Chapter Twenty-Two
“Well,” Jenny managed, when Maggie had finished speaking. “That is… quite a story. And you are certain—of what you saw?”
Maggie gave a wry little laugh. “Of course I am certain. It haunts me still. I see that scene in my dreams. I left London as soon as I possibly could. I had hardly any savings—only enough to pay for lodging in some dingy little inn while I searched for a position, any position. I believe my father left the city soon after. He did not even try to find me.”
Jenny gave an incredulous snort. “I cannot imagine it. My own father would never abandon me so.” She stopped short, colouring. “I am sorry—I did not mean to be unkind. None of this is your fault. But as to what you saw—are you certain of it? Was it truly…”
Jenny trailed off, loath to speak the dreadful word.
“Murder?” Maggie finished for her quietly.
“Yes. I know what I saw. I do not believe for a moment that Lord Bramwell pursues me so relentlessly out of any fondness. He was content enough to marry me—an arrangement that would have silenced me neatly—but once I fled, whatever desire he possessed turned to hatred. If he finds me, I am certain he will kill me.”
Jenny shivered. It might have been the chill, but Maggie doubted it. Her story was enough to freeze the blood. Now that she had spoken it aloud, the truth pressed on her chest like a weight.
“I have decided that I must leave,” Maggie said at last, the words escaping on a breath. “It was selfish—and utterly foolish—to imagine I could remain. The longer I stay, the more danger I bring upon all of you.”
Jenny’s eyes widened, and she leapt to her feet, grabbing Maggie’s arms and pulling her close.
“Absolutely not,” she whispered fiercely. “If you leave this place, you will be unprotected—alone, and in danger. I cannot permit it.”
Maggie tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat, as if she were choking. “I shall be perfectly safe. If I am cautious, if I keep my head down, all will be well.”
Jenny did not move. For a long moment she only studied Maggie, her brow drawn in concern.
“You do not believe that,” she said at last. “You do not believe you will escape him. Have you money to leave the country? Anywhere to go?”
“I thought I might hide as a governess again, but with each passing day, I feel his shadow drawing nearer,” Maggie replied, her voice gone hoarse.
“I should have gone to the authorities, but I knew he would kill Papa. Papa would not come with me—not with his debts and his reputation—and I had no time.”
“A man like Lord Bramwell would have friends in every high place,” Jenny said bitterly. “There are few corners of England he could not reach.”
Maggie opened her mouth to answer—perhaps to agree—but then she frowned, glancing toward the lawn.
“Where is Emma?” she murmured.
Jenny looked up sharply. “She went to pick flowers by the wood, did she not?”
Before Maggie could reply, a small, frightened voice drifted across the garden.
“Maggie! Jenny!”
Emma’s voice—thin, wavering, and wrong somehow.
Maggie froze. All thought of her own troubles vanished in an instant. She met Jenny’s eyes; her friend was already on her feet.
“By the wood,” Jenny whispered, her tone tight with fear.
Maggie nodded once, lifting her skirts. “Come—this way.”
Without waiting for a reply, Maggie lifted her skirts and ran, crossing the lawn at speed. She heard the rustle of Jenny’s petticoats and the quick thud of her steps behind her.
They reached the patch of flowers where Emma had last been seen. Maggie’s heart pounded sickeningly. A handful of blooms lay crushed in the grass, and the turf nearby was trampled—but of Emma there was no sign.
“Emma?” Maggie called, her voice rising with panic. “Emma, my love, where are you?”
A rustle in the trees—and a man stepped from the shadows, silent as a ghost. He held Emma in his arms, one great hand clamped over her pale little face. Only her eyes showed—wide and terrified.
Maggie’s heart seemed to drop to her stomach. The man was tall and broad, his face heavy and coarse, his moustache like a smudge across his upper lip. He grinned.
“Remember me, Miss Camden?” he drawled.
It was as if Maggie’s limbs had turned to stone. She could not move, could not breathe.
What have I done? she thought, clear and cold. This is all my fault.
Jenny, however, was not frozen.
“Let her go at once, you brute!” she cried, and hurled herself forward, fists flying.
The man barely glanced her way. Still holding Emma fast, he swung out and struck Jenny a glancing blow across the cheek. She fell hard, sprawling upon the ground with a cry of pain.
Two more men emerged from the trees—each as large as the first. The last carried a cudgel, thick and ugly.
The sight jolted Maggie back to life. She stepped in front of Jenny at once, lifting her chin.
“I remember you,” she said, her voice cold and steady. “It is me you are here for. Take me. I will come quietly, without protest, if you let the child and my friend go unharmed. You have nothing to do with them.”
“No, no, Maggie!” Jenny gasped, dragging herself upright. “You must not go with them!”
“You may scream if you like,” the man said coolly, his gaze flicking toward Jenny. “No one will hear. We chose our moment well. Very good, Miss Camden—stand still while my comrade binds your wrists, and we shall have no trouble.”
Maggie’s pulse thundered. She forced herself to stand motionless as one of the men approached, a length of coarse rope in hand.
Jenny made to step forward, but Maggie shook her head, meeting her eyes in silent warning.
You can tell them what happened to me, she hoped her gaze conveyed. It’s a slim chance, but perhaps… perhaps they can come after me. If we fight, they might kill us all. This is a sensible choice.
Even so, it took every inch of her nerves to keep her standing still, every fibre inside her screaming to struggle or run as her wrists were tied roughly together.
The rope was thick and coarse, scratching her skin.
The man grinned at her, all yellow teeth and terrible breath, and tightened the rope until she fought back a wince.
“There now,” the first man said with a grin. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
He shifted his hold on Emma—and Maggie saw that the child’s hands, too, were bound.
In a rush, she understood.
