by Pearl Wolf
Nothing to be afraid of here. Just some old cobwebs in this dust-filled cellar. Probably hasn’t seen use since the days of the Goths. Spiders have taken up residence. There’s air here somewhere. If there weren’t, the lantern would be of no use. There must be an opening somewhere. Else how would air find its way in?
When she reached the bottom step, Helena exhaled in an effort to banish the fear in her heart. She swung the lantern slowly to the right and to the left and saw nothing but uneven piles of straw, mouse droppings and thick layers of dust everywhere. She stepped still farther into the heart of the old cellar, wondering how far she ought to proceed before turning back. Cook was right. There was nothing of any value down here.
She spied an opening—an entryway into some sort of room—in the far corner to her right. She had more than enough light left to explore it, thinking to discover where the air was coming from. As she approached, she wondered idly why there was a cleared narrow path on the floor making her way easier. Who had made it? Where did it lead? Torn between curiosity and unease, she continued on with caution. The door at the top of the stairs banged shut.
Helena froze.
London
Waverley departed for Land’s End in low spirits. He’d already wasted enough time in coming to London, to no purpose, as it turned out. He might have known the duke would turn him down once he’d read of the fiasco at the Glynhaven ball. He had a good notion as to whom it was who wrote that anonymous letter to the duke.
It had to be Glynhaven, the sneaky sod. He’s bent on destroying me. He arranged for Saltash to bring Madame Z’evareau and her women to the ball. Damn the man! He continues to be a thorn in my side. But to what purpose? Glynhaven’s actions stem from nothing more than envy.
He took the road to Bristol, one of the better roads England had to offer, which wasn’t saying much. Most English roads were rutted and sadly neglected, causing many a stagecoach to overturn with disastrous effect, not to mention unwary riders whose horses step into deep holes. Waverley kept a sharp eye out for these, for he had no wish to take a tumble. His side was still sore from the flesh wound Saltash had inflicted.
What could he say to Helena? How could he explain it to her when he hadn’t even told her why he went to London? Should he confess that he was afraid she might be with child? What possessed her to dupe him? No matter, for the fault lay with himself. He should have been strong enough to resist temptation.
Would she accept her father’s harsh edict? Her father was a powerful man. Dare she disobey him? What then? There was always Gretna Green, he supposed.
No. He couldn’t deprive her of the joys of a family wedding. She’d already suffered enough over Darlington’s rejection and the vicious tongues of London gossipmongers. He couldn’t subject her to the shame of a runaway marriage. He couldn’t do that to the woman he loved. It would be better by far to give her up for her own sake.
He’d begged the duke to believe his wild ways were all in the past. Who was he fooling? His infamous past ended a mere three months ago when Darlington found him at the most well-known house of ill repute in all of Paris. Though Waverley lived at 12 rue Chabanais, it was not the only bordello he visited, to be sure, but it was his favorite nevertheless.
To satisfy an insatiable lust had been the opium of choice, for he found nothing else to mask his despair. Try as he might, he could not eradicate the burden of sixteen unhappy years spent in exile; an expatriate without a home. And when she didn’t answer his letters, he’d assumed his grandmother wanted nothing to do with him as well. It never occurred to him that his father would not allow his grandmother to receive his letters. How glad he was to find she still loved him. But his father was dead. Now the gulf between them would never heal.
He stopped at a stream to rest his overheated horse. Thank God his grandmother loved him. It was a solace but it wasn’t enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. Without Helena he faced a bleak future indeed, for she was the first, the last, the only woman he’d ever loved. He could never love another.
Waverley Castle
“No!” Helena shrieked and raced to the top of the stairs. She tried to open the door, shoving as hard as she could, but her efforts were futile. Instead, she placed the lantern on the top step, fumbled with trembling fingers for the skeleton key in her pocket, and found the keyhole. As she tried the key, she again met resistance. Petrified, she pounded on the door and screamed as loud as she could, a futile gesture. The old door was far too thick for noise to penetrate. Besides, the first cellar was not likely to be occupied. When her arms grew tired and her voice grew hoarse, she sat on the top step, engulfed in despair.
