by Joan Smith
She continued looking at him, mute. She could not have spoken if she wanted to. She was paralyzed with fear and shock.
"Come, now, you have nothing to fear. When I go and you remain, they'll know I have it, and be chasing off after me. I am better able to handle their sort. Two ladies have no chance against them. Where is it?"
She licked her lips. "I don't have it," she said, her voice a mere whisper.
"I repeat, where is it?" he asked, his voice becoming harsher.
"I gave it to Carlisle."
He shook his head. "Try again. I went through his room and case with a fine tooth comb. I fancy you played him the same stunt you played me. I assume you had one of your blank calling cards pasted under the lining of your valise. He would not still be hanging around if it had been the real letter. You've still got it." His eyes made a tour of the room, then settled on her body, appraising it as he had when first they met. "I believe on your person is the likeliest place."
"Did you see it when you watched me undress?"
"No," he answered quietly, with a little flush. "Your back was to me the whole time. I didn't see anything ... I mean ..." He quickly caught himself up, becoming hard, insistent again. "Hand it over, or I will be forced to take it. If I have to strip you naked, Miss Bradford, I will do it. Make no mistake about that."
"Please, I don't have it."
"Take off your dress," he said in a completely impersonal but very firm tone.
She looked, clutching at her bosom. She slowly arose and began backing away, toward her aunt's door, hoping against hope to arouse her. He raised the gun, cocked it, the metallic click sounding like thunder in the closed room. "Back this way, to the bed—away from the door," he ordered. When she remained motionless, he took her arm and pulled her back roughly.
"I don't like this any more than you do. A great deal of unpleasantness and time can be spared if you'll just hand it over. I will deliver it for you. For God's sake, give it to me, Vanessa!" he said, his voice rising louder than before. "I don't want to do anything we'll both regret."
She swallowed convulsively, and inched back. His hand flew out and grabbed her, pushing her against the wall.
"You bring it on yourself," he charged angrily, then reached out and grabbed the top of her gown, gave a wrench that ripped it open to the waist, revealing her camisole. With only a second's hesitation, his fingers closed over the top of this. A ring on his second finger scratched against her soft flesh, while every finger pressed hard against her bosom.
"Sure you don't want to change your mind?" he asked, examining her closely. His eyes slid from her face down to her half-exposed breasts, which rose and fell from her turbulent breathing. His own breaths were quick and shallow. There was a nervous, febrile quality in him that had not been there before. Without any experience in such matters, she knew it was caused by those fingers, twitching against her white breasts. He seemed fascinated by them, making it easy to believe Harvey's warning of the revenge awaiting a woman at this man's hands. "Well?" he asked, tightening his hold, ready to rip away the last covering.
"Wait. I'll get it," she said.
"Good girl." A smile flickered quickly over his features. He looked for a moment, then his head swept down and he kissed her—only a fleeting kiss, but full on the lips. He lifted his head reluctantly. "Danger is the greatest aphrodisiac in the world. Did you know that?" he asked.
"What?"
"And you, undressed, run it a very close second."
She held her breath while he slowly uncurled his fingers from her camisole, to let them slide over her breasts, taking more time than was necessary to do it. At last he took a step backward, no longer touching her with anything but his eyes.
She looked around the room, searching for a weapon. She had left her poker in Harvey's room. Nothing else looked large enough or strong enough to disable him, even temporarily. Then she saw Elleri's traveling clock, its brass frame holding the glass that protected the works within. Its sharp corners were suitable for her purpose. She took a quick step past him; he was after her, reaching for her arm.
"It's there, in the clock," she said. He came along with her, still holding onto her, still with the pistol in his left hand, but hanging down by his side now. She reached for the clock—he held her hand away from it, with a look more arch than anything else.
"You wouldn't fool a fellow, would you? Funny the clock is still running," he mentioned, looking at her suspiciously.
