“And God will see to it, my friend.” He gripped Oliver’s arm in a weak hold. “Never lose hope.”
“But we can do this! We can—”
The hammer of a gun ratcheted. So did Whimpole’s voice, both overriding the noisy sheep. “Quit yer jawin’ and get to work!”
“Yes, sir!” he and Jarney shouted and turned. Sweet mercy! Whimpole stood on the other side of the breach, three paces away. How had he drawn so near without a sound? Then again, it made sense the deadening whoosh of wind and baa-baaing sheep could just as well work against them as for them.
Jarney advanced a step, stumbling as the next gust nearly took him down. “Permission to haul rocks, sir?”
Whimpole lowered his gun and flipped up his collar against the rain, a growl rumbling in his throat. “Reuse what’s fallen.”
Oliver gained Jarney’s side, mind whirring. If they weren’t allowed to range farther into the moor, he’d have to come up with a different plan of escape, and, Lord, but he did not want to use violence. He motioned towards the ground. “Look for yourself, sir. The rocks here are nothing but crumbles. We use those and we’ll be back out here next month, guaranteed. Plus it’ll take twice as long, since we’ll have to—”
“All right! All right.” Whimpole turned aside and spat. “Just get it done, but only one o’ you retrievin’ at a time. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
Apparently satisfied, Whimpole shambled back to his post against the wall. Jarney plodded off, shoulders wilting. From relief or from his fever? Oliver lifted his face to the rain, letting the fine spray wash away the blood left from Barrow’s fat fist.
God, grant Jarney strength enough to leave this place behind—or grant me the power to carry him.
Stanchioned by faith alone, he set to work. Jarney hauled him a rock. He broke off the edges to fit snug against those on the wall—taking care to strike the iron hasp on his shackles every other swing. By the fifth stone, he’d added a layer to the fence and cracked the cuff-pin on his right wrist. Four more rocks, and the other was nearly freed.
But each successive trip cost Jarney more than the man could pay. Sweat dripped from his brow. Heat radiated off him in waves. His eyes sank deeper into the sockets, and blue rimmed his lips. This had to stop.
When Jarney handed him another rock, Oliver leaned in close. “We’ll switch places after the next one, then you free yourself. I’ll take on Whimpole, and we’ll run.”
Jarney nodded…or did he? Hard to tell when his friend shook so much from cold and exhaustion.
“You are a good friend, Ward. Truly. But I cannot make it. You know I cannot.”
“But if we—”
“No!” Jarney’s voice rang out surprisingly sharp.
Oliver tensed. That one little error could bring their wild attempt crashing down upon their heads. They both glanced in Whimpole’s direction.
The man sat like a lump of coal, hat brim pulled down, shoulders hunched. Had he dozed off?
Oliver unlocked his clenched jaw. “Jarney, listen to me.”
“No, you listen.” His friend’s grey eyes burned into his. “Promise me you will run. Fast and far. Clear your name, then come back for me.”
Oliver shook his head. “I cannot leave you. I will not. It isn’t right.”
“Yet it is the only way.” Years and tears and lines carved deep into Jarney’s face. “You’ll not get another chance like this, and you know it.”
A sigh ripped out of him. Blast! Was nothing ever right or good on this side of heaven?
“Get yer lazy backsides to work!” Whimpole growled, his head rising just enough to skewer them with a cancerous gaze.
And that was it. No more time to argue. To plan. To think.
Oliver gripped Jarney’s arm. “I’ll come back for you. I vow it.”
A sad smile lifted half of his friend’s blue lips. “Of course you will. Godspeed.” Then he turned and staggered off.
Oliver’s throat ached as he watched his friend pick his way over the mounded scrub, clutching his belly with one arm. How wicked the ways of men, when the poor must suffer while the rich wallowed in their wealth. He ought to know. He’d seen both sides.
White-hot fury rose up from his gut, choking him, and he swung the hammer. Hard. The wearied metal cracked and the shackle broke free.
“Stop!”
He froze. Heaven help him. Whimpole had seen.
But no. The guard shot to his feet and leveled his gun at the scarecrow shape edging across the desolate landscape. “That’s far enough, Jarney. Get back here.”