Keep calm. Think. Someone is bound to notice I am missing. If Amy were here, she’d be sure to look for me. At the very least, Emma will report that I have not yet returned to the kitchen, and that I am still down here somewhere. When they don’t find me in the new cellar, surely they will have sense enough to search for me here. Even without a key, strong men can break the door down. I’d better move away, so the door won’t crush me when they do. Dear God, I hope it’s soon. My wick is reaching bottom. This is no time to panic. Water! I hear the sound of water running. Yes! It’s coming from that corner of the room. Maybe it will quench my thirst. Smells damp enough.
Helena rose and held the lantern high. She started back down the steps, but when she was halfway down, she lost her balance. She tried to reach for the wall on her right for support, twisted her body in that direction, but she fell to the bottom, her face buried in a pile of rancid straw filled with rodent droppings. The lantern flew out of her hand and all was dark. She groped for the lantern, almost grateful it went out before it set the straw on fire.
She tried to stand, but her right leg buckled. Delicate French heels were not meant to traverse rickety wooden steps, she thought, disgusted with herself for not having worn the sturdy walking boots old Brindle had made for her. She managed to hop to the wall and lean on it for support.
Helena removed the offending shoe. The heel was wrecked. Brindle would fix it—if she managed to get out of this place alive, that is. She sighed and removed the other shoe, aware that she would be unable to hobble on one delicate shoe. She placed both on the lowest step. Had she broken her ankle? She wasn’t sure. Gently, she pressed her tender foot down, but the pain shot through her like a shaft of lightning. She raised it again, took deep breaths, and rested against the wall to gather her strength. She hoped she would reach the source of the water at the end of the wall, and quickly.
She slid against the wall, hopping on her left foot all the while. When she reached the opening, she heard a soft moan. Her heartbeat quickened. Is that an animal? No. That sound is human.
“Who’s there?” Her croaking voice was one she did not recognize. “I…I have a gun!”
A keening moan, stronger this time, pierced the air. It was a groan of pain, she realized. “Who are you? Can you speak? Try. Please?”
“He…lp,” a weak male voice quavered.
“Make more noise so I can follow your voice. I have no light.” Her back to the wall, she found the opening. She sidled into what appeared to be a corridor and inched her way in the direction of the weak, but repeated sound.
“Help, hel, he…”
She heard a faint but continual tap. Water seeped down the wall behind her back, drenching her gown.
“Here. Over here,” the weak voice whispered.
“Where? Keep tapping.” Helena stumbled and nearly fell. She reached down and felt the head of a…a man? Yes. It was a man.
She slid down the wall and sat next to him. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
“Le Clair,” he gasped. “Captain of Le Coq d’Or. Shipwrecked. All dead. Murdered. Hid myself. Found cave. Crawled in here. Who…who are you?”
The man spoke only French, a language in which Helena was proficient. She answered in kind. “I am Lady Helena Fairchild and we are in the cellar of Waverley Castle. The door blew shut, but someone is b
ound to find us when they find that I am missing, for I am a guest of the Marquis of Waverley. How long have you been here, sir?”
“Don’t…know. Long time. Water drips down wall. Thank God.”
“The water kept you alive?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve had no food? For how long?”
“Don’t know. Days…weeks.” His head fell forward, as if the effort to speak had taken all his strength.
“All right, Captain Le Clair. Try to rest while I see what I can find.” She wondered what it was she’d be able to do for the poor man. Indeed, she wondered what she’d be able to do for herself as well. The thought that neither of them would ever get out alive brushed her mind like a fever, but she thrust it away. She would not give in to her fears. Not now. Not ever. Surely help would come soon.
Helena reached down to touch her ankle. It had swollen, yet it did not hurt as much. Not broken. Just bruised, thank heaven. She grabbed the damp lace hem of her petticoat and pulled it taut with both hands until it ripped. She tugged at the stitches in order to remove them so she could tear the hem into strands of cloth. The task kept her mind from the terror lurking at the edge of her soul. When she judged she had enough, she wrapped the strands tightly around her swollen ankle and knotted it.
