Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
They rode into the compound at full speed. Silas dismounted from his horse even before it came to a full stop.
He ran at the door, using his bulk to shoulder it open. Fortunately, it was not locked.
He stopped short, skidding to a halt as three people turned to face him. Sister Frances, Sister Philomena and Sister Mary Gertrude.
Sister Frances opened her mouth and Silas drew his pistol.
“Tut-tut… no screaming,” he said.
She snapped her mouth shut, and all three nuns stared at him with wide eyes.
“Where’s my wife and my sister?” he demanded.
The three nuns simply continued to stare at him.
He pointed his gun at Sister Frances. “You think I won’t use it? Is your silence worth your life?”
Sister Frances raised her chin defiantly, saying nothing.
Silas growled in frustration. He pointed the pistol at the second nun. “What about you, Sister Mary Gertrude? Are you ready to die to protect a bunch of traitors?”
The nun was trembling and her eyes slid away from him, but she didn’t say a word. Silas cocked his pistol and she flinched, jerking hard but didn’t speak.
“No! Stop!” Sister Philomena said, hands held out pleadingly.
“I will shoot. Unless you speak.”
Sister Philomena pointed down the hall, “They’re in the basement,” she said.
Silas looked in the direction she was pointing. The hall extended far beyond where his eyes could see.
He marched forward, grabbed Sister Philomena and pulled her with him, pointing the pistol at her head. “Show me where.”
He turned towards his men. “Tie the rest of them up. Make sure they don’t escape.”
The men came forward, taking the nuns in hand. Benedict joined Silas. “I’m coming with you.”
Silas nodded, turning to Sister Philomena. “Move,” he ordered.
The nun tottered down the corridor ahead of Silas, her shoulders hunched, looking terrified. Silas sneered, wondering how many girls Sister Philomena had terrorized in her time at the abbey. He was not surprised to realize she was just a coward, hiding behind a bigger bully.
She stopped at the end of the corridor, and pointed down some stairs. “Down there,” she said.
Silas pushed past her, running down the stairs until he came to the first door. He tested it and was relieved that it was open. He pushed the door open and stepped in to see a lump of blue muslin hunched over in the corner, with a head of brown hair covering her face.
“Amelia?” he called and she looked up, her eyes brightening.
“Silas!”
He ran to her, dropping to his knees to envelop her in an embrace. “Are you all right?” he whispered against her ear.
She nodded.
Immediately, he reached for her bonds, cutting them with his knife before helping her to her feet.
“Helena!” she said at once.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Close. I think I heard her screaming earlier. Please, we need to save her!” Amelia said urgently.
“She’s close?” Silas looked towards the door.
“Yes,” Amelia whispered.
Just then, there was a pistol shot and then a scream.
In his arms, Amelia tensed. He pushed her towards Benedict and ran out of the door.
“Helena!” he called.
The sound of the pistol had come from somewhere at the end of the hall. He went door to door, trying handles until he reached the last one at the end.
Pulling it open, he eased into the room, his own pistol in hand.
“Why did you have to get in the way?” a teary male voice said, and he squinted trying to see well in the darkened room.
There was a woman’s body on the ground. He tensed, his heart dropping with fear. Then, he noticed the body had blonde hair.
It was Lady Downfield.
And there was someone tied to a pole, just behind the prone body.
Helena.
James Porter was leaning over the body, rocking slightly and keening. “Why? Why? Why? Why did you do that?” he cried.
Silas lifted the arm holding the pistol and slammed it against James Porter’s head. The man slumped forward, his head lolling on the body’s belly, before slumping to the floor.
“Silas!”
His shoulders sagged with relief when he heard her voice. Dropping to his knees, he stared at Helena before putting a hand to her cheek.
“Helena. You’re all right,” he whispered.
“Untie me! Quickly,” she said.
He hastened to do as she said. As soon as she was free she dove forward, reaching for Lady Downfield.
“Mother!” Helena shouted in anguish, cupping her mother’s face in her hand. “Mother please, don’t die.”
Silas could hear the Dowager Countess choking. He leaned forward to examine her. The gunshot wound in her stomach was bleeding steadily, her face and her limbs were waxy and pale.
By the choking breaths she was taking, he knew she didn’t have long.
His eyes slid to James Porter, who still held a pistol in hand, and he realized why the man had been keening.
“He shot her by accident, did he not?” he whispered.
“Mother!” Helena cried, her voice thick with tears. “Stay with me.”
