Chapter 15
Kit drove like a madman through the city streets and out onto the highway.
Eventually, Smiggs, white-faced, begged him to slow down. “Won’t do your Miss Buckleberry any good if you wreck this rig.”
Kit could see Durley Hill rising ahead. He grunted and consented to ease the pace, knowing that, regardless, he had to save his horses for the long climb into Keynsham, or they’d be blown when they reached the town.
They’d found Ned at the junction where the road to Wells peeled off to the south. Ned had scrambled up beside Ollie and confirmed that the gig had gone on toward Bath. The boy had run like a Spartan and had managed to keep the gig in sight until then.
Kit sent up a prayer of gratitude for the boys’ efforts. If they hadn’t acted as they had… He thrust the thought away. What was before him was bad enough; his imaginings were no longer relevant.
While managing his horses and avoiding catastrophe, he’d dredged his memory, going over his conversations with Sylvia as well as the snippets he’d heard of her background and home at the wedding.
As the increasing grade slowed the horses even more, Kit raised his voice so the boys could hear. “It’s possible the man is taking Miss Buckleberry to her father. This road goes through the village of Saltford, where Reverend Buckleberry has the living.”
After a moment, Ned called, “Does that mean her father preaches in the church and lives at the vicarage?”
Despite all, Kit’s lips twitched. “Yes—that’s exactly what ‘having the living’ means.”
But given that was the case…
After several minutes of wrestling with the issue, Kit said, “Boys, I want you to think very carefully over all you heard the man say. As he is driving Miss Buckleberry toward her home, is there any chance at all that he might actually be doing what he said and fetching Miss Buckleberry to her dying father’s side? ”
He glanced over his shoulder to see the boys exchanging a long glance. Kit faced forward and waited.
Eventually, Ollie said, “The man said as he’d been staying next door to the vicarage, but we know he’s been living in the city and his rooming house is off the Butts. We saw him yesterday, parading around with his boards, so how could he have been staying at this village?”
“And that’s not all he lied about,” Ned piped up.
“He told Miss Buckleberry his name was Mr. Hillary—I heard her call him that. But when we were following him to learn where he lived, we heard other people call him Nunsworth. So he lied about that, too. Why would he do that if he wasn’t up to no good? ”
“And,” Ollie said, in the tone of one sealing an argument with irrefutable logic, “why’s he been watching Miss Buckleberry, all secret-like, for the past week?”
Kit stared ahead, digesting all that.
From beside him, Smiggs growled, “Those are three good questions, and it doesn’t sound as if this Hillary bloke would have any good answers.”
“No,” Kit conceded. To the boys, he called, “You’re right. Hillary or Nunsworth or whoever he is has to be a villain.”
And the situation was shaping up to be as bad as Kit’s instincts were insisting.
Given the boys’ information, he couldn’t see how the man could be genuine, but at this point, he really didn’t care. It was more important that Sylvia and Jack came out of the incident safely; if it turned out Kit and the boys had made fools of themselves over nothing, so be it.
Kit chafed as the horses plodded up the long incline; he knew both incline and pace would only get worse closer to the top of the hill and resigned himself to frustration. They were roughly halfway to Saltford; he didn’t dare push his horses too hard.
The thought drew his attention to the relative speeds of a gig pulled by a single horse versus a well-sprung curricle with two top-notch carriage horses in the traces. Estimating the difference distracted him as they toiled up Durley Hill.
Even with the additional weight of Smiggs, given the quality of Kit’s horses and curricle, they would be faster over any distance than Hillary’s gig could possibly be.
Despite this interminably slow stage, the distance between them and the gig had to be closing.
They could—and would—reach Sylvia and Jack in time.
Sylvia was clutching the side of Hillary’s gig with a white-knuckled grip when the first roofs of Saltford came into view. She felt rattled to her back teeth, but as she’d urged Hillary to get her to her father’s side as fast as he could, she could hardly fault him for taking her at her word.
Although she’d questioned him further, he’d sworn he didn’t know anything more to tell her. She’d spent the drive imagining the worst.
But she would know all soon.
Scanning ahead, she knew just where to look to spot the top of the church tower, away to the left of the main road. Seeing it made her stomach clench even tighter. Her father couldn’t be dying—her mind simply refused to accept that.
Hillary had to slow his horse as they approached the village proper, but instead of turning left along the lane that led to the church, he drove straight on.
