Something stirred behind them, cutting through the rain; an unsteady lumbering as a door rotated on its hinges, carried by a gust of wind until it met the side of the carriage with an abrupt crack!
"Townshend," Charlotte all but gasped the word as Sidney felt the cold envelop his body, invading wool and cotton, through to his skin; to the very place she had been resting against. The warmth of her breath subsided, replaced by the sting of raindrops, as he opened his eyes to find Charlotte an arm's length away.
He felt the raindrops travel down his face as he worked to catch his breath, to gain control when his body wanted nothing more than to be nearer to her, close enough to breathe her in again.
"... Townshend?" he repeated, the informality enough to make his jaw clench. Such a degree of familiarity had not existed before.
His heart beat in defiance, heat emanating from him as if to draw her in again. And with it, an unsettling grew.
But she had looked away, her attention seized by the figure next to the carriage. "I..." she wavered, her brow raised in apology, "Sidney, I must check on him." And she communicated silently a message he already knew. They had to leave.
A suppressed feeling rushed back, pelting at him like the rain. So similar to the very night he had been left standing at the edge of a ballroom, forced to watch her look into the eyes of another man. Of this man.
It lingered as he stared after her — stared until he registered the flush at her cheek — eyes following as she stepped away.
He broke his gaze, looking down to the lane, her voice distant as she approached the carriage, and recognised the feeling for what it was. Not jealousy. No, it was far worse than that.
It was fear.
In truth, he did not know if he was ready to face the man.
He scanned the landscape, the fields, looking anywhere but the carriage as he tried to quell the amalgam of feelings that coiled together dangerously, persisting until he wanted nothing more but to lash out, to release their hold on him. His eyes fell upon the body that lay not metres away. The threat had been alleviated, at the very least. He had no idea what might await them at the house, but Bridges could not bring harm to anyone in his state.
And yet, Bicknell's warning loomed. Eliza had hired this man. He had thought her capable of any manner of deceit, but this. A chill ran through his body as his mind turned back to Georgiana, to Arthur. And he knew, then, that he would not feel right again until they were found.
A carriage door creaked on its hinges as Sidney turned to walk back. He recognised the fear in Charlotte's voice instantly as she called out to Lord Townshend again and Sidney brought his attention to the figure hunched over before her, as Lord Townshend lifted himself into the light.
A hand passed over his face, revealing the cut at his cheek, a weeping trail of blood. His forehead had gone a bluish hue, appearing swollen, almost disfigured as he brushed the hair from his eyes. Lord Townshend, nearly unrecognisable.
"Good God, what happened to him—" Sidney murmured, his thoughts washed aside instantly as he took in the state of a man who looked injured beyond repair. But Townshend did not take the hand that Charlotte offered him, in another world as he looked beyond, as his eyes landed on what he sought.
He stepped toward Sidney, weaving slightly to the left, as if half-sprung, and stepped again. Sidney moved forward, heart pounding as he extended an arm out to steady him, so focused on tamping down his own emotions that he overlooked Lord Townshend's next move. He felt a jolt as his arm was pushed aside with surprising force as Townshend moved past, his sights focused on what lay beyond. The force of the impact ran through him, making his breath catch as he turned, affronted.
"What is he—"
"I have no idea," Charlotte murmured, looking on, moving as if to follow him. But she came to a stop, suddenly hesitant as she took in the scene before them.
Townshend had dropped to his knees next to the body, his hands moving over it, a quiet plea the only sound to pass his lips: "Wake up," he said as a hand grasped a sleeve, a lapel, curved over the buttons of Bridges' waistcoat. He bared his teeth as his hands moved faster over him. "I am not," he said, seizing the man's overcoat as he shook the body, "finished with you."
Sidney felt Charlotte's gaze land on him again, "Is he—"
"No," he murmured, "Though his pulse was slight, at best."
Townshend trembled as his hands travelled over the body, unbuttoning overcoat and waistcoat, fingertips hooking into pockets, touching every surface as they shook.
"What have you done with it," he said, his tone more desperate by the word, "you bloody—" Townshend's fists struck the man's chest, his arms, coming down with increasing force.
