Chapter 2
Chapter Two
HAYDON COULD NOT STAND MUCH LONGER.
It had taken every shred of his strength just to follow Miss MacPhail and the boy here.
He had not initially intended to do so. But the moment Haydon stood outside the prison walls clutching his injured side and gasping for breath, he realized he had absolutely nowhere to go.
He knew no one in Inveraray, he was without money, and he was wearing a filthy prison uniform.
Moreover, between his illness and his injuries, he knew he could not travel very far.
The sight of the compassionate Miss MacPhail walking with young Jack some distance ahead of him had offered his only hope.
He had no illusions that Miss MacPhail would be interested in helping him.
Although she was apparently generous and tenderhearted, she believed him to be a murderer.
Aside from fearing that he might harm her, there was also the very real threat of her being prosecuted for aiding a criminal, should Haydon be discovered in her care.
The lad, however, was another matter. By boldly stealing the warder’s keys and unlocking Haydon’s cell door, Jack had demonstrated that he was at least somewhat concerned about Haydon’s fate.
Much as he loathed to ask it of the boy, at that moment he desperately needed assistance.
If he could only hide in Miss MacPhail’s shed or coach house for a few days, with a little food and water brought to him occasionally, he could regain his strength.
Then he’d get the hell out of Inveraray and try to clear his name.
The fact that there had been no carriage waiting for Miss MacPhail outside the prison, coupled with the relative simplicity of her attire, had suggested that her financial situation was modest. Haydon was therefore surprised to follow her to this fashionable street and watch her enter a large, elegant house of smooth gray stone with numerous windows and a handsomely carved front door.
The house was not grand by Haydon’s standards, but it bespoke gentility and affluence, as did the homes surrounding it.
Jack had appeared utterly indifferent to his new residence, striding up the stairs and into the building without sparing it a second glance.
It was clear to Haydon that the boy had no intention of staying there.
Perhaps when they had a chance to talk he would be able to make the lad understand what a rare opportunity he was being given.
The draperies in the house had been drawn, leaving only a soft, buttery glow permeating the fabric.
Nearly overcome with exhaustion, Haydon had forced himself to stand in the shadow of a neighboring house and wait.
After an hour or more, the curtains in an upstairs window parted slightly, and a pale young face stared out at the street below.
Haydon retreated farther into the darkness, watching.
The face hesitated a moment, then disappeared behind the draperies once again.
Haydon could not be certain it had been Jack.
He thought it had looked like him. Did the lad suspect that Haydon had followed him?
It was possible. Jack had lived much of his life on the streets, and was undoubtedly more attuned to his surroundings than those who had enjoyed more sheltered existences.
On the other hand, the lad might simply have been curious about his new environs, and was taking a moment to contemplate his situation before climbing into a clean, comfortable bed.
Haydon raised a hand to his brow, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him.
One by one the lamps in the house were extinguished, until all the windows were sheets of black. Shivering with fever and weary beyond measure, Haydon slowly emerged from the shadows.
Finally, realizing he had no choice, he picked up a handful of stones and began to fling them at the boy’s window.
THERE IS A MAN THROWING STONES AT OUR WINDOW!” shrieked ten-year-old Annabelle, her pale blonde hair flying out behind her as she raced into Genevieve’s room and leaped excitedly upon her bed.
“He’s been doing it for a few minutes,” Grace added, clumsily banging into Genevieve’s nighttable before joining Annabelle on the mattress. Grace was two years older than her stepsister, but contrary to her name, she lacked the charming mannerisms that came to Annabelle so effortlessly.
“What do you think he wants?” wondered Charlotte, limping in after them. A quiet, serious child of eleven, she had glossy auburn hair and large hazel eyes. Unfortunately, few people noticed anything about her beyond the fact that she walked with a limp.
“Maybe he is a secret admirer of Genevieve’s, come to profess his undying love,” rhapsodized Annabelle dreamily.
Grace frowned. “Why wouldn’t he come and profess his undying love during the day, when Genevieve is awake?”
“Because then we would all be awake to see him and he wouldn’t be a secret admirer anymore,” explained Annabelle.
“But we’re all awake now,” pointed out Charlotte.
In fact, Genevieve was only half-awake as she fumbled to light the oil lamp by her bed. Nevertheless, Charlotte’s point seemed a valid one. “There is a man throwing stones?” she murmured groggily, staring at the three excited little faces in bemusement.