Surprised, Sylvia stared back at the lane, then rounded on Hillary. “You’ve missed the turn!”
“Ah, sorry.” Hillary didn’t lift his gaze from his horse nor did he slow the beast. “I should have said. There’s been subsidence after the recent rains—a huge pothole opened up in the lane. I have to go around via the Shallows.”
Sylvia sank back against the seat. “Oh.” She knew the alternative route he spoke of; the lane known as the Shallows started just beyond the other side of the village and looped back along the banks of the river, ultimately connecting with the end of the lane that led to the church.
Inwardly grimacing, she told herself that going via the Shallows wouldn’t be that much longer—especially if the pothole was close to the highway and she had to walk most of the length of the lane.
As Hillary’s gig rattled along what had become the village street, she sat woodenly beside him, feeling hollow inside as she waited to learn the terrible truth in a way that would force her to believe it.
Doctor Moreton would be at the vicarage. He was an old friend of her father’s and could be counted on to tell her as much as he knew without any roundaboutation. How could her father, who had seemed in his usual robust health only three weeks ago, have faded so quickly?
She saw several villagers who, recognizing her, waved and smiled…
Presumably, they hadn’t yet heard. She forced herself to raise a hand in return, but she couldn’t manage a smile.
Gripping her hands in her lap, she mentally urged Hillary to go faster. She needed to see her father, needed to hold his big hand.
Finally, they were through the village, and Hillary slowed for the turn into the Shallows. Seconds later, they were bowling along, with the river—the Avon—murmuring darkly beside the road.
She raised her head. Through a break in the trees, she glimpsed the church tower again. Nearly there—
Hillary swung the gig sharply to the right—so abruptly Sylvia nearly lost her grip and went flying. She half smothered a shriek as the gig shuddered and plunged at breakneck speed down a short track and into the clearing before the brass mill.
At the last second, Hillary hauled on the reins, and the carriage slewed, throwing Sylvia against his shoulder.
It was a shock to come to a halt.
Before she could even drag in a breath, Hillary seized her hands, first one, then the other, wrapping a fine cord around her wrists and cinching the cord tight.
Sylvia stared at her now-bound hands, then she jerked her head up and looked daggers at Hillary. “What on earth— What?” She gasped as Hillary tore off her bonnet and looped a scarf about her face, tugging the scarf tight and knotting it into an effective gag.
Her heart was racing. She fought to catch her breath. What on earth was going on?
Hillary spared not so much as a glance for her as he leapt to the ground, rushed around the horse to reach her side, then he hauled her down and half dragged half carried her toward the mill, until he could shove her to sit on a bench set against the mill’s front wall.
Sylvia landed hard. Before she could blink, Hillary had crouched and wound another strand of cord around her ankles, hobbling her. Stunned, she fell back against the wall.
From inside the mill, she heard slow, heavy footsteps heading for the mill door farther along the wall.
The mill was never locked as the fires to melt the metal were kept constantly stoked, and a watchman was always on duty.
She looked at Hillary, who had stalked back to the gig, and horror crept up her spine as she saw him draw a heavy iron bar from the gig’s footwell. He strode to the mill door. Holding the bar down beside his leg, he hauled the door open and walked inside.
Sylvia sucked in a breath—as much as she could—but she couldn’t push any real sound past the gag. Desperate to warn the unsuspecting watchman, she drummed her feet on the ground, but this close to the river, moss covered any available soil; her soles raised nothing more than soft pats.
She heard cheery voices—Hillary’s and the watchman’s—then a heavy thud reached her. The watchman had hit the ground.
She slumped against the mill wall as panic stole through her.
She glanced at the gig—then sat up as she saw the lid of the boot slowly rise.
A tow-headed lad peered out. He saw her, and his eyes flew wide. Quick as an eel, he slipped to the ground.
He started toward her—just as she heard Hillary’s heavy steps returning.
Violently, she shook her head at the lad. No! With her eyes, she signaled to the door, willing him to understand.
The lad’s eyes swung to the door, and he halted. Then he turned tail and whisked around the gig, freezing where Hillary wouldn’t see him.
Sylvia sagged with relief. Then Hillary reappeared in the doorway, and panic surged once more.
She kept her eyes locked on Hillary and prayed he wouldn’t spot the lad. If the boy could get away, he could summon help…