"Come along, dear," she said impatiently. "Always the same," she added aside to Vanessa. "Traveling is a dead bore. I shan't leave my home again if I can avoid it. I would not be going to London now, but my grandson is going to visit his cousins there. They are taking him to Brighton for a holiday, eh, Bobbie?"
"I am going to go sailing in the sea," the boy announced proudly. He was a bright-eyed boy, but with a pallor that suggested the reason for the holiday was therapeutic.
"Traveling by the stage is much worse," Vanessa said, pinning a pitiful smile on her face.
"The stage! Good gracious, you never mean a lady like yourself is traveling by the common stage! I made sure you were awaiting your carriage. And unchaperoned too," she added in deep disgust.
Vanessa feared this solecism was going to rob her of a seat in the woman's carriage, which she had set her mind on as vastly preferable to the stage. The sprightly bays' harnesses jingled as they chomped at the ground, eager to be off. And the carriage half empty! She took her courage in her hands to talk herself into an invitation. "It is a case of the greatest urgency," she began. "My father brought me from Chelmsford, where I was to be met, but the carriage did not come for me. I cannot imagine what happened to it. It must have met with an accident, I suppose. I have never been on a stage before. I hope it is not too horrid."
The woman hesitated a moment before answering. At length she asked, "Where are you going, my dear?"
The question was hardly necessary. The customers present were all going to London; that was the only stage leaving at that time. "To London, ma'am."
"Why, you must come with me. I shall be happy for the company. This sad rattle of a fellow will be nodding before we have gone a mile. Small wonder too," she added. "He was up till midnight. A very noisy inn we stayed at, the Three Cups. I did not like it above half."
With a sigh of joy, Vanessa climbed into the carriage, behind the dame, before her grandson. "Where are you bound for in London?" the hostess asked. "But first, we must exchange names. It would not do to share a carriage with a total stranger," she added, in accents rather similar to Miss Simons. "My name is Mrs. Euston." She glanced to her new companion for an appreciation of this fact.
"I am Vanessa Bradford," she answered, without a single fear in the world now. She had her protection. She mentally selected a relative in London, for she must actually go to one after delivering her message. "I am going to stay with my aunt, Mrs. Halford."
"I see. Where does she live?"
"In Belgrave Square."
"You never mean it!" the woman exclaimed, her eyes widening in delight.
"Why, do you know her?"
"Know her—my dear, we shall be neighbors. I am taking Bobbie to Belgrave Square, to the Winterses' home. My daughter married Sir Horace Winters, the magistrate. They live in that fine old brick mansion just at the top of the loop. A great drafty place in winter, but it will do well enough in this weather. I fully expect we shall be parboiled with the heat before we get there. Where did you say you were from, Miss Bradford?"
"I live near Hastings."
"You would not be Colonel Bradford's girl?"
"
I
am a general!" Bobbie informed them.
"Yesterday he was an admiral. I believe I have met your papa. My late husband was with the Foreign Office. We knew many of the military. Very likely I have met him, though I cannot attach a face to the name."
"Papa is tall and dark—he was in India for some time. His hair is gray now." A vivid picture of her father reared up in her head. She was proud and happy that she was at last accomplishing the job he had given her.
"We knew
all
the Indian military. Of course I know him. I remember him very well now. He was used to tease Bertie, my late husband, about something or other. Some orders your papa sent to England that were never filled, or not to his satisfaction, at any rate."
This sounded very like her father, to be dissatisfied with officialdom. She could hardly credit her luck in falling in with a friend so felicitously.
"So you are going to visit the Halfords." Mrs. Euston smiled happily. Then her grandson began wetting his finger and drawing on the window glass, which brought their conversation to a halt while he was reprimanded. Far from dozing off, the boy was a positive plague throughout the trip, scrambling over their feet every time a carriage or even a dray horse was passed on the road. Intermittent conversation had to be kept up for appearance's sake, for Mrs. Euston was fond of talk.
Vanessa bore these petty annoyances with goodwill, knowing circumstances would have been worse on the stage and would have endured for more hours. It was a relief when Mrs. Euston said, "We shall have to stop for a change of team soon."
