Chapter 12
When Mrs. Cavelltold Dorothy that her sister had already taken the child, Dorothy walked away at random. She needed time to consider.
Where would Grace have gone with a child? Surely, she would not take him to the Polkinghorne townhouse. Dorothy could imagine what Aunt Mary would say if Grace walked in with the grubby child. She would be livid and order them both to leave.
Dorothy rubbed her temple. Why should Grace have suddenly decided to rescue the child, anyway? She hadn’t said anything to Dorothy. But then, despite sharing a room recently, the two girls hadn’t been spending a great deal of time together. Aunt Mary had seemed determined to manage every second of Dorothy’s remaining time, and poor Grace had been left to the haphazard mercies of her cousins.
Standing rigid on the walkway, Dorothy barely noticed the clatter of carriages and jostling crowds around her. Could Grace have decided to leave London with the child and return to Kendle? No, that was impossible. Their last letter from Martha indicated that she and Lord Ashbourne were not yet wed. Martha was living with Mrs. Willow while the banns were read and formalities completed. The widow’s cottage was tiny, with only two bedchambers, and certainly had no room for both Grace and a child, in addition to Mrs. Willow and Martha.
“Well,” Dorothy murmured and stepped forward after a particularly rude passerby jabbed her in the back with an elbow. The edges of her bonnet hid the person from her view. When she turned to scold them, no one was paying her the least attention. At least the action spurred her forward. She would go to her aunt’s home.
There was simply no other place for Grace to have gone.
When she arrived at the house, she was relieved when Elsa yanked open the door and admitted that Grace was indeed at home.
“I am so relieved to see you, miss!” Elsa exclaimed, swinging the front door shut. “Er, Lady Arundell, as it were. Sorry.” She bobbed a quick curtsey, her thin hands continually smoothing the front of her dingy apron.
“Relieved?” Dorothy’s brow rose. “Why? Has something happened?”
“Oh, Miss—er—Lady Arundell! What has not happened? I don’t know which way to turn with all the yelling and crying and whatnot!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at Dorothy with round eyes. “I shouldn’t have said—it isn’t my place—oh, I’m so sorry, Lady Arundell!”
“Isn’t your place to say what, Elsa? What exactly has happened?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I heard—well, I don’t know that I can say.” Elsa eyed her before her gaze fled to the shadowy nook beyond the grand staircase where the servants’ hallway lay hidden. She took a small step in that direction and chewed her lower lip, clearly wishing to escape.
“Where is my sister?” Dorothy asked sharply before the maid could flee.
Elsa shook her head. “I don’t know. That is, she may be in her room. Or Jane’s room.” She pointed at the grand curving staircase. “Upstairs, at any rate.”
“Did she bring someone home with her?”
“Someone? What do you mean?”
“Did my sister have anyone with her when she returned?”
“You mean Jane?” Elsa gazed at her blankly before flashing a nervous glance at the staircase.
“Oh, never mind.” Dorothy strode to the staircase. “I shall find my sister myself. You are dismissed.”
“But miss—I mean, Lady Arundell—you have to be announced!” Elsa objected, though she looked relieved at the prospect of escape.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Go on, Elsa. Return to your duties.” Without waiting for a reply, Dorothy mounted the staircase. At the first floor landing, she tilted her head to listen.
An ominous silence greeted her. Or perhaps it only seemed ominous because of Elsa’s nervous rambling. Most likely, the silence just meant that everyone was busy changing their clothes for supper or resting.
“Is anyone here?” Dorothy called. In the distance, she thought she heard a muffled thud. “Aunt Mary?”
No response.
A tickle irritated the back of her neck. She rubbed it, took a deep breath, and moved to the second flight of stairs. A wardrobe door closing, a shoe dropped on the floor, any one of a number of things could have made that sound.
The second floor landing proved just as silent as the first. There was no sign of Elsa rushing about with ewers of hot water or on other errands, however. And there was no sign of Aunt Mary’s personal maid returning from ironing a creased gown. Only the ominous silence filled the hallway, as thick as treacle.
The hallway felt hot and stuffy. A few sparkles of dust floated through a stray beam of late afternoon sunshine, slanting through an open doorway further up the hall. Perhaps she was simply winded from climbing the stairs.
“Aunt Mary?” Dorothy called. “Grace?” Her hand tightened around the newel post before she released it and strode toward the room she’d shared with her sister. “Grace?”
