Against the Tide (22 page)

This was something Bane had warned her about. The Professor was fanatical about keeping the location of his estate private. Very few people even knew it existed, and he wanted to keep it that way, but her inability to see outside the carriage window was unsettling. Dozens of times the carriage twisted and turned, lurched over bumpy roads, and climbed steeply uphill. Without the ability to see, her mind raced to all sorts of conclusions. Were they traveling along the side of a cliff? Deeper into that impenetrable, awful forest? Were they passing any farms or homesteads at all, or was she truly going to be isolated hundreds of miles from another human being?

She clenched her hands in her skirts and felt the hard, round
object in her pocket. Bane’s compass! Her hand closed over the small object like a talisman. As much as she longed to take it out and note what direction she was traveling, her instincts told her not to let the Professor know about the compass. The less he knew about her skills, tools, and weaknesses, the better off she would be.

The carriage drew to a halt. “We have arrived,” the Professor said.

Lydia’s pocket watch told her it was after midnight. “You make this journey each week?” she asked.

The Professor sprang down from the carriage. “I do my book collecting each week from Monday through Thursday. I cannot bring myself to be away from my collections any more than that.” He held his hand out to help her to the ground. “Come, let me show you the estate.”

The layer of snow reflected the scant moonlight and made it easy for Lydia to see the property. The mansion loomed like a fortress before her, with thick blocks of rough-hewn granite and half a dozen chimney stacks on the gabled roofline. “It looks like an entire army could live inside,” Lydia said.

The Professor gave a laugh. “Not quite that many, but I do need space for my collections.” Lydia turned her head, noting the trees surrounding the house in all directions. This was not the dense, impenetrable forest she had seen from the train window. These trees had wide spaces between them. Someone had cleared away all the brush and lower branches, making it easy for an observer to see a great distance.

Which was no doubt the Professor’s intention. It would be impossible for someone to sneak up to—or escape from—the house without being observed.

The Professor extended his arm to her, and she had no choice
but to take it. “Allow me to show you the grounds,” he said as they veered away from the house.

“Right now?” It was so cold her breath turned into wisps of white vapor on the air.

“Forgive me, but I must bring up a delicate subject.” Her feet crunched through the icy crust atop the snow. “You will be a guest in my home for several weeks. I want you to have free use of the grounds and the house, but I am afraid there must be a few limitations.” The Professor cleared his throat. “As an unmarried gentleman, it would look amiss for me to have a young lady living here without benefit of a chaperon. Of course, any untoward speculation is preposterous, but that won’t stop the tongues from wagging. So I would prefer that you not show yourself outside the home in daylight hours. I insist upon it, actually.”

Lydia’s gaze traveled to the line of the horizon. There was nothing but the silent sentinel of maple trees for miles, and this hardly seemed a place where nosy neighbors would be peeking around corners, but she had no choice but to agree. “Of course.”

“Night comes early this far north, so you won’t be cooped up in the house too long. Please feel free to take exercise anywhere on my estate.” He gestured to a black wrought-iron fence in the distance. “The fence marks the edge of my property. The grounds are expansive enough for you to stay within the fence, hmm?”

It was not really a question. She gave a weak nod, feeling more like a prisoner each second.

“Excellent. Now allow me to show you some of the outbuildings.” There was a stable, an icehouse, and a large separate structure where the carriage was stored. There was a small cottage near the fence. “A guardhouse,” the Professor said. “I have several such cabins with guards stationed throughout the property. I tell you so you might feel more secure. Even as you move about at night,
you will never be out of sight from a strong man ready to leap to your assistance.”

She wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching her at this very moment. “How reassuring,” she murmured, wondering how on earth she was going to escape with two young boys.

24

B
ane paced outside the Bayside Rooming House for Women, casting a worried glance down the street. Lydia’s appointment with the Professor should have been over by now.

It was possible the Professor had taken her to a café for a cup of tea or perhaps shown her around the Rare Book room at the Athenaeum. Even so, it was past time for her to have returned, and Bane could wait no more.

The matron overseeing the rooming house was pleased to see him, but not pleased enough to allow him access to Lydia’s room. Twice he had tried to sweet-talk her into information about Lydia. Had she returned at any point today? Left a message? Twice he had been stonewalled.

