"I'll go with you." She needed time to think, time to find some way out of this frightful nightmare.
"Out of the question," Jerome Clouard snapped.
"Let me accompany Christopher to Dover at least," she pleaded. "He won't go with you quietly otherwise. Surely you'd prefer not being the cynosure of condemnatory gazes as you manhandle a screaming young boy aboard the packet boat," she pointed out. "I could make certain he goes without a disturbance."
"It might be a good idea," Phillipe suggested. "Once on board, we could procure a private room."
While Jerome Clouard considered his reply, Trixi prayed harder than she'd ever prayed in her life. She needed time; even the hour to Dover might allow her room to maneuver, to find some means of escape.
"A screaming boy
will
draw attention," Harry Grosvenor noted, interested only in seeing the boy out of England. Whatever it took to accomplish that task was acceptable to him. "Let the woman come along with her brat."
Archie Prine had had his share of unpleasant duties over the years; a bailiff was obliged to follow the law even when it didn't seem right. But watching the heart-stricken sorrow of a young boy taken from his mother, by men so cold-hearted they'd been joking about the seizure on the drive over, made him question whether the current task went beyond the bounds of justice.
"Very well," Jerome muttered. "If you can keep the brat quiet. You have ten minutes to pack his clothes."
"Thank you," Trixi murmured, feigning appeasement. Every minute she had with Chris was a minute more to find a way out. "We'll be right back."
"Go with her, Archie," Harry curtly ordered. "And don't try to evade us," he warned.
"Yes, sir." She pretended submissiveness even as she traced the route from Burleigh House to Dover in her mind: the two post stops, the descent down the cliff, the various docks and businesses, the streets leading up from the harbor. As Archie began ascending the stairs, she turned away and went to fetch her son.
She waited for Archie in the upstairs hallway, hoping he'd have some suggestions.
"I'm right sorry," he immediately said, his voice kept deliberately low. "They're a cutthroat crew, they are."
"Does Judge Benson understand Chris is only four?" Trixi inquired, her heart breaking at the thought of Chris's fear.
"He don't care none, ma'am," Archie replied, keeping pace with her down the corridor. "A heart of stone he has."
"You have children, Archie. What would you do?"
"I wish I could help, Lady Grosvenor, but he'd have my head in a noose next, if'n I did anything to help you."
"If you weren't actually
present
, though," Trixi suggested, watching the play of emotions on the bailiffs face. "Could they blame you then?"
"I reckon not. They're a nasty bunch though," he cautioned. "Colder than a witch's tit, ma'am, beggin' your pardon. That tall one's the divil himself."
"Do any of them carry a weapon?"
"Just me, ma'am."
She smiled for the first time since she'd received word of their presence. "I'm a very good shot myself."
"I knew your pa. Didn't think he'd raise a child who wasn't good with a gun. But don't kill no one, ma'am, or you'll be in worse trouble than you are already. And I don't want to know nuthin', your ladyship, so as to swear on a Bible in court if'n I have to."
"I'll just need you to look the other way for ten minutes, Archie, while I pack a few things."
"Reckon they only said go with you. Don't recall no more instructions than that."
"I don't suppose they'd be expecting a lady to carry an arsenal."
"Hard to tell with nasty folk like them. But I suspicion not."
"If you could stay in the playroom with Chris, I'll have Ordie pack for him and Janey run some errands for me. I'll be just next door should they follow us upstairs. Come for me."
"All you have is ten minutes, ma'am. I wish you luck. Them's some right wicked gentlemen."
Archie was introduced to Chris, and once Chris spied his pistol, the young boy's attention was fixed. He hardly noticed Ordie and his mother slipping from the room on their hasty missions.
