Chapter Eleven #2
“They’re down for now—we had best make sure they stay down,” Mrs. Hill said to her prim and dignified companion. Mrs. Annesley gave a dignified nod of acquiescence, and the two women came out from behind the screen.
“And Mr. Darcy requested we disarm them,” Mrs. Annesley said as calmly as if she were suggesting they ring for tea.
The two officers were scrambling across the slick floor, still crying out in pain at the nails pricked and pierced their skin.
Smiling at the thought of shocking the posh woman she had grown rather fond of, Mrs. Hill gave Mitchell a swift kick between the legs.
He squealed and swore at her, doubled over on the slippery hardwood.
Unimpressed, Mrs. Hill swatted at the lad’s hand as he reached for his weapon.
She tucked it into her apron, then grabbed him by the elbow and began to drag his prone body toward the garden door, where Wilson was waiting.
Wilson picked a few stubborn nails out of Mitchell’s clothing, then boxed the moaning officer in the ear and dragged him away toward the stables.
In the meantime, Mrs. Annesley had disarmed Hayes, lifting his gun with two fingers and holding it away from herself as if it were a dead mouse.
She tossed it out into the snow, and then returned to inspect the groaning lad who had propped himself up on his elbow but could not find purchase for his boots.
Mrs. Hill shot her a sportive look, privately hoping the dainty creature would take the same approach as she had done with Mitchell.
Instead, Mrs. Annesley lifted her skirts a little and placed her foot on Hayes’s back, slowly pressing downward until his arms and legs splayed out across the floor, the nails digging into him.
He writhed in pain, and tried to turn about.
He managed to twist about enough to grab her leg, and tugged at Mrs. Annesley until she began to sway wildly.
Mrs. Hill acted quickly, darting toward Mrs. Annesley to steady her.
Betraying no more dismay than a single, shaky gasp, the gracious lady reached up, freed one of the knitting needles she had used to pin up her hair, and thrust it into Hayes’s shoulder.
He released her with a yelp, and Mrs. Annesley drew out the other knitting needle, and her long silver hair tumbled down her shoulders.
She prodded Hayes in the throat and he instantly stilled, laying on his back with his hands raised in surrender.
“I’m sorry—don’t hurt me—the colonel forced me—I had no choice. ”
“You have a choice now, dearie,” Mrs. Annesley said sweetly. She turned to Mrs. Hill and said, “Tie him up.”
Mrs. Hill grinned, amazed at this serenely ruthless side to the woman she had initially taken for a dull snob.
She scanned the room for something she could use to bind Hayes’s wrists, and settled on the thick cord used to tie back the curtains in the adjoining parlor.
Skirting the periphery of the slippery floor, she retrieved the length of silky rope and offered it to Mrs. Annesley, who gave a nod of approval before tying it around Hayes’s wrists as he feebly whimpered and whined.
They waited until Wilson returned to cart the lad off, and then the two women hastened to take their position downstairs in the kitchen.
They reached their post in time to hear another of the bandits tumble down the narrow stone stairwell that led to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house.
Neither woman flinched at the shouts of profanity and threats of violence; they only exchanged a smug smile and waited for what was to come next—a blood curdling scream as the burglar clasped at the door knob.
On their side of the door, three horseshoes that had sat in the fire all day had hung over the doorknob for the last hour, and even the officer’s gloves would be scant protection from such searing heat.
As they waited, Mrs. Hill drew a cleaver out of her apron pocket and stepped closer to the door.
It flew open. The furious officer, still crouched on the icy ground, had wrapped the bottom of his coat around the knob before turning it with the hand he had burned, and with his unburnt hand he pointed a pistol at them.
Mrs. Annesley clutched Mrs. Hill’s free hand, and the two women shared a look of uncertainty.
Under the guise of recoiling against a table in fear, Mrs. Annesley grabbed the lid off a cast iron skillet and hurled it like a discus at the officer just as he pulled the trigger.
The shot would have gone awry, had there been a bullet fired.
Mrs. Hill breathed out a silent prayer of thanks; this had been one of the guns Captain Denny had managed to empty.
The officer looked down at his weapon in surprise before clambering over the threshold and rising to his feet just beyond the edge of the ice.
