Chapter 16 #2
I shut the chintz curtains rather than behold those bars at any length. Even a glimpse of them had my heart trotting around in my chest again and my breath feeling short.
Reinforcements will form squares in the morning. Get on with the mission.
The footman arrived with a sizable portion of brandy, which he indicated I was to drink at once rather than keep him waiting.
I complied—a very indifferent vintage it was, too—while he dealt with the fire.
I was shrugging out of my cloak as he closed and locked the door.
I sat on the bed—nearly collapsed, more like—and counted backward from twenty in Latin.
Steady on, dammit.
The first order of business was to stick my finger down my throat and bring up the brandy, which had doubtless been drugged.
The next task was to locate Dantry, who would be in the south wing if Mrs. Blumenthal could be believed and behind more locks and bars.
I fished a set of picklocks from the depths of my tailcoat pocket, rebuttoned my cloak, and called up two of the skills I had relied on most regularly in Spain, skills that had saved my life and the lives of others.
Not speed or strength or deadly aim, not disguises or linguistic talent, not even an ability to read signs or memorize terrain.
If I was to achieve my objective and free the prisoner, I would need, most of all, patience and stealth.
And luck, too, of course. The very best of luck.
A soldier who fell asleep on sentry duty risked facing a firing squad in the morning. An underpaid footman who succumbed to the allure of Morpheus woke up to the same sixteen hours of work per day, plus, possibly, one more scolding.
I relied on those salient facts as I made my way in stockinged feet from my quarters.
Blast the luck, the footman at the head of the stairs was entertaining himself with a deck of cards by the light of a carrying candle.
The sconces in the corridors had been doused—why illuminate passages when all the guests were locked into their bedrooms?
—and beyond the slap and snick of the footman’s cards, the silence of the old house was absolute.
I’d endured days and eternities of that same silence as a prisoner and knew it could hold the seeds of insanity.
An alternate route was called for.
In a dwelling of any size or consequence, footmen did not lug coal, and maids did not carry chamber pots up and down the same steps used by the family or guests.
In the best stately homes, different staircases were designated for maids and footmen, lest the genders be tempted to fraternize in a clandestine location.
I was betting that the Retreat had at least one set of back steps.
Finding it without creating a racket became a time-consuming exercise.
Very soft tapping on panels, foot by foot, eventually yielded promising results.
More exploration, this time inch by inch, eventually revealed a recessed handle of sorts.
A slow twist, and I was rewarded with a draft of frigid, acrid air welling up from Stygian darkness.
Darkness, too, could foster a complete loss of wits. Darkness that alternately magnified and hid sounds, darkness that obscured the march of time, that bore disturbing scents or no movement at all.
Focus, Caldicott.
I left the panel slightly ajar, lest I have to fumble for the mechanism from the frigid and pitch-black stair side in the event of a disorderly retreat.
In the corridor, I’d had the benefit of the very faint light from the footman’s carrying candle.
I forced myself to wait until I could again make out the even fainter outline delineating the cracked door.
Quietly sliding a foot this way and that, I located the railing and the steps. The stairs were comprised of risers nearly a foot tall and treads barely six inches deep. No wonder domestics were forever plunging down staircases.
I navigated this architectural abomination on slow, silent, and literally cold feet.
On the landing below, a pool of blessed moonlight provided a hint of illumination.
Would there be bars on a window in a stairwell?
I would have hastened my steps to find out, but a sound drifted up through the arctic shadows.
A giggle, followed by an emphatic shush.
I went still and slowed my breathing. Surely, the cold alone would deter protracted frolicking?
The Retreat’s staff were apparently impervious to the elements when intent on pursuing nature’s pleasures. My feet slowly turned to blocks of ice, my shoulder blades developed an infernal itch, and I began to wonder if the doctored brandy I’d ingested had had time to affect my thinking.
Time ceased to have meaning. The lovers were tireless. Just when I thought they’d reached mutual delighted exhaustion, the Romeo of the pair would whisper that he was ready for another go, and the Juliet would sigh her assent.
I watched the patch of moonlight creep across the floor and marveled at my bad luck. The stink of lye was stronger in the darkened stairwell, but neither cold nor stench nor a lack of soft surfaces deterred the course of true lust.
Finally, when surely half the night had passed, Juliet murmured something about himself will want more paper, himself was always wanting more paper. Mad he was, but not like any other madman at the Retreat.
“Himself were supposed to leave tonight,” the footman replied as fabric rustled.
“His lordship said it would have to wait until mornin’ because Dickie and Aims turned up with a case of the Jericho quickstep, and a new arrival appeared who Mrs. Blumenthal forgot to tell Huffy about. I can help you with that.”
They were speaking audibly now that the meeting’s agenda had been dealt with.
“You’ll lace me too tight,” Juliet replied. “I like Mr. Arbor. He’s polite. He should be in the north wing if he’s only here for a short time.”
“He asked for the south wing, from what I heard. Wanted to be with the regulars, if you can believe that. Where in hell… Tie this for me, would you?”
More fabric rustling.
“I’m taking a chill,” Juliet announced, “and don’t offer to warm me up, Elmer Fines. I’ll be sore for a week thanks to you.”
Ye gods and prancing goats. Tell me in which room “Mr. Arbor” bides.
“Then let me kiss it better.”
“You are hopeless. Fetch a bucket of coal and meet me outside number eight. When he’s up all night like this, the least we can do is keep his fire going.”
“Won’t be night much longer. You sure you won’t marry me?”
“As long as the apothecary keeps stocking pennyroyal tea, I won’t be marrying nobody, much less a penniless footman who can only think of one thing.”
“You shouldn’t bring Arbor any more paper, nor should I bring him extra coal.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. B will notice. He’s supposed to be asleep, not up half the night scribbling nonsense.”
“He writes poetry.”
“You can read?” Said with some admiration.
“Went to dame school for two summers. Me sister taught me the rest. Don’t tell Mrs. B. She only hires them as has no letters. How does Mr. Arbor stay awake, Elmer? The rest of the regulars all drink their possets and nod off, or they soon wish they had.”
“I don’t know, but he does. Gimme a kiss for love.”
If a pair could kiss noisily, they did.
“Bring him half a bucket of coal, Elmer. I never met a more cheeseparing woman than Mrs. B.”
“But it’s all shortbread and sherry for her. Will you teach me to read?”
They descended one more floor and departed. I stayed behind for what felt like another frigid eternity, mostly thanking the heavens for a turn of good luck.
Dantry was in room eight. He was somehow awake.
He was in his right mind. He was to be moved in the morning as soon as two of the footmen had recovered from their encounters with bad ale or worse.
Huffnagel was aware there had been an unscheduled arrival, but not, likely, the identity of the new guest.
I crept down the next flight of stairs, the patch of moonlight now halfway up the stairwell wall. The window was unbarred and the drop to the ground about eight feet.
That much good luck made me uneasy. One truth learned by every soldier on campaign was that if something could go wrong, it would go wrong. The weather would turn up too hot, too wet, too cold, or too windy. Whole teams of mules would be swept away at a ford that should have been shallow.
Calvary mounts went lame and colicked the night before battle. Reconnaissance officers fell into the hands of the most infamous French interrogator in Napoleon’s vast arsenal of same.
The sooner I freed Dantry from this purgatory, the better for all concerned, including my humble, thoroughly chilled self.