Yvonne Goes to York (12 page)

‘Seen any strangers about?’ asked the marquis.

‘Only yourselves,’ replied the man slowly.

‘What lies further downstream? Is there another building?’

The man looked at the sky and looked at the ground until Hannah wondered desperately whether he had been struck dumb. At last he said ruminatively, ‘There be a bit of a hut. Used for fishing in his old lordship’s time, folk do say.’

‘And how far on?’ asked the marquis.

‘Reckon about a mile.’

The marquis thanked him and pushed the boat away
from the bank and began to row again. Benjamin still looked for any sign left by Yvonne but could see nothing. The current was stronger now and helping the boat to race along. They came round another bend, much farther on, and there, among a stand of trees near the water’s edge, stood the hut, and tied to a post on the bank was the other boat.

The marquis was about to ship the oars and let the boat glide into the bank, but Benjamin, elated at the sight of the hut, yelled, ‘Halloo, I’m sure we’ve found ’em!’

‘Shut up, you fool!’ hissed the marquis as the prow of the boat dug into the mud. He seized an oar to push off again, but he was too late.

The bushes on the river bank parted and there stood Ashton and Petit, with guns levelled on them.

Mr Ashton was in his shirt-sleeves and had one arm bound up. He glared malevolently at the marquis. ‘Welcome,’ said Monsieur Petit, baring his yellow fangs in a smile. ‘Our guests will be delighted to have company. Get out of that boat with your hands above your heads and march towards the hut.’

There was nothing else they could do but obey. The marquis was cursing himself. He had been so sure the night before that Petit and Ashton had fled.

Hannah wondered what would become of them all. She did not want to die. She suddenly most desperately did not want to die and leave Sir George Clarence with only the memory of one silly, romantical spinster.

‘Inside,’ ordered Mr Ashton when they reached the open door of the hut. Hannah, the first, went inside and
stopped with an exclamation of dismay. Yvonne and what must surely be her father were lying on the floor, trussed up, gagged, and bound.

‘Move forward,’ barked Mr Ashton, a menacing figure now.

When he had them lined up inside, he held his gun to Yvonne’s head so that they would submit docilely to being bound and gagged by Petit.

‘Now,’ said Mr Ashton with an evil grin, ‘we’ve got you just where we want you. We’re going into town to get word of a boat that will take us to France. When we return, we’ll take the Greniers with us and you three can stay here until you rot.’

Monsieur Petit laughed. ‘Au revoir,’ he said, kissing his hand to them. The next thing, the door of the hut was slammed shut and they could hear a bolt being driven across the door.

The marquis looked at Yvonne. Large tears were rolling down her cheeks and he swore that if he ever got free of this predicament, he would cheerfully strangle both Petit and Ashton with his bare hands.

Mrs Clarence and Sir George arrived at Bradfield Park and gave their cards to the butler. He returned after a short while to say gravely that my lord and lady were ‘not at home’.

‘But what of their guests?’ exclaimed Mrs Clarence. ‘The Marquis of Ware and Miss Pym?’

‘I believe his lordship and his party went out early this morning,’ said the butler. ‘They have not returned.’

Outside, Mrs Clarence hesitated beside the carriage.
‘I can hear voices coming from the side of the house,’ she said. ‘It sounds like it might be the Wetherbys.’

‘Oh, I have no doubt they are at home,’ said Sir George. ‘It’s just that they don’t want to receive us.’

‘Let us just walk around towards the sound of their voices,’ urged Mrs Clarence. ‘If we find them sitting in the garden, we can ask them if
they
know when Miss Pym and the others are due to return.’

Together they walked around the corner of the house. There was no one in the garden, but the windows of a room overlooking the terrace were open and voices reached their ears clearly.

‘But I’m sure he’s in love with me, Papa,’ wailed a young female voice.

‘The man’s deranged,’ barked a masculine voice. Lord Wetherby, guessed the listeners. ‘Saying I’ve been keeping French spies in the house, saying they were shot at, threatening to call in the authorities. Never heard such rubbish. I tell you, Dusty, they were all foxed, including that crooked-nosed spinster.’

‘They must be coming back,’ said Dusty. ‘They haven’t taken their luggage. Where did they go?’

