‘Now, now, my pretty!’ came Carstairs’s silken tones as he advanced towards her. ‘Why so glum? I vow we shall have the most merry frolic, you and I. Come, my dear, a little less of these dismals, if you please.’
He reached out a pudgy hand, but she backed away from him, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Take your hands off me this instance!’ she panted. ‘This is a holy place—have you no respect?’
His lip curled. ‘I wasn’t thinking of desecrating the building,’ he purred, as he lunged at her. ‘But, if it will make you feel better, I’m perfectly amenable to finding somewhere a little more comfortable.’
Nimbly, she slipped from his grasp and, with a new-found determination, started to run back down the aisle to the main door but, in spite of his lumbering girth, Carstairs managed to leap in front of her and, with a snarl of triumph, he barred her way. Desperately, she looked around for some other means of escape, but could see no way of evading his advances. His hot, sweaty hands were upon her and he was pulling her still resisting body towards him.
‘W-wait—wait!’ she beseeched him, her mind straining to focus on some way to distract him from his evil intent. Some sort of delaying tactic? She took a deep breath. ‘Wh-what more c-comfortable place had you in m-mind?’
His eyes narrowed and he stared down at her suspiciously. Making a supreme effort to disguise her feelings of disgust and repulsion, she forced herself to return his look with a steady gaze. ‘It is hardly comfortable in here, now wouldn’t you agree?’ If only she could get him out into the open again where, surely, someone would see her plight.
He looked down at her heaving bosom and then cast his eyes at the rows of solid oak pews that surrounded them. He lifted a hand and traced his finger along her jawbone and down her throat, causing an instant shock of sick horror to run through Georgina’s body but, keeping her eyes fixed upon his, she exhorted him once more: ‘Your carriage is outside. Surely that would be far more suitable?’
He let out a coarse bellow of laughter and Georgina shuddered as the obscene sound echoed throughout the sanctified building. ‘So, the little lady is getting eager to sample the wares, is she?’ he said softly, his fingers now stroking at her bodice. ‘But how can I be sure that you will not try to escape as soon as we venture into the open?’
She steeled herself to suffer his damp caresses. ‘And, pray, why should I want to escape, sir?’ she asked, resolutely trying to keep her tone light and her manner towards him pert and saucy. ‘I am sure your carriage would be far more private—in here we might easily be disturbed—as we were before, if you recall!’
Frowning, he hesitated then, nodding his head in agreement, grasped her firmly by the wrist and proceeded to haul her towards the door, where he stopped for a moment and bent his lips close to her ear. ‘No tricks now, madam, or it will be the worse for you!’ he hissed. ‘And not a single murmur from those luscious lips until I have you safe and sound!’ Still clutching her wrist in an iron grip, he pushed open the door and thrust her out of the church in front of him.
Georgina stumbled into the sunlight, distractedly searching for some sign of Latimer or even Rupert but, as before, the little square was deserted. Tears of hopelessness and frustration welled up into her eyes as the realisation finally dawned upon her that there was no way on earth that Carstairs was going to let her walk freely across to his carriage. Numbly, she allowed herself to be propelled towards the lych-gate where, in a final frenzied attempt to save herself, she tried to wrench her hand from his grasp.
The sudden unexpected action caused Carstairs to stumble and cannon into her. Uttering a savage oath, he clutched at the back of her gown with his free hand in an effort to maintain his footing, causing Georgina to fall backwards against the archway’s rough brickwork. The beginnings of a cry started from her lips but, as her head hit the pillar, the sky and the grass and the leafy trees whirled around her and merged into one dizzying vortex and she knew no more.
Chapter Fifteen
Having allowed more than enough time to reach his destination, Latimer had dressed himself with extreme care before setting out from Blanchard’s Cottage, for he was determined to create as creditable an impression of himself as it was possible to achieve within the bounds of the restricted wardrobe he had brought with him.
