The Heart's Companion

Even as they drew rein before the vicarage, Royce was scanning the lane for traces of the carriage. He scowled, his dark brows forming a thick bar above his eyes. The trick with the brush had erased all traces of a carriage’s passing. Unless they could find some clue here, it would be difficult, nearly impossible, to determine which way their quarry had gone.

He dismounted quickly, ignoring the pain. It wasn’t as bad this time as he feared it would be. Perhaps, he thought grimly, his ankle was acquiescing to the punishment it must bear. Conisbrough looked at him quizzically. He shook his head and waved him ahead, following at a limping trot.

Their knock on the door met with no response. They knocked again. From inside they heard answering thumps. They forced open the door to discover Reverend Chitterdean attempting to bounce toward the door in a wooden chair. When he saw them enter, he sagged in relief against the ropes that bound him. The Marquis of Conisbrough ran to the kitchen in search of a knife. When he returned, Royce was standing over Reverend Chitterdean, shaking his head.

"He’s near collapse. His temperature is high, and I don’t like the sound of his breathing. Worse yet, he can’t talk," he said, taking the knife from Conisbrough and beginning to saw at the ropes.

"Can’t talk!" The marquis looked at the vicar. "Then you didn’t marry Miss Grantley?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know where they’ve taken her?" Royce asked, slicing through the bonds on his arms. He knelt down to cut the ropes binding his legs.

This time he nodded, his head bobbing vigorously up and down. He rubbed his arms and wrists where the ropes chafed.

"But you can’t tell us," the marquis said. It was more a statement than a question. He helped the man stand up.

Reverend Chitterdean trembled weakly, and leaned heavily on the marquis. He shook his head sadly, the gleam of tears in his eyes.

"Damn," muttered Royce. He pulled himself slowly upright. "I wonder where Mrs. Chitterdean is?" he said, leaning heavily on the chair.

Chitterdean brightened, and reached out to grasp his coat sleeve. He pointed upstairs. The marquis picked up the discarded knife and loped up the stairs. In a moment he was calling down that he’d found Mrs. Chitterdean and the maid, both trussed up like fowls to market.

"Well, have you discovered anything?" asked a cool, light voice from the open doorway.

Royce turned, surprised to see Lady Elsbeth standing there.

"I was certain you’d have come and gone before I arrived."

"We would, but we don’t know where to go. Chitterdean knows, but his voice is gone. Conisbrough’s untying Mrs. Chitterdean now."

Lady Elsbeth, portmanteau in hand, glided over to Reverend Chitterdean’s side. "He’s burning with fever. Help me get him to the sofa to lie down."

She fluffed a pillow behind his head and covered him with a blanket. "He seems lucid enough. Have you asked him to write their destination down?" she asked matter-of-factly as she rooted in her bag for a particular vial of medicine.

Royce slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "No!"

"I’ll fetch paper and pen," said Mrs. Chitterdean, coming down the stairs before Conisbrough. The little woman moved with a brisk efficiency, every line in her body rigid with anger over their ordeal. She swept past them all into the reverend’s study and returned moments later with an old, well-scarred lap desk.

"Here, dear," she said, placing the desk on his lap and laying out paper on it. She even dipped the quill in the ink bottle before handing it to him.

With a hand shaking from high fever, Reverend Chitterdean laboriously scrawled his message. His handwriting was nearly illegible. It was with agonizing slowness that letters took shape into a word.

T u n b r i d

"Royal Tunbridge Wells!" Lady Elsbeth said excitedly.

Chitterdean nodded and collapsed back against the cushions, then almost immediately leaned forward again to write.

Crawley.

They stared at the word and shook their heads. Reverend Chittenden looked from one to another, hopelessly. Then he looked at his wife, and pointed back at the word.

She started to shake her head no, then stopped. "Cranford Crawley?" she suggested.

"It would figure," she said when her husband nodded. "He’d likely do what they wanted, for a price. For a man of God, he’s more in league with the devil. "

"Where is this Cranford Crawley?" Royce asked, already straightening to leave. He was dismally aware of the time that had passed since the boys had seen the carriage leave.

"Just this side of Royal Tunbridge Wells in the tiny village of Piddenhurst."

Royce and Conisbrough backed toward the door as she spoke, and were out and mounting without a farewell. As one they urged their horses to a gallop. To the west of them the sun was turning brilliant orange as it dipped toward the hills and trees.

They rode hard, without speaking, each man locked within his own thoughts, too grimly aware of their quarry’s lead on them. There was, as Royce predicted, no sign of carriage tracks to follow. There were no tracks at all—no sign of cattle crossing, no imprint of a tinker’s shoes and his heavy cart, no dog prints. Nothing then became their trail. But darkness was falling, and soon they couldn’t see the road. Finally, after about ten miles, they found a collection of bushes and branches, all knotted together, lying in a ditch by the side of the road. "They must feel safe, now," observed Conisbrough.

Royce nodded. "Safe, and perhaps now in need of speed. Pulling that load would have been a strain on the horses. "Maybe they’re not so far ahead of us as we fear. "

"Maybe," was Royce’s only reply as he spurred his tired horse onward.