A Rose Before Dying (26 page)

“They’d best mind their step if they
didn’t.”

“Why?” He shoved his fists into his pockets
and assessed the inn with its clinging shadows and odd corners.

Sam nodded toward the stable. “Had a fire a
couple of years back. The old stable burned. But the foundations
were bum so they built the new one. We’ve had trouble before with
travelers lost and whatnot, wandering about, getting hurt… Lots of
pits to fall in’ter.”

“Where are the original foundations?” Charles
paced around the perimeter of the new stable. Horses, hearing his
impatient movements, snickered and moved restlessly in their
stalls.

Catching a fraction of Charles’s urgency, Sam
ran past him down a path that had nearly disappeared under clumps
of encroaching grass and weeds. Ahead loomed a darkened building
that at first glance appeared as sound as any other. But as they
neared, a jagged, gaping hole interrupted the gray-black roof that
sagged like a waterlogged sail between bowed walls. The splintered,
burned remains of the wide carriage door hung open, dangling from
one hinge.

A broken, wooden bucket leaned against the
base of the door, and a morning glory had found sufficient soil and
moisture to sprout from the bucket and twine around the doorframe.
The vine promised a touch of beauty amongst the desolation, at
least in the dawn hours before the sun closed the delicate blue
flowers.

Charles brushed past the battered door and
entered the black heart of the building. The air smelled of dank
earth and the lingering odor of charred wood.

“Rose!” He blinked and rubbed his eyes,
trying to adjust to the gloom. “Rose!”

The scrabble of mice, or rats, echoed back.
He turned with a jerk when an owl, disturbed by his call, flapped
away through the hole in the roof. A few stars twinkled beyond the
gap before the streamers of a scudding cloud covered their gentle
light.

“Sam—fetch a lantern! I can’t see a thing in
this blasted place.” He stumbled over a rotten plank before
righting himself. Beneath his boots, the wood creaked and crumbled,
as soft as old straw.

“Yes, sir!”

Moving carefully, he edged closer to the
corner of the only two walls that remained solid despite the
blackened ghosts of flames etched into the rough wood. “Rose! It’s
Lord Castlemoor—your friend. If you can hear me, make a
noise—anything! Rose! Do you hear me?”

Nothing but the panicked sound of rats
burrowing more deeply into the decayed straw filling the spaces
beneath the fallen beams.

The sudden, swinging light from Sam’s lantern
blinded him when the lad stepped inside. He held up an old carriage
lamp, blinking owlishly. “Did you find her, my lord?”

“No.” Charles took the lamp and searched each
stall. There were plenty of places for small animals to hide, but
no space large enough for a child, even one as thin as Rose.

He glanced up. There was a floor above them,
or at least there used to be. Much of it was gone, eaten away by
fire except for a six-foot ledge clinging drunkenly to the two
solid walls. Perhaps she was up there, unconscious, a breath away
from death. He could imagine her fragile heart pounding in
terror…

“How do you get up there?” He pointed to the
remaining section of flooring above them.

“Can’t.” Sam walked cautiously over to the
far wall and partially lifted a ruined ladder. “Used to climb this.
Can’t now.”

Frustrated, Charles spent a few minutes
searching the floor. Other than animal prints in the dust, nothing
had been disturbed. He could clearly see the smears where he had
stumbled earlier and the fresh footsteps where Sam had walked. It
was so obvious he should have seen it sooner. No one had been in
here for months.

“She’s not here. She never was.”

“Sorry—don’t know where else she could be, my
lord. Honest.”

Charles went out and took a deep breath of
fresh air. The taste of old smoke lingered in his mouth, and he
glanced at the inn, suddenly desperate for a drink of ale to wash
away the bitter taste. But his dry mouth only reminded him more
sharply of Rose.

Think
!

They wouldn’t have gone along the road. And
she wasn’t here in the abandoned stable. He held up the lantern and
studied the yard.

A wooden fence separated them from a kitchen
garden stretching out from the rear of the inn and encompassing a
well. A barrel and old wagon wheel rested against the rear wall of
the new carriage house. He walked away from the buildings through
the garden, searching for anything, any sign that might lead him in
the right direction.

