Hours went by, and everyone became weighed down by the water. They needed a change of clothes and hot tea. Ewan couldn’t even say for certain if the six men had stayed. Who could tell under hats and umbrellas? He wondered if the money had stayed dry in the valise Matilda held. She was nothing more than a dark shape under a tree when he passed by the gate of the park once more, about six
P.M.
He kept walking as he heard a harness rattle, fiddling with the whistle in his pocket. It was Jacob’s, and Gawain had given it to him, to blow for help from the others if he saw anything. Gawain had one as well, as did one of the factory men, but no one had blown them all evening. A carriage click-clacked down the street behind him. Turning to look at it, he saw a black old-fashioned park coach with four sturdy horses, possibly a decommissioned mail coach from fifty or more years before. He had looked at the cost of such things for Sir Bartley, who had wanted them for his new country life. The coach might cost five hundred pounds, the horses another thousand. What was a member of a driving club doing in Bristol? For the owner of such a coach could be nothing more than a member of such a group as that, and most likely based in London.
He peered closely, increasingly confused and concerned. The coachman wore the clothing of an eighteenth-century man, right down to the wig underneath his tricorn hat. A long coat covered him to his boots. Ewan stared hard, thought he saw a handkerchief over the man’s lower face, in the manner of a highwayman. As Ewan goggled, he heard a gasp.
He whipped around, grabbing the closest iron fence posts, and peered into the park. Someone was standing next to Matilda. He cursed the dark and the rain. Surely that was a tricorn as well, a wig and a long coat? Expecting her to hand over the valise, he was shocked to see her bend at a strange angle, then start to move alongside the figure. He forced himself to remain quiet, though his instinct was to call out. What was going on? Another shadow detached from a tree: a second person. Not eight feet away from him, the park gate opened.
Matilda coughed, and he could see she was being held by her scarf, wrapped tightly around the figure’s gloved hand. She was being choked. Did the figure have a knife in the other hand, right up against her temple?
He stepped closer, gaining a foot. Yes, it was a knife. A streetlight caught it weakly, but he could see the metal’s shine. What could he do? He gained another foot as the other figure passed out of the gates. To his shock he saw that person had a small sword strapped to his side. An honest-to-goodness sword. What on earth?
“Matilda!” he called, unable to help himself, as she passed under the faint illumination of the streetlight with the first figure.
Her head turned slightly, then was stopped by the grip on her scarf, the knife against her face. While her lips moved, he could hear nothing, though he saw her anguished expression.
Oh, God, he had to do something. He put his hands in his pockets, hoping for a sharp pencil, something. All he found was the whistle. Matilda cried out. Could he persuade these men he had a gun in his overcoat?
But then, the second figure pulled the sword from his scabbard and swung it playfully in Ewan’s direction, just four feet away, a mad grin stretching his larger-than-usual mouth. White paint covered the lower half of his face, and black was painted around his eyes. No handkerchief here, yet the disguise was just as effective. Ewan could not say if he had ever seen the person before.
He stared at the sword, then at the man, his hand fisting in his overcoat pocket. Matilda’s face tilted toward him, her face contorted with fear, her eyes huge in her face. He could not let her go. He lunged forward, putting the whistle to his lips.
The painted man laughed, a high-pitched, banshee wail. He lifted his sword as Ewan kicked out, aiming for his knees. The sword came at him, ripping down the fabric of his left coat sleeve. He felt nothing, kept moving, blowing the whistle, trying to get around the man, take him down. The rain-soaked cobbles slicked his shoes and he slid, careening into the man. The whistle fell from his mouth. Ewan caught the swordsman’s free arm and they capered in a crazy dance, a half-circle of twisting, bending movement, the man trying to get his sword up as he lost his own footing.
Before Ewan knew it, occupied as he was with his macabre dance, Matilda had been pulled into the coach. He heard people running. Help, at last. If there was just one more person, he could attack. As it was, he’d be cut down by the swordsman before he ever reached Matilda. The coach door slammed closed and the swordsman tugged away from his grip and dashed across the cobbles. Ewan’s shoes slipped as he attempted to follow, and he went down on one knee, screaming invectives at the man. The whistle crunched under his foot.
