ted! You can't tell anyone. Haven't you heard me? It mustn't get back to your father. I'm depending upon you. Don't fail me, son."

  "Oh, I won't tell him what really happened, but I am going to send him, the minute I get back. Oh, sir, I'm so terribly sorry . . ."

  "Never mind, just go along now while Malcolm has gone off . . . and . . . and before your father wonders where you are."

  Hovering over Colin slumped below, the boy hesitated, anguish distorting his handsome features. “I love you so very much, Uncle Colin,” he moaned with passion. Then spinning on his heels, he ran off sobbing into the wind toward the gelding pawing the heath nearby.

  Gripping his throbbing arm, Colin watched Ted climb up upon Ely and drive him over the heath toward the footpath at a gallop. Staring after him, he marveled at the ease with which the boy sat the horse bareback, and admiration swam in his moist eyes observing his flawless posture and command of the animal underneath him.

  But pain soon tugged him back to the situation at hand. Groaning, he staggered to his feet and stumbled dazed toward the stable. Fresh rain had begun to pelt down. Racing before the wind, clouds issued the downpour hard upon him on a slant, attacking him broadside, and he moaned, the pain-wracked arm taking the brunt of it.

  He'd scarcely reached the corner of the building when he saw Jean running toward him out of the rain splinters from the house, her cloak spread wide on the wind. Suddenly her arms were around him, supporting him, and she led him into the stable out of the rain through the wide flung doors.

  "Oh, Colin!” she cried, looking toward the blood-soaked bandages. “My God, what have you done? I saw what happened just now from the window. Who was that boy?"

  He groaned again, holding her close. “Ted Marshall,” he panted.

  "The vicar's son?"

  Colin nodded. “He tried to kill Malcolm out there. I can't go into it all now, there isn't time."

  She searched his bandaged arm with frantic arms. “My God, how did you do this, Colin? It's serious! You're bleeding badly."

  "Never mind about that. Malcolm's gone off and you're going out of here right now."

  "I can't leave you like this!"

  Despite the pain he shook her. “Now you listen to me,” he snarled. “Malcolm tried to kill Elliot yesterday. He damn near succeeded! And I know what happened the other night when he came back. He nearly raped you. I heard it, Jean! There's more. Megan . . . She saw us. That's why I had to let her go. I frightened her out of her bloody wits I'll gran
t, but she's a vindictive bitch, and I've no doubt in my mind that she'll have a mouthful to say to Malcolm as soon as she catches up to him in the village. That's probably where he is right now. I'll hear no more argument. I'm taking you to the livery. I'll hire a coach to take you to London—to Ramsey House. It used to belong to my father. Elliot's father-in-law, Giles Sayre owns it now. I told you I'd form a plan. I've written him a letter. You'll be safe there until I come for you."

  Bending, he pulled her close and covered her lips with his dry, scorching mouth. Holding her there he swayed, and she steadied him pulling back. “Colin, you can't even walk! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

  "I'll be all right in a bit . . . just . . . just let me get my breath."

  It seemed an endless space of time before he moved in her arms. Cold sweat beaded on his burning face, and his eyes were dilated with pain when he looked toward her again.

  She gasped, laying her cool hand on his brow. “You have a fever, Colin,” she cried. “Your skin is on fire! You can't ride to the village like this—not in this storm."

  "If I can stand I can ride,” he murmured. Still saddled, Exchequer stood pawing the ground in the stable doorway, and he grabbed his reins. “Climb up,” he charged, “go on . . . he looks formidable, but he won't hurt you."

  "Colin, you're ill, you can't do this."

  Swaying, he clutched the horse's mane, leaning against his sleek, black breast, but vertigo and nausea swallowed his vision and he moaned, sliding down to the floor semi-conscious at the snorting animal's feet.

  Screaming, Jean knelt down beside him lifting his weight from the injured arm and smoothed the wet hair back from his forehead.