“I-I-I’m… so-sorry.” Lady Downfield whispered, struggling with every word.
“Mama!” Helena screamed as the Dowager Countess slumped in her arms, eyes falling closed.
Silas reached out and put a hand over her mouth to check if she was breathing. He sighed, shaking his head and sitting back.
The Dowager Countess was dead.
“Mama,” Helena whispered before collapsing in Silas’s arms.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.”
Helena startled awake, opening her eyes to a familiar canopy.
She was back in her bed at Highcliff. Somewhere close by, she could hear voices murmuring.
She felt woozy and disoriented, yet she still remembered clearly where she’d been when she was last awake, and what had happened.
If she was back in her bed, it meant she was safe.
She pricked her ears, to hear what the voices were saying.
“…not much physical damage except the bruises on her wrists. At some point, someone might have hit her over the head. I’ve bled her to make the swelling go down, and your housekeeper has the recipe for willow bark tea.
I’ve asked her to put some to steep. The Duchess will want some as soon as she awakes.
It will also help with the slight fever,” a slightly high male voice was saying.
Just as he said the words, Helena became aware that her head was throbbing. There was also a slight general ache everywhere on her body and of course, a painful bruise on her heart that she knew no amount of rubbing would soothe.
Her mother was dead.
Eyelids fluttering, she pried her eyes open just a bit, enough to realize that someone had considerately left the curtains closed even though she could see that it was daylight.
She did not think her eyes would be able to tolerate the full glare of the sun. She gave a small moan at the thought and suddenly there was a rustling of fabric followed by a warm touch on her hand.
“Helena?” Silas’s familiar voice was a balm to her anxious soul.
She moaned again because her mouth was dry and she did not think she could form words.
“Water!” Silas said in a too loud voice. “Bring water.”
Helena moaned again, clutching her head.
Silas ran a soft hand through her hair. “It’s going to be all right,” he soothed before pressing a glass to her lips.
She swallowed obediently, the cool liquid sliding down her throat and soothing the irritation that had settled therein.
The glass was pressed again to her lips and she took another sip, realizing right after that she was very thirsty. She reached her hand up, meaning to take the glass from Silas and drain it, but he kept a hold of it.
“Slowly now. No rush,” he cooed softly, tilting the glass so she could sip.
She drank slowly, even though she felt quite silly, being fed like a toddler still in leading strings.
“Very good. Feel better?” he asked once the glass was empty.
She nodded.
Her eyes fluttered closed and she felt him pull back. She made a sound of protest, reaching out for his cuff and holding onto it.
“It’s all right, my darling. I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
She relaxed, letting go of him, and sank back into sleep.
The second time Helena awoke, she was much more alert. A slight snoring had her turning her head to see that Silas was sitting in an armchair by the bed, still dressed in the same clothes he had been in when he rescued her.
She frowned in disapproval. That cannot be comfortable.
She reached out slowly and patted his knee.
“Silas?” she said.
He jerked awake and blinked at her as if he didn’t recognize her for a minute before he straightened up and reached for her hand.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice rough.
Helena shivered. “Yes, I am.”
They stared at each other a bit and then her mouth turned down and tears stung her eyes. She could not keep her wail inside. He leaned in slowly and gathered her into his arms.
“I’m here,” he murmured soothingly, “It’s all going to be all right.”
“M-my m-mother is d-dead.” Her voice quavered as she cried into his shirt.
“She is.”
She grabbed his shirt, holding it tightly. “I-is eve-eryone e-e-else all right? Th-there we-were bo-bodies.”
He sighed. “Yes, three men died. Patricia was injured.”
“A-Am-Amelia?”
“She is fine. Just a few bruises. She’s resting like you are.”
Helena tried her best to rein in her crying, but the tears just kept coming. She could not help but feel embarrassed at how loudly she was wailing, so unladylike.
Silas ran a hand gently down her back, murmuring nonsense words soothingly. She appreciated the comfort even as she was mortified by it. Finally, she straightened up, letting go of his shirt as he handed her a handkerchief.
“What now?” she asked softly as she wiped her face.
He shook his head. “Now… I suppose there will be a trial, and your uncle will have to answer for his crimes. So far, I understand he is to be charged with treason and murder of both the Earl and Countess of Downfield.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Is Charlie all right?”
He rubbed her hand, “He’s fine, I promise you.”
She nodded, and sniffed. “I should like to go and see him soon.”
“Of course. As soon as you’re able.”