Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 1: A Hasty Betrothal / A Scandalous Marriage / The Count's Charade / The Rake and the Rebel - Mary Brendan - Страница 19

In the cellar time passed interminably, for Harriet and Billy were unable to tell whether it was day or night, being aware only of the endless waiting in impenetrable darkness. They could hear the persistent and ominous rumble of thunder, even within their earthen cave, although the torrential rain that accompanied it they could only imagine, until intermittent dripping of water from various parts of the roof indicated its overhead presence.

‘You would think that a cellar would be watertight,’ observed Harriet crossly, as she moved their now bracken-filled sacks for the umpteenth time. ‘One does, after all, expect to keep logs and certain perishables throughout the winter.’

‘Yeah, but you have to remember that the roof has gone on this cottage,’ Billy pointed out. ‘And some of the other wooden bits must have dried out in the fire—them that didn’t burn, I mean.’

Harriet considered this. ‘Meggy Watts told me that the flagstones had fallen through to the cellars in some of the other cottages. I hope the ones above our heads don’t take it upon themselves to come down on top of us!’

She regretted having given voice to these thoughts as Billy at once let out a loud wail and clung to her like a leech. She was obliged to sit him down and pet him for some time until his terror abated. She dashed away the tears that persisted in forming in her own eyes and leaned her still desperately aching head against the now dank and streaming walls. The thought of falling flagstones kept recurring, however, and eventually gave birth to an idea.

She settled the fitfully sleeping child down on to the damp sacking and felt her way back to the corner where the rest of the vegetable sacks were heaped. Carefully climbing on top of them, she raised her hands and realised, to her joy, that she could feel the underside of a large flagstone. The cellar was hardly more than six feet high! How stupid of her not to realise that this would be the case!

Moving her fingers across the under-surface of the stone until she felt the floor timber that supported it, she widened her search until she could feel another. Twelve inches apart, she judged, and the joists probably nine or ten inches wide. The flagstones must be about twenty-one inches square and heavy enough to rest on the oak timbers without moving—two or three-inch-thick quarry stone, probably—would she be able to move one upwards?

She sat down upon the turnip sacks to weigh up the possibilities. She was no weakling, in the ordinary way, but thought that it was likely that she had lost quite a bit of blood as she had twice felt it necessary to renew her makeshift head-bandage—in addition to having subsisted on raw turnips for who knew how long.

The problem was one of leverage, she supposed, and she had no tools available. She had scoured the floor of the cellar on hands and knees, with Billy’s assistance, to scavenge for anything that might have come in useful to them but, unfortunately for her cause, Potter had proved to be an inordinately tidy housekeeper and none of the usual debris of broken shovels or brooms had been found in his underground storeroom.

Harriet made up her mind. Hoping that the sounds of activity would not penetrate the sleeping urchin’s brain, for she was reluctant to raise his hopes unnecessarily, she began to rearrange the sacks of turnips into a more stable platform for herself. This was heavy and cumbersome work, for the sacks were unwieldy and unco-operative, in addition to being very wet, and she was forced to stop frequently to rest and recover from the attacks of swimming fatigue that overcame her. But her perseverance was finally rewarded when, some immeasurable time later, she found that her solid pile of sacks would raise her three feet closer to the roof.

She could only crouch at the top, of course, but this had been her intention for she knew that this was the only way in which she would be able to apply any upward movement to the slab, given that her arms could sustain the weight. Where would be the best place to push? she wondered, not wishful of having a quarry-stone come crashing down on her fingers to add to all her other miseries. If she could lift one at its junction with a neighbouring slab, would it be possible to slide it over the top in the same movement? She was well aware that, even with all the will in the world, she had no real hope of holding up such a heavy weight for more than a moment or two, but if she could just get one into position on top of its fellow it would surely be possible to slide it along the timbers and out of the way. Then, even if she could not make her own escape through the aperture, there might be sufficient room for Billy to do so.

She gnawed at the unappetising turnip in her hand, wondering if she would ever be able to bring herself to face the taste again then, smiling at her foolishness, remembered having had the self-same thoughts about stewed rabbit many years ago—what she would not give at this moment for a dish of that delicacy!

She drew a deep breath, at the same time feeling in her pocket for her riding gloves and, pulling them on so that she could get the best possible grip, she positioned herself carefully and, with all her might, she strained her muscles against the unyielding object.

Nothing! A sob of wretchedness escaped from her lips and her eyes filled with tears. Please, God—oh, please, dear God, she prayed, give me the strength—please help me! She applied herself once again and, gritting her teeth with anguish, she heaved at the slab above her head until her arms began to give way and her head swam.

Then she felt, or rather, heard the movement and either her prayers or her desperation must have given her some sort of divine power for, with a grating lurch, the flagstone did indeed lift and move away from her, only a fraction but enough to balance its front edge precariously on top of its neighbour.