"I folded the letter up tight. It's behind the brass backing. It will have to be unscrewed. Do you have anything ..."
"My clasp knife should do it," he said. He let go of her for a moment while he reached into his inner jacket pocket, having a little difficulty to extract the knife with one hand. She picked the clock up, not swiftly, to reveal her plan, but in a casual way that did not alarm him. Then, while his head was turned down toward the pocket, she swiftly raised the clock and brought its square corner down hard against his temple. He fell to the floor with a little groan. She didn't know whether she had killed or only wounded him, and didn't care much at that instant. At least he was immobile. She ran to the curtain, extracted the letter, threw on her bonnet and pelisse to cover her rent gown, picked up her reticule and dashed out the door, without telling her aunt or anyone. She wanted only to escape, to run while she had the chance, to take the letter and not stop running till it was safely delivered. There was no time for a masculine disguise, or a groom to protect her. There was only the blind panic that said "escape."
She went downstairs to the lobby, where the staff was just beginning preparations for the morning. In the short interval she had been with Kiley, the sun had risen. "When does the first coach leave?" she asked the clerk.
"At six-thirty, ma'am. You have plenty of time. You can grab a bite of breakfast first, if you like. The coffee will be ready presently."
"Thank you. I can't wait." She ran out the door into the street. It was cool in the first light of morning, and practically deserted. There was a man driving a milk cart toward the inn, and a man going into a shop, stopping to unlock the door, obviously the proprietor. She had not thought to ask the clerk which direction the coach stop lay.
She ran across the street to enquire this information of the shopkeeper. As she hastened along, she caught the loose toe of her shoe on a cobblestone, pulling it loose, right back to the heel. It flapped, hampering her progress, lending a grotesque air to her fleeing steps.
"Can you direct me to the coach stop?" she asked.
He looked at her pale, harried young face and took pity on her. "Yes, miss, it's two blocks down the street, on your right. Are you in some trouble?"
"No, just in a hurry," she answered.
"There's no rush. You've three-quarters of an hour yet."
"Thank you." She glanced up to see what manner of a shop he had, wondering if it were not safer than a coaching house. When Kiley came to and found her gone, he would check first the stable at the inn, then the coaching stop.
"Would you like to come in and wait?" he offered. It was a drapery shop. "I usually make myself a pot of tea before the customers come in."
The shop was across from the inn, giving her a good view of comings and goings there. She could see if Kiley came out, without being seen by him. A drapery shop too would have needle and thread to repair her torn gown. "Thank you," she said, and took a step toward him. He noticed her shuffling walk, and soon saw its cause.
"I can fix that for you. I have a hammer and some tacks out back. I use them for small repairs about the shop. It will take care of you till you can get to a proper cobbler. I don't have a last, but we'll stick a bit of metal into the shoe. I hope the tacks don't go through the insole to pierce your toes. You can always put some cardboard inside your shoe if the tacks come through."
He chattered on in this amiable fashion while they went inside. Although it was quite dark, he did not light candles. In fact, he bolted the door behind them, explaining that he was not actually open
for business yet. This gave her some feeling of security.
"Thank you. You are very helpful," she said.
"I'll just light my little fire and set the water boiling for tea. Then I'll fix your shoe for you."
She thought for a moment, then said, "Why don't you bring me the hammer and tacks, and I'll tack it while you start the fire?"
"Do you know how to use a hammer?" he asked, laughing. He seemed a nice fatherly gentleman.
"I'll manage. What am I to use for a last?"
He poked around behind his counters and came up with a flat piece of sheet metal, which he inserted for her. It was not the right shape, but was better than nothing. He heard the slow, tentative tapping while he made his fire, smiled to himself at the unlikely picture of an elegant young lady turning cobbler. He also wondered what scrape she had fallen into, but in the end decided it was none of his business. If he started asking questions, he would only end up having to give her money. Poverty did not appear to be her problem, though.
