“Respectable?” Sarah went on. Doubt had formed as to Miss
Morecroft’s role. “Surely you’ve been well rewarded for orchestrating the whole
plan?”
“Well-rewarded? I’ve been ruined by a sham marriage. Duped into
believing Archie’s questions about Mr Hawthorne and his family was husbandly
interest. Now, come. Dawn is nearly here and with it our only chance.” Leaning
across the bed she drew back the curtains.
“First we have to find Mr Hawthorne.”
“There’s no time.”
“If Mrs Hollingsworth finds us gone, she’s more likely to dispose of
him in the Thames than provide him with the proper nursing he needs,” argued
Sarah. She glared at Miss Morecroft, ready to do battle. “I think he’s in the
adjoining room, only the door’s locked. At least just try the key you used for
this chamber.”
“And if he’s ill?” Miss Morecroft asked, looking in two minds as to
whether to object as Sarah took the keys and candlestick, from her. “I’ll not
let
Mr Hawthorne
jeopardize our only
chance.”
Striding towards the adjoining door, Sarah turned to whisper
angrily, “Do you know why your precious father was banished? Not because of his
affair with Mr Hawthorne’s wife, or that he gambled freely upon old Mr
Hawthorne’s generosity. No! It was because he put his men in the greatest
danger on the battlefield through his ineptitude. It was only thanks to Mr
Hawthorne that he wasn’t court-martialled and shot!”
“Liar!” Miss Morecroft hissed. “All right, I’ll take my chances,
alone. Believe me, I’d not put it past madam to dispose of you with as much
impunity as … as the chickens whose necks she breaks for Sunday dinner.”
Both froze at a new sound. Stealthy footfalls.
“We came as soon as we could,” came a breathless whisper.
In the gloom Sarah could just make out the tawdry gold and mauve
gown of the young girl who’d let them into the house.
“With stockings,” came a deep, throaty voice which trembled on a
chuckle. “I saw Her Fat Ladyship strip the sheets from the bed, so if leaping
from the window was your plan, Miss Morecroft, you’ll need these.”
Raising her candle, Sarah stared with amazement at a tall,
flame-haired woman with the most enormous pouter pigeon chest she’d ever seen.
From her hands dangled a pile of variously coloured stockings.
“I can’t countenance what Dicky’s gone and done to you girls,” she
said, drawing her painted brows together disapprovingly, “so I’m donating the
spoils he brings me.”
“This is Queenie,” whispered Kitty in hurried explanation, though
her tone conveyed a certain reverence. Queenie was certainly impressive in her
tight fitting gown of gold topped off by a matching turban sporting half a
dozen peacock feathers.
“She’s Sir
Richard’s favourite—”
“His One and Only,” Queenie corrected with a haughty toss of her
head. “But Queenie’s not one to abide an injustice, though there’s also me job
to consider, an all,” she said, crossing the room to deposit the stockings on
the bed. “They’re all nicely knotted, too. Did it mesel’ while I was passing
the time waitin’ fer Dicky to come to me. Serve him right for the humilatin’
things he was doing downstairs.” In another few strides she was back at the
door. “Dicky was asleep last time I checked but I ain’t taking any more risks.
Wicked he might be, but he’s me bread and butter. Come Kitty. You gotta
consider yer own skin, too.”
Sarah watched the door
close behind them before turning to Miss Morecroft. “Why don’t you start tying
them to the bed post? It crossed my mind to wonder if the hay carter could be
relied upon.”
Miss Morecroft’s scorn followed Sarah from the darkness as she
struggled to locate the keyhole of the door to the adjoining room. “Very
clever, Lady Sarah. Yes, he parks his wagon in the same spot every morning at
dawn. But hurry, for if the key doesn’t fit—”
“It does!” Pure, sweet relief surged through Sarah as she pushed
open the door and raised the candle, her eyes drawn by movement to a pile of
sacks in the corner. There was Roland, sweat-soaked and shivering, lying
beneath a thin coverlet. His sunken eyes flickered the faintest recognition as
she cast herself at his side and held one of his limp hands to her lips. He
managed, hoarsely, “Are you alright?”
