Chapter Fourteen
The night seemed endless. It was very cold in the stone-walled room, and before it grew too dark for her to see without candles, Prue forced down the thick, glutinous soup and dry bread to warm herself.
She used the chamber pot, then wrapped herself in the thin blanket and walked endlessly from one wall to the window until she fell onto the bed, exhausted.
But her mind was in such a turmoil, escaping into sleep eluded her.
When the night turned pitch black, she could do nothing but lie there and wait for daylight.
It was barely dawn when the door opened, and the nun entered with a tray. “A hot drink and some porridge to warm ye,” she said, as if she were Prue’s savior. “I’ll bring hot water and a comb for ye to tidy yourself.”
Prue’s head jerked up. “Is someone coming for me? Do you know?”
The nun deigned to reply as she walked back to the door. “I’ll return soon with the hot water.”
“And soap,” Prue called after her. Looking neat, at least, would give her the courage she needed to plead her cause with whoever would listen. A sense of panic gripped her. How long did they intend to keep her here?
Hours later, Prue had washed and tidied her hair, but no one came.
Her luncheon was served by the monosyllabic nun, who again ignored Prue’s entreaties.
Night fell earlier now, with winter approaching, and it would soon grow dark.
The thought of another agonizing night spent here brought tears to Prue’s eyes.
She swiped them away and ran to the window to distract herself from listening for any sound outside in the corridor and to ease the helplessness that weighed her down.
Prue drew the stool over to the window and climbed up to pull the latch open.
As she studied the view, a strong breeze blew through her hair, and it fell over her face, blinding her.
She swished her hair away desperately. A church spire in the distance rose above the canopy of trees.
It was the only building in sight. That spire beckoned to her like a beacon.
If somehow she could find her way there, someone would surely help her.
On the floor beneath hers, an iron railing encased a narrow balcony. From her limited vantage point, Prue couldn’t make out if the window opened onto it.
Prue measured the distance between the iron bars against her hips.
It should be possible to squeeze through, but how to reach the balcony below without plunging to her death?
Stepping down from the stool, she studied the bed.
The idea she’d dismissed earlier, inspired by a romance story she’d once read, wasn’t at all romantic, and it was very dangerous.
But what did she have to lose? Who knew if she would ever leave this place alive? The fear of that drove her on.
There was a pair of sheets and the blanket on the bed.
If she knotted them together to form a rope, she could tie one end around one of the bars.
It might be long enough to reach the balcony below.
But would the makeshift rope even hold her?
Another glance out of the window at the drop to the canopy of trees curdled her blood.
She decided to wait one more night. If no one came to release her tomorrow morning, she would attempt it.
Just the hope of making an escape warmed her as she draped the blanket around herself and curled up on the bed, closing her eyes and willing herself to sleep.
She had managed to get a few hours. Breakfast at daybreak was the same fare: lumpy porridge, dry bread, and a glass of warm goat’s milk. To fortify herself in preparation for her escape, Prue ate every morsel.
An hour later, the nun returned with hot water, soap, and a towel.
“Will someone come to see me today?”
The nun glanced at her but failed to answer. Was that pity in her eyes?
Prue performed her scanty ablutions with the tepid water and a bar of soap that smelled strongly of lye and rancid fat and was nothing like the soap at home smelling sweetly of lavender.
As she had done yesterday, it was likely the nun would not come again until luncheon.
If Prue was going to attempt it, now was the time, before her courage deserted her.
She donned her pelisse, then stripped the bed, and knotted the bedsheets and blanket together to make a lengthy rope.
Testing it for strength, she prayed it would hold her.
Dragging the stool back to the window, Prue tied one end of the knotted rope to an iron bar and leaning over, released it to slither snake-like to the balcony below. It fell just short of the balcony floor, but that would have to do.
She kicked off her half-boots and dropped them down, praying her aim was good.
When she looked down over the rail at the ground so far away, her head spun.
They landed safely right where she’d hoped they would.
She swallowed and screwed her courage to the sticking place, as Shakespeare had written in Macbeth.
Then she pulled herself up between the bars.
Panic rocketed through her. Was she mad, to do this?
Should she wait for someone to come and explain why she had been brought here?
Would they release her? But she had little faith in the likelihood that whoever was behind this would set her free.
With her foot on the windowsill, Prue eased her hips through the bars.
It was a tight squeeze, but she managed it.
Her head whirled dizzily. Don’t look down!
Clutching the rope tightly, she managed to turn and place her feet against the rough, stone wall.
She slowly eased herself down. Her stockings were soon shredded, and her toes cold and sore scraping against the rough stone, while her hands burned as the coarse rope slid through them.
But with no other option, she inched down while fighting to control her rising panic.
Had she tied the knots tightly enough? Or would they unravel and send her tumbling to her death?
The way down seemed to go on forever. Was she above the balcony? She couldn’t trust herself to check. What if she missed it entirely? Her hands grew sweaty, and she feared the rope would slip through her fingers.
At last, her feet reached the balcony floor. Her knees weak with the strain, she fell onto her bottom, gulping in a huge breath.
Elated, Prue climbed onto her knees to look through the Gothic arched window.
Was it locked? She hesitated, paralyzed to act.