He had brushed his top boots until they shone and, after donning the last of the clean shirts that Mrs Jacklin had placed in the warming cupboard, he had shrugged himself into the more respectable of the two jackets he had packed. Examining himself critically in the long glass in the hallway, he had then professed himself reasonably satisfied with the reflection and had left the cottage, intending to take a leisurely stroll up to the village, having assumed that he would be well in advance of Georgina—should she have received his note and, as he had then been forced to remind himself, been willing to meet him.
Just as he was rounding the bend in the lane, he saw the little group from Westcotes emerging from the gate and, at once, hung back, feeling in no mood to parry Katharine’s girlishly pointed remarks nor to deal with young Rupert’s patently obvious earnest veneration of him.
He grimaced with dismay, for he now realised that Georgina would reach the appointed meeting-place before he did and his intention had been that she would arrive and find him waiting for her. After several minutes he once more ventured forth and, having satisfied himself that the group was well out of sight, he set off towards his destination once again, mulling over the carefully chosen phrases he had spent all morning rehearsing and miserably wondering whether Georgina would be in the least bit influenced by his ardent rhetoric.
He had hardly gone more than a few yards, however, before the sound of a rapidly approaching carriage disturbed his tumultuous thoughts and, conscious of the fact that the country lane narrowed considerably at this point, he took himself up on to the sloping grass verge in order to allow the vehicle as much clearance as possible.
His brows contracted in alarm as he saw the equipage come hurtling in his direction, the ancient carriage rocking from side to side most dangerously as its driver furiously whipped at the sweating horses, clearly intent upon encouraging the exhausted beasts to an even greater speed.
The offsider was so close to Latimer when it passed him that he could hear its belaboured snorting as it went by. Even had the window curtains not been pulled shut, the speed at which the carriage flew past was enough to prevent him from giving him a sight of any of its occupants. As it was, he found himself forced to take immediate evasive action to avoid being hit by the carriage’s large rear offside wheel but, even as he stepped swiftly out of harm’s way, he felt his foothold slipping on the damp grass and, before he could help himself, he had toppled backwards into the roadside ditch, now full to overflowing after the recent deluge.
Violent profanities sprung from his lips as he savagely hauled himself upright and, climbing out of the muddy trench, he stared down at his ruined garments with an expression of outright horror. His breeches were soaked and noxiously filthy, as was the better of his two jackets and his perfectly polished boots were covered in a black slimy mire. Grinding his teeth in frustrated fury, he realised that there was absolutely no way that he could turn up to meet Georgina in his present dishevelled state and, turning angrily back in the direction from which he had come, he stalked off to the cottage to change his waterlogged apparel.
By the time he had ripped off the offending garments and grabbed up the creased and slightly begrimed clothes he had been wearing earlier, some fifteen minutes had elapsed, during which time he heard the racketing sound of the carriage returning from wherever it had gone, which, he calculated, could only have been as far as the crossroads at the bottom of the lane, since this would have provided the driver with the only suitable place to turn his vehicle round. Latimer, in the process of pulling his shirt over his head, managed to leap to the window to witness it speeding past the cottage, back on its way to the village, he presumed. Just let the devil still be in the vicinity wh
en I get there, he told himself wrathfully, as he attempted to re-tie his soiled and sadly crushed stock.
Seething with angry frustration, he shot out of the cottage and tore back up the lane at the double and, although he realised that it was now inevitable that he would be far too late to keep the appointment, he was determined that he would at least try to waylay Georgina on her return journey to Westcotes, if only to crave her pardon one more time.
Breathless, his lungs almost bursting with the Herculean effort he had made, he rounded the final bend into the village and immediately careered into an ashen-faced Rupert Cunningham, whose terror-filled expression instantly stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘Rupert!’ he heaved, desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘What’s up, old chap?’
The boy collapsed into his arms. ‘It’s Gina, sir,’ he gasped, as Latimer strove to prevent him falling. ‘A man—he took her—a black carriage—he dragged her up the road—oh, sir-sir—what shall we do?’
