Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (12 page)

“
Brava, brava
,” Claire clapped. “But, ‘Hear, Gods of Revenge, Hear a mother’s oath!’ Why so violent a sentiment so early in the morning?”

A startled look widened Abella’s eyes. “You speak German?”

“I don’t, but I know the aria.”

“Is fun to sing, is all. Those glorious high notes!”

“And you warble more beautifully than the finest diva.”

“
Gracias, gracias
. You say these thing and my heart leap in my breast. Come now — I have wonderful thing I show you.”

Taking her hand, Abella drew her through the cave like entrance to the bedroom. Light leaked in weak rays through the yellowed windows. It was a relief after the closeness of the hall.

Abella skipped to a mound of frayed clothing, “Look,” the girl said. Eyes bright with excitement, she held up a tattered gown. The dress’s silk of robin’s egg blue had once been fine, and the stitching showed a talented seamstress, but the garment was stained beyond repair. The waist had separated from the bodice, and the lace at the sleeves hung like filthy cobwebs. “It’s beautiful,
si
?”

Claire didn’t know how to respond. “Where did you find it?”

“The luckiest — I come by the theatre performance of
Othello
. Stollers be in town to perform. They were leaving, and the ingénue, she throw this dress in the dirt. She tell the manager, ‘buy me new gown or I don’t go on.’ What a fight! Then I say, ‘May I take gown?’ That actress, she curtsey to me and be ashamed. The theatre manager call me, ‘my lady,’ and just like that, give me dress.”

She held the shabby frock in front of her and rocked to and fro, as if dancing. “With this, I go with you to London and make a coming out.”

If Abella hit her in the face, Claire could not have been more shocked. “Don’t you want your own gown?”

“Maybe Vav don’t buy me. Besides, now I don’t order fabric, wait for silly seamstress to come, stand for measurements and fittings and nonsense. I ready when coach stops at front door.” She fixed a brilliant smile on Claire.

Stalling for time, Claire took the frock to the window. Hopelessly faded and lined with grease at the collar and sleeves, the dress could scarcely contribute a square to a quilt, much less be worn in public. Lips dry, she said, “It’s a little stained.”

“Apple Bess know secret ways of cleaning. She make perfect.”

Claire shook the dress out, noticing a view of the fly-specked window through a hole in the bodice.

Abella stepped close. “You see, stitch, stitch. I be princess of London.”

Rolling the dress into a ball, Claire blurted, “I just can’t.”

“Pardon?”

“How could I take you to London without Lord Monroe’s permission? It would be kidnapping. No. No, Abella. Persuade him, but don’t ask me to do this.”

Claire dropped the dress on the floor and pushed into the worm hole leading to the hall. Upset, frantic to get out, she stumbled the wrong way, heading further into the murky depths. She didn’t realize her mistake until she nearly collided with a pile of, what appeared to be, bracken. What strange logic had Abella used to collect that for her dead brother, she wondered. And then she realized the stack was holly. The holly must have been picked days before. Its prickly leaves had dried, and curiously, there were no berries. “No berries,” she said out loud.

“What you have found?” called Abella’s voice from behind her, tinged low with hostility.

Confused, Claire turned to the girl. “But holly berries are poisonous.”

• • •

Even in the gloom of the tower Abella’s eyes cast a strange light, like the point of a rapier. Unnerved, Claire stepped back only to feel pricks of holly piercing her thin robe. When she came forward, the branches stuck to her gown, causing the mass of holly to topple. A thick bed of the stuff filled the narrow hall. “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I’ll help you pile it back up.”

“I no know holly berries poisonous,” Abella said, her brown eyes wide with wonder.

“It takes a great quantity of berries, but … ” she studied Abella’s too innocent features, “they can cause vomiting and diarrhea.”

The girl smoothed a black tress at her shoulder. “How funny.”

“Not to those sickened by it.”

The girl’s eyes flicked away. “So you think that what made everybody sick?”

Afraid of Abella’s reaction if directly accused, Claire said instead, “Holly berries are one of many possibilities.”

Abella laughed, “Then it be something else. Clever Claire, you go find who did it.” The girl turned, and giggling, danced down the hall, kicking her legs high in front and behind. The reaction was so bizarre, sharp fear clutched Claire’s chest. She followed Abella, afraid to get too close, yet terrified of remaining in the tower alone.

