Authors: Amy Corwin
Which way to go
?
A few feet ahead stood an open door. A wavering light bobbed at the end of the corridor, coming in their direction. She tugged William in the direction of the light. He resisted one second before sliding an arm around her waist and hauling her forward into the open doorway.
The candlelight glinted off a row of windows looking out from their room into the hallway. She had a moment’s panic as the light bobbed closer. Had they chosen unwisely to move into a room divided from the hallway by a fragile wall of glass?
William pushed her against the back wall, covering both of them with his cloak as the person carrying the candle sauntered past. The golden glow flickered in the doorway. Through a hole in the cloak, Sarah caught a glimpse of a man, gray hair tousled, clad in a cap and long burgundy robe. He walked by without a glance.
She held her breath. Her hands, resting on William’s motionless chest, told her he was doing the same. However, the candlelight slowly faded as the man carrying it entered the kitchen.
Should they wait for him to leave, or risk entering the hallway?
She gave a tentative shove. William pressed her more firmly against the wall. They heard some clattering crockery. Then the wavering light reappeared as the man in the burgundy robe returned, carrying a glass of milk. Again, they waited until the light faded. They stepped cautiously into the hallway.
This time, Sarah hung back, letting William take the lead. He had been to the house before. She had not. And she was increasingly content to let him make the difficult decisions.
Their progress was slow and agonizing. Sarah felt bone-weary. Every movement hurt. She had to find the box and escape so she could get a few hours of rest. Just a few minutes to close her eyes. She felt dizzy with the desire to sleep.
Hating her weakness, she pushed ahead. The house rustled and settled around them. She could almost feel the deep, in-and-out breathing of people sleeping. Every tiny noise made her stiffen, wondering if their careful footsteps had been heard and someone was coming to investigate. Her natural confidence wore thin as her nerves tightened.
When they got to the main hallway, Sarah pulled her hand out of William’s grasp. She stayed back. A large, fan-like window above the door let in light from the street. The marble floor gleamed in a pattern of dark and light squares. If they crossed the hallway, they could be seen in bright relief against the light streaming in from the window.
There was no path except to hug the wall and pass the front door, or walk directly in front of the grand staircase that forked as it arched to the first floor, one branch merging into the shadows to the left and the other to the right. Sarah leaned against the wall. Finally, she followed William as he sidled past the door and began working his way down the opposite wall. As he neared the staircase, he disappeared.
Sarah ran on tiptoes until she reached the same spot.
The area where William had disappeared was as black as the cellar. She stepped hesitantly through a doorway, shaking her head, suddenly deaf. All the small sounds in the house faded. A hand grabbed her arm. She jumped, her heart thudding, but she managed to keep her mouth shut.
William’s warm breath tickled her ear.
“Library,” he whispered, slowly—almost reluctantly, it seemed—releasing her.
The books absorbed and muffled the night noises. If they couldn’t hear anything, could others hear them? She cautiously made her way along the edge of the room. She wished they could risk a light, but she feared someone would see it, even if they shut the door. There would be a telltale spill of light under the door.
Running her hands over the walls, she felt along the bookcases. Despite her calluses, her fingertips felt the raised edges on the spines of the books. The scent of leather and paper tickled her nose, raising a nearly overwhelming memory of her old schoolroom. The memory seemed disjointed—out of time—with no sense of where she was. All she remembered was flipping through a geography book and kicking the back of the chair in front of her. The map of England remained vivid in her mind.
She shook her fingers, dispelling the memory. Her childhood burned away that night in 1806. There was no returning, although she wished she dared to pick a few books at random to take with her. It had been so long since she enjoyed reading anything other than the occasional castoff broadsheet.
“Psst,” she whispered. “Did you say you had been in here?”
When a hand gripped the back of her neck, she almost screeched. As it was, she jumped, bumping into the bookcase. A few volumes fell out onto her head, but she managed to catch them before they hit the floor.
He grabbed her wrist. When she stopped pulling, he leaned over and said, “I didn’t see any boxes while I was here. But his desk is further along. On the left.”
After shoving the books back onto the shelves, she clutched his arm. With one hand outstretched, she moved away from the wall of shelves. Her chest tightened with each step as she got further and further away from the shadowy stability of the walls. The dark emptiness around her swirled with danger. Unseen obstacles they could trip over, or knock down, in a cacophony of clattering sounds.
Her fingers tightened around his forearm. He pried them off and shifted her hand into his. Moving slightly ahead of her, he led her to the desk. She realized they had arrived when the sharp, wooden corner hit her painfully in the groin.
As lightly as she could, she ran her hands over the top surface. Inkwells, a sheaf of paper, and several quills.
Then, the back of her hand hit something. She lifted the object, her heart pounding as she felt the square corners of a box. Holding it in front of her face, she could just make out the edges. Her heart fell. It was too small. She placed it carefully back and moved around, bumping into the chair.
Pulling that out, she sat down and felt for drawers. None was locked. She quickly rifled through them. They were stuffed full of odd objects, small books, folded papers, a pocketknife, and some small bottles she thought might contain ink. The bottom drawer contained a narrow box, but it was metal so the dimensions hardly mattered after her fingernail hit the lid with a mellow “ting”.
“There’s nothing here,” she said, keeping her voice low. She knew instinctively after sitting down that the box wouldn’t be there. She knew where it was. She’d known all along.
Where it had to be. Where every man keeps anything new and desirable. In his bedroom.
“I’m going upstairs,” she said, moving resolutely toward the door.
William caught up with her. They re-entered the hallway, together. “Upstairs? What do you mean, upstairs?”
“It’s in his bedroom.”