‘Do not take on so,’ came Lady Wetherby’s voice. ‘Your father has the right of it. They are all mad. That Miss Pym, Ware, and that rude footman were seen walking doubled up across the lawn and then they got in a rowing-boat and sailed off downstream. I hope they drown. Poor pet. Mama shall find you a
proper
beau.’

Sir George caught Mrs Clarence by the arm and drew her back a little. ‘It is all very odd,’ he whispered. ‘Something is badly wrong here. I know Ware slightly
and he is not the sort of man to make up stories about French spies. I would like to find him and ask him what is going on.’ He rubbed his brow and then made up his mind. ‘I think you had better return to your John while I go down the river and see if I can find them. I shall call on you this evening. If I do not call, I think you should get John to take this fantastical tale we have just overheard to the nearest barracks and tell the colonel to send some men to search down the river for us.’ She nodded, wide-eyed. ‘Miss Pym is in the thick of an adventure after all,’ she said.

Sir George crossed the lawns towards the river, feeling conspicuous, wondering if Lord Wetherby might see him and send a gamekeeper after him to accuse him of trespass. He saw a glint of water in the distance through a gap in the trees and made his way there. With the sun shining down and the birds singing and the air full of the scent of roses, it was hard to believe in French spies or in anything bad at all.

He found the rowing-boats, noticing that two were missing, if the posts to which the boats were moored were any indication. He climbed gingerly into one of them, took off his coat and laid it carefully on one of the seats, untied the boat, sat down and picked up the oars. He would go downstream, and if he failed to find any sign of Miss Pym, he could always try to find some peasant who would be glad of some money for the job of rowing him back.

Although he was well aware the current was doing most of the work, he felt amazingly young and athletic as the boat slid easily down the river.

His enjoyment in the beauty of the day sharpened. He could not believe there was any danger. He would find Miss Pym and her companions picnicking beside the river bank. He imagined how Miss Pym’s odd eyes would light up when she saw him. London with all its petty society gossip seemed far away.

A cottage came into view and he saw a man working in the vegetable garden and a woman getting water from a pump outside the house. He moored the boat and called to the man, who came very slowly to the water’s edge and looked at him curiously.

‘I am searching for the Marquis of Ware,’ said Sir George.

The man scratched his head with one earthy calloused hand and stared up at the sky as if for inspiration. ‘Dunno,’ he said at last. ‘Try Bradfield Park.’

‘I
have
tried there. I was told the marquis and his party had gone out on the river.’

The man stood as if turned to stone, his mouth hanging a little open. Sir George gave an impatient noise and lifted one of the oars to push off.

‘Folks asking questions all day long,’ said the man suddenly. ‘Grand gennelman and a lady and footman went on down.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sir George, suddenly elated. ‘How far did they mean to go?’

Again that maddening silence, but this time Sir George waited.

‘Asked about a building,’ said the man. ‘Told ’em about a fishing hut, ’bout a mile further down.’

Sir George set off again. He was beginning to feel rather tired. It had been a long day and he had only slept fitfully in the mail-coach during the night. Unlike the stage-coaches, the mail-coaches kept going night as well as day.

Then he saw what must be the fishing hut, but his heart sank a little, for there was no sign of anyone about. But there was a rowing-boat tied up at the water’s edge. They must be somewhere around.

He tied up his own boat alongside it and climbed rather stiffly up the bank, putting on his coat as he did so. The fishing hut stood in a clearing at the water’s edge. Everything was very quiet and still, apart from the rushing of the water.

He began to feel uneasy and could not think why. The stillness of the place began to seem unnatural and he looked uneasily about him as he approached the fishing hut. The door was closed. There was a new shiny bolt across it. Well, they would hardly be bolted inside a fishing hut on such a glorious day. He would need to return to see if he could row against the current as far as that fellow at the cottage and ask there for help in getting back.

He half turned to go. And then he heard a noise from inside.

Hannah lay on the earthen floor in an agony of pain and misery. The ropes which bound her had been tied so tightly that she wondered – were she ever released – if she would be able to walk again

The marquis was now lying still. He had been
straining and wriggling in his bonds for the past two hours. In the gloomy light, Monsieur Grenier, a frail-looking man, lay as still as death. Hannah prayed he was still alive. She prayed for a lot of things apart from the well-being of Yvonne’s father. She prayed for rescue. She prayed for life. She prayed the stinking gag in her mouth would not make her sick and tried to ignore the heavings of her stomach.