Pivoting in her dance, Abella sang, “
La, te, da, dat, ta
,” and with a swift kick, hit the edge of a wheel of broken spokes that jutted like teeth into the narrow path. Stacked on the wheel was a wooden barrel that rolled to the edge. Claire stopped and held her breath. The barrel’s weight tipped the wheel, sending the cask crashing to the floor. “Oh no,” cried Abella, “
Esto es terrible
!”

A smell of wine gone to vinegar filled the air. The barrel rolled across the hall, bumped into a pile of rakes and pivoting, began lumbering toward Claire. The tower’s floorboards, bowed with time, caused the cask to pick up speed.

Horrified, Claire froze like a frightened rabbit.
Run!
Her mind screamed, but her legs would not obey. The barrel made a noise like thunder; old wine sloshed from a crack in the stays.
Run!
Wood against wood, the creaking and roaring blotted out every instinct as the vessel rolled closer and closer.

“No!” Claire shrieked. She forced her body to turn, willed her feet to move. Deafening thunder behind her, she raced down the hall and leaped into the holly branches. The thorns tore at her ankles, tripping her as the bracken attached to her robe and tangled her legs. On her hands and knees, she scrambled through the thorns, hardly aware of the thousand pinpricks to her palms, wrists, and knees.

The tower’s stone wall loomed ahead. If the barrel didn’t stop, its weight could break her legs. Clawing at the wall, she grabbed the first thing that came to hand — a three-legged stool missing a leg. She dropped the stool at her feet and whirled to face the barrel. Slowed by the holly, it slammed into the stool, just as Claire planted her shins between the remaining two legs. With a report like gunfire, the worn wood of the seat shattered but the barrel stopped. Heart pounding, Claire swayed, putting her hands against the icy stones for support.

“
Dios mio
! Lady Claire,
estás bien
?” Abella said.

Even at this distance, she saw the girl’s look of wide-eyed innocence grow wider and less culpable. “I seem to be in one piece.”

“Oh, I so frightened for you.”

Were you
, wondered Claire,
or did you intentionally kick that wheel?
No. The girl couldn’t possibly predict which way the barrel would roll … Could she?

Taking a breath to calm herself, Claire’s nostrils were assaulted by the smell of vinegar. A stream of rancid wine burbled from the cask, making it difficult to breathe. She pushed at the vessel, but the holly branches kept it from rolling. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said.

“I find someone to help.”

“If you could just give me a hand … ”

Abella approached, tentative and frightened. “You know, I cut holly for my brother’s horse. Vav told me in old days they grow for animals in winter.”

“Could you brush the holly to the side so I can roll the barrel out of the way?”

A strange, stubborn flare passed over Abella’s features. She turned and ran toward the stairs.

Before Claire could keep the words from her lips, she screamed, “Don’t leave me here!” But Abella didn’t stop, didn’t miss a stride; she just disappeared down the stairwell, echoes of her running feet growing fainter. Claire heard the door creak open then slam shut.

• • •

Eyes stinging, from either vinegar, or anger, or fear, Claire didn’t know, but she was too upset to care. Would Abella fetch someone to help, or would the girl skip, frolic, and sing until Flavian noticed his guest hadn’t come downstairs for breakfast. Well, she would not give Abella the chance to celebrate her absence. The barrel was standard size — not too big to crawl over, but the hoops had rusted and the staves, when she applied pressure, gave from rot. Kneeling, she shoved the vessel with all her might. It tipped away then rolled back. “This is preposterous.” Embarrassed, she called, “Help me.” Then she shouted. “Somebody please help me!”

The walls and their filthy treasure swallowed her cries. She thought she heard a rustling in a nearby pile of sacks. Rats. She hated rats. “Help!” she shouted again.

“Please!” she screamed.

Stiff with fear, she watched the vermin squeeze between two sacks and look at her with black, interested eyes. “Get away,” Claire barked. The rodent scampered, but others crawled out of the garbage-lined walls. “Don’t come near me,” she panted. But when more rats appeared, panic overtook her. A long, thin wail of fear sent them fleeing down the hall. Uselessly, she flailed against the barrel, not budging its waterlogged weight an inch.

She stopped thrashing and rested her palms on the staves of the vessel. The rodents amassed in confused circles, sniffing the vinegar, looking at her curiously. A sob rose in Claire’s chest. “Be gone!” But the creatures knew she was trapped. They didn’t leave.