“How do you know?”
“Where else would it be? He’s not going to put it in the cook’s pantry, is he?”
William snorted. Then, he followed her up the stairs, despite his apparent disdain for her reasoning. On the first floor landing, he touched her shoulder.
“What about a sitting room?” He gestured down the hallway.
She glided past to the next flight of stairs. “It’s in his bedroom.”
“And so is Mr. Carnaby. You can’t go in there.” He caught up with her and passed her to reach the third floor landing first. “I’ll go.”
Sucking in a lungful of air to find some energy, she edged past him. “I’m smaller and lighter on my feet. Less likely to make the floor squeak.”
“Are you implying I’m fat?” he drawled softly into her ear.
“I’m implying you’re a large man who should mind his manners. And do what he’s told. Particularly when I’m the one paying him.” She laid a hand on his arm. “He’ll most likely have the curtains drawn around his bed.”
“In April?”
“It’s cool nights, yet. Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper,” she replied, trying to keep her voice light. To her ear, her words quivered like a mouse trapped between the paws of a cat. She felt exhausted and longed to curl up against William's warmth and spend a few hours in quiet safety. She had almost forgotten the comfort of strong arms holding her.
Bypassing the rooms with their doors ajar, they made their way down to the far end of the corridor. Pausing before the door, Sarah rested her hand on the doorknob. She gathered her strength and fixed a grin on her face. Then she glanced over her shoulder at William. He couldn’t see her, but perhaps he would hear the smile in her words.
“Wait here. I’ll be out before you count to ten.”
Barely opening the door, she eased through. She crouched with her fingertips resting on the wooden floor and looked around. The first thing she noticed were the heavy drapes pulled tightly shut across all the windows. Then she realized she could
see
the heavy folds of the drapes. The low glow from the dying embers of the fire lit the room.
Mr. Carnaby apparently liked his bedroom warm. Already, Sarah could feel the heat seeping through her clothing. Perspiration beaded her brow and dripped down her back. But the fire did grant her light to see. Or be seen.
She glanced around again, more slowly. A huge bed sat in the center of the room on a small raised platform with a spindly railing around it. Within the fence was the bed, shrouded in dark hangings. Where the light flickered over it, she saw the curtains were burgundy velvet embroidered with black and gold.
The bed of a rich man.
There was a snort and rustling noise as he turned over. Sarah waited until his breathing steadied before she rose, pressing a hand to the wall to balance the motion. By the firelight, she could see the vague shapes of the furniture. A pair of chairs clustered near the fireplace with a low table between them. A few books were stacked on the table’s edge, next to a chessboard with pieces arrayed on the squares as if a game were in progress.
To her right stood a chest of drawers with porcelain pulls. A huge wardrobe graced the far wall, with a desk and chair a few feet beyond. The chest was nearest so she checked that first, the pulse in her throat choking her when she saw a square shape sitting on top. It was a wooden box, but it was too tall and wide. She crouched and hugged the wall as she skimmed the edge of the room.
The wardrobe would be an excellent place, but she couldn’t bring herself to open the doors for fear of waking Mr. Carnaby. Berating herself for cowardice, she searched the desk fruitlessly. Finally, with deep exasperation, she gripped the chair and pulled it to the wardrobe. She stood on the seat and ran her hands over the top of the wardrobe. However, her fingers found nothing but gritty dust. Her heart hammered.
The wardrobe taunted her, sitting heavily on bowed legs. She hesitated in front of it, staring at the brass pulls. They gleamed dully in the faint firelight. With a sudden burst of desperation, she reached forward and pulled the doors open. They made a dry, rustling sound. She froze.
A snore cut off in mid-breath rattled the bed. “Who’s there?”
Sarah didn’t turn around. She bent and ran her hands over the contents, searching for her box. It was now, or never. Near-panic made her hands frozen and clumsy.
The bed creaked.
“I said, is anyone there?” There was some indistinct muttering before he said, “Damn servants. Get out! I’ll call you if I need you.”
Her fingers ran over the clean edge of wood. She pushed aside a folded pair of buckskin breeches to find a box. Pulling it out, she turned toward the fire, holding it in her shaking hands. It was the right size. In the faint light, she could see the gleam of the brass gryphon lock.
She’d found it!
Her body trembled with relief and excitement. Then with sudden awareness, she realized how exhausted she truly was. She was nearing the limits of her endurance. The door—and William—seemed impossibly far away.
The bed behind her creaked. The man turned over, or sat up, behind the curtains. She padded quickly to the door. But just as she reached it, a movement caught the corner of her eye. One of the doors of the wardrobe slowly, inexorably, started to swing shut. The floor must have been slightly uneven, or a mischievous draft caught the panel.
She was too far away to stop it. The wardrobe closed with a soft snap.
“What are you doing out there?” the voice from the bed asked in an irritated tone.
“Come
on
!” William yanked her through the door.
Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of the curtain rings sliding along the rod above the bed.
“What the—who’s there?” Mr. Carnaby asked. His voice reverberated through the room. “Who’s in the wardrobe? Smith? Is that you? Smith?”
Sarah didn’t stop to glance back. She clutched William’s hand, glad for the strength and warmth of his clasp. They ran for the stairs.
A distant bell clamored in the belly of the house, alerting the servants.
“Thieves!” The yell seemed to come from right behind them.
A wavering light appeared at the end of the hallway, coming from the direction of the servant’s quarters. Questioning voices arose through the darkness, following the lamplight.
“Who’s there? Mr. Smith?” a female voice asked.
“Thieves!” Mr. Carnaby answered. “Send for the watch.”
“Damn,” William said as they reached the head of the servants’ stairs.