“Better than you, I’d wager,” Sarah murmured, kissing his knuckles
and stroking his lank hair back from his forehead. When she skimmed her hand
over his sweat-soaked shirt, she shook her head. It was freezing outside and he
had nothing warm or dry to wear. “Put your arms around my neck so I can help
you up,” she whispered. “Caro and Miss Morecroft are waiting in the adjoining
room us. We’re going out through the window.”
He gave a weak laugh as he obeyed, and she managed to haul them both
to their feet. “I’ll go – in as much as I’m able – on one
condition.”
“There’s no time for conditions,” she said, struggling under his
weight as he managed a few unsteady steps. “I will not leave you.”
He stopped, panting with the effort of their progress and Sarah was
dismayed by the heat from his burning forehead when she laid her hand upon it.
“I need to rest,” he rasped. “Sarah, I’m too ill. I’ll … just hinder you.”
She’d have stamped her foot at his stubbornness were there not the
need for silence. “I said I won’t leave you,” she repeated. “Freedom is just
through that door.”
“Sarah!”
“Roland, please!” she burst out, stopping when she saw his pallid
face, limned with dawn light. Suddenly she was afraid. “Roland, you’ll be well
soon,” she told him as he sagged against her. “You will!”
“Perhaps.” With a ragged breath he drew himself upright again and
managed to drag another footstep across the bare boards. His hand struggled to
her cheek, touched it briefly, before falling away. “But swear you’ll not
sacrifice your freedom on my account.”
“I’ll promise, if only to urge you on. When this is over,” Sarah
panted, “you’ll realize all that matters is that you love me” - with relief she
reached the doorway and they collapsed against the frame — “and I love
you.”
He did not reply. His head was upraised, his eyes closed. He looked
as if he’d lost consciousness on his feet. Then, with lips barely moving he
managed faintly, “Love does not last.”
Anger gave her the energy to drag him the final steps to the bed by
the window. “Give me the chance to prove you wrong.”
“I’d not be so cruel,” he rasped as Caro rushed towards him.
“Papa!” she cried, joy turning to alarm as she helped him to the
mattress where he crumpled.
The clank of harness and clopping of hooves entering the courtyard
cut the morning air.
“Roland!” Sarah shook him. “The cart’s below. You must get yourself
to the windowsill.”
Moaning, he struggled to follow her directions, his eyes vacant as
he grasped the knotted rope of stockings Sarah thrust into his hands.
“Into the darkness,” he managed between cracked lips. Weakly, he
gripped Sarah’s wrist. His eyes flickered open. “If I miss my mark, I hold you
to your promise—” His voice was now so hoarse she could barely hear him
— to ensure your safety before mine.”
“I promise.” Sarah knew it was the only way to secure his
cooperation as she and the two girls helped him into position.
She looked down past his shoulder. It was as Miss Morecroft had
predicted. The cart, laden high with hay, provided an ideal landing pad.
“I’m ready.” His eyes flickered open for the briefest moment as
Sarah gave him a gentle push.
To her relief he landed well before dragging himself to the side.
Caro quickly followed her father to the window sill before easing
her way down the length of makeshift rope.
Tensely, Sarah waited for her to drop.
Grimly, Caro clung on.
“Caro, let go!” Sarah whispered, urgently. She could hear the early
stirrings of the servants.
Frozen by fear, Caro stared up at her as purposeful footsteps
sounded on the stairs at the end of the corridor.
“Caro!” urged Sarah, but still the girl did not release her grip.
The footsteps came closer. There was no choice. Leaning dangerously
far out of the window, Sarah prized open Caro’s fingers and with a scream, Caro
dropped the distance, landing safely amidst the hay.
“Your turn, Miss Morecroft! Hurry!” cried Sarah, running back to the
door, her trembling fingers battling to fit the key into the lock as Mrs Hollingsworth’s
strident tones came from the other side.
“What’s going on?” demanded the brothel madam, beating upon the door
before managing to force it open a fraction. “Let me in!”