The wind had picked up and carried the moist
taste of rain. The clouds overhead thickened, and as he watched,
the stars all but disappeared. Bad weather was coming.

He forced himself to concentrate. Heavily
worn paths ran from the kitchen door to the well and garden.
Another path meandered from the stables to the carriage house. The
dirt was so tamped down that not even a weed grew over the dusty
trails. Other paths rambled to the pasture and branched toward a
narrow lane before passing into darkness.

“Where does that lead?” He pointed to the
rutted lane.

“Orchard. Meets with the road a bit
down.”

“So they could have walked to the houses down
the street.”

Sam shook his head. “I’d have seen ‘em if
they’d gone this way.”

Charles kept walking, trying to see if there
were any tiny footprints amongst the cattle, horse, and boot marks.
A crack of thunder pounded through his chest. He glanced up and
stumbled over an uneven patch.

He swore and turned back. His shoulder
muscles ached with tension. He had to find her. He’d already failed
her, once. If he hadn’t interfered in her life, she’d still be
safe. Her life in London might not have been pleasant, but it had
been a life ripe with possibility.

Why hadn’t he left well enough alone?

“There’s nothing here,” he said at last.

Sam looked up at him. He clamped his mouth
shut as a puzzled look crossed his face.

Then Charles heard it.

A faint sound, nearly drowned by the wind and
the leathery slide of Sam’s shoes on the dirt path.

He grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “Stop! Did you
hear that?”

Sam cocked his shaggy head. “That? Just the
wind. Mayhap that owl coming home.”

“Rose? Rose!”

When he stood still, he could just barely
hear another noise. Lamp held aloft, he looked around. Pasture,
narrow lane, trees in the distance, and behind him, the kitchen
garden, carriage house and inn.

“Rose!”

The wind howled.

Then he heard it, a faint response. On his
left. He walked a few feet and stared down at the ground, searching
for a trace—something to follow. The path bifurcated a few yards
away, but the left-hand trail was barely discernible under a swath
of lush, new grass. He strode along it and then noticed a few
pieces of lumber.

“What is that?”

“Mr. Conner thought to build a new well this
summer. Only got about ten feet down when he hit rock. Don’t know
if he’ll keep on or give it up.”

“For God’s sake, why didn’t you mention it
earlier?”

“Why? We covered it up—it’s no danger to
anyone.”

When they reached the pile of wood, Charles
could see signs of fresh disturbance. Clots of mud and grass, still
green, clung to the ends of the wood, torn from the ground by the
shifting of the heavy timbers. Smears of fresh dirt darkened the
planks.

“Rose!”

“Here!” came the faint cry.

“Go get help and a ladder! Be quick about it
before it starts to rain.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He gripped
the end of one of the boards and thrust it upward until he could
wedge his shoulder beneath it. Muscles straining, he shoved it
aside. It fell with a heavy thud against the earth.

At the sound, an eerie sob echoed up the
shaft.

“It’s all right, Rose. It’s Lord Castlemoor.
You remember me, don’t you?” With a grunt, he shifted another
board. The dark, rough edge of the pit was now visible. He knelt at
the edge and held the light down within the shaft.

Peering up at him was the thin, haggard face
of Rose. Her pale skin was coated with mud and dark, fearful
smudges marked her eyes. When she saw the light she lifted her arms
toward him. Her thin fingers wriggled with desperation.

“Let me out—please!
Please
! I promise
I’ll be good!”

Her plea hit him like a hammer. How had she
survived alone in this dank pit? Who could do such a thing?

“I’m going to get you out,” he said. “It
won’t be long. I’ve sent for a rope.”

When he moved the lantern back to remove
another piece of wood, she screamed. “
No!
Don’t leave me!
It’s dark—don’t go!
Please
!”

“I’m not leaving. But, I have to move this
wood. I’ll be right here.”

“No!” she sobbed.

The sound was so desperately hopeless that he
stopped and held the light where she could see it. “Please, Rose.
I’ve got to shift this wood away so we can get you out. I’ll keep
talking to you so you’ll know I’m here. Be a brave girl for a few
minutes longer. My friend, Sam, has gone to get a rope. We’ll have
you out in a trice.”