“C-cold. So…cold,” Le Clair whimpered in a whisper.
“I’ll try to fix that, Monsieur Le Clair.” Helena removed the shawl tied around her shoulders and covered him as best she could. She felt his thin bones as she did and wondered if indeed he would live long enough to survive this ordeal.
Le Clair’s hand touched hers, a sign of gratitude at the little bit of comfort her shawl afforded him. “Re…René,” he breathed.
She was moved to tears at his touch. “There, there, René,” she said, feeling helpless all the same. “Close your eyes and rest, sir. I’m going to leave you for a bit, to search for food, but I’ll be back. I promise.”
She inched her way to a standing position, her eyes having become better accustomed to the dark. When she tested her foot on the ground, she could not set her heel down without wincing in pain, but she could use her toes and the ball of her foot to keep from falling. She turned to the wall and gathered a bit of water in her hand to ease her thirst. It was akin to swallowing one small teaspoon at a time, yet it tasted like rare wine.
Thus fortified, she began to explore her surroundings. She felt her way back to the larger part of the cellar and inched along the wall opposite the steps. One hand touched a crevasse and she drew it back in fright. Yet there was…something. Something curious, she thought, willing herself to return her hand and feel about. She ran her hand up and down first. And realized it was a set of shelves, some rotted and eaten away, yet the first one she touched was intact. Built long ago by the Goths, no doubt.
With great caution she reached back until her hand hit the wall of the shelf and touched something round, not smooth but full of grit. Helena grasped it and drew it toward her. It was the size of one of Cook’s jam jars.
Did the Goths know how to make jam? Might it still be good to eat? Suppose it’s turned poisonous after all these years? How would I know if it is? I wouldn’t, would I? What a gruesome thought. No matter. We either die of poison or starve to death.
She felt the top of the jar. A metal ring held it firmly against a rubber seal, which made her again wonder at the similarity to Cook’s jars. She reached under her wet gown and tugged the rest of her petticoat loose. There was enough left to fashion a sling around her neck into which she placed the jar. She slid up the wall and made her way back to Captain Le Clair.
She sat down next to him and tore yet another strip from her fast-disappearing petticoat. She used the wet cloth to wipe centuries of grime off the jar. Clever, those Goths. They knew how to make glass, too.
Helena tried to pull the metal ring in order to open it, but it refused to budge.
The weakened man raised his head. “What is that noise?”
“I found a glass jar. From its weight, there may be food in it, but I don’t have enough strength to open it.”
“Food?”
Helena heard his stomach grumble. “I don’t even know if it’s safe to eat, Captain.”
“If it isn’t safe, it would smell rancid. Can you…break the jar?”
“Let me try.” She placed the sling around the jar, held it by the bottom and rapped the top against the wall. They both heard the crack.
“May I smell it?” Le Clair asked, inching his way into a sitting position. Without a word, she placed the jar in his outstretched hands. He removed the fabric and said, “The bottom of the jar is in one piece. No splinters of glass. Good sign.”
It seemed to Helena that his voice grew stronger with anticipation. She hoped he would not be disappointed. “Does it smell rancid?”
“No. It smells sweet. I should like to try it, with your permission, Lady Fairchild.”
“I give you leave to forgo all formality, René. My name is Helena. Go ahead and taste it, but be careful. You haven’t eaten anything in days. Put just a drop on the tip of your finger.”
He did as she suggested. “It’s…it’s jam. Sweet, sweet jam. Raspberry, I think. Would you like some, Lady Helena?”
She smiled at his gallantry, certain he’d been starved. “No. I had breakfast not long ago. Go ahead, Captain, but just a little. You’ll have to wait a bit to see to its effects on you before you eat any more.”
“A wise idea. I’ll give you the jar for safekeeping.”
He did so, but not before Helena heard the faint sound of slurping. The starving man was licking his fingers. “That’s wise, sir. Why not lie down again and rest? Help will come just as soon as they discover I am missing, I promise you.”