“And he’s terribly handsome!” added Annabelle breathlessly, clasping her delicate hands to her breast. “He looks like a prince!”
“You don’t know that,” Grace retorted. “You barely saw him.”
“I did so see him,” Annabelle argued. “And there was moonlight shining down upon his handsome face, and he looked as if his heart was broken.”
“He did look a little sad.” Charlotte carefully arranged herself on the edge of Genevieve’s bed and rubbed her stiff leg.
“He wasn’t wearing a hat,” reflected Grace, frowning. “Don’t princes always wear hats?”
“Princes wear crowns,” Annabelle corrected.
“I thought kings wore crowns,” said Charlotte.
“Kings wear bigger crowns,” Annabelle informed her with great authority. “That is why princes want to become kings—then they get to wear the biggest crown.”
“Are you girls certain there is a man there?” Genevieve wanted nothing more than to return to sleep. Morning came relentlessly early in her busy little household, and she treasured every moment of respite she could get.
“Come and see for yourself!” squealed Annabelle, tugging on her arm.
“Quick, before he leaves and decides to throw himself in the river!” Clearly Grace sensed Genevieve needed some added incentive.
Reluctantly Genevieve dragged herself out of bed and followed the three girls as they raced into their room.
“Stand there so he can’t see you,” Charlotte instructed, indicating the corner by the window.
“Why shouldn’t he see her?” wondered Annabelle. “Her hair is a bit untidy, but other than that she looks very nice—like a princess.”
“We don’t know who he is, Annabelle,” Grace cautioned. “For all we know he could be a dangerous cutthroat.”
Annabelle’s blue eyes grew round. “Do you really think so?” She sounded perfectly exhilarated by this new possibility.
“I only meant that a strange man shouldn’t see Genevieve in her nightgown,” explained Charlotte impatiently. “It isn’t fitting—is it, Genevieve?”
“No, it isn’t,” Genevieve agreed. “Now, would you all please lower your voices before you waken the entire house.”
The three girls obediently fell silent. Genevieve slowly drew back part of the curtain, then peered cautiously through the exposed sliver of window.
“Gracious me!” she gasped, whipping the curtain closed.
“Did you see him?” asked Grace excitedly.
“Isn’t he handsome?” Annabelle squealed.
“He didn’t see your nightgown, did he?” fretted Charlotte.
Jamie bounded into the room, his red-blond hair tousled and his eyes surprisingly alert for an eight-year-old lad who was supposed to be asleep. “What’s going on?”
“Is someone sick?” piped Simon, who was three years older but not much taller, scrambling in behind him.
Jack followed the two boys in, scowling. “How does anyone get any sleep around here?”
“Genevieve has a secret admirer waiting for her outside,” reported Annabelle.
“We think he’s a prince,” Grace added.
“Or maybe a cutthroat,” finished Charlotte.
Jamie and Simon needed no further enticement. Before Genevieve could stop them, they tore across the room and ripped back the curtain to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger on the street below.
“I see him!” squealed Jamie, ecstatic. “Look!”
The other children swarmed around the window, knocking and jostling one another as they each fought to secure a better view.
“Hello down there!” called Simon cheerfully. He pressed his freckled nose against the glass and waved, inspiring all the other children to do the same.
“Hello!”
“Hello!”
“Hello!”
Genevieve stared in horror at Jack, her mind reeling. It was suddenly appallingly clear what the lad had wanted with Warder Sims’s keys. Jack sauntered over to the window and took a cursory glance at Haydon. Then he looked at her.
“I didn’t think he would come here.” He shrugged.
“You know him?” exclaimed Simon, studying Jack with awe.
“Is he a prince?” asked Annabelle excitedly.
Jack snorted. “Hardly. He’s a—”
“He’s leaving!” interrupted Grace, diverting everyone’s attention back to Haydon.
“Oh my,” murmured Charlotte in a soft, sympathetic voice, “he can hardly walk.”
“What’s wrong with him?” wondered Jamie, concerned.
“He was badly beaten by the prison warder for tryin’ to help me.” Jack stared at Genevieve, his expression challenging.
“We have to stop him!” said Simon. “Come on!”
“Wait!” cried Genevieve as the children stampeded for the door.
Reluctantly, they stopped and regarded her with impatience.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she ventured, trying to grasp a moment to think.
“We are going to help him, aren’t we?” asked Charlotte.
“Of course we are,” Jamie assured her. “Genevieve always helps people.”
“And if he helped Jack, then we should help him,” reasoned Grace.