Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BACK IN HER sitting room, Marjorie tried to get the door open. She conducted several conversations through the door with frightened servants who were all interrupted by Champeraigne discovering them, and then Marjorie had to listen to the sounds of them being struck with Champeraigne’s cane.
She was trapped.
Well, she was on the first floor, by divine providence, so she went to one of the windows. Peering out, she saw a thorny rose bush right on the other side of that one.
No.
She went to the next. The way below was not clear here, either, but the hedge growing there didn’t look like it was covered in thorns. She strained to open the window but managed it without too much effort.
It was late afternoon. It was cold outside, for it was early November, and the sun would be down soon, because this time of year, there wasn’t much light here in England. She had no overcoat or wrap. She was hurt. She had no weapon to protect herself.
What did she think to do if she got out of the house?
She hesitated, but then she knew she must do something.
Even if she had no plan, it was madness to stay a prisoner when one could get free.
So, she hoisted herself out of the window, happy to be wearing trousers and not a dress. She wrenched her already hurt muscles getting out.
Stifling a cry, she fought through the hedge, which was prickly, and then managed to get through and out, away from the house.
She was already shivering. Dash it all!
She crossed her arms over herself and rubbed her elbows and upper arms, darting around the house, looking about for any danger.
The stables!
Champeraigne had gathered up the servants, so there was no one there, but she could easily saddle and bridle a horse herself. There would even be saddle blankets there, and she could wrap up in one of those.
She could ride for help.
Of course, she had already vowed never to go to Arthford, and she would stick by that. But that’s stupid, Marjorie! But no matter, she didn’t care. It was important. No, she’d go to her nephew.
Of course, her nephew was in London, and London was not close. She would have to travel now, in the dark cold, and the horse would need to rest, and she had no money or means to switch out her horse. Furthermore, she was a woman alone wearing trousers!
She hesitated, looking back at her house.
If I leave this house, I am ceding it to Lilsbin and Champeraigne, she thought.
Yes, even with the help of her nephew, she had signed over the damnable deed. She might have legal means to fight all of this, but the courts would be slow, and no one would pay her any mind. They would think she was too silly and stupid and feminine to have known what she was doing, and that was to say nothing of her reputation as a scarlet woman, which would not count in her favor.
She went to the stables, but she did not leave.
She wrapped up in a horse blanket and hid in one of the stalls. She took with her a driving hammer, one that was used to drive back any of the nails that came loose on horse shoes. She curled up with it and told herself that she must come up with a plan.
She shivered.
The horses were moving about in their stalls, sensing that things weren’t right. The stall she was in was empty, but there was a horse nearby who kept trying to put his nose down to her, looking for comfort.
She continued to shiver.
No, this wasn’t from cold, she realized, this was something else. She was very badly affected by what had happened to her, and she was falling apart. She was weak and worthless in the end.
The thought brought the tears back.
She was unable to stave them off. She sobbed in the corner of the stall as darkness stole over the world, and then she somehow fell asleep.
ARTHFORD ARRIVED AT Briar Abbey in the late afternoon, and he was greeted at the door by Champeraigne himself, who seemed surprised to see him.
“Well,” said Champeraigne, “I suppose I should have thought that you might be visiting her regularly.” He tapped his chin. “I admit I had not planned on having you here yet.” He shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I shall find a way to make this work. I suppose I could tie you up and then make you watch when Lilsbin does whatever he wishes with her, and that will have precisely the same effect.”
Arthford drew a knife. “Tie me up?”
“Put that away,” said Champeraigne, rolling his eyes. “Come now, you wish to see her, don’t you? I shall take you to her.”
Arthford did not put his knife away.
“Put it away ,” said Champeraigne. “Or I shan’t take you to her.”
Arthford hesitated and then sheathed his knife.
Champeraigne led him to the downstairs sitting room, which was locked from the outside. He undid the lock and opened the door.
It was cold inside.