Vanessa stationed herself at the counter for her chore, with a clear view of the inn. There was a little traffic, but neither Kiley, Carlisle nor her aunt came out. The kettle was humming by the time she finished her job. There was no time to find needle and thread; already the cups were rattling. She hastily grabbed up a few loose pins from the counter and pinned her torn gown, in a temporary way, then pulled her pelisse over her shoulders, to conceal the rough job.
The draper smiled at the mess she had done of repairing her shoe—it looked lumpy, amateurish. She had got the sole pulled crooked, poor thing. They drank their tea while she quizzed him about coaches, and especially their destinations.
"The first to leave is the day stage to London. It's slow—the public stage, stops everywhere. It would get you in around four this afternoon. Is it London you're off to?"
"Yes," she answered, sticking to her decision to follow that route, in hopes of fooling Kiley.
She checked out the window, across the road to the inn, before leaving the drapery shop. "It's a bit early yet," the man pointed out.
"I want to be sure to get a seat. Thank you so very much."
"You're entirely welcome, my dear."
He shook his head, to see her pelt down the street as if the hounds of hell were after. Running away, he figured, and no more able to take care of herself than a baby. But what she lacked in experience she made up in determination. She would have a seat on that stage if she had to sit on the box with the driver, wearing a man's drab coat and hat.
The situation was not quite so desperate. There was a seat inside. She read the posted schedule, disliking that it was such a slow stage, stopping at every hamlet. So much chance for mischief, for being overtaken. The mail coach would be definitely better, faster, but unfortunately it did not arrive for some hours, and her first priority was to get away from Colchester.
While she stood worrying, an elegant old dame strode up beside her and stopped, arms akimbo as she looked all around. She had gray hair, a good but ancient black outfit and a hatchet nose that lent an air of breeding to her.
"Where is that wretched boy?" the dame asked, of no one in particular. "I shall never take my grandson up in my carriage again." She turned to Vanessa, to have someone to complain to. "He must be forever running off to the stables to talk to the grooms. I declare we shan't be to London before noon."
As she spoke, an elegant black carriage harnessed up to a team of four was led out. "Only look at the wretched job horses they have saddled me with," the woman jawed, but the team were deep-chested bays, capable of a good speed. Vanessa glanced over to the day stage, to compare. But there was no comparison; even without all the necessary stops, the stage could never keep pace with this rig. Besides the groom, there was a man mounted behind for protection. A little boy of six or seven came darting up to the woman.
"Come along, dear," she said impatiently. "Always the same," she added aside to Vanessa. "Traveling is a dead bore. I shan't leave my home again if I can avoid it. I would not be going to London now, but my grandson is going to visit his cousins there. They are taking him to Brighton for a holiday, eh, Bobbie?"
"I am going to go sailing in the sea," the boy announced proudly. He was a bright-eyed boy, but with a pallor that suggested the reason for the holiday was therapeutic.
"Traveling by the stage is much worse," Vanessa said, pinning a pitiful smile on her face.
"The stage! Good gracious, you never mean a lady like yourself is traveling by the common stage! I made sure you were awaiting your carriage. And unchaperoned too," she added in deep disgust.
Vanessa feared this solecism was going to rob her of a seat in the woman's carriage, which she had set her mind on as vastly preferable to the stage. The sprightly bays' harnesses jingled as they chomped at the ground, eager to be off. And the carriage half empty! She took her courage in her hands to talk herself into an invitation. "It is a case of the greatest urgency," she began. "My father brought me from Chelmsford, where I was to be met, but the carriage did not come for me. I cannot imagine what happened to it. It must have met with an accident, I suppose. I have never been on a stage before. I hope it is not too horrid."
The woman hesitated a moment before answering. At length she asked, "Where are you going, my dear?"
The question was hardly necessary. The customers present were all going to London; that was the only stage leaving at that time. "To London, ma'am."