Jarney didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. He lumbered on, stumbling ahead, until the mist draped his form like a burial shroud, and he disappeared.
Whimpole heaved out a string of curses, then slip-ran in a cockeyed gait after Jarney.
Godspeed, indeed.
Oliver yanked the bonds off his wrists, gouging flesh and not caring, then threw the chains to the ground. A minute later, his shoes lay beside them. Though he hated to take the time to do so, he ripped off the bottom half of his shirt and hastily tied the shreds around his feet, then picked up the hammer and took off at a dead run.
He followed the wagon trail. Ahead, the wall curved. He’d cut right, then tear onto the moor and—
A gunshot boomed. Flaming pain cut into his arm, and his step hitched. But he couldn’t stop now. Not ever.
Sooner than he liked, he veered off into the rugged wasteland, a single burning prayer pumping hard with each heartbeat.
God, have mercy. God, have mercy!
Hopefully He would, for it would only be a matter of time before Piggins and the dogs were set loose after him. Or worse. Constable Barrow.
And then there’d be no mercy.
Chapter Two
Three days later
The edge of Dartmoor, near Lydford
Nights like these, when the wind shivers the bones of the great old house, ghosts of my past waft about unmoored. Inevitable, really. One can never fully leave behind the souls of those held dear.
Oh Papa, are you well? Are you safe? Do you even think of me?
Enough! Giving myself a mental shake, I shift in my chair and tilt my worn volume of Jane Eyre to catch more of the lamplight. The familiar words are my truest friends. Though I’ve read the thing countless times, the story never fails to thrill. As a girl, I anguished with Jane and longed for my own Mr. Rochester. But not once had I imagined that like my favorite heroine, I would be shut away here in an isolated house with secrets locked behind the doors. An eerie coincidence, that. Yet the comparison ends there. Jane had her Mr. Rochester to love. I have no one.
And never will.
A touch to my shoulder jolts me from my thoughts, and I peer up from the page to a peaked face. My maidservant, Nora, is every bit the timid little bird as Jane, standing there silent in her black gown and starched white apron. How she manages to keep so pristine even at this late hour is a testament to her ethics. The woman is driven beyond all distraction. Always tidy. Forever precise. Even the way she holds out the cup of tea for me is elegance perfected.
I lay the book in my lap and take the cup with a smile. “Thank you, Nora. Don’t worry about the dishes. You’ve had a long day, so retire early if you like.” I nod towards the scruffy sheepdog sprawled near the fire. “Malcolm and I shall be going to bed shortly.”
At the mention of his name, Malcolm lifts his head. After a cursory glance to discover if any bones or mutton fat are involved, he plops his jowls back onto his paws and closes his eyes.
Nora nods, then leaves as quietly as she arrived. She belongs here, on the moor, appearing and vanishing like a mist.
Wind howls in through the loose windowpane near my elbow. The low moan garners an open eyelid from Malcolm. I turn my back to the draught and drink my tea in a few gulps, then rise. Better to curl up with my book beneath a warm counterpane than suffer the chill of a rousing spring tempest.
Bending, I collect my
novel and saucer, then trade the warm sitting room for the cool of a dark corridor and head for the kitchen. The passageway twists, but no matter. I can roam it with my eyes shut now.
Paws pad behind me. I am Malcolm’s sheep—the only one he herds and cossets. I found him on the moor that first week I arrived. He was half-dead, savagely beaten by a shepherd’s rod. Whatever the crime, no dog deserves such a thrashing. To this day he favors his left foreleg, but it never stops him from racing over rocks and heath. I fancy we are a lot alike. Wounded but not overcome. Braver than anything life throws at us.
But that’s a lie.
With a sigh, I pick my way to the washbasin. The first drops of rain pelt the window as I set down my empty cup, the clatter of porcelain against soapstone adding to the percussive beat. Malcolm brushes against my leg, and I pat him on the head. “Come, boy, off to bed with us.”
A growl rumbles in his throat, and he tenses beneath my touch. My pulse quickens. Something’s not right, not if he—
The door bursts open. I slap my hand to my chest, a strangled scream flying past my lips. My book plummets to the floor.