The relief soon turned to consternation. Public stops were seen as jeopardous. The woman's next statement was pure delight. "I have cousins a few miles along the road. I change there, usually. Arrangements have been made for me to do so on this trip. It is very convenient having friends and relatives sprinkled about the countryside. Not so convenient when
they
are passing by my home, and making use of my facilities, but there, they scratch my back and I scratch theirs."
"My back is itchy," Bobbie said. "Are we going to stop at Uncle Euston's?"
"Certainly we are, and you must not get dirty in the stable."
Soon the coachman turned off the main road, to drive the carriage down a smaller road, a lane really, with scarcely room to pass. "I cannot imagine why Reginald does not widen this sheep path," Mrs. Euston scolded. "He should have some thought to his visitors' carriages, if he don't care for his own. We'll be fortunate if we don't lose a wheel."
When they approached the house, no more than a thatched cottage, Vanessa rather wondered that Reginald could afford to have a road at all, and not that he did not improve it. They were let down at the front door.
"Take the carriage to the stable and hitch up the new team at once, Bottom," she commanded. "We shall take a cup of tea, but nothing more. We do not want to waste a whole hour here. A little rest will not go amiss, however. You and Barnes take only one glass of ale, mind. We don't want you tipsy."
Then she turned to Vanessa, saying, "I should have got my netting out of the carriage. Is there anything you require?" She stopped suddenly, frowning. "Why, we never packed your trunk! We left it at the coaching house. Fancy neither of us thinking of it."
Vanessa's mouth flew open in guilty dismay. "I—I
did
leave my trunk on the coach," she said, "but it is no matter. There is nothing of any importance in it. Only my clothing. My aunt will have it picked up for me in London."
"The stage stops at Stephen's Hotel, on Bond Street, if I am not mistaken?"
"Yes," Vanessa answered, quite at random, for she had not determined this point in her reading of the schedule.
“What time does it arrive?''
"At four. I can easily do without my things till then," she said airily. They proceeded up the walk to a rickety stoop and dilapidated door.
"Mercy, how some folks live," Mrs. Euston complained. "One would never guess to look at this hovel that Reginald Euston has the better part of two hundred thousand in the funds. Skint. He is my late husband's brother, a retired naval man, but you must not be surprised if he looks more like a clod-crusher. He has let himself go." This inconsequential chatter continued till they were admitted to the house by a slatternly maid wearing a dirty apron and unkempt hair.
"I am Mrs. Euston. Reginald knows I am stopping to change my team," she said. "Is he here?"
"He's at the stable, mum. I didn't know you was coming, but he'll see by your carriage you've got here."
"Slattern," Mrs. Euston said, looking after her. "Reginald's wife is dead, which accounts for the state of this place." She drew out a handkerchief to dust off the chair before sitting down with a grunt. "Where is Bobbie? The rascal darted straight off to the stable again. He'll come in filthy. Maybe I should go after him. No, I won't, though. I'll send the girl for him when she brings tea."
She looked around the dingy parlor, disapproval on every line and wrinkle of her raddled old face. She regaled Vanessa with some of Reginald's naval exploits, till the tea was brought in. She sent the girl off for Bobbie, poured tea and said, "Do you take anything in it?"
"A little milk, please, no sugar."
"You are not wise. The milk is curdling. There, I shall put in a little sugar to hide the wretched taste.'' She passed the cup along. "I don't believe I shall have any milk," she said, then she sipped judiciously. "This is cheap tea, ground-up stems. I doubt there was a leaf in the lot. It tastes bitter, does it not?"
"It is not bohea, Mrs. Euston, but I am thirsty from the drive," Vanessa said, drinking thirstily.
"I shall send the slattern for fresh milk. It is the curdled milk that is destroying the taste. I am fussy about my tea."
"It's not bad," Vanessa replied, her wish being to drink it up quickly, say thank you to Reginald Euston and get back on the road. She took another sip, then felt queasy. She put the cup down, leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes.
"Gracious, I hope you are not going to be ill!" Mrs. Euston exclaimed.
"No. I did not take any breakfast. I'm feeling faint, that's all."
"I'll order some bread and butter."