Ordie went to see that Kate packed Chris's clothes. Janey was sent to bring Will from the stables while Trixi, panicked, terrified, raced to her father's room. The room had been unused since his death, an eerie sense of his presence still lingering in the air. For a fleeting moment of wishful thinking, she longed for her family again, the burden of taking on the Grosvenors and Clouards alone overwhelming. But wishes wouldn't help her now, she pragmatically reminded herself; only her own resoluteness would deliver them. Wrenching a valise from the bottom of the armoire, she ran to her father's gun cabinet. A collector, he'd kept his favorite guns in his room, where he could admire them. Lifting three pistols from the case, she swiftly loaded them with powder and shot and placed them in the valise. A handful of cartridges followed next and then two hunting knives. She briefly debated trying to fit the small rifle in the bag, but decided against it. She wanted only weapons that were easily concealed.
Swiftly moving to her room, she added a few of her garments to the valise. A gown, a change of underclothing, two pairs of stockings. She left room for some of Chris's clothing should the bag be opened. While without a plan as yet, she understood the necessity of fleeing Burleigh House, at least for a time.
When she pulled her desk drawer open to gather what money she had, her gaze fell on the addresses Pasha had left. Her hand stilled, poised in midair above them, the single sheet of paper with its scrawl of names and numbers holding her attention. Impulsively, she plucked it from the drawer, folded it twice, and tucked it into her valise. France was remote from her immediate thoughts, Pasha too casual a friend, the immediacy of her danger too intense to consider anything beyond escape before Dover.
It was imperative they elude their enemies before Dover; then she and Chris could disappear into the backwaters of England for however long it took to gain security again. She could hire herself out as a governess. Or perhaps a horse trainer, she more pleasantly thought, a flashing smile at such a glorious option momentarily pushing away her fear. But a second later, her terror was back in force, the men downstairs a stark reality. Snapping the valise shut, she ran from her room toward the playroom.
Will was waiting for her in the corridor along with the rest of her staff and, in a rapid staccato, she gave orders. They couldn't escape down the back stairs or Archie would be blamed, so Will was to follow the carriage as discreetly as possible with two of their best racers. What money and jewelry that could be scavenged should be brought along.
"And your pa's Roman coins," Will asserted.
Trixi looked hesitant.
"He'd have sold his soul for any child of yours, your ladyship," Will gruffly said. "He'd gladly have you sell them coins."
"Very well," Trixi agreed, the last of her parents' valuables finally sacrificed. "Bring them."
"If I were to ride cross-country," Will suggested, "I could take out a few of them planks on the bridge just above Closter vale."
"And when everyone gets out to inspect the damage…"
"You and Chris could stay near the carriage."
"Where you could bring up the horses. Maybe we should take to the roads as highwaymen, Will," Trixi cheerfully suggested, freedom beckoning. "It seems our minds are nefariously alike."
"Your pa always thought on his feet, too. Reckon that's how he survived all them travels to the hinterlands of the world."
"Take some pistols with you," Trixi coolly said.
"Already have."
"Archie can't help, but he won't stand in our way."
"He better damn well not. We've been friends for fifty years. Now go," Will ordered. "Ordie said you've only ten minutes."
Trixi nodded her head. "We'll be back as soon as we can," she briskly declared, not wishing to take leave of her surrogate family in tears.
Kate tried to be as valiant, her chin trembling with the effort, her role as governess to the young girl who had grown by necessity into a woman of strength both gratifying and sad. Janey visibly wept, her youth incapable of handling such trauma. Ordie gently said, "We'll take care of Burleigh House for you, Missy. God be with you."
Trixi quickly hugged them all, and then sending them off, entered the playroom. Telling Chris they were going to Dover on an excursion, she took his hand on their walk to the entrance hall and regale! him with stories of the sights they'd see. Trixi was careful to carry her own valise; Archie followed with Chris's bag.
Once they approached the men, Chris stayed close to his mother's side, half hiding behind her skirt, as if cognizant of their evil intent. with a curt nod, Jerome directed Trixi and Chris out of the house, the men following in silence. A moment later, they stood between the house and the carriage, a small knot of disparate people with only the life of a small boy in common. After a few hushed words with Jerome Clouard, Harry Grosvenor left, riding away without so much as a glance at the four-year-old boy he was sending away to a life of misery.