Despite her efforts to remain calm, she found herself holding her breath when she thrust open the door.
The room was empty.
She cleared her throat. “Is anyone here?” Where was everyone?
Her trepidation was rapidly turning to irritation. With a swirl of skirts, she returned to the staircase and descended. Considering the sound she’d heard earlier, she realized it might have come from beneath her, rather than above her. The library on the ground floor flashed into her mind, Uncle Cyril’s refuge from the women in the household.
Maybe Grace was there, asking Uncle Cyril for assistance with the child. That made sense. And Aunt Mary might be out with the others—they might even have gone for a stroll in Hyde Park to criticize the ostentatious fashions worn by the ladies and ogle the dandies driving by in sporting vehicles.
That had to be the answer. Her breathing eased. Dorothy smiled. How easy it was to panic over nothing but her own ludicrous fears, heightened by the nervousness of a maid.
“Uncle Cyril?” she called as she walked around to the hallway stretching past the staircase toward the rear of the townhouse. “Are you there?”
The double doors to the library were open a crack, but no one answered her. She walked into the huge room, her gaze searching the shadows. There were several groups of low tables and upholstered chairs, but the room appeared to be empty. Her uncle’s large desk was situated by the French doors at the rear of the room, and there was no sign of him there. She almost turned to go when she noticed a stark tableau of pale, startled faces staring at her from the shadowy corner near the wall directly to her left.
“Uncle Cyril?” Dorothy took a step toward them, confused. Her glance caught her sister’s gaze. “Grace?”
Grace’s eyes widened with panic before she looked back at their uncle, standing beyond her. Her hand rested on the shoulder of a child who appeared to be trying to edge behind Grace.
And there was something about the child, perhaps the frail curve of her neck and shoulders and the way she stood, that made Dorothy sure that the child was a little girl.
The urchin still wore the tattered blue skirt wrapped around her waist, above a pair of baggy brown trousers. The child turned to stare at Dorothy. Her odd eyes were huge, staring out of a face that looked entirely bloodless beneath the grime smudging her cheeks and nose. The bluish cast to her lips emphasized her pallor. In silence the child’s grubby hand reached up and grasped Grace’s sash. The child’s delicate knuckles turned white as she pulled Grace even closer to her.
All the small details caught Dorothy’s attention. She shook her head, frowned, and took another step forward. “What is wrong?” she asked, edging around a blue brocade chair.
“Dorothy, or I should say, Lady Arundell, do come in,” Uncle Cyril said. His thin lips twisted into a smile that looked more like a sick grimace. “Join us.”
“No, Dorothy!” Grace exclaimed in a strangled voice. Her arm flashed around the child and yanked her behind her as she partially turned toward Dorothy. “Run!”
Dorothy picked up her skirts and twirled, only to knock into the blue chair.
“Too late for that, I’m afraid, my dear,” Uncle Cyril said. He sounded appallingly cheerful. “Come, Lady Arundell. Come and join us.”
When Dorothy glanced over her shoulder, she realized that Grace and the child had moved sufficiently to reveal Uncle Cyril more fully. He held a dueling pistol in his right hand, its long barrel pointed at Grace’s heart.
“I am so pleased to see you, Lady Arundell. Though I would have been more pleased for none of this to have happened. You should not have said yes, but I suppose one must accept matters as they stand,” Uncle Cyril said. Another rictus of a smile twisted his features into a grotesque mask. “You must know I never wished to harm you—in fact, I wished for something quite different. However, we shall make do. Grace, be a good girl and open that door on your left.” He didn’t make the mistake of gesturing with his weapon—he kept his gaze and gun fixed steadily on Grace.
With an agonized glance at Dorothy, Grace edged over and twisted a brass doorknob. She blinked several times and bit her plump, lower lip.
Oh, no—don’t, Dorothy silently begged. Those rapid blinks meant Grace was going to tell a lie. If she said something foolish and made Uncle Cyril angry, Dorothy had no doubt he would simply shoot her where she stood.
“I can’t. It’s locked,” Grace said.
“Uncle Cyril.” Dorothy stepped closer. “Please—”
In a sudden, vicious movement, Uncle Cyril stepped forward and whipped the butt of his pistol against the child’s head. The girl crumpled at Grace’s feet. Grace stood there, face gray and mouth open in appalled shock.
“Open the door. Pick her up. Go inside,” Uncle Cyril ordered.