She slid down on to the sacks in a half-swoon, her ears pounding, choking for air and was unable to move for several minutes. She heard Billy stirring and his anxious voice calling her, but could not answer him for she had no strength left in her body.

‘Miss? Miss—where are you? Did you hear a noise? Where are you, miss?’

He had found her platform of sacks and was clambering up to reach her. Weakly she put out her hand to reassure him and he huddled himself as close as he could get to her limp body.

‘What you doing up here, miss?’ he asked in shocked amazement.

‘I—think—that—we—may—be—able—to—get out!’ she gasped, her voice rough with exhaustion. ‘But I—must rest—for just a little while—before I can go on.'Is it your head, miss?’

Billy couldn’t imagine what had happened to Miss while he had been sleeping. This surely was not his stalwart saviour, who had been so strong and resilient up until now. If she folded, he was ready to believe that they were doomed to remain in their underground prison forever and that they would fade away and die—if ‘matey’ didn’t come and finish them off first!

But Harriet was at last beginning to recover from her Herculean efforts and was gradually able to sit up and explain, in simple terms, what she had achieved.

‘And I do believe,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound bright and cheerful, ‘that if we can push the slab from this end, we might slide the whole thing back and make good our escape!’

‘Ooh, miss—let’s do it. I can help—see! I can easily reach if I stand up next to you! Both of us should be able to push hard enough!’

Harriet fervently hoped so, but begged him to allow her to get her breath back before they attempted the task. She gave him a turnip to nibble while she closed her eyes for a few minutes in a concentrated endeavour to mobilise her few remaining resources. Her arm muscles felt as though they were made of water, the back of her head was causing her considerable discomfort and she knew that she would be able to summon up sufficient effort for only one good push and, after that, how long would it be before her strength returned, in these conditions?

Resolutely, she positioned herself again and gave Billy explicit instructions as to where to put his fingers, even going so far as to insist that he wear her gloves to cushion any impending damage. Curiously, she also removed the

Beldale emerald ring and wrapped it safely in her ‘necessaire’ before proceeding—a future Hurst bride might not care for a scratched or chipped ring, she told herself sadly, should their endeavour fail and any other rescue prove to be in vain.

‘One good push, Billy,’ she said. ‘Then we must rest. When I say ‘'now” you must push straight forward with me—are you ready? Take a deep breath—NOW!’

With their combined weight they heaved at the slab together. It did indeed move but, sadly, only an inch or so, and both Harriet and the boy collapsed weakly on to the sacks beneath them, neither of them capable of rational speech for some time.

Gradually, however, Harriet became aware that the deep blackness of the cellar had lightened. Only to a dark grey gloom, it was true, but light was actually penetrating through the small slit. Was it grey dusk or grey dawn? she wondered despondently, then sat up in rigid shock as she heard the unmistakable sound of a man’s voice almost directly above them. She reached out towards Billy and placed a warning finger against his mouth as her ears strained to catch the words.

‘I told her, old girl—if I want to come up home I will—I don’t need her to tell me what I can do. Look what’s happened to our little nest, love—all your dear things—gone. Soon be gone meself, shouldn’t wonder—but I’ll be with you, my Milly …’

It was Joshua Potter! In defiance of his daughter’s instructions he had come back to his old home again and was muttering away to himself as he ferreted amongst the remnants of his possessions.

Harriet pulled herself back up to the flagstones above her head and placed her mouth to the gap. ‘Josh!’ Josh! she called urgently. ‘In the scullery! Come into the scullery!

There was a deathly silence, then all of a sudden the sound of stumbling footsteps came towards their corner.

‘Milly?’ came a breathless voice. ‘Have you come for me? Where are you, lass—can you show yourself? I’m ready to come with you!’

Harriet experienced a momentary pang at having to disenchant the old man of his simple belief in his late wife’s visitation but, since he was likely to be their only hope, she resolutely dashed this feeling from her thoughts.

‘It’s me, Mr Potter—Harriet Cordell!’ she cried through the slit. ‘I am imprisoned in the cellar—with Billy Tatler. Can you see the raised flagstone in the corner of the scullery?’

Please God he has a light of some sort, she thought, and found herself sobbing with relief as she saw the stump of candle in his hand as he bent towards the gap. The flickering light was sufficient for him to see the reflection in her green eyes, now brimming with tears as she recognised his wrinkled old visage.

‘It is you, indeed, miss!’ he gasped in amazement. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you—how’d you get down there, miss?’

But Harriet had no heart to indulge in an explanatory conversation from her present uncomfortable position and begged the old man to open up the cellar hatch and, with some difficulty, eventually persuaded him to shuffle off to comply with her request. Presently, however, he came back to inform her that, unfortunately, a large mass of timber was wedged against the trap-door and that, try as he might, he had been unable to remove it.