Breathing hard, she tamped down her terror, disgusted with herself. “You have lost your wits, girl. Think. Surely you can find a way out.”

In the narrow confines behind the barrel were the holly branches, bits of the three-legged stool, and vinegar, which sloshed at her feet. Too high to jump, the immovable barrel seemed to block all escape.

She studied the piled debris to her left. Crates of — was that newspaper? She peered through the slats at pamphlets — hundreds of
pamphlets titled, “Medical Reports of the Effects of Tobacco, Principally with Regard to its Diuretic Quality,” by Thomas Fowler. They were dated 1785.

Claire pulled out fistfuls of the treatise and piled them close to the bottom of the barrel. When she had a good-sized mound, she yanked at the stool, trying to dislodge one of its legs. “A fulcrum, that’s what I need,” she said, smashing the stool on the top of the barrel. The legs held fast, but the rotted staves opened a new hole out of which poured more vinegar.

“Oh, God,” she hissed, looking at the ceiling. If Abella had asked anyone for assistance, they would have been in the tower by now.

More rats amassed in the hall. She bellowed at them, “A woman’s legs are as powerful as a man’s arms.” The rats shifted nervously, some running down the hall but stopping when there was no pursuit.

Gritting her teeth, Claire kicked the pamphlets over the holly branches, sat down, braced her back against the wall, and planted her feet against the barrel. Vinegar soaked her nightshift, the smell of it nearly choking her, but she pushed with all her might against the cask. The barrel moved a fraction of an inch. Taking a deep breath, Claire pushed harder. At last, the vessel slid to the side, creating a space just wide enough to squeeze through.

“Get out of here! Get!” she yelled at the scampering rats that dodged from her path, leaping into holes in the stacked detritus.

She ran down the hall dragging a train of holly, splashing through vinegar, desperate for a gulp of fresh air. The old wooden door at the bottom of the stairs was closed with only a strip of light leaking under it. She prayed Abella hadn’t locked her in. Finally, she found the handle, her fingers so frantic they’d lost their sense of touch. She twisted the round metal loop and pushed hard.

Sun, space, relief flooded her. And then she saw Abella and Mrs. Gower.

• • •

A worried look painted on every inch of her pretty face, Abella clutched Claire’s arm. “You safe.
Gracias a Dios
. I tell Mrs. Gower how I accidently kick wagon wheel. How barrel fall down and almost hurt you.
Fue tan
terrible
.” She covered her face with her hands — the picture of woe.

Mrs. Gower patted Abella’s back. “Lady Claire is just fine, child. Put your fears to rest.”

Claire gritted her teeth. She wanted to shake Abella for her lies and deception. She wanted to kick Mrs. Gower for failing to see through the girl. The vixen wanted her maimed! With steely calm, she said, “My nightshift and gown are ruined, of course, but I escaped without a scratch.” That was a gross exaggeration. Holly prickers left her arms and shins a mass of red welts, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Abella. Then the girl took her hands from her face, and there were real tears in her eyes. “You my only friend,” she said. “If something happen to you, I kill myself.”

“Don’t say that,” Mrs. Gower huffed, “It’s not Christian.”

Rankled beyond niceties, Claire said, “If you were that concerned, why fetch my chaperone? Why not Lord Monroe or a footman at least? Could you lift a rotting barrel of wine, Mrs. Gower?”

“What are you talking about, child?”

“No, I doubt you could even manage the stairs to the tower.”

Abella cowered, wringing her hands. “You so angry with me.”

Mrs. Gower stepped in front of Abella like a goose protecting her gosling. “The poor girl came racing through the house, obviously in a panic. I was the first person she encountered.”

“And where were you walking?”

“I’d just stepped from my sitting room … ”

“That’s in the west wing — all the way on the other side of the house.”

A torrent of sobs wracked Abella’s thin frame. “I swear unto God himself, Mrs. Gower only one I find.”

Claw-like, the fingers of the chaperone closed around Claire’s wrist. “Come with me this instant.” The woman tugged Claire a pace down the hall. “I demand you apologize to that young lady,” she hissed.

A clot of fury stopped Claire’s words. She couldn’t squeak a syllable.

Mrs. Gower glared at her. “Make peace now, or you will lose him.”