He clearly had no intention of being fooled into checking the lock or discussing anything with them at all.
Trembling, Dorothy knelt and briefly held her hand over the child’s nose and mouth. A puff of moist, warm air brushed over her fingers. At least the urchin was still alive. She gently pulled the girl’s arm over her shoulder, ignoring the unappetizing odors of unwashed skin, animal waste, and rotting food clinging to the child’s filthy clothing.
When she looked up, Grace had the door open. The room beyond was dark.
“It is small. However, you will not be there for long. It will all be over soon.” He stepped closer to nudge the child with the toe of his shoe. “Get inside.” His eyes glittered. “There is no point in screaming—the walls are thick. No one comes in here except me. Content yourselves to know that drowning is said to be an easy death, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. You shall all be well-weighted when you go into the water. They’ve left an abundance of rocks and construction materials at the new bridge.” He forced them into the darkness. “It won’t be long, my dears, and your troubles will soon be over.” His gaze lingered on Dorothy. “I really am sorry, Lady Arundell.”
Glancing at him with distaste, Dorothy struggled with the child, trying to edge her through the door.
Her delay changed his professed sorrow to aggravation, and he gave her a strong shove.
Unbalanced by the weight of the child, Dorothy fell into her sister. The room—closet, really—was so small that the three of them tumbled against the far wall before they could right themselves.
The door slammed behind them. Dorothy heard the sound of a key clicking in the lock. Smothered by darkness, Dorothy released the girl and turned, her hands touching the walls on both sides. The only light was a thin line of pale gray streaming beneath the door and a fainter one filtering through the lock of the door. She leaned a shoulder against one wall before she slid down to the floor. There was barely enough room for them to sit with the child in Dorothy’s lap.
“What happened?” she asked Grace, trying not to panic as she eyed the door.
Grace sniffed, choking back a sob. “It’s my fault—I should have left well enough alone. That’s what Martha always used to say, is it not? And she was right, as she always is. I should never have gone to Mr. Cavell’s shop. That poor girl—she would have been better off if I left her, stealing food from Mrs. Cavell. Oh, why did I have to interfere? Why?!”
“It is not your fault, dearest,” Dorothy said, awkwardly trying to reassure her sister in the dark. After tapping her nose and cheek, she finally found what she thought was Grace’s shoulder. She gave it a small squeeze. “Clearly, Uncle Cyril is quite mad.”
“And I dragged both you and this poor child here!”
“Well, you didn’t drag me here, I dragged myself. So you can’t take all the blame. Never mind, though. We shall escape, one way or the other.”
“How? What if Aunt Mary is helping him? Perhaps the entire family is mad!” Grace’s voice rose shrilly.
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they are, but I shouldn’t let it worry me. We just need to open this door before he returns. There is no doubt that he will wait until it is dark. Though even then, how he proposes to throw three people into the Thames without anyone noticing anything peculiar is beyond me,” Dorothy said bracingly. “Here, will you take her?” She shifted the child onto Grace’s lap. “I want to check the lock.”
“What if he’s out there?”
“What if he is?” Dorothy shrugged, groping in the darkness for the brass knob. “The element of surprise works both ways.”
“He might shoot you!”
“Well, if he does, you must run as fast as you can and fetch the Watch. It shall take him a minute or more to reload his pistol, and you can use that to your advantage.”
“I can’t leave you—I will not!”
“Don’t be a dolt, dearest. Of course you will. Now be quiet, will you?” She felt the top of her head, her fingertips searching for a particular pin—the one that was currently digging into her scalp.
She and her sister both had hairpins keeping their hair neatly coiled on their heads, so if she ruined one pin, they had many more. She removed the most annoying pin and tilted her head. Her hair remained firmly in place. Not that it mattered, but it would be nice if, when the authorities arrived, the only person who looked like a lunatic, with goggling eyes and wild hair, was her uncle.
As she twisted the flimsy pin in the lock, she reflected that the longer pin which had held her bonnet in place might be useful, as well. Although she hadn’t thought about it in time to prevent their confinement, she could also use one as a weapon when Uncle Cyril returned. She read a dreadful story once where a madwoman had killed her husband by stabbing a hat pin into the nape of his neck.
Not that she wished to emulate her, but it remained a possibility.
They were far from dead yet. There was still hope. At least she prayed there was as she futilely jabbed and jiggled her hairpin in the recalcitrant lock.