He dove for the cleaver, expecting Mrs. Hill to attack him with it, but instead she threw it at the thick woolen cord that had been rigged up above the doorway, severing the cord and triggering the release of the latches of two bedpans that had been rigged up there.
Hot coals poured out of them, raining down on the officer, who crouched down and covered himself with his arms, letting out a high-pitched shriek.
While he was distracted, Mrs. Hill turned back and grabbed the cast iron pan from the table.
A blow to the head might be enough to kill him, which Colonel Fitzwilliam had expressly forbidden them from doing.
So she struck him in the gut, instead; it was enough to send the officer careening backward onto the ice, clutching at his stomach as he cast up his accounts.
Captain Denny appeared from around the side of the house and ran to the top of the stairs, pointing a gun down at the officer. “Come with me, Dawson, and I will consider not shooting you.”
Dawson cast a wary look at the icy stairs and groaned. “Just shoot me,” he wheezed.
Captain Denny rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Can you tie him up down there, madam?”
“Aye,” Mrs. Hill said. She removed her apron, passing the pistol she had confiscated upstairs to Mrs. Annesley, who gingerly deposited it into a sink full of soapy water and dirty dishes.
Mrs. Hill chuckled as she twisted her apron into a thick rope and tied Dawson’s wrists roughly, double-knotting the rough fabric before using the excess length to bind his ankles, as well.
“Very well done,” Captain Denny called down to them. “Where is the other fellow?”
“It was just him,” Mrs. Annesley said.
“No, no, I have deployed these idiots in pairs. Dawson, where is Smythe?”
Dawson gave Captain Denny a withering glare, poised to say something hateful, when he unexpectedly began to retch once more, and then passed out in his own sick.
Johnny Hill could hear the shouts two floors below, and was eager for his share of the excitement; he would have paced from one end of the attic to the other if not for his injured ankle.
He did manage to hobble from the front-facing window to a larger window looking down on the rear of the house.
He had seen the Red Bandits arrive, some on horseback and some in the wagon they intended to load up with stolen loot from the manor.
Since then, he had seen Captain Denny deploy four pair of officers to different points of entry, exactly according to plan.
The two that hung back, nearly out of sight, must be Colonel Forster and Mr. Wickham, he supposed; Captain Denny had said it would likely be thus, and he seemed like a clever fellow.
Johnny was fairly confident he could take them down with just a few shots, but he had been instructed not to fire on them unless Miss Darcy was taken.
Johnny did not see the sense in restraint, but he knew well enough that he did not want to get on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s bad side.
At least he might have some fun from his new position at the rear-facing window.
An officer was clambering up the vine-covered trellis that extended up to the base of the attic window.
Johnny had been hoping one of the bandits would attempt it; he was prepared.
He had brought up a couple chamber pots, and gleefully emptied their contents onto the burglar, eliciting a colorful invective of obscenities but no surrender.
Johnny was pleased. Next he tore open an old pillow and rained feathers down onto the officer, delighted to note that it was Smythe, a horrendously unsavory fellow who had once leered at Alice in the village in a way that had made Johnny want to tear the man’s eyes out.
The torrent of goose down must have obscured Smythe’s visions for a moment, for he fumbled to maintain his grasp.
The feathers clumped and stuck to the refuse that soiled his coat, and the sight of it was vastly satisfying.
Johnny returned Smythe’s continued vituperation with some experimental expletives of his own, tossing down whatever small, random objects he could find.
The vicious officer only taunted him more, describing some truly heinous plans for when he reached the top of the trellis.
When Johnny stopped throwing things at him, Smythe began to gloat that the lad had run out of ammunition, and this only made the wicked officer more smug.
Confident of his imminent victory, Smythe was utterly astonished that, just when he reached the top of the trellis, Johnny reached down and smashed his right hand with a brick.
The villain lost his grip with the injured hand, hanging onto the trellis tighter with his left…
until that hand was assaulted with the brick a moment later.
Smythe roared in pain and anger, but held fast with his left hand.
Johnny reached for his shotgun and pointed it at Smythe, who froze where he was, just a few feet below the attic window.