It was unlikely there was anything in Lydia’s room to indicate where she had gone, but he needed to check it out before hunting elsewhere. He rounded the corner to the alleyway and began peeking inside the windows. Mercifully, most of the people living here were working women who were not yet home at four o’clock in the afternoon. Through the fourth window he had identified Lydia’s
room by the little island painting propped on the bedside table. He used a blade to slide under the old wooden frame and wedge it up.

Inside, the bedroom was neat as a pin. Lydia’s Greek translation book was on the bedside table, placed at an angle precisely ninety degrees to the edge of the tabletop. She had arranged what few possessions she had in precise, immaculate order. How very Lydia. He would have smiled were it not for the panic that was beginning to brew in the pit of his belly.

He had never considered the possibility the Professor would leave directly for Vermont with Lydia in tow. The man had been growing increasingly paranoid over the years, and perhaps he did not trust his newest employee to bring any possessions of her own onto the property.

Bane’s gaze strayed to the Greek translation book.
Heaven help her.
Bane felt his knees go weak as the implications crashed through his brain. If she was in the Professor’s mansion without that book, she did not have a prayer of translating the manuscript. He sat on the bed, trying to quell his frantic thoughts. His gaze darted around the small room as he rattled through his options.

And landed on a little blue bottle sitting on the ledge of the opposite window.

He glared at the bottle, knowing what it implied, but he had to check. He lifted the cork and sniffed, recognizing the syrupy sweet smell that masked the bitterness of the opium. The bottle was nearly empty.

He replaced the cork, set the bottle down, and covered his face with his hands. Of all the vices to afflict his wonderful, courageous Lydia, it had to be opium.

He wallowed in his grief for all of ninety seconds. Then he sprang to his feet, pocketed the Greek manual, and left the room by the door. He ignored the outraged growls of protest from the
matron as he made his way outside the building and headed to the train station. For years Bane had been bribing the clerk at the train station to keep an eye on the Professor, and that connection served him well tonight.

“He was traveling with a woman,” the ticket seller confirmed. “I heard the Professor call her Lydia. Never seen her before today.”

Bane refused to let panic set in. Instead, he studied the train schedule posted behind the ticket counter. “How close can you get me to Burlington tonight?”

“There is a train leaving for Montreal in half an hour, but it’s a freight train.” The clerk lowered his voice. “It passes through Burlington, and I suppose you could hop off, if you’re willing to ride the rails.”

Bane cocked an eyebrow. “But that would be breaking the law,” he said casually. He nodded to the clerk. “Thanks for your time,” he said as he strode toward the loading deck for the freight trains.

Lydia was chilled to the bone before the Professor finished his tour of the grounds and brought her inside the mansion. The image of an old well surrounded by a brick casement was now branded on her mind. Several large canisters rested beside the well. Bane had told her how the Professor and his men, using that well and the canisters of kerosene, would destroy any evidence of hostages, should authorities ever raid the mansion. It was this risk that prevented Bane from trying to overpower the Professor’s guards and seize the children.

The interior of the house was a surprise, a charming mix of elegant antiques with the rustic appeal of New England craftsmanship. Thick oriental carpets covered the floors, and rough-hewn timbers supported the vaulted ceiling in the great room. A cavernous
fireplace she could have walked into without fear of bumping her head dominated one wall. Too bad there was no fire burning.

Lydia drew her cloak tighter around her.

“I must apologize for the climate,” the Professor said. “I’m certain you understand the destructive force heat is to the delicate pages of old books. I must keep the house chilly to accommodate the collection.”

She ran a cold finger along the charming inlay of ivy vines carved into the frame of a tall bookshelf. “I admire your commitment to your books,” Lydia said. “A person can always layer on more clothing, but an old book is defenseless.”

Judging by the look of approval on his face, it was the right thing to say. “I see you have a deep appreciation for the fragility of those precious antiques.” Lydia let her gaze roam across the spines of the books lined up on the shelf. Lovely books, reflecting a wide range of history, literature, and theology.

“All the books in this room are reading copies. Please feel free to borrow anything you see of interest to you.” The Professor paused and touched his brow as if he were thinking of something awkward. “Although I am afraid that I must ask you in the future to refrain from making use of this room during the day, so you should retrieve any books you are interested in now.”