  "Blast,” he spat.

  "We have to have the doctor. What do I do—how do I fetch him?"

  "Ted is fetching the doctor,” he breathed, writhing in her arms.

  "And you would take me away instead? Oh, Colin! I'll fetch Mr. Stanley. You cannot stay in this stable like this. Malcolm could return at any moment!"

  "No,” spat Colin, “that fool will go straight to Malcolm bragging about how you brought him to my rescue out here."

  "No—no, he won't. He knows how you two hate each other and it's terrified him so thoroughly I believe he's on the verge of a nervous collapse. If I ask him not to involve me he'll keep silent. He's a gentleman, Colin, if nothing else, and I'm sure he'll be only too glad to take all the credit for your rescue."

  Colin shook his head. “Never mind me. Get on this horse and go, damn you, Jean! Take the footpath. Turn left at the Cross and you'll run right into the livery. Take the notes and the letter for Giles in my pocket and go! The address is on the envelope. Take them!"

  But he didn't hear her protests. He moaned again and his head lay still in the straw.

  Jean sprang to her feet and ran out into the storm toward the house. Agitated by the suddenness of her flight, Exchequer snorted, pawing the floorboards, and nudged his master, nuzzling him with his wet nose. There was no response, and the horse tossed his head, his anxious whinnies amplified by the blasting wind funneling through the open stable doors. Bending once more, the animal nudged him again, but still his master didn't move, and he dropped his proud head down like a shield, his flared nostrils close against Colin's hot face...waiting.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Forty-three

  * * * *

  Colin opened dazed eyes in his chamber two hours later to the blurry sight of George Howard bending over him. There was a rumbling sound in his head, like the moan of a mournful wind. It was the murmur of his own groans.

  "Howard?” he breathed, as the doctor's portly image came into focus.

  The doctor grunted. “How'd you do this, Chapin?"

  Colin moaned again. “Stumbled,” he lied shutting his eyes, for the amber glare from the lamp on his nightstand made them smart.

  "Drunk, no doubt,” spat the doctor.

  Colin heaved a ragged sigh.

  "Well, you've done a proper job of opening it up,” Howard growled in disgust. “Chapin, I warned you. This arm is mangled badly. You're running a fever and there are signs of infection.” He gestured toward his handiwork. “I've stitched you up again and I've cleaned it to the best of my ability, but you've got to go to hospital where you can get proper care in a sterile environment. If you don't, I'm telling you plain, you're running the risk of losing that arm!"

  Colin's glazed eyes stared. “I can't leave this house, Howard. No hospital,” he murmured.

  "Chapin, have you heard me? That there is serious. It needs constant attention by qualified people. You can't get that here in this damnable, understaffed mausoleum for all its grandeur. Do you want to lose that arm, man?"

  "I will not leave this house, Howard. That's the end of it."

  "Christ on His throne! Are you mad now as well as drunk and lascivious? All that aside, you're hardly dull-witted. Chapin, you've got to listen to reason."

  "I considered this arm lost the minute I tore it open. I'll take my chances right here."

  The doctor breathed an exasperated sigh. “You've lost too much blood. You've got to be built up. Should that infection set in—take hold, your body won't have the strength to fight it. You could die. Be reasonable, man. I'm trying to help you, Chapin, Christ alone knows why. You haven't the God given sense to help yourself!"

  Colin laughed. “I appreciate your concern,” he said sarcastically, ‘but I'll have it my own way. No hospital. And don't you dare carry tales to Elliot. He's on the mend . . . don't muck things up."

  "I think you're trying to kill that poor man apurpose. Chapin, you are without a doubt the most selfish, impervious bounder I have ever had the misfortune to come up against. It's bloody near all I can do to honor my oath in tending the trashy likes of you. I wish to Christ you'd find another doctor."