With a groan, she gave herself a mental shake and carefully stood to peer inside.
It was a small chapel and appeared quite empty.
Before her fragile courage waned, she snatched up her shoes and reached up to pull the latch.
It turned, and the window opened, the age-old smell of incense drifting out.
Suppressing the desire to whoop with joy, Prue entered the cool, dim interior.
Frankincense lingered, its spicy warmth tainting the still air and the sweet, waxy aroma of beeswax candles from a small iron candelabrum near the altar.
To put on her shoes, she sat on one of the wooden pews, polished to a dark sheen, which gave off a subtle citrusy tang of furniture polish and the woody smell of aged oak.
A few well-thumbed hymnals were stacked at each end.
The silence was almost tangible, broken only by the distant chirping of birds through the balcony door she’d left open.
She stirred herself and rose to listen at the door, which must have opened into a corridor as it did in the room above.
No sound of footsteps or voices. If she was going to do it, there was no time better than right now.
*
Lady Aldridge walked across the hall to welcome Jack. She looked delicate, her ageless vitality seeming to have seeped away. He took her proffered hand. “My lady, will you tell me what happened?”
She nodded. “Come to the drawing room. There’s a fire there, and it’s warmer.” She rubbed her arms. “It’s hard to warm these old bones.”
Seated in a chair by the welcome warmth of glowing coals and nursing a glass of fine claret, Jack listened to Lady Aldridge relate what she knew of Lady Prudence’s disappearance.
“Dear Prudence was understandably nervous due to this shocking business. I told her to go for a walk in the garden.” Lady Aldridge looked troubled.
“With that man now in jail, I didn’t see the need for a maid to accompany her.
” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket.
“And in any event, knowing how determined Prudence is, she probably would have refused.”
“I believe she might have, my lady. When was this?”
“Prudence has been gone since yesterday. I called in a Bow Street Runner, but he could find nothing! I am at my wits’ end. I pray you can help, Lord Hereford.”
“I will do my best. I’m glad you contacted me, Lady Aldridge. Did anyone see her walking in the garden?”
“My gardener, Philpot, did. He watched Prudence walk down the path to the river. But she did not reappear. The staff have searched the grounds and the woods. They’ll continue tonight with lanterns after dark until every inch of the grounds has been covered.”
“I’d like to talk to the staff, if I may.”
“Yes, of course. My footman, Robert, will take you to them.”
Jack left Lady Aldridge, promising to tell her immediately if he had news. He walked toward the lantern light bobbing through the shadowy trees, but as expected, they’d found no sign of her. An hour later, convinced he had nothing further to learn here, Jack drove his curricle out the gates.
A gentleman emerged from his gate farther along the road.
Jack reined in his horses and introduced himself.
The neighbor, Mr. Goodman, a short, heavy-set gentleman, an inquisitive expression in his eyes, removed his hat and scratched his head.
“Didn’t see Lady Prudence, milord, but yesterday morning, I noticed a coach had stopped over the road. Must have been there close on an hour.”
“Can you describe the vehicle?” Jack persisted, unwilling to let go the only possible witness.
“Dirty, it was. I couldn’t say what color, black or dark blue. Hard to see beneath all that dust.”
Jack’s hope began to ebb. “Nothing else?”
“No… but I did notice the horses.”
Jack nodded encouragingly, fighting not to hurry the ponderous fellow.
“A black horse among the three bays drew the carriage. I’m fond of black horses. Had one myself, once. Fine animal, it was… I remember when…”
“Did you catch a glimpse of the occupants?”
“Made a point of it. One doesn’t see such a rundown vehicle in these parts. A gentleman, yes, one expects to find a gentleman, doesn’t one? Seemed to be waiting for someone. He appeared to be alone. And when I looked again a half hour later, it had gone.”
Jack raised his hat. “Thank you, sir.”
“Glad to be of help, milord.” Goodman whipped off his hat and bowed. “If I think of anything else, where might I reach you?”
“We should be grateful if you could tell Lady Aldridge at Waterford Manor anything you might have discovered. No matter how small.”
“Something badly amiss, my lord?” Goodman tried but failed to hide his curiosity.
“I hope not, sir.”
Jack drove on, unsettled and worried. There was nothing more he could do tonight.
Where had they taken her? Was she afraid, hurt?
Or worse? He couldn’t believe she was gone.
It seemed impossible. She’d become too dear to him.
He saw her lovely face in his mind’s eye: the defiant flash of purpose in her green eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin.
Unthinkable to lose the one woman he cared for.
He’d guarded himself from such pain since his mother disappeared, fearing it would destroy him.
Rather he faced a murderer’s gun than this.
But he wouldn’t give in. He would find her.
The next morning, he drove away from Bow Street, having learned nothing new. Will Darby was apparently more frightened of the man who’d hired him than the prospect of ending up in Newgate to await the hangman’s noose. Jack wondered why.
It was early afternoon when Jack returned to Richmond.
It would probably prove fruitless, but he wanted to check if anyone else had noticed the coach and might be able to give him the direction it had taken, although where he’d go from there, he couldn’t say.
And as one who liked to have a plan and know what he was about, it did not sit well with him.
This was the third day Lady Prudence had been missing and the desperate need to find her made him groan in anguish.