Lydia turned to look at the man with curiosity. “Please forgive my eccentricities,” he continued, “but I must insist you keep to the north wing of the house. I often have visitors in the house, and the presence of a fetching young lady such as yourself could cause no end of damaging speculation.”

It was a lie. Bane told her few people ever came to the Vermont estate, and neither did the Professor have neighbors who were liable to speculate on her presence. He was lying to her, and she was beginning to realize why. He needed to keep her away from
the boys, who probably had free use of the house during the day. Clearly he intended to keep her isolated in the north wing during the day while the boys were about the house.

The Professor looked over her shoulder. “Now, please allow Mrs. Rokotov to show you the north wing.” Lydia was startled to notice a woman had been standing in the corner of the great room, scrutinizing her the entire time. “Mrs. Rokotov is my housekeeper, and her son Boris helps on the grounds. She will show you to your bedroom.”

Mrs. Rokotov had thin black hair scraped into a bun at the back of her neck and no expression in her dark eyes. Her face was strong, masculine even, but she moved with the silent grace of a ship slicing through still water as she walked toward them.

“Please follow me, ma’am.” Mrs. Rokotov had a low voice, a thick Russian accent apparent.

“Good night, Lydia,” the Professor said. “Tomorrow I will show you the manuscript, and you may begin work immediately. I will look forward to seeing your progress at the end of the day.”

Mrs. Rokotov proceeded to lead Lydia down a narrow hall where she showed her a washroom and a bedroom. Given the sparseness of the furnishings, the “north wing” was not prized real estate. The bedroom was compact but fully equipped with a bed, a writing desk, a fireplace, and a small chest of drawers.

“I trust you will have everything you need in here,” Mrs. Rokotov said.

There were quilts on the bed, but the room was frigid and she had nothing to wear to bed but her shift. “Would it be possible to light a small fire?”

Mrs. Rokotov raised a pencil-thin black brow. “We do not take unnecessary risks with fire in this household,” she said. “I can bring you a hot water bottle for your bed.”

Lydia nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

Mrs. Rokotov made no move to leave the room, but inspected Lydia from the crown of her head down to the hem of her dress that was still wet from slogging through the snow. At last she spoke. “You have no bags? No belongings?”

“I did not have a chance to return to my apartment to pack a case. The Professor said clothing would be provided for me.” And she prayed it would be thick, warm, woolen clothing. Lots of it.

Mrs. Rokotov nodded. “A servant will bring you a water bottle and a pair of socks for sleeping. Clothing will arrive tomorrow. Good night.”

As soon as the door closed, Lydia collapsed on the bed, sinking into its softness. For the first time since she had met the Professor at noon today, she was alone. She braced her elbows on her knees and cradled her head in her hands. It had been an endless, harrowing day, and tomorrow would be worse. Her reticule was beside her, and inside the bag was a new bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s.

She opened her bag and looked at the bottle. Whenever she had bought a bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s, the first thing she always did was pour the contents into one of her pretty blue bottles using her tiny funnel. She stared at the image on the bottle. A plump matron played with her laughing, happy baby. She had always found the image disturbing, but even more so now that she knew what made Mrs. Winslow’s so effective.

She closed her eyes so she did not have to look at the laughing mother, opened the bottle, and took a small sip. And then another. The real challenge would begin tomorrow.

A sense of foreboding loomed over Lydia as she dragged herself awake.

She raised her head, gazing about the strange room, and then awareness sent her crashing back down against the pillow.

The faint lightening of the darkness indicated sunrise was not far away, but she was in no hurry to rise from bed. The sooner she was out and about, the sooner the Professor would expect to see streams of elegant Greek translations pouring from her pen.

A glint on the bedside table caught her attention. It was Bane’s compass. The morning air was frigid as she reached out to snatch the compass and clasp it tightly in her palm as she burrowed beneath the warmth of the blankets. The cold metal soon warmed, and the sturdiness of the compass seemed to provide a link to Bane, almost as if some of his strength flowed into her. Bane would not be cowering under the covers like a foolish girl; he would be calmly plotting a way out of this situation. She needed to think like Bane. How would he handle this?