No one spoke in the carriage. The Clouards sat opposite Trixi and her son, seemingly oblivious to their presence. Phillipe dozed, Jerome stared out the window. Trixi watched the familiar landscape slip past, counting the minutes until they reached the bridge. Archie had placed their luggage in the rack at the back before mounting to sit beside the driver. Trixi hadn't dared ask that her valise be brought inside. So she visualized the distance from her seat to her luggage, silently counting the seconds, the number of steps, rehearsing what she'd say to Chris so he wouldn't be frightened.
Forcing herself to remain calm.
Who would think because of Theo, she ironically thought, she would be literally battling for her life? He had been solace to her in a time of deep despair, when she'd known only cruelty for three long years. He'd represented gaiety and joy when she'd given up hope that either existed in the world. And now, because of Theo's money, the men seated across from her wanted Chris's life.
She knew what a foster home meant, because scandals would periodically surface in the press and all the sordid details of some brutal home would be exposed. But before long the righteous indignation would die away and the business of disposing of unwanted children would continue, the published disclosures only transient ripples on the public consciousness.
One way or another, she had to find a way to reach her pistols.
The two small villages between Burleigh House and the London Road passed by the carriage windows, and as the road began the gradual descent into Closter vale, her pulse rate accelerated. Another half mile and they'd reach the slope plunging into the valley.
In short order, she heard the brakes being applied, the squeak and squeal of wheels resisting the pressure shrill inside the carriage. The vehicle lurched several times as it slowed, waking the dozing man.
His shiny bald head lifted and, flushed from sleep, he blinked against the glare of the sun. "Where are we?" he drowsily murmured.
"Still in this godforsaken country," his brother muttered, his habitual scowl deepening as he gazed out the window at the steep incline, the land to the left of the road falling away sharply. "The driver better keep this thing on the road."
His tone brought Phillipe to full wakefulness. Abruptly sitting up, he leaned across his companion and peered out the window. "Maybe we should walk down," he murmured, a touch of apprehension in his voice.
"For God's sake, show some courage!"
The sharp reply deepened the flush on Phillipe's face. "I should have stayed home," he pettishly said, "and you could have been
courageous
alone."
"For all the use you've been on this journey, you might as well have done so."
"I don't see you doing anything so damned significant. Anyone could have been sent over to take the boy to France."
"No,
anyone
couldn't. I had to do it, as I do everything that has to be done while you whimper and whine and complain. Shut up, dammit."
The swift journey had been too arduous for both of them, and Phillipe Clouard's temper was as frayed as that of his brother. He settled into a sullen brood, feeling like a small boy who had been unfairly reprimanded.
The Clouards appeared to be at each other's throat, Trixi reflected. Not precisely a united front. A trifling advantage perhaps, but a consideration.
The carriage finally reached the base of the hill after what seemed an excruciatingly long interval. Her palms sweating, her heart pounding, she understood this might be their only chance for freedom.
She had to succeed.
A string of oaths from the driver gave indication of trouble—she dearly hoped—and a moment later, the carriage came to a stop. Will had done his work, she suspected, her anxiety diminishing marginally. Now if only the next few minutes proceeded according to plan.
Snapping the window down, Jerome Clouard leaned out and shouted, "What the blazes is going on?"
"Part of the bridge is out," the driver cried.
Swearing, Jerome drew back in, pushed the door open, and climbed out.
Trixi waited, breath held, for Phillipe to follow his brother, but he didn't move. Nothing clever and artful to coax him out came to mind in her current state of high anxiety; all the cogs in her brain were jammed. He remained slumped in the corner, his arms crossed over his rotund stomach, his mouth pursed in resentment. Panicking, she frantically tried to think of some way to make him move so she could get out of the carriage.
"Would you mind if I went to see all the commotion?" she finally asked, not willing to simply sit and let her opportunity slip away. She was already opening the door. "Come, Chris," she went on in as bland a voice as she could manage, as though they were all friends on an afternoon drive. "Let's see what happened to the bridge."
"Better not go," Phillipe muttered.
"Your brother wouldn't let me, you mean?" she sweetly inquired, her jibe intentional.