  Colin gave a crisp nod. “I don't remember calling you out here, Howard,” he spat, “Ted Marshall did that against my wishes, and if there were another doctor hereabouts you wouldn't have been troubled I assure you.” He smiled wryly. “But not to worry, you might be glad you've been engaged after all. I should imagine you'll take great pleasure in sawing this arm off if it comes to that."

  "Christ on His throne, you are a ghoul!"

  "Am I?” flashed Colin. “Am I, Howard, or are you?"

  The doctor bristled. “You are obviously still drunk,” he said. “I've no time to waste sparring with you. I should be at the vicarage seeing to Elliot. I'm going to go down and have a word with Amy Croft about your diet. You're to have porter—as much as you can hold. It'll build your blood—and plenty of lean red meat. You'll do as she says. I'll be ‘round to check on you when I can. Meanwhile, you stay in that bed—flat on your back, Chapin, by yourself—no whoring. Am I coming through clear to you, man?"

  Colin glowered in reply, and Howard snatched a bottle of laudanum from his bag and dosed him. “Don't move that arm,” he brayed, slapping the bottle and spoon down on the dresser. “Then again, I honestly don't know how you can stand to. It's raw meat!"

  "You don't have to tell me, ‘tis my raw meat. I can feel it."

  The doctor took up his satchel and yanked the door open. “Well, you'd best thank God that you still can,” he barked, slamming the door behind him.

  * * * *

  Five days later, George Howard was summoned again to Cragmoor. Ira was sent on the mission, and seeing the doctor's surrey beside the vicarage as he rode by, he hurried in through the vestry, met at the door by Ted.

  Minutes later the boy, drained pale, entered his father's chamber where Howard sat chatting. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Elliot, “Mr. Stanley has come from Cragmoor to fetch Dr. Howard.” He turned to the doctor. “'Tis urgent I think, sir,” he whispered, intending the last for Howard's ears alone, though the vicar heard.

  "What's happened?” he cried, vaulting erect in the bed. “For God's sake, Ted, what's wrong? Is it your Uncle Colin? It is isn't it? Oh, Georg
e!"

  "Settle down, Elliot,” barked the doctor. “Lie still. I'll fill you in, don't worry.” He turned to Ted. “Where's Stanley?"

  "I-in the study, sir,” stammered the boy.

  The doctor marched out, and Elliot threw back the quilt and swung his feet over the side of the bed.

  "Father,” cried Ted, running to his side, “you mustn't get out of bed, sir."

  "Hand me my dressing gown,” snapped Elliot. “Hurry, son."

  "But Father . . ."

  "Never mind, I'll fetch it myself.” But getting to his feet, he swayed.

  "Oh, sir, you're going to fall,” Ted worried, slipping his arm around him.

  "Blast!” snapped the vicar. “Help me, Ted. I'll have whatever it is from Ira myself, since I can't trust any one of you to tell me the truth."

  "Father, please, you mustn't do this. You mustn't go downstairs, sir. You aren't strong enough yet."

  "Oh, no? Well, you just watch me, son,” he said, moving toward the door.

  Supporting him, Ted moved alongside matching his slow, faltering steps. When they reached the study, Ira gasped at sight of Elliot drained pale, leaning upon his son's strong arm. “Oh, dear me, Elliot,” he breathed, “should you be out of bed?"

  "No, he should not!” barked Howard. “Ted Marshall, what the devil do you mean, bringing him down here? Explain yourself."

  "I couldn't stop him, sir!"

  "Don't bark at Ted, George,” said Elliot angrily. “I've still got enough life left in me to do as I bloody well please.” He turned to the artist. “What's happened at Cragmoor?” he pleaded. “What's wrong?"

  The doctor cast Ira a baneful glance, and he met it with a wince, mopping at his moist brow with a wrinkled handkerchief. “N-nothing serious, Elliot,” he stuttered.

  "Ira Stanley, we've been friends for nearly twenty-five years. Don't you dare lie to me,” the vicar warned.