Chapter 21
Thursday, the Fourteenth of May, 1818
Waverley reached the castle just as the sun came up. “Rub my horse down well, Jess,” he said to the stable boy. The orphan he had purchased from the poulterer turned out to have a way with horses. “I’ve ridden him too hard, Jess.” He threw the lad his reins and strode toward the kitchen, the closest entry to the castle. The smell of fresh-baked bread and God only knew what other goodies wafted into his nostrils, reminding him he was famished. He had not stopped to dine in his haste to return home to Helena, preferring instead to buy bread and cheese he could eat on the way.
“Morning, Cook,” he said cheerfully. “What’s that I smell?”
Cook’s bleak red eyes stared at him in surprise. “Is it really you, milord? Thank God you’ve come home at last.”
“What’s wrong? Is it my grandmother…?”
“No, milord. The dear dowager is well. It’s…it’s…” She began to sob into her apron.
“For pity’s sake, ma’am! Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”
Trudy appeared in the doorway carrying an armful of wood. “It’s Lady Helena, milord. She’s gone missing.”
His heart sank. “What do you mean? When was this? Did she leave no message? Tell me what you know, lass,” he urged.
“Emma said her la’ship came down here on Monday. She et some scones wi’ her chocolate. Told Emma she was agoin’ to inspect the cellar. No one’s seen her since, milord.”
“She’s been missing for three whole days? Has no attempt been made to find her direction?” He grabbed a hot scone, burning his hand. “Bloody hell!”
Cook took a handful of butter, smeared it on his hand, and wrapped it with a cloth. “Here is some water for you to drink, milord. I’ll wrap some scones for you to take.”
“Just one, thank you, and I’ll be off.” Waverley raced back to the stables, where the lad was still attending to the horse he had ridden. “Where’s Casper?”
“He went to Sennen Cove to fetch Amy, your lordship.”
“Put the brush down, Jess, and show me what steel you’re made of. Saddle up a fresh horse for me at once.” He ate his scone while he waited. When Jess brought forward a fine bay, the marquis mo
unted and said, “Now run up to my chambers as fast as you can. Tell my secretary to meet me at the front door.”
He raced round to the front of the castle.
Rupert was waiting for him. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Lady Helena is missing. We’ve searched everywhere, but her ladyship is nowhere to be found, sir.”
“Yes, I know. As soon as Casper comes back, tell him to organize a search party for her.” He wheeled around and rode off in the direction of the cliffs at a punishing pace. His frantic mind began to envision all sorts of disasters befalling the woman he loved. The wind kicked up, sending a chill through his bones. He couldn’t focus his mind on anything but Helena. How would he go on living without the woman who had stolen his heart? Why couldn’t he breathe? Why did his hands tingle at the recollection of touching her? He urged his horse on. A seagull perched on the edge of the rock ledge that ran above him squawked as if to object to the noise of the horse’s hooves. The gull screeched and soared away.
When he reached the road above the sea, Waverley tied his horse to a tree and climbed down to the beach over the slippery moss-covered stones. The marquis turned his head at an unfamiliar sound. At first, there was no one in sight, but soon he made out a small figure running toward him and shouting at the top of his lungs. When he reached his master, the lad fell to his knees, his frail chest heaving, his breath coming in short bursts. “I run all the way,” Jess panted.
Waverley waited to give the lad time to catch his breath. “What is it, son?”
“I heered summat that’ll help us find milady.”
“Go on,” said the marquis, ignoring the lad’s effort to include himself in the search. “What did you hear?”
“That Trasker feller came to the stable to ’itch up ’orses to ’is carriage. ’Is ma was wif ’im. I hid cuz ’Arry allus cuffs me for no reason when ’e sees me.”
“What did you hear him say, Jess? Tell me quick, lad.”
“’E said summat ’bout lockin’ ’er la’ship somewheres where it ’ud soon be so far under water, nobody ’uld ever find ’er. An’ then ’is ma said ’e did good.”