As he struggled to his feet, he saw the running people were not the men from the factory, or Redcakes, but two men dressed like the footmen of a bygone era. They jumped onto the back of the park coach, hauling the painted swordsman with them. Another figure, dressed similarly, came out of the park, carrying the valise with the money, and threw it through the coach’s open door before flinging himself inside. Ewan reached the door as the moneyman pulled it shut, almost trapping his fingers between the door and the coach.
The coachman yelled something and took the reins as Ewan attempted to pry the door open again. The four horses began to move down the street, splattering rain and mud all over him as he fell back.
And no one, absolutely no one, was present to watch the coach move away, but Ewan. When the coach had vanished down the street, he felt the first pangs of pain from his arm and saw the thick red blood dripping down his glove.
Chapter Twelve
M
atilda tried to stop crying, holding out faint hope that her child, or the nanny, Izabela, or someone she recognized, would be inside the coach. Instead, the musty-smelling, black-as-pitch interior appeared to be empty. Her kidnapper pushed her face-first into the squabs, then sat on her, his heavy coat covering her head. She fought for breath, aware his knife must be painfully near. His coat smelled chokingly of stale body odor, which was even worse than the old coach’s mildewed atmosphere.
No one had protected her from these men. She had seen the berserker light in Ewan’s eye when they had left the park enclosure on the way to the coach. Her lover had not deserted her. Where had everyone else been? Had all her factory men been bribed? Her father and brother subdued somehow? She knew Gawain would fight to the death for her, a warrior trained and tested in battle, even though he had a wife and child to protect at home. He wouldn’t even think of them, though, when he fought.
For that reason, she was glad he was safe, hadn’t seen her go. She liked the idea of little Noel, a cherub a year younger than Jacob, safe in his nursery in Battersea, with two living, doting parents. Perhaps she and Jacob, her tiny family, were both to be annihilated. If her baby were truly dead, then she wanted to be as well. Just let her die.
Her parents would mourn, but they had survived the loss of Arthur. They would survive her, too. Ewan would fall in love with someone else, marry her.
The thought struck her, that of Ewan’s love. She almost smiled, and wondered if the coach fumes were affecting her brain. Maybe it was still the side effects from the poppy syrup. Why did she think he loved her? Yes, he watched her continually with a careful, silent regard, but that wasn’t love, was it? No man had ever loved her before, so how would she know?
Faintly, through the heavy wool of the overcoat, she heard the sounds of unsnapping and paper rustling.
“It’s all here,” a man growled.
Another man, with a posh voice, snickered. “Didn’t doubt it. The Redcakes have a reputation for being honest folk.”
She felt a hand, most likely attached to the man sitting across her middle, move down her flank, find her bottom, and pat it familiarly.
When she wriggled, he chuckled. “Three of us and one of you, missy, and I hear you’re no better than you should be. What do you say you give us a good time?”
“Stop it,” said a third voice. “That isn’t our orders.”
“Oh, who is going to stop us? You weren’t supposed to take her.”
“Had to, or that fellow on the street might have fought harder. He was trying to call for help with that whistle, too. Not risking my neck for what we’re being paid.”
The carriage whipped around a turn. The side of Matilda’s head smashed into a wooden handrail, and she saw cracks of shiny red light across the backs of her eyelids. She lay in a stupor for the remainder of the journey, focused on the motion of the coach, not sure what the men were saying.
Eventually, the journey ended with a sickening, swaying stop. Wind and rain swept in as the coach door was opened. More men began to talk. Matilda was dragged from the carriage, then pulled roughly over someone’s shoulder, her upper body hanging down his back. The overcoat was tossed over her before she could see anything but the tail of the man’s coat.
She was carried through a yard smelling of wet earth and privy, then into a dark room with a stone floor.
“Wot’s she doin’ wi’ you?” asked a woman.
“Had to bring her. It’s Plan B.”
“Bleedin’ fools. You can’t have her in here, for when we’re done,” said the woman in front of them.
“Where do you want her, then?”
It struck Matilda that these men, while sounding coarse, did not actually have uneducated accents. It was as if they were playing at being low kidnappers.
The idea of them acting was enhanced by their ridiculous clothing. Either way, they were still criminals. They’d taken her at knife-point, and for what purpose? They had the money. Even if they killed her, someone would run Redcake’s. Her father would return to Bristol and train Greggory, probably. Gawain, though in full protest, would help as well.