“No,” she gasped. “No! Jenny—they mean to take Emma as well!”
It was already too late. Emma gave a strangled little scream before it was muffled. A burlap sack came down over Maggie’s head. Darkness swallowed her. The last thing she saw was Jenny lunging for the man who held Emma—and the man with the cudgel stepping forward to strike.
The blow landed with a sickening crack. Jenny crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Then all went black.
Maggie meant to scream—would have—but a powerful hand pressed over her mouth through the sacking, hard enough to choke her. She could scarcely breathe. In the next instant, she was dragged off her feet, her captor’s arm clamped tight around her as he bore her away.
She struggled, but it was useless. All she heard was the man’s heavy breathing and the rustle of branches. They were moving through the wood—but to where?
The answer came sooner than she expected. The rustling gave way to the crunch of gravel; rusty hinges squealed. A gate, perhaps—one of the many in Burenwood’s garden wall. Beyond lay the lanes.
Dim light filtered through the weave of the sack. Maggie strained to listen. No sound of Emma. Had they been separated? Or was the poor child paralysed with fear?
Then, with a leaping heart, Maggie heard the squeak and jingle of a horse’s harnesses. A door creaked, a spring groaned.
A carriage! Is somebody nearby?
The hand lifted its pressure off her mouth. Could she scream? She would have to choose her moment wisely, as she’d likely only get one chance to cry for help.
Then, without warning, the light vanished, and Maggie found herself thrust into a cool, dark interior, deposited roughly on what felt like a carriage seat. The vehicle creaked and bounced around her, and she felt the small figure of Emma pushed in beside her.
Sniffling, Emma pressed against her, and Maggie wished she could move her hands so as to squeeze the little girl’s as reassuringly as she could.
The door closed with a slam, leaving them in silence.
Are we alone? Maggie wondered.
Once again, her answer came more quickly than she’d imagined.
“My dear Maggie,” came a cool, icy voice. “How I have missed you.”
Cold fear rushed down Maggie’s spine. She found herself unable to sit up, crushed and tied up as she was. But she breathed in deeply, turning her head in the direction where she believed he sat.
“Victor,” she responded, more calmly than she would have thought possible. “I wish I could say the same.”
***
Jenny regained consciousness in a jolting rush—and almost wished she had not. Her head throbbed as though it had been cleaved in two. She raised a trembling hand, soft as jelly, wishing the pain was worse than the hurt itself.
She realised that she was sprawled out on the ground, half on the muddy lawn and half in the undergrowth.
The whole awful event came rushing back—the men with cudgels, the talk of taking Emma and Maggie to their ‘master’, the blow coming down on her head with agonising force—and she fought the urge to retch.
A fine, misting rain had begun to fall, seeping steadily through her layers of clothing. When she dared open her eyes, she found herself twisted awkwardly, her hip pressed into the earth while her shoulders faced upward, the raindrops pattering through the branches to strike her face.
What was it they said, when they took the others? she wondered hazily. For insurance, they called it. But what did that mean?
How long have I been lying here? How much time have they had to get away?
She forced herself to move each one of her limbs in turn. To her relief, nothing seemed broken. When she touched her forehead, her fingers came away streaked with blood, thinned by the rain. Head wounds bled frightfully, she knew, though they often looked worse than they were.
No matter how long I delay, it will hurt to rise, she thought wryly. Best to get it over with.
With a groan, she rolled onto all fours. The world swam; pain clouded her vision. Gritting her teeth, she pushed upward and managed, miraculously, to stand.
Her sight lurched. The pain in her skull doubled. She squeezed her eyes shut, but now was not the time for weakness.
Thank goodness we did not go far from the house, she thought.
The realisation chilled her. Maggie and Emma had been taken almost within the very bounds of safety. But there was no use dwelling on that. What mattered now was getting help.
Jenny was a country girl, through and through.
She had seen her share of nasty knocks to the head.
She knew she might have only minutes—perhaps less—before darkness claimed her again.
Blood trickled from her hairline, stinging her eyes.
She wiped it away with a shaking hand and took an unsteady step forward.
The raked gravel of the courtyard crunched beneath her shoes. It shifted treacherously, throwing her off balance. She gasped, reaching for something to steady herself—there was nothing—and she fell forward, landing hard on her hands and knees.
A fresh surge of pain wracked her body, sharp in her palms and knees, blinding in her head.
Not yet, she told herself fiercely, teeth gritted. If I can cross the courtyard, I shall reach the terrace—and from there, the house. Just reach the wall, lean upon it, and keep moving.
So close, she thought wildly. So close.
Had the courtyard always been so vast?
Onwards she stumbled, and now Jenny began to notice the edges of her vision beginning to darken, as though tiny fish were nibbling at her eyes. Her eyes certainly felt as though they were trying to escape from her skull, and from the pain behind them.
It is only pain, she reminded herself. This time tomorrow, it will be gone. But it may already be too late for Maggie and Emma.
She resolutely did not allow herself to think about the implications of what had happened.
She did not think about who had taken Emma and Maggie, or why, or what they might be suffering at that very moment.
No, she would focus only on her current task, which was to find somebody—anybody! —and tell them what had happened.
The gravel gave way to a paved terrace. Jenny gave a moan of relief, although of course she was not there yet, not nearly. Only a few more steps, only her legs had turned to pudding and would no longer support her, letting her totter sideways…
She stumbled against a firm, warm chest, and a pair of strong arms encircled her, saving her from sagging down to the ground. She twisted her head up, squinting against the rain at her rescuer.
“Jenny?” Simon’s voice was incredulous. “You—you’re bleeding! What has happened? Jenny?”
Jenny, who had done remarkably well up to this point, finally surrendered to the dark.