Harriet beat her fists against the roof timbers in impotent frustration. ‘Can you not find something with which to lever up the slab?’ she called out in anguish but, as with a growing sense of hopelessness she listened to the old man stumbling about amongst the debris above them, she soon realised that this task would be equally beyond him.

‘Josh!’ she called out again, unable to bear the tension any longer. ‘You must go for help—but only to Lord Sandford—do you hear? On no account tell anyone else of our whereabouts and—please—I know it will be difficult for you—but, please—hurry!’

‘I’m on my way, miss,’ came the wheezing reply. ‘I’ll fetch himself—don’t you worry, miss.’

But Harriet was extremely worried and wondered how quickly a tired old rheumatic with chest problems could possibly cover the four miles to Beldale House—even supposing that Sandford was to be found there!

‘Will he get back, d’ye think, miss?’ asked Billy in a plaintive voice. ‘He can’t walk proper—it’ll take him forever!’

‘Well, Billy,’ said Harriet grimly. ‘We seem to have forever—we certainly aren’t going anywhere—so we’d better think of new ways to pass the time.’

She dwelt on this problem for a moment, then brightened. ‘Do you know ‘'Black Jack Ladderback''?’

‘Can’t say as I do, miss. What is it?’

‘It’s a round song we used to sing as we rode or marched along. I’ll teach it to you. It goes like this …’

‘'Black Jack Ladderback Took the acorn that he found Dug a little hole and put The seed into the ground And the sun it shone, and the rain it rained And in time it came to pass There grew beside the wishing-well An oak tree on the grass.”

And in this way she kept him happily entertained for a full hour as he learned how Black Jack saw first a branch, then a twig followed by a leaf until, inevitably, he found another acorn and the whole song was repeated ad infinitum. This revelation caused Billy great amusement and he insisted on frequent encores. Harriet, for whom the song was less of a novelty, steadfastly put away her tedium and encouraged him to sing out with gusto, all the while wondering for how much longer she would be obliged to keep up his spirits.

By way of their little gap in the flagstones the cellar had slowly lightened sufficiently for each of them to just about make out the other’s person in the gloom and this in itself was cheering. They were boisterously chanting out the words of the song for possibly the fifth time when they heard the sound of the trap-door being swung away. Harriet held her breath as she pulled Billy back into the furthest corner.

A sneering voice fell on their horrified ears.

‘Sing-song, sing-song! What a pretty sound! Here’s a little present for you!’ and a load of brushwood and bracken was thrown through the opening, followed by a considerable quantity of dry straw.

With a sinking heart Harriet realised immediately what their captor’s intention was. He meant to fire the cellar and leave them to their fate! Frantically scrambling down from the makeshift platform, she dealt firmly with her initial terror at the thought of being burnt to death and, with Billy’s help, set about dragging as much of the scattered brushwood and straw as far away from immediate incineration as was possible.

Fear and the deep-rooted instinct for survival had instantly renewed her strength and with a determined obstinacy she then started pushing all the damp and sodden sacks directly below the cellar hatch, reasoning that should their assailant be about to hurl a firebrand into their underground prison, there was an evens chance that it would land on the not-so-readily-combustible pile of vegetables. Although only a few extra minutes might be gained from such a diversion, it could be enough to make all the difference to the outcome.

She held her breath as the trap-door re-opened and, with mounting horror, she saw that the shadowy outline above them had, indeed, set fire to a tarry faggot, for its flickering light enabled her to register the man’s grinning countenance just before he tossed the kindling into the cellar and, with a snigger, slammed down the door once more.

She was certain that she had seen him somewhere before—but where? He was not the man who had directed her to ride up here—but she had no time to dwell upon this puzzle as another, far greater problem was facing her.

Sparks from the firebrand had ignited some of the scattered straw that still lay on the cellar floor and she had to engage her whole concentration in stamping out the various pockets of flame as they took hold. Billy, too, was thrashing his wet sacking at the defiant flickers that were creeping towards the dry brushwood at the far side of their prison.

Above them they could hear the sound of debris being piled once more against the trap-door and, at the sight of flames licking around the cracks in the framework, Harriet’s heart sank, for she knew that as soon as the flimsy wooden structure burned away the whole mass of burning timber would fall through and, if that happened, nothing could save them.

Thick, acrid smoke was pouring from the faggot that had fallen beside the turnip sacks. The combination of wet earth and damp vegetables had caused the flames to expire, but the glowing, tarry embers that remained were eating their way along the edges of the sacks, causing choking palls to rise up and, mingled with the smoke and stench from all the other sources, the cellar was soon filled with an atmosphere in which no one could hope to survive for long.

Harriet grabbed at another of the empty, wet sacks and wrapped the choking Billy into its folds, pushing him into the corner furthest away from the burning hatchway and ordered him to keep himself rolled up. She dragged off her smouldering boots and, lifting up her riding-skirt, she threw it over her head, sinking down on the cellar floor beside the howling urchin and prayed as she’d never prayed before.