A lash of lightning lit up the sky behind
him, followed by another boom of thunder.

Rose shrieked, her voice insanely shrill.

Big, warm drops of rain hit Charles’s head
and shoulders. He got up and with a burst of strength, heaved the
remaining boards away from the hole. All the while, he spoke to
Rose, babbling reassuring nonsense he couldn’t even recall.

Rain was falling in thick, swirling gusts
when Sam returned with his father. By the time Charles climbed down
to Rose, muddy water swirled over her small feet. With a shrill
wail, she launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his
neck.

“Rose, you’ve got to let go so they can pull
you up.”

“No!” She buried her face in his neck and
refused to let go. Her thin arms clung to him with such desperation
that he was afraid he would break her fragile bones if he tried to
release himself.

He glanced up at the man staring down at
him.

“Can you lift both of us?”

“Guess I’ll have to,” came his laconic
reply.

It was a rough journey although it was only
ten feet. Clots of sodden earth hit Charles’s face and shoulders as
he worked to brace his feet against the rough, rain-slicked walls.
Finally, the stableman gripped his wrists and hauled him out,
breathless and mud-encrusted, with the tiny girl clinging to his
chest.

When Sam tried to lift her away, she screamed
so shrilly that Charles thought his ears would bleed.

“Let her be.” Charles struggled to his feet.
Her weight was insignificant compared to the relief he felt,
holding her. “We need to get her inside. And some dry clothes.” Sam
and his father stared at him. “And thank you—you’ve saved her
life.”

“Is that another one, then?” the stableman
asked, eyeing both of them like a pair of chain-rattling
ghosts.

“Another one?” Charles pushed past him and
headed for the golden lights of the inn. Warm rain dripped down his
neck, indistinguishable from Rose’s tears.

“Them rose murders. In London.”

Sam, who had started to run ahead, stopped at
his father’s question. He turned, his face intense with curiosity.
“He said as how she was lost. Or stolen away by some mad
spinster.”

Charles nodded at the boy. There was too much
gossip already. Rose had been through enough. “Yes. Her old nurse.
When the family had to let her go, she went a little mad. She
kidnapped this child.”

“I thought you said her governess, my lord?”
Sam asked.

He nodded at the boy. “Nurse—governess—with a
child this young, it’s one and the same, isn’t it?”

“Mayhap. Then why bury her in that hole?” the
stableman asked.

How tortuous the path created by a lie.

But when Rose moved in his arms, her sobs
devolving into wet little hiccups, he plunged on. He’d spin an
entire Canterbury tale if it would protect her and those who’d
suffered so much already.

“She must have realized it’s no easy task to
restrain a child. Particularly a child who doesn’t want to be
restrained. And as I mentioned, her nurse suffered hysteria. Who
knows what may have motivated her? Now find us a room and some
blankets. And broth, if you please.”

Despite the displeasure of the innkeeper,
Charles clattered through the kitchen door, tracking mud onto the
clean flagstone floor.

“Here now!” the innkeeper objected. “What are
you about, coming in here?”

“This child was lost in the rain. Show me to
a room at once and fetch some towels and blankets!” Charles
ordered.

The wiry little man blocked his way. “And who
are you, sir?”

“Lord Castlemoor.” Spying the servants’ stair
in the corner of the warm kitchen, Charles strode toward that. “Do
you want to be responsible for this child’s death?”

“No, my lord, he does
not
.” The
massive woman serving as cook glared at the innkeeper.

When he caught her black look, his chest
puffed out like a bantam rooster’s, but his reply was mild enough.
“Two flights up, first door on the left, my lord. There’s blankets
a-plenty. We’ll bring up a bowl of soup for the girl and a hot
buttered rum for yourself.”

Charles nodded. He climbed the stairs,
stroking Rose’s damp hair and whispering whatever comforting words
came into his head.

It wasn’t until he was sitting in his
shirt-sleeves in front of the fire, sipping a heavy pewter mug of
rum that he remembered his quest for Mr. Tunnes.

He glanced at Rose. She sat in the middle of
the bed, a tiny figure swathed in an old quilt, noisily slurping a
bowl of soup.

“The lady who kidnapped you—what did she look
like?”