CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
All of Felicity’s weight was resting on her stomach, making it difficult to breathe. Something was pressing against the back of her thighs. She was so sleepy—and so thirsty—but she was too uncomfortable not to open her eyes.
“Mr. Birtwistle.”
The rector stood below her on the ground as she slowly moved toward him. Someone was carrying her over his shoulder.
“Mr. Merrick . . . no, Mr. McDowell . . . is that you?” Thank heavens. She was glad to feel the cool night air on her face. It had been so stuffy in that room where Lady Blackstone had been trying to poison her.
“Forgive me, Miss Mayson,” Mr. McDowell said. They seemed to be floating above the ground but descending gradually. Finally, he set her feet on the ground, but only for a moment. He immediately lifted her, cradling her in his arms, and held her against his chest. She was much more comfortable now.
Felicity sighed. “I think this must be one of the dreams I keep having.”
“What kind of dreams, Miss Mayson?”
He was walking with her now, and she was vaguely aware of Mr. Birtwistle and Aunt Agnes hurrying alongside them.
“I keep having these strange dreams. I guess it’s the laudanum. It makes me so tired, I just sleep and dream. But I like this one.” She laid her hand on his chest, beside his neckcloth. She could feel his body heat through the layers of clothing, even though it was a cool night.
“You must be very strong to carry me, Mr. McDowell. And do you not like how in dreams you can say anything that comes to your mind? You don’t have to worry about rules or about being proper. Even my sweet and proper friend Julia Langdon would not object to speaking one’s mind in a dream, since no one seems to remember it when they’re awake.”
He seemed to be walking quite fast and jostling her quite a bit, and his breath was coming faster.
“Perhaps you should stop and rest, Mr. McDowell.” Perhaps she should rest as well. Her eyelids didn’t seem to want to open anymore. Poor Mr. McDowell. She hoped he would not exhaust himself too much.
Philip heard the shouts behind them. Lady Blackstone must have discovered Miss Mayson and Miss Appleby missing from their room.
Philip glanced over his shoulder. The high hedges from the garden hid them from the house, and it was blessedly dark.
“Mr. McDowell, I hope you know of a good hiding place,” Mr. Birtwistle said, breathing harder than Philip was. “I’m afraid we’ll never make it to the parsonage before they catch up to us.”
He was right. Philip couldn’t keep up this pace for long while carrying another person, even if that person was as small and still as Miss Mayson.
“I have an idea. Follow me.” Philip headed in the direction of the “shell grotto.” The underground cave was easier to find since the conspirators had moved their cache of guns elsewhere. The entrance had been dug out, and their many footprints had made a very clear path to it.
The shouts behind them had grown louder and more numerous. It was dark, but Lady Blackstone and her henchmen might guess that they had gone to hide in the grotto. But he had no choice. He couldn’t think of anywhere else for them to hide. He prayed the traitors would assume he had taken the ladies to the parsonage or that they had somehow gotten away on horseback. He could only hope they didn’t find his hired coach and horses, which were waiting for them in Mr. Birtwistle’s carriage house.
The muscles in his arms burned as he reached the entrance of the grotto, across which someone had placed a large, flat piece of wood.
Philip stood Miss Mayson on her feet. “Mr. Birtwistle, can you and Miss Appleby make sure Miss Mayson doesn’t fall?”
They held her up, letting her lean on them, while Philip took hold of the board and shoved it away from the gaping hole that was the entrance to the cave. The small, round hole over the middle of the grotto that would let in the moonlight was covered by a branch, but he could not risk uncovering that.
Mr. Birtwistle seemed to be having trouble keeping Miss Mayson upright.
“Go on,” Philip told him and Miss Appleby. “I shall take Miss Mayson.” He picked her up again and followed them down the earthen steps, careful not to stumble with his burden. Once inside, he put her in Mr. Birtwistle and Miss Appleby’s care and hurried back up the steps. He placed the board over the entrance and hurried down the steps into the pitch blackness of the underground grotto.
Felicity could feel herself being carried again, but when she opened her eyes, she couldn’t see anything.
“Where am I?” she asked. “It’s so dark.”
The laudanum was still making her thoughts fuzzy, and though she knew, in a hovering sort of way, that she was in danger, she felt . . . buoyant and rather happy.
“We’re in the shell grotto,” Mr. McDowell’s voice said, his chest rumbling against her ear. “We’re moving to the inner chamber. I’m afraid there may not be any more light there than there is here.”