"Though at this rate," he muttered, losing more tolerance by the second, "he may not survive." He stepped forward, knowing that an intervention may be the only thing left to prevent an outright murder from taking place, "Excuse me," his voice cut through the rain as he stepped past Charlotte, exploding from him with greater acerbity than he intended, "Would you pull yourself together, man."
"Sidney," Charlotte whispered behind him, and he paused, closing his eyes, "Leave him."
But Townshend had gone silent on his own, his hands dropping to Bridges' chest, collecting raindrops as he stared out to the fields beyond.
----------
"This... acquaintance of yours—"
"His name is Townshend, Georgiana," The lantern swung on its hinges; a serrulate glow slicing its way along the darkened passage.
"He is someone you trust." She leaned to the side as a ripple of pain shot upwards. Her shoulder met the wall, breath caught as she clenched her teeth.
"I trust him as fully as a man of his status could be trusted," he answered, skirting a hand around her, landing at the curve of her waist.
This had been familiar to her once — his hand resting at her waist — often finding its way there with such ease. A touch she had welcomed, often wished for when it wasn't there. How quickly that familiarity had gone.
He pulled her to him until she was upright again, pinned at his side. A cloud of earth crumbled from the wall, spilling at their feet, dust rising. A more concentrated form of the decay they had been breathing in all along.
"You, of all people, should know—" he said, more urgently as he pulled her forward, "that I do not just trust someone openly."
"And yet you do."
"Of course, I do." He sounded almost frustrated by her reluctance to acknowledge the idea. "He is as consumed by the cause as any I have known."
"The cause?" She hadn't expected this; had turned her head to face him, seeking confirmation. "He... claims to be an abolitionist?"
"You think I would trust a man who merely claims to be?" he said, his tone already implying that he regretted bringing it up in the first place. And yet, she thought, how far she had to go to reach the answers she sought.
"You've yet to explain his purpose in all of this," she nearly whispered the words as her heart began to pound in her chest, "It is not every day that a marquess befriends a footman, after all," she said, eyeing his uniform again, her attempt at a lighter tone considerably heavier than intended.
She felt his hip at her side as he helped her forward again, too quickly and yet she heard the sound of more earth crumbling behind them. "Not every day, no."
"And?" she said, as her own curiosity threatened to consume her, irritation foaming at the surface as they took another step, "Why will you not just say whatever it is? It is not as if we are in danger of being overheard."
For there had to be a connection. A bridge that brought together this fragmented history. She thought back to what she had seen not an hour ago; the memory of what she had discovered in a darkened study. A flash in time before footsteps sounded just outside the door. And yet she had seen it: the name of Lord Townshend written plain as day.
He exhaled, blinking in exhaustion as he focused his attention back to their path, "To regain the trust of an old acquaintance."
----------
"I must go on to the house."
"You will do no such thing." Townshend looked up at Charlotte, blinking away the rain as she held out a hand, "Lord Townshend, you need a doctor."
He shook his head, eyes unfocused, as he pushed her hand away. And it was as if time had lapsed without him knowing. He was on his feet, stumbling as he looked around them, attempting to regain bearings that would not return. "We are not far," he said, endeavouring to focus on the fields again, to see the estate through rain and fog.
An arm hooked around him, constricting him, and he was dragged backwards.
"Charlotte," said the man holding him, and he remembered who it was. But how Mr Parker had reached them here, he could not recall. "Take him back in the carriage. I will go on to the house."
"You will not," came her piercing reply.
"Can you not see that it must be me... that it makes the most sense—"
"It doesn't make any sense. Look at you both," she scolded, "Injured to the point of falling over. If anyone here must go, it will be me."
"Absolutely not," said Mr Parker. "You cannot be confronting her on your own."
"I am not confronting Georgiana. I will convince her to leave and bring her back as quickly as possible. Arthur as well."
There was a pause.
Townshend slipped from Sidney's grasp briefly, and was caught, tugged back to a standing position roughly as his knees buckled again.
Perhaps he had misheard the explanation, he thought, as his surroundings spun — for the name of Mrs Campion had emerged, spilling from Mr Parker's lips. "...I have only just heard of it. It is why I came on ahead... to warn you."
