Further afield — Hemlock Hall
He was on fire. The flames licked at his boots, the blaze blistering his arms, travelling upwards until he became hazy from the smoke.
It was Charlotte's voice that came to him through the haze, slicing through in the direction of Charles Bicknell:
"Tell me that you would not be so cruel."
"Forgive me, Miss Heywood, if I have been too harsh with you," Bicknell replied, "You must understand that I do not often negotiate with young ladies."
"Negotiate..." Charlotte said harshly, "You mean to interrogate me, then."
"I mean to acquire the information I need by whatever means necessary," Bicknell's voice fanned the flames, "You must decide whether your silence is worth the ramifications I've laid before you."
"I might have given you the information you so desperately seek willingly."
"Perhaps, you might have done," Bicknell said, a knowing glint in his eye, "Or perhaps not."
"You don't believe me..."
"I've given you a choice, Miss Heywood," Bicknell said, a hint of impatience in his tone, "A choice I shall leave in your hands."
Sidney gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles turning white. It was as if something had flipped, just there behind his eyes, a light blinding him until he had no control left over his senses. Just anger remained, its sudden onslaught enough to jumpstart his heart as he stared daggers at the man across from him.
"Choice..." He hadn't even known the word had come out of him until it had been said. And yet, there it was; his voice, filling the void in the carriage.
He felt Charlotte's fingertips brush his sleeve, flames returning in their wake. "Sidney, if we merely explain..."
"You think you've given us a choice?" he said through his teeth, flames consuming him, ready to swallow him whole. "You little—" He was hurtling forward straight into Bicknell, a fist smashing into the man's jaw, his hat thrown from his head. And a flash of the man's eyes, soothing the flames briefly as he saw the fear in them. Hands pulled at his coat, his sleeve and he resisted them, his own hand arriving at Bicknell's throat.
"Sidney," Charlotte cried out in the fringes, "Sidney, stop."
"You wish to double-cross me...? To risk the life of my ward for your own gain?" he said, inches away from Bicknell's face as he let out a gurgle in response, eyes bulging from his head. "Then know this... I would kill you with my bare hands if it meant that Georgiana was out of harm's way for another second," Bicknell's hands had rested over Sidney's, pulling desperately at them to no avail as the fire raged on, "So if you refuse to order your men to finish the journey as quickly as possible, I will take my chances with full armies of men against me to reach her, let alone the paltry guard that surrounds us."
Bicknell had gone an unnatural shade of puce, choking out an incoherent response, and Sidney tightened his grip.
"I swear to God... that if anything happens to her—anything in the slightest—I will hunt you down and do the very same to you. Do you comprehend me?"
"Master Parker," came Linton's plea, "It is imperative that you calm yourself. The guards... they are armed."
"I said," he gritted his teeth, "Do... you... comprehend..."
There was a hand. Her hand, at his elbow. He could not see it—he could not see anything for the flood of tears that had clouded his vision—but it was now very persistently gripping his wrist, working to pry his fingers free.
"Charlotte—" her name came out of him as strangled as Bicknell might have been that very moment. The tears had overflowed, streaming down his face in steady lines, dripping onto the backs of Charlotte's hands, "... he does not deserve it."
His hands shook, gripping tighter still: "He does not deserve our mercy."
"And yet," she said, her tone even as she pried at his hand again, "he will have it."
What unwelcome words they were. And though he could not bring himself to shake her off, his body raged against them.
"Sidney," she said somewhere near his ear, her hand still resting over his, "He will have it."
His hands shook as they gripped tighter, just for a moment, the fluttering of a pulse just beneath, growing weaker. If he held on for a mere moment longer, perhaps two...
And yet, there she was. The cool press of her hand; the mere presence of her pulling him to, dousing the flames until clarity emerged, and...
His fingers slackened.
Bicknell breathed beneath him in short, panicked bursts, his throat expanding as he gasped for air. And for a moment, Sidney thought the man had pushed him with a force he could not have regained. Until, that is, he felt a most peculiar feeling.
