Sons of the Wolf (21 page)

So, even if we can reach Middleham, we may not find shelter. The whole village is terrorized; if Wolfson drove into the square and demanded his fleeing wards, we would probably be given up to him.

From that same square a coach leaves daily for York. I-we-must catch the coach. Surely in the great northern capital there must be someone to whom we can appeal for sanctuary. There must be some law in enlightened England against what he is planning!

Dear heaven, it is all so hopeless. . . . For the coach we must have money. I have none. For our escape we will need horses; we cannot walk that distance. And how am I to obtain mounts here, where every servant may be a spy? How am I even to leave the house unseen?

In the novels I have read-surreptitiously, through the lending library-the threatened heroines steal forth from the haunted castles by night. It seems to me a poor choice in any case: doors are locked and bolted, watchers arc alert, and any movement is conspicuous. In my case, nighttime is out of the question. There are the dogs.

So I must leave by daylight, the moment a suitable chance presents itself-now, today. I wish I could run this instant, straight out the door, down the road, through the gates. . . . But that would be folly. I will wait, for a time at least, in the hope that Mr. Wolfson may go out. Perhaps he will wish to call on his first victim, to see how matters are progressing. . . .

I can't let myself think of that subject; it conjures up visions which make me boil with fear and fury; it weakens my will, which must be cool and calm. If he should leave the house my chances of escape increase one hundredfold. I might even venture to try for a mount-without which, let us admit, I stand little hope of reaching any place. When he is in the house, I feel-surrounded. As if there were a thousand eyes watching my every movement.

I will gather my few possessions together-a warm cloak, heavy shoes, my few jewels-and, of course, my diary. It would hardly do to have him find that! But first I am going to try to break into Ada's room. She may have money.

Later

Success! I am a successful burglar. That small venture has buoyed me up; it is a good omen.

It was very simple after all. I was stupid not to have thought of it before, but then there was usually someone with Ada who would have prevented my entry. The key to my door fits the connecting door between the two rooms. A sobering thought-other keys may fit my lock. I must leave here soon. It is growing late.

Something has just happened which gives me hope. I have been sitting here by Ada's front windows, hidden behind the curtains. It is an excellent vantage point which commands the entire front of the house and the drive. A few minutes ago a hired chaise rolled up and stopped before the steps. A man got out. He had the look of a lawyer's clerk or small broker. He was admitted at once and has presumably been closeted with Mr. Wolfson ever since. The chaise is waiting; that suggests that he plans to return soon to wherever he came from.

I was tempted at first to try to communicate with this man. But it was only an impulse, born of my realization that my plans of escape are almost futile. He would not believe a mad tale like mine, poured out in breathless haste. He may even be an accomplice of my guardian's. I must remember-I can trust no one.

The minutes drag by and race by-agonizingly slow when I think of my anxiety for Ada, frighteningly quick when I remember that I must be gone before dusk. If that chaise does not go soon . . .

I found Ada's pearls and three pounds in change. A help, but not enough for a good solid bribe. If I had fifty pounds and a horse, I would feel confident of success.

Most of her belongings are still here. Her gray merino dress is missing and her sable cloak; at least she is warmly dressed. I cannot tell what else is gone, perhaps some undergarments. . . .

Wait.

The visitor is coming out. He turns, hat in hand; he speaks to someone. . . . Yes, it is Wolfson himself, in his chair. He says-what? Goodbye, no doubt, for the visitor is getting into the chaise. It drives off, in a spurt of gravel. The York coach leaves Middleham at seven; perhaps that is where he is going.

Someone else has come out-William. Wolfson is speaking to him. Can it be? I hardly dare hope. . . . William goes back into the house, following his master. Now to the side windows in my own room.

I can hardly believe it, but it must be true-William has ordered out the master's coach. I see the ostlers harness the grays. I am back at the front window now . . . and here it comes, around the corner of the house.

He is here-Wolfson-still in his chair, dressed in caped cloak and tall hat. His gloved hands propel the chair forward; the groom lets down the ramp. . . .

The dogs are with him. I shrank back at the sight of them, almost as if I had been warned-for at that moment, just as he was about to get into the coach, Wolfson looked up, directly at this window. Those eyes of his! Hidden as I was by the curtains, it was all I could do not to drop to the floor and cower. At last he looked away; I am still breathing heavily.

He is off-in a hurry, too. I never saw him use the whip before, but the horses seem to know it well. Now is my chance-this moment-before my spirit fails me.

I wonder when-or if-I will write in this book again.

That night

It is settled now. Over-done-finished. There is that much consolation-the end of an effort which was always too great for me. I am, after all, "only a woman." And Ire-he seems, just now, more than a man.

The great escape began well enough. As I went down the stairs-boldly, cloaked and hooded as if for an afternoon strollI was still thinking about the money I needed so badly. With a leap of the pulse I realized that Wolfson's study was empty. He had money; I had seen it often, in a tin strongbox. Petty cash for household expenses, but enough for my purposes. The strongbox did not worry me, I felt I was capable of wrenching it open with my bare hands.

The poker sufficed; one strong blow and the hasp broke, displaying a heap of bank notes and silver. I gathered it up pell-mell, like a child scooping sand in its fists, and thrust it into my reticule. For all my bravado I was nervous in that room-silent and serene with its shelves of mellowed old bindings and its smell of cigars and oiled leather; it still breathed of his presence and of the scene that had transpired there earlier that day.

I would have fled at once had it not occurred to me that I might delay discovery of my absence a little longer by leaving the room apparently undisturbed. A broken money box on the hearth could hardly escape even a servant's eye. I picked the box up and thrust it back into the drawer, and then I saw what else was in that drawer-concealed before by the box which had been on top of it.

