Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
“Beatrice, is that you?” Frances called out, on hearing the sound of footsteps on the flagstones of the folly’s pavilion.
Stiff and tired, she pulled herself up from the stone bench where she had passed an uncomfortable night with only her light cloak and a dusty abandoned cushion.
Frances had already been outside once at dawn, walking around the folly and up and down the hill in order to bring some warmth back to her chilled body in its light white muslin dress.
By the time the clocks were striking midnight last night, Frances knew that Beatrice was not coming, and had likely not even seen her letter.
The rain was heavy by that point and the prospect of a long trek to Scovell Hall in the rain seemed scarcely better than passing the night in the folly. Neither was a happy option.
In Scovell Hall, Frances would have had to face her father.
Here at the folly, she had to face her past again.
What fitful sleep she managed was filled with frightening dreams of abandonment and betrayal, bringing together the trauma of the day she had discovered her father’s affair, with the pain of uncovering Ambrose’s present treachery.
“Beatrice?” Frances called again, louder now, after receiving no answer to her first attempt.
The footsteps sounded heavier than Beatrice’s footfall and they had stopped at the sound of her voice, the silence that followed suddenly seeming sinister. More clearly than ever, Frances now recalled that day she had come here with Oswald Keeton to dig up the legendary treasure.
Intruders!
As the footsteps began again and paused again, Frances shivered, feeling the same surge of curiosity and fear as all those years ago.
Did the person outside know that she was in here?
Were they going to come inside? When you had no idea of who or what you might find, was it better to investigate or wait to be discovered?
Maybe it was only a gardener or gamekeeper.
She would be sorry for Scovell Hall staff to see her in her present red-eyed and travel-stained state, but it would not be the end of the world.
Then again, it might be a tramp, or a gypsy.
If so, Frances would be stern but polite, making it clear that they were on private land and should not linger longer than necessary.
It might even be Lord Scovell. For the first time in many years, Frances felt that she would be glad if it was her father, with his practiced bonhomie and foolish jokes.
Making up her mind, Frances went to the door and set her shoulders firmly. She had lived on this estate for almost her entire adult life and had every right to be here. Three-and-twenty years old, and the Duchess of Westall too, Frances was not going to hide away like a frightened child.
The door squeaked as she pulled it open and stepped outside into the rapidly brightening daylight. At the sound of the door, the footsteps began again, seeming to have reached the back of the folly, walking slowly in a circle.
“Who is there?” Frances shouted, willing her voice not to waver.
At her question the footsteps stopped again and she thought she heard a faint, low laugh.
She walked briskly to the corner of the folly and peered around but saw no one.
Was this someone’s idea of a game? Without warning then, the footsteps sped up and came rushing at Frances before she could even turn.
Strong arms pushed Frances back against the wall of the folly and a man’s voice laughed aloud at her struggles, a hand covering her mouth and smothering her instinctive scream.
“Got you!” said Oswald Keeton and Frances saw intense and terrifying jubilation in his brown eyes.
Lord Mulford might be a neighbor, but what was he doing on this particular spot, trespassing on her parents’ land?
The hand over her mouth prevented her from demanding answers, while his other arm and torso kept her pressed to the cold stone and unable to raise a knee towards his vulnerable groin.
Frances hated that Oswald must be able to feel her trembling in his grasp.
“I knew it was you, Frances,” he told her jubilantly. “I thought I saw someone up here last night but it was dark and I couldn’t be sure. This morning, though, I saw you clearly at sunrise. Have you been waiting for me?”
In response to this question, Frances bit her captor’s hand and tried unsuccessfully to break away. Lord Mulford yelped and swore at her before slamming her back against the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing, Oswald?” she cried out in mingled anger and fear, desperately trying to think of some means of escape. “My family will here at any moment.”
“No they won’t,” he sneered with great certainty. “I’ve been watching this place for hours. Why would any of them be up here at this hour of the day?”
“My husband will come,” Frances tried to claim but saw only vicious amusement on his face.