It was as if his body had slackened along with his fingers—as if he were rising upwards in this black box, weightless, the remaining tears snatched from his eyes.
A faraway voice carried through the walls of the carriage, sounding as if someone had shouted from another room: "Halt!!"
And then he fell.
Sidney was thrown backwards; the momentum sent him careening to his prior place along with Charlotte, her arm pinned in place behind him.
Then, there was another rush to the head as the carriage slid unceremoniously to a stop.
"What in God's name was that...," Linton said from the far corner of the carriage as Bicknell spluttered next to him, doubled over from the sudden slow of the carriage, coughing to gain a breath. Linton sat perfectly still, his cane clutched close to his chest, and Sidney realised then that he had narrowly escaped becoming tangled up in the fray, himself.
Bicknell swiped at his lip, hat askew as he stared across the carriage, his gaze moving from Sidney to Charlotte, settling upon her.
Sidney could feel his fingers twitch with the urge to stop him. Charlotte must have predicted as much, for he felt her arm, still pinned behind him as it moved, fingers gripping his overcoat in anticipation.
The click of the door sounded.
"Mr Bicknell, Sir." A guard had appeared in the doorway, casting a shadow at their feet, "You might wish to see this."
Bicknell remained fixed upon the blood that had transferred to the back of his hand, the internal struggle almost visible on his face.
He reached for his coat pocket, pulling out a square of cloth to dab at his lip, which had split in the struggle.
"Stay here," he said, quietly, as he stuffed the cloth back in his pocket, "And you," his attention shifted to the man in uniform, "They are not to move from this carriage. Is that understood?"
The guard gave an obedient nod, stepping back until Bicknell tumbled clumsily from view.
There was a bout of silence, lasting a beat or two, after the door clicked closed again. And in a rush, the silence was filled by none other than Linton:
"Of all the vindictive, spiteful, reprehensible men in the world, he may well be the worst of the lot," he spouted.
Sidney could feel her eyes upon him, a new heat rising as they scanned his face. Surely, she knew. How close he had come to taking the man's life.
But the words that she spoke were far different than they might have been.
"What are we to do, now?" Charlotte asked, looking between them, a slight halo of gold lighting the edges of her hair.
He looked away, feeling eyes upon him, though he didn't know from which direction they came. The heat was coming off him in waves, now. Think, he thought. Damn it, think...
"I might have realised he could be more of a danger to us than a means of protection," Linton said, his brow furrowed, and Sidney felt some semblance of comfort at his words, "... and here, I was so focused upon finding you... so desperate to know that you were all right...," he said, looking away from them both, "I should have come after you, myself."
Sidney breathed in, relieved as the flush that marked his skin began to diminish; for this, he could answer.
"You might have done," he croaked, "but nothing would have prevented the man from following you."
Linton's eyes shone, and he felt an impulse to comfort the man in return.
"The fault is his," Sidney assured him.
"He means to take me away, doesn't he," Charlotte said, "I can feel it, whenever he looks at me, it's as if he knows—"
"He doesn't know," Sidney turned to her, "the man is employing tactics and nothing more."
There was silence after he said it, Linton discarding whatever his thoughts had been, as if he had thrown them through the window at his side, allowing them to float away on the wind, never to be seen again. He swallowed, clutching his cane:
"Doesn't know... what...?"
"I should have foreseen," Sidney said, "that he would catch sight of your hands," he turned to her, "Even in the darkness, you could see the stains upon them."
"Stains from..." Linton started, his expression changing to one of abject horror as he caught sight of them, "...from Bridges?" He mouthed the name, but still audibly enough.
Sidney met Charlotte's eyes, staring into them, wanting to relieve the panic he saw there at the mention of the man more than anything else. But the golden glow that surrounded her caught his attention again, almost hypnotic as it moved to and fro, and he could not help but look beyond her towards the source.
It was a lantern, glowing as it swung through the air with each fresh gust of wind.
"What?" Charlotte asked, following his gaze, "What is it?"