Wind and rain usher in a dark shape. Malcolm bounds ahead, greeting the intruder with a sloppy lick to his hand. I wilt against the sink, catching my breath.
“Steady on, Mrs. Dosett. Din’t mean to give ye a fright.” My manservant pulls off his hat and dips his big head. “My pardon to ye.”
“No pardon required, Dobbs.” I retrieve my book and shake it in the air, blaming my skittishness on a novel. “I ought not be filling my head with such vivid imaginings on a stormy evening.” Malcolm circles back and rejoins my side, and though he leans hard against me, I am grateful for his watchful care.
Dobbs hangs his hat on a peg and shrugs out of his coat, sucking in a breath as his arthritic shoulder catches on the fabric. Despite his age and ailments, he is a tree. A bit bent, but an ancient, sturdy oak, as hardworking as Nora.
But that doesn’t stop me from verifying his tasks are completed. “You took care of the burn pile?”
“Before the rain started.”
“The barn door is secured?”
“Tight as a cork in a bottle.”
I step away from the washbasin. “Only after the animals were settled, though, yes?”
“Aye, but I don’t mind telling ye I had a hard time of it, especially with ol’ Black Jack, the rascal. I’ve yet to meet a giddier pony.” He secures his greatcoat on a peg next to his hat, then faces me. “Not that I blame the beast, mind. There’s a wicked wind coming off the moorland, more than just blowsy. Got an edge to her, the sort that curdles the blood. The Whist Hounds’ll be roaming tonight, and that’s for certain.”
I press my lips flat. Dartmoor residents are steeped in superstition, inmates of their own fearful penitentiaries. But are we not all captives to our singular peculiarities?
I grip my book in both hands and lift my chin. “Good thing we are snug in the house then, hmm? And with that thought, I bid you good night.”
I retrace my steps past the worktable, but as I reach the door, Dobbs calls out. “Might I have one more word, missus?”
I turn. So does Malcolm. “Of course.”
“Been meanin’ to speak with ye since this afternoon.” Dobbs draws near, his boots falling heavy on the stone tiles. “When I were in the village today, old Nacker gave me a note from my sister o’er in Thorndon Cross. She’s ailin’ and asking me to stop by. Wondered if ye could get along without me for a week or so?”
Absently, I reach for Malcolm’s head and twine my fingers in his fur. “Is it that serious?”
“Dunno ’til I go.”
“I suppose you are right.” My brow folds, and I’m glad the shadows hide it. It won’t do to have him reading my thoughts. I hate the idea of Dobbs leaving. A manservant is a necessary evil—one I am loath to part with.
I relish the silky feel of Malcolm’s fur, a solid reminder that he will be here for me, no matter what. “When would you leave?”
“First light, weather permittin’.”
“I see. Well…” It’s rude to hesitate. Offensive to even consider denying his request. But do I have enough supplies on hand until he returns to avoid making a trip into the village? Or—for shame! What am I thinking? I release my hold on Malcolm, heat burning up to my ears. Have I become as self-centered as those I fled from in the first place?
I flash him a smile. “Go then, and with my prayers for your sister’s speedy return to good health.”
He bows low. “Many thanks. I’ll be back a’fore ye know I’m gone. I wager ye and Nora will be safe enough without me. Oh, and missus?” He dares a step closer, and Malcolm immediately wedges his body between us. “I know yer penchant for walking, but leastwise while I’m gone, take a care and stay close to the house, aye? Many a man has met his end in a bog or a crag or a’followin’ a pixie. I won’t be near ‘bouts to help should ye cross a patch o’ trouble.”
True. I’ve heard the tales of those lost and ruined on the moor. I turn, calling over my shoulder as I tread into the shadows. “Thank you, Dobbs. I shall keep that in mind.”
And I will… but honestly, it is not the moor that I fear.
Chapter Three
Some days are meant for running free. Hiking your skirts and bounding over tufted grass in an expanse larger than your imagination. Such is the draw of a morning washed fresh by rain. The earthy scent of damp dirt promises so many possibilities.