"She is... in Norfolk—"
The words paired together in his mind, ill-matched as they were. They clung together, stubborn and unmoving until his brain registered the pairing for what it was: Mrs Campion was in Norfolk.
Surely she would not be. And surely, if she had been, he would have known. For if Mrs Campion had returned...
"Impossible," he spouted as the hand gripped tighter to his coat, steadying his body as a prickling sensation occurred at his neck, and travelled down each arm as if he had caught fire. "The lady of the house..." he started — surely someone would notice that his body was aflame, about to be reduced to cinder and ash, "is a rather long way away, Mr Parker." The words tumbled out of him, unspooled in a flurry.
"You are mistaken," he said. "Charles Bicknell delivered the message himself, only moments ago." Mr Parker shifted, his body turning back in the direction of Raynham Hall, "I expect he is not far from us, now."
It was a peculiar feeling; an unravelling of sorts, as the certainty that had anchored him dwindled away. Perhaps he was floating, rising above his body to watch the scene play out from a distance. Were it not for the leaden feeling that followed, he might have believed he had found a way out of this.
"Whatever you had planned, Lord Townshend," Mr Parker said, "I suspect she discovered it for what it was."
"No," he said, for he suddenly felt that it was vital to correct the man. "She is precisely where I left her." Mr Parker's face went out of focus, features blending until he could no longer make them out. "In London. Awaiting my swift return."
----------
"So... Lord Townshend has been in London while you have been here."
"He has been wherever she happens to be, as often as possible."
"Following Mrs Campion from one social event to the next?"
"Spending time in her company, more like," Otis dipped his head, "He believed that if he remained close to her, the chance to acquire new information might present itself."
Her eyes wandered to the ledger book, still clasped in her arms.
"Precisely," he said, watching her, his mouth curving upward briefly.
And yet, something inescapable lingered in the shortness of his breath, his sudden quickness of step as they moved forward together. She would not have long, now, to gather information of her own. He pulled her forward again, a greater distance this time, as a fresh cloud of dust fell from the ceiling above them.
"Lord Townshend's estate... it is not far, you said."
"It is a good walk from here, but perfectly manageable on foot," he gritted his teeth, lifting her again, "I've taken the route often, myself."
"Neighbouring estates," she said quietly, glancing over at him as her feet met the ground, "They would have known each other quite well — the Campions and the Townshend's."
"They did, yes." She could imagine it — What it must have been like for the young, handsome Eliza. To have married a man old enough to be her father. To have been brought to this place. Would the comforts of a genteel life have been enough to withstand the rest? To endure it?
Another lift, a fresh ripple of pain as she gripped onto Otis's shoulder, "Lord Townshend would not have agreed with their business endeavours, surely. Mr Campion's insistence on remaining in the slave trade, alone—"
"Georgiana—"
"It would be enough to cause a rift, would it not?" she continued, for there was no stopping, now, "Irreparable damage, even. If Lord Townshend is so strongly opposed to the slave trade, is actively attempting to make a difference, surely they would have cut ties. And yet, she was quite willing to have him in her company."
"You assume too much in that she was aware of it."
"She was not?"
"It... is not something he wished to be known."
"That there was an abolitionist in the ton?" she said, incredulous, "I suppose it would have the potential to incite ostracism. Even for a marquess, but..."
She felt his fingers curve at her waist as she landed again — as if he were bracing himself for the point she simply had to make.
"Have you never questioned it?" she said, "Why someone like Lord Townshend would have developed a passion for abolishing slavery when his birthright has all but benefitted from the trade?"
"That is not—" Otis scowled, looking as if he had swallowed back a retort after he thought better of it, "I assure you, he has his reasons and they are justified."
"And yet you will not tell me what they are," she said, "So I am left to assume that he is out for his own gain like the rest of them."
"Honestly, do you no longer trust my ability to judge a man—" He stopped, growling under his breath before spinning her to face him, "They are not the first, all right?" he whispered the words as if they stood in a crowded room, "He has gone to great risk to expose other families for doing the same."
She stood, pondering his words in the building silence, willing the explanation to fit with what she already knew. But it did not. "You cannot stand there and tell me you haven't at least considered the fact—"
"Georgiana—"
"—that a man so determined to do his part overlooked a family living directly under his nose."