“Haha - I don’t think so. In fact, I’m going to hazard a guess that you’re out here hiding from the Duke of Westall. Am I right? You don’t have to tell me. No one is coming. You’re all alone, Frances. Well, all alone with me.”
As he spoke, Oswald Keeton stroked Frances’ cheek, a gesture that revolted her. She sank her teeth into his hand again, the only means of attack she could presently manage. Jerking his hand from her mouth, Oswald brought it back sharply, striking her across the face with a shout of anger.
“Don’t be such a fool, Frances. You know you want me. You’ve always wanted me.”
“You’re mad!” she shouted back at him. “I’ve always wanted you to go away and leave me alone. What is wrong with you?”
“What is wrong? Your father ruined my mother and killed my father. Your husband appears to have had me blackballed by most of the society hostesses of London. What could possibly be wrong? Well, you’ll pay for it, Frances, for all that has been done to me.”
He really was mad, his eyes deranged and mouth twisted. No one who saw Oswald Keeton now could imagine him as one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors. As Lord Mulford leaned forward to kiss her, Frances turned her head sharply to avoid his mouth.
“You disgust me!” she said. “You’re the most repulsive man I’ve ever met.”
“You’ll sing a different song when I’ve had you a few times,” he laughed evilly. “You won’t let your husband mount you, will you? Everyone in London knows that by now. But do they know why? I do. It’s because you you belong to me and you know it.”
“Get off me, you lunatic!” Frances protested desperately. “I have done nothing to encourage you. I do not want you and I am married to the Duke of Westall.”
“You came and paraded yourself alone at this folly, knowing that I must watch it. You are even wearing a white dress,” he chuckled. “Oh yes, you knew that I must be the one to deflower you, didn’t you Frances? It is owed to me after everything.”
Grasping her chin in his hand, he forced the furious and frightened Frances to meet his eye.
“I shall take you on your hands and knees on the very spot where your father dishonored my mother,” he hissed at her. “You will love every moment of it.”
Roughly, Lord Mulford now grasped the top of Frances’ arm and began to half shove and half drag her towards the front of the folly. Whether anyone could hear her or not she let out the loudest scream of her life.
The blur of action that followed made no sense at all.
One moment, she was being hauled along the ground and threatened with sexual assault by a sadistic madman.
The next moment, Ambrose was there roaring loudly and Oswald Keeton was flying across the flagstones with blood running from his nose and lip.
When Oswald Keeton rose to his feet, Ambrose struck him down again and then bent over and dragged him up by the collar.
“If you ever touch my wife again, I will break your neck,” he growled before dropping the other man back to the stones where he lay coughing and groaning.
Then, Ambrose was kneeling beside Frances and she could scarcely focus on his face because of the falling of her frightened tears.
He had saved her and she wanted to throw herself into the safety of his arms. Yet he had also betrayed her and every defense she had ever had against love was back up again, making such refuge impossible.
“Frances, are you hurt?” he asked but she could not even form the words to answer.
Her whole body hurt, and her heart hurt more still. Curling up, she buried her face in her knees and sobbed, trapped back in a nightmare from which, for a while, she thought she had escaped.
At some great distance, Frances heard other voices, Beatrice, Lord Scovell and perhaps some of the outdoor staff.
“Take Lord Mulford to the boundary wall and throw him back on to his own property,” Frances heard her father say to some unnamed retainers. “If he trespasses on our land again, I shall take a shotgun to him.”
Oswald Keeton was presumably still in no condition to resist but Frances still felt a sense of relief once he was gone. She also felt a sense of reassurance from the fact that Ambrose had remained kneeling beside her, even if he did not speak and she was afraid to touch him.
Her mind feeling as weak as her legs, Frances did not fully recall the journey back to Scovell Hall although she had vague memories of Beatrice helping her to stand and descend the hill. She knew too that she had been lifted onto a horse which Ambrose led while Lord Scovell walked beside her.
Lady Scovell came running to meet them in the hallway and seeing the intense concern and distress on her mother’s face, Frances finally fainted away completely. When she came around, she was in her old bedroom upstairs and Beatrice was sitting there in a chair beside the bed, reading a book.