But as Malcolm and I venture onto the moor, Dobbs’s ominous warning of the night before slows my steps. Not that I care a fig for enchanting pixies or hellhounds. No, the real danger is turning my ankle on a hidden rock or inadvertently venturing into a quaking bog. Yet none of that stops Malcolm. His long black fur flies in the air as he races circles around me. A smile stretches across my face at his unhindered romp. Oh to be so carefree.
Unbidden, La Traviata’s “Brindisi” pops into my head. For a while, I hum along with the swell and fall of the orchestra—for it is as real now as if I were once again standing on stage. Before long, I break into song. It is a glory to lift my voice to the blue sky, my audience God alone.
Ahead, Bray Tor rises from the ground. The dark granite crags stain the spring’s tender green. Climbing to the top strains muscles and breaks a sweat. One false foothold guarantees a tumble, inviting a ripped gown or torn skin at best. At worst, a snapped bone.
But there is no greater view than at the crest.
I gather my muddy hem and tie the fabric into a knot, freeing my legs, then shout, “Come, boy!”
Malcolm trots ahead. His black eyes seek me out now and again as I pick my way from rock to rock, following a narrow sheep trail. At one point, my shoe slides on a patch of moss saturated with water. I fling out my hand, grasping for purchase on the jut of another slab. As I heave myself upward, the rough surface grazes my palm. It will sting later when I soak my hands in warm water, but there’s no turning back. Not this close to victory.
At last I clear the final ridge and stagger to my feet. Wind gusts, knocking the bonnet from my head. I let it ride the current and bang against my back, tethered by a ribbon. Stretching wide my arms, I embrace the vast ocean of rolling hills draped in green and brown. But I am a fickle lover. No doubt I will curse the very same landscape on the trudge back home.
In the distance, two men hike together. Long poles with sharp iron blades rest against their shoulders. Peat cutters. A bit early in the spring, but with the ground softened by rain, I cannot blame them for wanting to try to harvest a patch or two. One of the pair throws his head back and faint laughter carries on the wind, mingling with the bleating of sheep. The men’s camaraderie stirs an ache in my soul, tainting my triumph at topping the tor. I cannot remember the last time I shared such lightheartedness with a friend. Will I ever again?
Frowning, I reset my bonnet atop my head and tie the ribbons tight. It’s necessary, this loneliness—but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or pretend it doesn’t
hurt. Because it does. A hollow in my chest stretches out as vast and empty as this barren countryside. God Himself declared it is not good for man to be alone. I don’t think it is for a woman, either.
But there’s nothing to be done for it now.
As if sensing my plummeting spirit, Malcolm lopes over to me. He cocks his head, his pink tongue drifting past white teeth. My faithful companion always knows when melancholia settles upon my shoulders. He never fails to shore me up.
I pat him on the flank. “As usual, you are right, my friend. There is not one reason in the world I cannot laugh with you, hmm?” I ruffle his fur and am rewarded with a sloppy kiss to the back of my hand. “Shall we go home, boy?”
Without further encouragement, he ambles off and pads his way down the tall heap of rocks. I follow, though at a sluggish pace in comparison. Sure-footed Malcolm has a long wait at the bottom until I join him, and even then I make him tarry while I catch my breath.
I push away from the rocks and arch my back, preparing for the arduous trek back to Morden Hall. “Ready, boy?”
Malcolm jerks his head to the west—the opposite direction of the house.
“No, silly. We are done with our adventure for the day—Malcolm? Malcolm! Come back!”
No good. The dog tears off across the rugged flats, chasing a flash of grey fur. A rabbit, no doubt. I huff. While I don’t relish going after him, neither do I want him getting lost. Bother!
I dash after the rogue, but he is too fast. The best I can do is trail the runaway, keeping an eye on his route and praying he’ll tire of his doggy antics sooner rather than later. But then I see my chance. Malcolm dodges to the right, circling in a big arc. If I forge quickly ahead, I can catch up with him.
Gathering my skirt higher, I bolt into a patch of green grass. Moisture seeps into my shoes. Alarm creeps up my spine. The farther I go, the more my feet sink. Stopping is certain danger—but so is going ahead. Wildly I glance about and spy a nearby tussock. Can I make it?
There is no choice.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 2