----------
The hands that held him gripped with such force that he could hear the water dripping beneath him, squeezed from his sodden coat.
"Sidney, take him to the carriage."
The hands gripped tighter. "Did you hear what he just said?" His voice was dangerous, almost lethal as it dipped low, growled the words. Townshend's body shook, and for a moment he thought he might be convulsing until he registered the fingertips digging into his arms. "Tell me your meaning."
"Sidney, stop," Charlotte shouted, but Townshend had come to, the motions of his body alighting his brain, a spark that brought him back to consciousness — and his mind flashed in warning at the threat that loomed above him.
He must find a way out. Away from them both. For this, he could not explain. Not to the man who threatened to overpower him at any moment.
He wrenched free of Mr Parker's hold on him — had landed roughly on the ground, turning, rolling over rain and ice as his elbows jabbed the earth, forearms propelling him forward. He wanted to cry out, to scream against the relentless roaring that had overtaken him.
Hands grasped his coat again, gripping then releasing in the rain. If he could only manage to stand, to run, to find where it was hidden. For the fault was his, and his alone.
----------
"You think he was protecting her."
"For ten years, they would have known each other. Ten years. Does it not make you wonder?" She caught his eye, then, and held the ledger closer to her chest. "To be in her company, to follow her as you say he has, and for her to entrust him in a matter of months to allow him even the chance at acquiring information. Can't you see how impossible a task that would have been with someone who had so much to conceal?"
"But if you knew him — in earnest, he is not a man who has merely heard accounts and decided to support a cause. He has seen it — has been aboard slave ships owned by the likes of Campion."
"You speak as if you've known him for years," she said, feeling the grip of Otis's hand as they moved forward again, noting how his heart pounded beneath her shoulder.
"In a way, I suppose I have," he said, at last, "He has a history in the navy. The West Africa Squadron."
She had heard of the squadron that kept watch over the West African coast, seizing ships suspected of illegal trade — had often criticised the Royal Navy's paltry response to enforce the Slave Trade Act. Six vessels to patrol 2,000 miles of coast, tasked with doing everything in their power to free the thousands of captured souls upon ships leaving port. Captured souls recaptured, sent off to places unknown, relieved from a life of slavery and yet the damage had been done.
"He has devoted his life to put an end to such tragedies—to stop them at the source."
"He told you this," she said quietly.
"It has often been a topic of discussion," he said, breathing faster as he lifted her again, "They are experiences I had prepared to live, myself."
"In West Africa?"
"I had intended to join the very squadron," he said, breath caught as they moved forward.
"And then Bicknell recruited you," she finished, another piece in place.
"He contacted me shortly before I was to depart," he said, "It is something I meant to reveal to you — but I... I had no wish to alarm—"
"I am not angry with you, if that is your concern," she said, "though I cannot pretend I am not relieved."
She had heard the stories herself. Of men who could not see further than the ships they left behind, so consumed by what they had seen — so altered — that they never really returned at all.
And yet, even if Townshend had come back a changed man — damaged, even — her theory still held. The thread connecting it all was still in place, strong as ever.
"People are not always what we paint them to be," she said, her pulse gaining speed, "But we do not know it at the start. We see what we want to see and discover the rest days, months, years into knowing them."
Shards of light quivered on the pathway, the movements mirrored in the hand that clung to her waist, and Otis's gaze remained fixed ahead of them.
"And still, there are times when we see a person for who they really are, and it doesn't matter how intense our hatred for them grows, nor our disappointment at their being so very far from how we painted them at the start. However battered we have become — however changed — we still carry that image in our minds."
"Georgiana, please — "
"I have lived it, have I not?" she said, defences breaking until her lungs felt devoid of air. "What if it is the same for them?"
They had come to a stop, his hand still upon her waist and she extended her fingertips to her pelisse, brushing over the fabric until they felt the resistance of paper hidden beneath.
"Can you not see that there is only one explanation for it? One reason she would have invited him back into her life so readily — trusted him when she had so much to hide."
The light caught Otis's eyes, breaths echoing around her, and she knew he anticipated the only word she had left to say.
"Affection."