A frisson of fear ran through Latimer’s body but, planting the youngster back on his feet, he placed his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders and shook him gently, saying urgently, ‘Make sense, Rupert, there’s a good fellow. Where’s Georgina—where are your sisters?’
The boy swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘There was a black carriage, sir,’ he blurted out. ‘We had to jump out of its way—anyhow, that doesn’t matter now. I went to the shop and Gina was waiting on the church bench but, just as I was crossing the green to come back, I saw this man—I don’t know who he was—he had hold of Gina and was dragging her into his carriage—she dropped her reticule, sir—and then—then…’ He choked and was unable to continue.
‘Did you—did you see which way they went?’ asked Latimer, with a strangled croak, grimly conscious of his own lack of transport. He looked frantically about him for any means by which he could pursue the villains and was confronted only with the dispiriting sight of a couple of elderly nags tethered to the inn’s hitching pole. ‘Which way, Rupert?’ he repeated, his agitation growing.
Pointing a shaky finger in the direction of the lane which led to Dunchurch, ‘Towards the turnpike, sir,’ he said, a glimmer of hope coming into his eyes as he studied Latimer’s expression. ‘But the horses were blowing hard, sir—the driver had already whipped them all the way down past your place and back again—they must be pretty done in by now. Surely they can’t have got very far?’
‘Take the dogs and get on home, Rupert,’ Latimer instructed him quickly. ‘Tell your mama what’s happened—but try not to frighten her. I’m going after them, but you’ll have to get Radley and, possibly, some of his men—I may need help.’
‘But how, sir?’ Rupert queried, as Latimer turned sharply away. ‘I mean—how are you going to go after them?’
‘Don’t worry, Rupert,’ said Latimer purposefully. ‘Just do as I ask. Get home as fast as your legs can carry you and get some help.’ He then strode swiftly across to the hitching-pole outside the Running Fox and untied the more able-looking of the two horses. Unhooking the nosebag from which it had been nuzzling, he tossed it carelessly to one side, leapt smartly into the saddle and, wheeling round, broke off a supple switch from an overhanging birch tree. Then, kicking his heels into the startled beast’s scrawny girth, he was off across the green and down the lane to the Dunchurch pike before the astonished Rupert had even reached the corner of the green.
Doing his utmost to encourage the elderly mare into an unaccustomed gallop, he eventually managed to persuade her to achieve some semblance of speed. Not having stopped to consider how he was going to tackle the abductors, even if he were fortunate enough to catch up with them, his mind now dwelt on the almost impossible task ahead of him. He was unarmed, he had no clear idea of where the group might be heading or how many were in their number but, be it ten or fifty, he swore that he would go to any lengths to prevent any harm being done to Georgina, even if he died in the attempt, for the idea of a future without his ‘perfect angel’ at his side was too wretched to contemplate. In any event, he thought grimly, without her what reason would he have left to carry on living?
He wondered what could possibly be the motive for such an audacious daylight abduction. Georgina was hardly in the super-rich heiress category and, even if the recently restored uncle had promised the family that they would, forthwith, be unencumbered with any more financial difficulties, it had been Latimer’s understanding that Sir Arthur Cunningham was worth no more than the average successful city merchant. For anyone to go to such dangerous lengths for what, by his reckoning, could surely only be a paltry few thousand seemed somewhat excessive, he ruminated thoughtfully, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. Now, had it been himself whom the kidnappers had chosen as a suitable target for ransom, he could have understood the motive, for he would have paid any amount of money to ensure Georgina’s safety, but he was reasonably certain that no one in the vicinity was aware of his real identity. Apart, that is, from Mansell and Eleanora Cornwell, and he would find it difficult to countenance such an outrageous act of violence from a man of the cloth. There had to be some other answer to the abduction, but what it could possibly be was beyond his comprehension.