Sarah screamed when she realised she’d been too slow in turning the
key, her weight insufficient against Mrs Hollingsworth’s determined bulk. She
swung round at the sound of more running footsteps, this time inside the room,
gasping with relief as Miss Morecroft threw her own weight against the door and
at last Sarah was able to grind the key, locking them in.
She’d earned them a reprieve but there’d be little time before Mrs
Hollingsworth arrived with reinforcements in the stable yard.
“What the devil!” cried the carter, running towards his vehicle as
the two girls hurled themselves into it from the window, Sarah scrambling from
the box to take possession of the reins.
With an expert flick of the ribbons she coaxed the cart horse into
movement, fending off the pursuing carter with a crack of the whip.
“She’s gone.”
Roland was hardly surprised by this. What did surprise him, however,
was that Miss Morecroft – the real Sarah Morecroft – was bending
over him, her familiar features arranged in a look of concern.
“Her father fetched her yesterday.” Miss Morecroft set a tray before
him, then lowered herself onto a chair by the side of the bed. “Eat your soup,
sir. It’s been some days-”
“Did Lady Sarah say if she’d return?” His throat was dry and his
head ached. But his thoughts, at least, were lucid.
“No, sir. At least not that I heard. She’d been here four days. She
couldn’t stay longer.”
Four days since they’d left the Hollingsworths? The sketchy details
of their escape were not something he cared to dwell upon. Certainly not the
indignity of being helped by two young women through an open window, although
the image of Sarah driving a hay cart through the streets of London was one he
would treasure. The carter had caught up with them soon enough and been easily
bribed to take them to safety.
He stared at the steam rising from his dinner, unable to return his
gaze to Miss Morecroft’s face. She seemed content, however, to sit in silence
and to help him when he struggled with his mug of water.
Five days since he’d banished Sarah. Barely four since she’d shown
him how ill he had served her.
“The Hollingsworths,” he murmured. “Are you one of them?”
He couldn’t make her out. She looked like Godby but there was none
of the mobility of feature which, in Godby’s case, had always provided strong
hints as to what he was thinking. This young woman had regarded the entire
proceedings at the Hollingsworths with stony-faced detachment. And yet, she was
here.
“I met Mr Hollingsworth aboard the
Mary Jane
. I did not know it at the time but he’d been soliciting
girls from the Continent to work in his mother’s establishment.” With an ironic
pursing of her lips she added, “Apparently there is a craze for French
mademoiselles.” She sighed as she twisted the wedding band she had moved onto her
right hand. “When we were the only two washed ashore near a small Belgian
village I thought Providence had entwined our fates. We were married by special
license but soon I was living a nightmare. It was a sham marriage.”
Although she told her story calmly, her eyes revealed the extent of
her trauma.
“Perhaps it was better that way.” He looked at her with sympathy
before forcing down a spoonful of soup. Losing one’s virtue to a Hollingsworth
might be preferable to being legally bound to one.
“Yes,” she agreed, mildly. “While I was incarcerated with Mrs
Hollingsworth in London I had no idea Archie was at Hawthorndene preparing to
entice Caro away.”
Soup splashed onto the tray. He felt as weak as an infant, even
eating was an effort. “What splendid story did he weave to make her go with
him?” he asked. If Miss Morecroft were going to reveal every sordid detail, he
wanted to know if Caro’s dubious parentage were in the public domain.
“She did not go willingly, sir.” Miss Morecroft looked at him,
surprised, as she wiped up the spillage. “Surely you must have known she’d
never leave you like that?”
Roland cast aside his napkin. Exhausted, he lay back against the
pillows, unable to meet Miss Morecroft’s eye. “I have not been a good father,”
he murmured. When she didn’t reply he swallowed. He hadn’t even asked. “Where
is
Caro?”
“Sleeping, sir. She’s
very fragile.”
That was hardly to be wondered at. Roland closed his eyes. They were
all fragile. What his darling Sarah must have endured, he could barely imagine.
But his darling Sarah was gone now, recovering from her ordeal in the bosom of
her family.