It was a letter, long and stiff, with a blob of red sealing wax on it. But what stunned me was the fact that it bore my name-Miss Harriet Barton.

For one mad moment I thought that the epistle must be from Wolfson, that he had anticipated even this insane action and left a jeering note to tell me that all was in vain. I knew, at the same instant, that the handwriting was not his bold black scrawl; the cramped script looked familiar but not in that terrifying way. As I picked it up, I saw something else. The seal had been broken.

In the wonder of the discovery I had momentarily forgotten my fear. A sound, seemingly just beside me, brought me back to awareness and to terror. I never discovered what the noise was-the fall of wood in the fireplace or something equally harmless no doubt-but it sent me flying from the room as if pursued by demons. I had just sense enough to snatch up the reticule with its precious contents before I fled.

I had to pause for a moment in the hall to quiet my pounding heart. I meant to avoid the servants if possible, but if I did meet someone, it was vital that I appear calm and unconcerned.

After a time I felt ready to risk the next and most dangerous step. I must take the risk; without a mount I was doomed to almost certain failure. Swinging my reticule nonchalantly I walked through the corridors to the side entrance that opened onto the courtyard. The house seemed strangely silent; I did not meet a single servant.

In the stableyard, though, were Adam and another groom.

They did not see me at first. This was the worst moment of all; I would know, as soon as they looked at me, whether they had been given certain orders. I was almost afraid to find out; in uncertainty there is at least hope.

But I had no time to waste. Taking a deep breath, I strolled out into the flagged court, letting the door slam behind me. Adam looked up.

There was not much of his face showing between the shaggy gray hair and the tangle of gray beard, and what little showed had the typical dour blankness of the countryman. Yet something-his manner, his very lack of response -told me that I was one step ahead of Mr. John Wolfson. In a daze of relief I heard my voice say casually, "Saddle the mare, please, Adam," and I couldn't help but admire my own histrionic ability.

Since David left, the other grooms have made no attempt to go with me on the rare occasions when I ride out. I did not even have to think of an excuse to avoid an escort. My pulses were pounding-with excitement and hope, for a pleasant change-as out of the corner of my eye I watched Adam put the harness on the horse. He was old and horribly slow; internally my mind was screaming at him to hurry, my hands itched to push him aside and do the job myself. But I showed no outward signs of my frantic haste.

At last the girths were tightened and the bridle in place; I was actually strolling toward the mare, and Adam was bending his rheumatic knees to give me a hand into the saddle-when it happened.

The gates of the stableyard were open, as they always were during the daylight hours. The horseman must have come around the south corner, for I did not see him until he was passing through the gateway. For one appalling moment I saw only a silvery cap of hair and a familiar, jutting nose; it was a horrid shock, like being thrown and having all the breath knocked out of one's body. I realized at once that the rider was not Wolfson but his son-not Francis but Julian, whom I had believed to be away on another of his interminable visits.

My first reaction was one of joy. Why had I not thought of Julian? He had been away; that was the pathos of Julian's life, I thought, that one did tend to forget he was alive unless he was actually present.

He came toward me, his face glowing with one of the rare smiles he kept for me. The cold wind had whipped color into his normally pale cheeks and his slight frame, in the saddle, had a look of ease and vigor. The candor of his! smile was marvelous. I knew he was unaware of his father's villainy. I almost spoke. With his help I was sure of success-I was safe. I don't know what stopped me. . .

Yes, I do. It was the fact that he too was a Wolfson-one of the sons of the wolf. I could trust no one, no one at all.

My face was not so controlled as I thought. When he was near enough to see me distinctly, Julian's smile fade into a look of concern, and he quickly dismounted.

"What is it, Harriet? Are you ill?"

"Why, do I look as bad as that?"

"No . . . Only pale and-distressed. What is wrong?"

"I do have a bit of a headache," I muttered. "I thought a ride in the fresh air . . ."

"Too fresh for comfort," said Julian positively. "You'll be chilled to the bone, Cousin, and have a cold to add to your headache."

"I-I never take cold."

"I think you are making a mistake. But if you insist, I'll go with you."

For the life of me I could not help shooting a quick, suspicious glance at him. His eyes were clear and calm. Surely, I thought, he is not that good an actor; there is genuine interest and concern for me in his look. So much interest, in fact, that I wondered ... A shiver ran through me.

Julian's hand went out to pull my cloak more tightly about me.

"There, you see, you are cold already. Lie down for a bit, Cousin. I'll send one of the maids to you with a nice hot cup of tea. That is a sure panacea for a lady's ills, is it not?"

"Perhaps I had better. Thank you."

"My dear ... It must be a frightful headache, you look really ill. Come along."

He put his arm around my shoulders and led me toward the house. He had done this before, to me and to Ada. His embrace was impersonal; no one could object to it. . . . He reminded me too much of his father. It was all I could do not to pull away from that supporting arm.

As we walked through the corridors toward the stairs Julian continued to talk, expressing concern, suggesting remedies. He had some drops a doctor had given him once. I must take them. A hot brick, too, in the bed . . . I scarcely heard him. I was trying to decide whether to run as soon as he left me or wait until after the maid had tucked me up, presumably for the day.

The second alternative was, on the face of it, more sensible. It would give me hours, perhaps the whole night, before anyone looked for me. Yet when he left me, at the foot of the stairs, to go in search of the servants, my brain stopped functioning. The moment he was out of sight I walked to the front door and went out.

The only inhabited rooms at the front of the house belonged to Ada and to Wolfson. Unless some servant was in one of them, cleaning, I was safe from observation there. Julian's rooms were in the south wing. I went north, around the long side of the house, creeping on hands and knees through the shrubs until I reached the copse of trees that stood behind the manor. They were bare and leafless now, but they gave some cover. As soon as I reached them, I took my skirts in both hands and ran.