“Bring her in here,” the woman said.
“We’ll use her to get more money from the family. No point in killin’ a rich woman,” said a man.
The man behind her pushed. She stumbled forward. He pushed again, and she moved through a low doorway, following the woman’s voice. Then the overcoat was pulled from her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them cautiously. Not much light illuminated the room. A small fire burned, and a couple of candles flickered. She could see a rocking chair by the fire. A cupboard on the wall hung open. It had a stack of stained but clean clothes on it. Clouts? She could smell milk in the air, and unwashed infant. A baby must have just been taken from the room, for no one was here, not even the woman who had spoken. She whipped around, suddenly wondering where the man who’d pushed her had gone, but no one was there, and the door swung behind her.
Somewhat hysterically, Matilda hoped no one had kidnapped her to be a wet nurse. Her milk had dried up when Jacob was only five months old. Too much anxiety, her mother had told her, and had revealed that her milk had done the same when Arthur was a baby. This led to fears that Arthur had been unhealthy as a result of being weaned early, and Jacob might suffer the same fate. So far, however, he’d been a hale and hearty boy.
When her eyes had adjusted to the light, she moved closer to the fire and warmed her hands. Her entire body felt clammy and damp from standing in the park for so long. The tree she’d been under hadn’t protected her entirely. Her skirts had soaked up moisture from the ground and her leather boots were dark with water. She pulled off her gloves with her teeth and put them on the fire screen, then held out her pale, bloodless fingers to the coals. Somehow, the thought that they were holding her for more money made her calm.
As her fingers warmed, she noticed the door leading out of the room was covered in green baize, indicating a desire to keep noise and smells from this room separate from the rest of the house. Why? What couldn’t she hear, or what was going to happen to her that the rest of the household shouldn’t hear?
She went to the door, putting her ear to it. Could her son be on the other side? Nothing; she heard absolutely nothing. She wondered where the money for Jacob was going to end up. It hadn’t come into this room with her.
She tried the door, but it was locked. Out of pure, foolish curiosity, she went back to the room door and pushed it open. However, no one was in the space, and the air was freezing besides. She closed the door and cursed the cold air that had reentered the room. When she touched her gloves they were still soaking wet, of course, so she tucked her hands into her somewhat less damp pockets and began to pace, trying to warm herself.
She walked along the featureless walls, noting uneven plaster, a lack of decorations. The candles were fresh and threw interesting shadows along them. She was standing behind one candle, trying to decide what the shape of its shadow was, an angel or a tree, when a key rattled in the lock, and she saw the baize-covered door open.
Her heart, so chilled, thudded in her chest. Was she about to be saved? Or be told her fate? Or her son’s? Her knees all but buckled when she heard fast, light footsteps, and a blur entered the room at the level of her hip and launched itself against her skirt.
“Mummy!” shrieked the familiar and beloved voice of her son.
Her knees betrayed her completely, and she sank to the ground, reaching for him. Jacob flung his arms around her neck and burrowed his head into her shoulder. She could smell him, her boy. All the usual scents of shampoo and familiar food were gone, but that faintly spicy scent of his skin was the same, and the oily scent his hair developed when not washed a couple of times a week. She didn’t recognize his shirt, and it smelled musty. She could see a repaired rip on one arm. Secondhand or worse. Who had dressed him?
His small arms all but strangled her, and she took on his full weight. She struggled to her feet and headed toward the back door, resolved to walk home if she must. Could she remember the way? It didn’t matter. She merely needed to find some main thoroughfare and hire a hansom. No one would pass a well-dressed woman and a child in this beastly weather.
She hoped the overcoat that had been thrown over her head was still in the room. She could use it to cover Jacob. Otherwise, she’d have to button him into her own coat somehow. She unwound her muffler, which was still dry in the parts where it had been tucked into her coat, and wrapped the dry bits around her son’s torso.
“Where going, Mummy?” Jacob asked, lifting his small face.
“Home.”
He kissed her cheek with a smack and tucked his cheek against her neck again. She smiled for the first time in what felt like years as she turned her back to the swinging door and began to push her way through.
The door hit her back and she stumbled forward. Someone had been coming through behind her. She growled in protest, moving out of the way, then headed back toward the door.