A window was open.
Champeraigne’s eyes widened. “The devil take that woman,” he muttered. “She…” He stalked into the room, using his cane to push aside curtains and look under couches. “Bloody hell, she’s gone out the window.” He stood in the middle of the room, fuming. “Should have killed her when I had the chance.”
Arthford drew his knife again.
Champeraigne eyed the blade, dragged a hand over his face, and then narrowed his eyes. “Well, then, I suppose we’re right here, aren’t we, Simon?” He spread his hands, the cane dangling from one of them. “What are you waiting for? You can end all this right now.”
Arthford sprang on Champeraigne.
Champeraigne brought up the cane and blocked the knife.
Arthford pulled back and struck again.
Champeraigne blocked again and also brought up his knee, getting Arthford right in the bollocks.
Arthford choked, backing up, pain exploding through his body.
Champeraigne unscrewed his cane, freeing the blade. He took two steps forward and stuck the blade directly into Arthford’s gut.
Arthford was stunned. He looked down at the place where the cane sword was stuck into his body, noting how odd it looked to be skewered.
Champeraigne pulled the blade out.
Then, and only then, did it hurt, and it hurt like the devil.
Arthford dropped his knife to hold the wound, staggering backward.
Champeraigne swore, shaking his head. “Now, look what you’ve made me do, Simon.” He cast his gaze heavenward. “Can this day get worse?”
Arthford was taking stock of the wound, his mind racing. Champeraigne had struck carefully, going to the side, and he was fairly sure he’d missed any of Arthford’s inner organs. It was through muscle, mostly, a deep wound, a painful wound, but he was not going to die—well, at least not if he didn’t get rot in the wound and die that way.
He needed to stanch the bleeding and then, well, ideally, rest, but that wasn’t likely to happen.
He made a split second decision and ran, dashing out of the sitting room.
He knew the house well, and he made for the kitchens, dashing down the servant’s steps haphazardly.
The kitchens were empty, no servants about. Champeraigne had probably gathered them all into one spot, he thought.
He seized several linens from a basket of clean laundry and then barricaded himself into the pantry, bringing a chair with him from the servants’ dining room to wedge against the door and keep anyone out.
Panting, he stripped off his jacket and waistcoat. His shirt was stuck to the wound, blood flowing freely. Seeing that much blood made him feel a stab of panic, and he shoved it down by sheer force of will. He made himself peel his shirt away. He mopped at the wound with some of the linens, and—of course—it was just a little stab there, the size of the blade. It had not gone all the way through him. He stripped off his shirt. He bundled up the rest of the linen, put it against the wound to soak up the bleeding, and then used his shirt to tie it tightly against it, putting pressure against the wound.
He put his jacket back on.
The panic came back, so strongly that he let out a little cry.
His father was there, in the corner of the pantry, his voice iron, speaking Latin, some prayer to Mars for strength and invincibility.
And then the panic simply turned off. The pain slipped away, too, still there, but a boring and insignificant fact that he knew he must ignore if he wished to accomplish anything.
He started forward.
The pantry door rattled.
It should have startled him; nothing did in that moment.
Instead, he rushed towards the door, tore away the chair, and flung the door open.
It hit Champeraigne in the face, and the man stumbled backwards, clutching at his nose.
Arthford clenched his hands in fists and moved in to strike Champeraigne again.
But Champeraigne had a pistol and he jerked it up, right into Arthford’s face.
Arthford almost hit him anyway. He was nothing but movement and instinct just then. He believed in his invincibility, and some part of him thought he might have disarmed Champeraigne.
But then his thinking brain took control. Gun. Bullet. Stop.
He froze.
Champeraigne handed him a coil of rope. “Tie yourself up. Bind your wrists.”
Arthford sighed.
Champeraigne gestured meaningfully with the gun.
Arthford did it.
“Upstairs,” said Champeraigne. “Slowly. No sudden movements, Arthford.”