She could hear his sleeve brushing against the walls as he moved. His breath was a bit labored. He must be exhausted from carrying her. She was exhausted, and she had not even been walking.
She heard herself let out a long sigh. “You are so strong.” It was as if she was hearing herself while floating above her body—a very strange feeling but not entirely unpleasant.
“I have done quite a bit of fencing,” he said. “And I boxed, but I was not very good at that.”
“Mr. McDowell, I can believe that you would be good at everything you ever tried.”
He laughed, a short, labored sound. “Flattery, Miss Mayson.”
Was she speaking in an improper way? She rather believed she was, but she could not seem to stop herself. Besides, talking was keeping her from falling asleep again.
“You shouldn’t have come back for me, Mr. McDowell,” she heard herself say in a slow, drawling voice, still floating. “You are in great danger, and I do not want any harm to come to you. But I must say, I am grateful. For I believe my aunt and I would have been killed, or I would have been, at least.” She laughed—it just bubbled up and out.
“Felicity,” Aunt Agnes said from nearby. “You are talking nonsense. Poor Mr. McDowell.”
“Am I vexing you, Mr. McDowell?”
“Not at all. For one thing, it is good for Miss Mayson to keep talking, because it is better to keep awake a person who has taken too much laudanum. And besides that, it is rare in our society to hear what anyone truly thinks.”
“Mr. McDowell thinks women should speak their minds.” Felicity heard herself laugh again. She seemed to have little control, so it was good Mr. McDowell didn’t mind. “Perhaps we will scandalize Mr. Birtwistle. Are you here, Mr. Birtwistle?”
“I am indeed. I am very sorry, Miss Mayson, that you have been treated so ill by your own aunt, Lady Blackstone.”
“She is not a blood relation, Mr. Birtwistle.”
“Oh, I see.”
Mr. McDowell seemed to be depositing her on the floor. She had been so warm in his arms, and now she felt a distinct chill.
“This floor is cold. Is it marble?”
“I believe it is chalk stone and possibly dirt. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Oh, please do not be sorry, Mr. McDowell.” Felicity was leaning against the wall of the grotto and could feel the tiny shells pressing against her back. “I was happy to be able to see this place. It is very beautiful, is it not, Mr. McDowell?”
“It is very beautiful,” Mr. McDowell said.
“It’s a shame it is too dark for Mr. Birtwistle and Miss Appleby to see it.”
She heard a shuffling on the floor beside her. “Are you sitting by me, Mr. McDowell?”
“I am. And Miss Appleby and Mr. Birtwistle are resting beside me. But we had better lower our voices and speak in a whisper just now, as Lady Blackstone and her men could be nearby searching for us.”
“Oh yes, very wise,” Felicity whispered back. “Somehow it makes things seem very intimate, whispering in the dark, as we are doing.” She smiled, wanting to laugh but fearing she would disobey their new rule to be quiet. “Gracious, but I am so thirsty.”
“It’s the laudanum,” Mr. McDowell said. “I am sorry we have no water, but I shall get you some as soon as I can.”
“You are so kind, Mr. McDowell.”
It was dark . . . so dark in the grotto. No one spoke, and she felt herself drifting . . .
Philip could hear Miss Mayson’s breathing change and knew she had fallen asleep again. She had obviously been talking with a great deal less self-restraint than she would normally use. Lady Blackstone must have been trying to slowly murder her with the laudanum, probably to fool Mr. Ratley, whom he could not imagine would sanction the murder of his fiancée—even though she had betrayed them.
Poor girl. His heart squeezed with sympathy at the thought of waking her. But he’d be much sadder if she never awakened.
“Miss Mayson?” He touched her shoulder, and she started to fall over.
He put an arm around her to straighten her, but then she slid toward him. He scooted closer and let her lay her head on his shoulder. After all, no one could see them anyway.
“Miss Mayson?” he whispered again. “Are you awake? Don’t you have anything to say?”
“Is that you, Mr. McDowell?” She inhaled rather loudly and sighed. “Are you sure this is not a dream? Because it feels as if it were a dream.”
“How does it feel as if it were a dream, Miss Mayson?”
“I suppose because it’s so dark and I’m so sleepy. And it is so strange and dreamlike to be in the shell grotto, sitting on the dirt in my nightdress, with you, Mr. McDowell.” She sighed again. “I thought I would likely never see you again, and though I was so happy you had escaped the dreadful end Lady Blackstone surely had planned for you, I was sad.”