"Why, you must come with me. I shall be happy for the company. This sad rattle of a fellow will be nodding before we have gone a mile. Small wonder too," she added. "He was up till midnight. A very noisy inn we stayed at, the Three Cups. I did not like it above half."
With a sigh of joy, Vanessa climbed into the carriage, behind the dame, before her grandson. "Where are you bound for in London?" the hostess asked. "But first, we must exchange names. It would not do to share a carriage with a total stranger," she added, in accents rather similar to Miss Simons. "My name is Mrs. Euston." She glanced to her new companion for an appreciation of this fact.
"I am Vanessa Bradford," she answered, without a single fear in the world now. She had her protection. She mentally selected a relative in London, for she must actually go to one after delivering her message. "I am going to stay with my aunt, Mrs. Halford."
"I see. Where does she live?"
"In Belgrave Square."
"You never mean it!" the woman exclaimed, her eyes widening in delight.
"Why, do you know her?"
"Know her—my dear, we shall be neighbors. I am taking Bobbie to Belgrave Square, to the Winterses' home. My daughter married Sir Horace Winters, the magistrate. They live in that fine old brick mansion just at the top of the loop. A great drafty place in winter, but it will do well enough in this weather. I fully expect we shall be parboiled with the heat before we get there. Where did you say you were from, Miss Bradford?"
"I live near Hastings."
"You would not be Colonel Bradford's girl?"
"I am a general!" Bobbie informed them.
"Yesterday he was an admiral. I believe I have met your papa. My late husband was with the Foreign Office. We knew many of the military. Very likely I have met him, though I cannot attach a face to the name."
"Papa is tall and dark—he was in India for some time. His hair is gray now." A vivid picture of her father reared up in her head. She was proud and happy that she was at last accomplishing the job he had given her.
"We knew all the Indian military. Of course I know him. I remember him very well now. He was used to tease Bertie, my late husband, about something or other. Some orders your papa sent to England that were never filled, or not to his satisfaction, at any rate."
This sounded very like her father, to be dissatisfied with officialdom. She could hardly credit her luck in falling in with a friend so felicitously.
"So you are going to visit the Halfords." Mrs. Euston smiled happily. Then her grandson began wetting his finger and drawing on the window glass,
which brought their conversation to a halt while he was reprimanded. Far from dozing off, the boy was a positive plague throughout the trip, scrambling over their feet every time a carriage or even a dray horse was passed on the road. Intermittent conversation had to be kept up for appearance's sake, for Mrs. Euston was fond of talk.
Vanessa bore these petty annoyances with goodwill, knowing circumstances would have been worse on the stage and would have endured for more hours. It was a relief when Mrs. Euston said, "We shall have to stop for a change of team soon."
The relief soon turned to consternation. Public stops were seen as jeopardous. The woman's next statement was pure delight. "I have cousins a few miles along the road. I change there, usually. Arrangements have been made for me to do so on this trip. It is very convenient having friends and relatives sprinkled about the countryside. Not so convenient when they are passing by my home, and making use of my facilities, but there, they scratch my back and I scratch theirs."
"My back is itchy," Bobbie said. "Are we going to stop at Uncle Euston's?"
"Certainly we are, and you must not get dirty in the stable."
Soon the coachman turned off the main road, to drive the carriage down a smaller road, a lane really, with scarcely room to pass. "I cannot imagine why Reginald does not widen this sheep path," Mrs. Euston scolded. "He should have some thought to his visitors' carriages, if he don't care for his own. We'll be fortunate if we don't lose a wheel."
When they approached the house, no more than a thatched cottage, Vanessa rather wondered that Reginald could afford to have a road at all, and not that he did not improve it. They were let down at the front door.
"Take the carriage to the stable and hitch up the new team at once, Bottom," she commanded. "We shall take a cup of tea, but nothing more. We do not want to waste a whole hour here. A little rest will not go amiss, however. You and Barnes take only one glass of ale, mind. We don't want you tipsy."