"Please—don't ..." She felt a wave of nausea, opened her eyes, shook her head and looked for the closest door. It seemed a great distance away, though she had not taken ten steps from it to her chair. While she still looked, a strange phenomenon occurred. The room turned into a long, dark tunnel, the door a diminutive hole at its farthest end. Mr. Carlisle, with one eye swollen and blackened, staring at her, was the last thing she was conscious of before the tunnel began swaying, then closed in over her head, as she slumped from the chair.
Chapter Thirteen
When Vanessa regained consciousness, she lay on a foul-smelling bed in a small room, with her hands tied behind her back. It was still daylight, the only satisfactory feature of her surroundings. Darkness would have been worse. Her head did not ache; it felt hollow, or stuffed with cotton wool. A strange lethargy invaded her whole being, a feeling that things did not matter, because they were unreal.
It was very odd to be in a strange and dirty room—what could account for it? The blanket thrown over her was rough against her skin. As she stretched her stiff fingers against her lower spine, she realized she was not wearing any clothing. This, like the other bizarre aspects of her condition, she found mildly curious. For several minutes she lay awake, yet not entirely alert, looking at a series of brown watermarks on the wall. They seemed strangely familiar to her. Oh, yes, she thought with a smile, the Outer Hebrides—a large, wider mark on top, dwindling to narrower and shorter ones in the south, the whole group slightly curved. This recognition offered some sense of security. She knew now where she was, at the Outer Hebrides.
As she became more fully awake, she realized her arms were uncomfortably stiff. By wriggling her wrists and hands, the ropes that bound her were shrugged off without too much difficulty. Her jailer had done a careless job. He had been in a hurry, or she was considered harmless due to her condition. She sat up, holding the blanket to her chin with one hand, the rope in the other, for examination.
The past events began, slowly, to seep back into her mind, bringing a sense of dread. Mr. Carlisle at the parlor door, looking at her, not with the adoring face of yore, but with a quite different expression. Vicious was the word that came to mind. She felt a shiver along her spine, soon followed by a terrible apprehension for her safety, her very life. She would never be allowed to go free, now that she knew him for what he was. Her only chance for survival was to escape, before they knew she had regained consciousness.
The letter was her next thought. Had they got it? She jumped out of bed, wrapping the blanket around her. Her clothing was gone, every stitch of it carried away. She tried the door, being careful to make little noise, and found it locked. The only furnishing other than the bed was a small chest of drawers.
Hoping to find some clothing, she walked silently to it, eased open the four drawers, one after the other, to find it contained four ancient hats, one moth-eaten gentleman's beaver and three ladies' bonnets, covered in wilting flowers and faded feathers.
There was no carpet on the floor, no canopy on the bed, no draperies at the windows, no possible hiding place, and nothing to manufacture clothing. She ran to the window to examine her chances for escape by that means. She was on a second story, looking down a sheer wall to a patch of hard-packed earth, with not even a blade of grass to cushion her drop.
A jump would not kill her, but it would quite possibly break a leg, making escape impossible. It was clear why they had been careless of her bindings; she was as helpless as if she were in chains, locked in a room with no clothing and no means of escape. If she used the blanket as a rope to help her descend, she would have to enter the outdoors stark naked.
And really the blanket, a thick woolen thing, was not at all capable of being tied into knots, nor was there anything near the window to tether it to. Was she to sit like a rat in a trap, waiting for them to come and—what? Kill her? Assault, molest her? Yes, Carlisle's expression had been violent enough that he would exact every revenge before killing her.
Worst of all, they had found the letter, they
must
have found it. They had taken all her things. Maybe they had gone away, abandoned her in their haste to deliver the news to their superiors. She wanted to go to the door and rattle it, yell and scream and see if there was anyone in the house. Yet if there
was
someone ... If, say, Carlisle, was lurking about downstairs waiting for her to revive ...
No, she would wait and think and try to devise a plan of self-rescue. Her efforts were hampered by the awful panic rising in her bosom. Her whole body trembled; she felt ill, whether from the drugged tea or fear, she did not know, nor did it matter. She crouched on the end of the bed, trying to calm her nerves, to strengthen her resolve. Her throat was dry and painful, so painful as to be an added distraction.