“Why were you sad, Miss Mayson?” He kept his voice low, hoping Miss Appleby and Mr. Birtwistle were not listening to this conversation, for he had an idea that Miss Mayson was about to say something very improper that she would regret—if she remembered it later.
“I was sad,” she said softly, “because I was engaged to marry a man with questionable morals. I was sad because I was afraid you would not think well of me for having been engaged to such a man. I was sad because you are ever so much handsomer than Mr. Ratley. And I was sad because I would never kiss your wonderful lips.”
He suddenly felt her hand on his chin, fingertips touching his skin through the day’s growth of beard.
He should not enjoy her touch. He should remove her hand from his face. But . . . her touch was so gentle. He closed his eyes and pictured her face and imagined a tender expression on her perfect mouth. But then her fingers fell away. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on remembering exactly how they had felt.
“I don’t think you could feel about me the way I feel about you,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” His heart was in his throat.
“You saw me kissing Mr. Ratley. I kissed him so you would not get caught and get killed, but I felt ashamed afterward.” She expelled a forceful breath.
“Ashamed?”
“I didn’t love Mr. Ratley. If I ever loved him, the feeling only lasted a day. But when I kissed him . . . I was only manipulating him. I felt . . . ugly and wrong.”
“Please don’t feel that way, Miss Mayson. I understand why you had to do it. It was very brave of you.”
He leaned over until his nose touched her hair. She smelled of flowers and warmth. He pressed his lips lightly against her forehead. Her skin was as soft as he had imagined it.
“Mr. McDowell.”
“Yes?”
“Did you kiss my forehead?”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope you don’t think I am a woman of loose virtue.”
“Indeed, I do not. Forgive me if I have offended.”
“I am not offended.” She pressed closer and hugged his arm. “But I am very sleepy. And thirsty.”
Voices drifted into the cave through the round opening overhead. Had they tracked them here, to the grotto? Or were they on the path to the parsonage?
“What will happen if they find us here?” she asked.
“I have a pistol in my coat pocket, and I will have to shoot them. That is, with your permission.”
“Why do you need my permission?”
“Because they may shoot back. They could shoot us.”
“Oh, then I give you my permission. But I don’t think they could shoot us, because you will shoot them first.”
Her argument was not rational, for several reasons, but he said, “Thank you, Miss Mayson. I appreciate that you trust me to shoot better than our enemies.”
“I do trust you.” She seemed to rub her cheek against his arm.
His heart expanded, filling his chest with warmth.
He had forgotten about the voices. He should be listening to see if they were coming closer. Straining to hear them, he listened until his ears roared with the silence. The voices had gone.
And Miss Mayson was asleep again.
Felicity was jostled awake as someone lifted her and began carrying her.
“Where are we?”
“We’re leaving the shell grotto,” Mr. McDowell said. “We will see if we can make it to the carriage I stowed away in Mr. Birtwistle’s carriage shed.”
“You shouldn’t have to carry me everywhere. I should be able to walk.” She had been walking for years, after all.
“Stand here. Miss Appleby, Mr. Birtwistle, make sure she doesn’t fall.”
Mr. McDowell held on to Felicity’s arms until someone else came near and put an arm around her.
“I have her,” Mr. Birtwistle said.
She heard rustling, and a bit of light filled her hungry eyes. She took a step toward that light, and Mr. McDowell came back and put an arm around her. He helped her up the earthen steps and out into the night air. He pulled her along, but gently, as he kept up a quick pace. Mr. Birtwistle and Aunt Agnes were close by—she could see them by the moonlight overhead. She held on to Mr. McDowell’s coat to keep her balance.
If she had been at liberty to speak, she would have said, “I hope I remember this night forever.”
They had been walking for a while when they heard horses coming, and Mr. McDowell directed them into the trees. They waited, and Lady Blackstone and Mr. Ratley appeared on horseback in front of them.
“They must have gone to London. Perhaps we can catch up to them,” Mr. Ratley said.
“Check all the inns between here and London,” Lady Blackstone said, an edge in her voice. “They can’t have gone far on horseback, not with Miss Mayson, and there were no carriage tracks near the house.”
Mr. Ratley nodded, and they both spurred their horses forward.
Felicity stared at Mr. McDowell’s face, which was unmoving as he watched Lady Blackstone and Mr. Ratley leave. Such a handsome face. There was so much courage and loyalty and integrity in that face. She loved it. She loved him.
Just what she had been trying to avoid. And yet . . . it felt so good to love someone, someone who had proven he was of good character, even if he did not return her love.
The pain, no doubt, would come later.