Less than two miles from the village and, despite all his efforts with the improvised whip, along with a combination of vigorous imprecations and wheedling entreaties, he was unable to prevent his elderly mount from gradually slowing to a shambling trot. They had not yet reached the turnpike and Latimer wondered dismally whether Rupert had yet arrived at his home and, if so, how long it would take him to persuade his mother to call on Radley to provide assistance. He was uncomfortably aware that the boy’s frantic message might easily be construed as just another of the practical jokes that Rupert was so fond of playing and would have been amazed to learn that anything he had said to the lad had had even the slightest effect on that young rip’s behaviour.
Doggedly, he urged his rather less-than-trusty steed on, with never a sight nor sound of the shabby black carriage and pair or, indeed, any other form of life, apart from field after field inhabited by herds of incurious sheep and cows until, some distance in the lane ahead of him, he spotted a travelling packman, complete with his heavy load of trappings. Latimer, after hailing him, reined in beside the man and asked if he had happened to notice the elusive vehicle and had it, by any chance, passed him on the road.
The packman shook his head. ‘Been nothing along this way, zur,’ he affirmed. ‘You’m the first soul I seen since I struck out from Comp’n Lacey more’n an hour since. Quiet as the grave she’s bin!’
An unfortunate turn of phrase, thought Latimer grimly and, after thanking the man and tossing him a half-sovereign, he wheeled his mount round and began to retrace his steps. He recalled that he had passed several tracks and bridleways, but had dismissed them all as being far too narrow to accommodate the width of the bulky carriage he had witnessed outside his cottage and, on his return journey, was still inclined to rule out the first three of these dirt tracks that he came upon, for much the same reason.
Pausing at the opening of the next track, he weighed up its possibilities. It seemed slightly wider than those he had previously rejected and appeared to lead into some sort of densely wooded area, which, as he now realised, would make an ideal hiding-place. In addition, he noticed that the ill-kept hedgerows on either side bore signs of recent damage, with broken twigs and crushed hawberries strewn on the ground below them. A vehicle of some sort had certainly passed this way, he concluded and, tentatively heading the mare up the track, he kept his eyes and ears finely tuned for any clue which might lead him to the villains’ hideout.
He had ridden some two hundred yards, perhaps, while the profusion of trees that grew on either side of the dirt track gradually formed an ever-thickening canopy of greenery above his head and eventually blocked out most of the light from the late afternoon sun when, coming from only a short distance in front of him, he could have sworn that he caught the sound of a horse’s
whinny. Carefully dismounting, he tethered his own nowexhausted nag to the branch of an overhanging tree and crept stealthily forward on foot, keeping as close to the neglected hedgerow as was feasible, relying upon the fact that its dimly lit recesses would preclude any lookout from immediately observing his presence.
Ahead of him, the little track curved gently to the left and, as he rounded the bend, Latimer was confronted with a large clearing where, to his immense surprise, he beheld the ruins of what had obviously once been a working windmill. With what was left of its cap now open to the sky, its winching-chain swung idly from what was left of the fantail frame and the skeletal remains of two of its sails creaked jerkily from left to right in response to the light summer breeze. Five storeys high, it now stood in dejected abandonment, its base choked with huge clumps of nettles, thistles and a profusion of other weeds.
Latimer ducked back and, concealing himself behind the trunk of a wizened old elm, he carefully scrutinised the apparently deserted compound. Apart from the ruined mill itself there lay, on its furthermost side, a couple of ramshackle buildings that, he assumed, had once been storage barns. It was from one of these buildings that he once again heard a horse whinnying, followed by the unmistakable sound of the jingle of traces, which confirmed his suspicions that this was, in fact, the place to which Georgina’s abductors must have brought her. He glanced over to the mill and perceived that, apart from the door to the wrought-iron upper gallery, which was situated some twenty feet or so above the ground, there were only several small window slits on this side of the clearing, none of them large enough for a man to gain entry, even if he were able to climb up to them. He judged that the main entrance to the mill must be on the opposite side of the building and would, unfortunately, be in the direct line of sight of any guard or lookout who might have been posted in the barn to waylay any intruders.
Dorothy Elbury Page 20