This time, when Lydia continued, she tugged in slow increments and wiggled the board as she did. She was rewarded for her diligence, for while the wood continued to protest, it was a feeble complaint. After a quarter hour or so, she had loosened four boards and drawn them toward her with enough space to squeeze behind them. Well, she hoped there was enough room, for the boards would budge no farther.
It took a great deal of pushing various body parts, folding others, and contorting the rest to make her way through the opening. She ignored the sound of rending cloth—her skirts were ruined anyway, and it was likely the same could be said about her spencer. At last, Lydia stood on the other side, breathing heavily—in silence. She tiptoed over to the door and was pleased to find that it was ajar, just as she had surmised. The voices were still muffled, and there seemed to be no threat of discovery as yet.
Just as she was about to step forward, a loud, nearby thump forced her to reconsider. Suddenly made of marble, Lydia did not move or breathe.
Another thump and the sound of munching brought understanding, and Lydia’s knees threatened to fold in her relief. Taking a deep breath, she touched the wall as if to pat the horse in the next stall and shook her head—amused, temporarily, by her skittishness.
Slowly, using her foot, testing for unseen obstacles, Lydia inched toward the wide barn doors. These, too, had seen better days, pocked and splintered by years of wear and tear. Partially open, the pattern of disturbed dust told Lydia that the doors were fixed open—likely hanging from rusted hinges.
Hidden by the dappled patches of twilight, speckling a derelict cart, Lydia stared and sighed. She had an excellent view where she stood and now knew the answer to one of her “what ifs.” She would have to find a less direct escape route. Thugs Les and Morley were acting sentry in the yard just outside the door. And they were not alone. A third man had joined them, and while she couldn’t give him a name, the villain looked familiar.
But of poor Mr. Burgstaller, there was no sign.
*
Running his hands across the rotted wood of the barn wall, Robert searched for a board that might be pried away from the dilapidated building. But Lady Luck, who had been playing hide-and-seek with him all day, had disappeared yet again. The boards did not shift.
Curling his fingers into a fist, Robert gave into his frustration for a moment. He clenched his jaw and silently shouted at the Fates for bringing him so close only to stop him now.
With deliberation, Robert loosened his fingers and began to search the wall again. He had absolutely no intention of failing, not now. Not after coming so close. There was a way in; he would find it, come hell or high water. Then, of course, he would have to get back out … with Lydia—even if he had to carry her.
Robert shook away his dread, as he had done all day. Best to focus on her rescue … only that. Soon. Soon he would free her. Soon they would head back to Bath—back into the loving arms of her family. That might be doing it up a little too brown, but it served to keep his thoughts from dropping into the treacherous waters of blame.
As a logical creature, Robert knew that his sense of guilt was misplaced. Perhaps it was the uncertainty that sat so heavily on him. The sense of responsibility. He should have done something. Over and over he replayed the scene in the coach. What could he have done differently? How could he have protected her?
As soon as he was able, Robert had given chase. The cut on his neck was easy enough to stanch, as it was not deep. It took longer to get the feeling back in his knees. But when it did return, he ran, then jogged, and then, as the fatigue set in, he walked. Three miles down the road he found a farmer willing to sell him a bay mare for the value of his pocket watch.
He rode for miles—following one side road after another until it petered out or a passerby assured him that no coach had come speeding by. Back to the main road and then down the next country lane. And so it went for hours.
Just as exhaustion grabbed Robert by the throat, Fate nodded in his direction. He was passing through a collection of cottages—the number was too small to even call it a hamlet—and there he heard raised voices. It took only a casual inquiry to learn that a farmer had been forced into the ditch by a speeding coach. The man was not best pleased—complaining and explaining in detail the process of dragging a wagon out of the mud.
Sharing his indignation was a tinker, who had seen activity at the old Beyer farm where there was no reason for anyone to be. The house had burned down four years ago, taking most of the family with it. Tales of hauntings kept all but the most stalwart away.
Curious, the tinker had driven into the yard to offer his services. After all, even squatters need to fix their pots. The rude greeting that he suffered was uncalled for. He was just a man plying his trade—just trying to make a living.
Within a quarter hour, Robert found the Beyer farm, tied the mare to a sheltering tree, and slunk through the overgrown shrubbery to spy on the persons who had upset the locals.
Robert squinted at three men sitting outside the dilapidated barn, trying to verify their identity. Only one figure was familiar—the knife-wielding thug from the coach—but that was enough. Robert then circled around to the back.
*
Lydia was exploring the outlying regions of the barn when she heard a strange sound. A strange but somewhat familiar sound—that of complaining old wood. It would seem that someone was pulling at the wallboards in a surreptitious manner.
Why? Who?
Naturally, Lydia’s mind was suddenly swamped with theories. The cavalry was coming to her rescue … no, curious locals. No, Robert had found the parish constable … and a magistrate. Hmm, none of the above, for all would have come through the front door. It could mean only one thing … one individual. Well, one of two, if she thought it through properly. Mr. Burgstaller or Robert.
Affable though he was, Mr. Burgstaller was not anyone’s idea of a gallant knight—however, Robert most certainly was. Yes, Robert was coming to her rescue. It had to be him.
Lydia was quite taken aback by the sensations that coursed through her person upon that conclusion. Her heart beat faster, and it had not been plodding along to begin with, and she felt light-headed, overcome by excited anticipation.
Her first inclination was to rush toward the sound, but common sense offered another possibility. Might it be a stranger—someone wholly unconnected to this mess? Someone who was there for his own nefarious deeds, like a thief? Well, that made less sense, but she should not jump to any conclusions. Caution was the order of the day. Prudence and caution.
With a slow and calculated approach, Lydia neared the source of the sound—it was not loud, but it was persistent. All of which reinforced the possibility that Robert was the cause. Choosing one of the widest and closest splits in the boards to peek through, Lydia squinted. A waistcoat—albeit a well-made, thoroughly dirty, stained waistcoat. This aspect was not at all helpful. Shifting a little to the side, she found a knothole, pushed out the center, and was rewarded.