A figure came in through the green baize door, moving quickly, and grabbed for Jacob. He cried out, trying to hold on, but the figure wrenched his arms from her neck. Matilda screamed his name, grabbing for the muffler ends to try to keep him close even as he was pulled away. Something came down over her head, a burlap bag. She raised her hands to strike, to scratch, to rip, but a sweet, heavy odor filled the air, and when she opened her mouth to scream again, she got a lungful of the stuff. The room spun and she stumbled, going to her knees again. She only vaguely felt her head hitting the floor. The bag had blackened the room, but now everything, even her baby, swirled away, out of reach.
A cat’s hiss woke her. She felt a tail brush her eyelashes, smelled the odor of wet feline, then felt raindrops hit her face. Wind sent the remains of last fall’s leaves rattling.
Blinking, she tried to turn her head, to see something more than rain, but the insides of her head rocked in a liquid fashion. Instead, she rolled to her side and then to her stomach, then tried to get up on her hands and knees. Heavy, sodden skirts trapped her legs until she tugged the fabric away, sluggish in her movements. At least her hair was taking the rain now, instead of her face. She’d lost her bonnet and could sense most of her pins had gone, too. Her hair swung in a wet rope across her shoulder, the braid still intact.
She coughed, wondering if she was ill. How long had she been unconscious? Was it still the same night? It felt like the same rain, the same spring night that reminded one of autumn more than the coming summer.
She sniffed and sneezed, realized her neck was frozen stiff, remembered where she’d last seen her muffler. On
Jacob
.
Her lips opened in a half scream, half yawn, and she started to cry uncontrollably, deep, racking sobs that made her chest hurt. She couldn’t even feel her tears on her half-frozen, soaking-wet face.
A thought struck her, and she began to scrabble on the ground, searching for a small body near her. Could they have dumped him, too? Was she in the courtyard where the old coach had pulled up? She picked up her skirts and crouched, then rose uneasily to her feet, swaying like a drunkard. Moving tentatively, slowly, she searched the area with shuffling steps and outstretched arms, but there seemed to be nothing but grass, unlike the dirt of the courtyard she’d seen earlier. As her vision cleared, she noted trees, just starting to bud. They looked familiar. She turned, noting the configuration of fruit trees, and realized she was in her own garden, behind the Redcake house.
A door opened, probably her own tradesmen’s door. She stumbled forward, forgetting caution, calling out. “Hello? It’s Matilda.”
“Matilda?” A woman rushed forward, heedless of the rain and slippery grass.
Matilda moved forward and all but fell into her sister Rose’s arms. She felt the slender bones of Rose’s arms as she closed them around her coat. Her sister exclaimed, and a warm shawl was dropped over her head and shoulders. She was towed toward the house.
Her sister only said one word. “Jacob?”
Only the most important thought came for now. “He’s alive, Rose.”
“You saw him?”
She nodded, feeling her wet hair snake up the back of her neck, then drop again, a ticklish sensation. “Yes, in a house somewhere.”
“I don’t understand,” Rose said, pulling open the door and pushing her in.
As the door shut, Matilda said, “They etherized me. How did I get back here?”
“We didn’t hear anything, but the back garden is quite large. They must have brought you in through the mews, and the sound of the storm muffled everything.” An oil lamp flickered over her sister’s flushed face.
“That coach wouldn’t have fit through the mews.”
“Maybe they left it on the main street and carried you.” Rose cupped her cheeks, her hands feeling hot on Matilda’s frozen cheeks.
“How long?” Matilda asked.
“Three hours, darling. You were missing three hours.”
They could have taken her anywhere in the city, then. But she had been in that room, waiting, for quite a while. She had warmed up twice: once before she went exploring, and again after she’d closed the swinging door. She’d been there for at least an hour, she estimated. Still, that gave the kidnappers plenty of leeway. The coach ride had been sickening, she recalled. So many turns, as if they had been going about in circles. Had she actually been nearby, the ride intended to confuse her? She knew she’d never been in that home before, though.
Rose closed the door behind them and latched it, then started to unbutton Matilda’s coat. Matilda grabbed her sister’s hands.
“We need to search the garden,” she insisted. “What if Jacob is there, too?”