And in and out her tortured thoughts went the face of Sir George Clarence. If she did not return to London, he would assume she was too ashamed to show her face. A dry sob shook Hannah’s thin body. In a book, he would ride to her rescue on a white charger and pull her up onto his saddle-bow. ‘And very silly and uncomfortable that would be,’ Hannah told herself sternly.

A wave of fury and despair at her own helplessness seized her and she banged her feet on the floor and strained at the cruel bonds that held her.

And then she heard the bolt being shot back. Hannah stiffened. She was sure that Petit would take the Greniers away and leave herself, Benjamin, and the marquis to rot, just as they had threatened to do.

She rolled over and faced the door. It opened very slowly and cautiously.

At first Hannah thought it was a vision – a vision of Sir George Clarence, standing in the sunlight and looking into the darkness of the hut.

And then his voice sounded in her ears. ‘My dear Miss Pym. This is terrible.’ And then he was kneeling beside her, fumbling in his pocket for his penknife. He
sawed through her bonds and then removed her gag. Hannah let out a wail of pain and began to rub her wrists and ankles.

‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Where are the men who did this?’

‘Gone,’ croaked Hannah. ‘But they will soon be back. But how …?’

‘In a minute, my dear friend; let me attend to the others.’

He set about cutting the others free, first Yvonne and then the rest. Yvonne crawled to her father’s side, whispering in French, ‘Papa, are you all right?’

Monsieur Grenier’s eyes fluttered open. ‘I will live,’ he said. ‘They gave me a nasty blow on the head when I tried to escape and then tied me up.’

Sir George produced a small flask of brandy and held it to his lips. He drank a little and some colour came to his white cheeks. He was a small man, slight of stature, and with thick brown hair streaked with grey.

‘Introduce us to our rescuer, Miss Pym,’ said the marquis.

‘This,’ said Hannah proudly, ‘is Sir George Clarence.’

‘Of course it is,’ said the marquis. ‘But I could hardly expect to see you in the wilds of Yorkshire, Sir George. Before we have any further explanations, I think we should escape as quickly as possible, although I swear, were the ladies not with us, I would wait here for Petit and Ashton and tear them apart with my bare hands.’

The next moment, Sir George realized why Miss Pym had so many adventures. She said, ‘Why do we not wait for them to return?’

 ‘My dear Miss Pym,’ cried Yvonne. ‘They are armed and we are not. They took milord’s pistol from him.’

‘I’ll never walk again,’ shrieked Benjamin suddenly, as he tried to stand up. ‘I’ll murder those bastard twats. I’ll—’

‘And I’ll gag you again, you foul-mouthed servant,’ raged the marquis. ‘Never again let me hear you use such language in the presence of ladies.’

‘Rub your wrists and ankles hard, Benjamin,’
ordered
Hannah. She looked at Sir George and the marquis. ‘You see, I had little else to do but think of revenge. We could hide in the woods at the back and wait for them to return. When they walk inside the hut, we shall simply bolt the door on them.’

‘And do you think, Miss Pym, that they are going to stroll into an empty hut?’ demanded the marquis testily.

‘We could perhaps make dummies of ourselves and leave them lying on the floor with some of our clothes on them,’ said Hannah eagerly. ‘Then, when Ashton and Petit are inside stooped over the dummies, we can slam and bolt the door and we have them!’

‘But,’ said Sir George patiently, ‘all they have to do is shoot the bolt off the door. They will be armed, you know.’

Hannah looked disappointed.

‘And even if we succeeded,’ said the marquis, obviously restraining himself from shouting at Hannah to take Yvonne away to safety, ‘may I remind you of the risks. Furthermore, to subject Miss Grenier and her poor father to any more danger would be folly.’

Monsieur Grenier found his voice. ‘If there were any way of capturing them,’ he said in good English, ‘then I would be prepared to help you, Miss Pym. I am not so weak as I look. They did feed me. I was being kept in prime condition for my trial.’

Benjamin, who had slipped outside during this exchange, came dancing back. ‘There’s fallen trees, stacked ready to be chopped at the back,’ he crowed. ‘Lure ’em inside, shut ’em in, pile up the wood against the door, at the back, at the winder, at the weak places, and we got ’em, like rats-in-er-trap,’ he ended, running all his words together in his excitement. ‘We can do it, Miss Pym.’