Sidney moved lightly to the window, the weight of the carriage shifting beneath his feet, until he was so close that his breath fogged the view.
"It's the carriage," Sidney said, "Lord Townshend's. That's the driver, is it not?"
Lord Townshend's driver, dishevelled and shaken, was indeed speaking to Charles Bicknell from his seat atop the carriage. Sidney had a sudden vision of the last time he had seen the man, driving swiftly away from them, Lord Townshend in tow.
He had tried to stop him from abandoning the scene—from robbing them of the only means of transportation they had left.
He remembered the feel of Lord Townshend's arm beneath his fingers, sodden wool and tendons strung so tightly as Sidney held him in place, forcing him to stay—the feel of the knife piercing through the bandages at his side as Lord Townshend struggled, the look of reeling desperation in his eyes—and the blinding pain of it as Sidney dropped, landing firmly on his knees, a jolt of fear at what he might find if he looked down. He had not known what to think as the carriage wheels splashed by him, a fresh bout of fear brewing as it picked up speed. For Lord Townshend had resumed his path in the direction of Hemlock Hall. In the direction of Georgiana.
"You mean to tell me he left on foot?" Bicknell's voice rose in irritation.
"No, Sir... 'e wasn' on foot...'e found 'is Honos, jus' over there in the field. 'Twas the strangest thing."
Sidney stilled, letting out a whoosh of air from his lungs, slowly as his eyes searched the night air for something no one else could see. "Honos...," he whispered.
"Took off through the fields," the driver said, "not long ago, now."
Honos...
"Said it was the only way 'e'd get to the grand 'ouse in time."
"How on earth could he have—" Sidney started, the image flashing to the forefront of his memory.
"In... time for what?" Bicknell's voice had quietened.
"I don' know," said the driver, "'E seemed out 'o sorts, whatever it was."
For Sidney recalled what it was. The name he had seen that very night.
Honos, written upon a stall in the stables at Raynham Hall; a horse, imposing and brushed to a sheen as it rose above him; then slick with rain as it carried him across the countryside. Honos, huffing great breaths beneath him as he clung on for life, in pursuit of the woman now seated next to him. Honos, who had disappeared as soon as Sidney had leapt onto the moving carriage, running off into the night.
He felt her hand hovering near his arm, wary all of a sudden. For Sidney had started to chuckle, the sound of it falling into the stillness, causing Charlotte to look across at Linton with a hint of alarm in her eyes.
"Do I even want to know..." she said, and he could tell from the tone of voice how little she did.
The bandages strained as he took in a breath, ribs tightened from the sudden onslaught of laughter at this absurdity, wracking his torso as much as a sob.
"Lord Townshend..." he clarified, at last, "... he seems to have located my horse."
----------
A Distant Corner of the Gardens — Hemlock Hall
Georgiana sincerely hoped that, for the sake of the man limping towards them now, the distortion of his face was in part due to faintness.
"Molyneux, I—" His voice rasped as if even the breath in his throat scraped him raw. "... I assure you, I did not see—"
Otis closed his eyes, hands still over Georgiana's, "...You're late, Townshend," he said, at last, glancing upwards at the man, "you're too bloody—"
The words died on his tongue, whatever he was about to say next forgotten as he caught sight of Lord Townshend's face. Otis froze, unable to look away, though the expression he bore appeared as if he would wish for nothing more.
Georgiana's heart thumped, a sudden rush of adrenaline enough to make her light-headed again.
Townshend.
So this was the man.
She watched with unabashed curiosity as he brought a cloth to his forehead, pressing against a slash above his eye. Even with the worst of the injuries obscured, the distortion remained.
"Townshend, what happened to you," Otis croaked.
The hand bearing the cloth dropped back to his side. "I might ask the same question of you," he said, trying and failing to smile, his face stretching into a wince, instead, as he scanned their surroundings.
And then he was in front of her, Otis at his side as he leaned over Georgiana, dragging a finger back and forth in front of her eyes before his hand dropped, draping over his knee as he crouched. "She needs a physician," he said, "She seems flushed, almost... feverish..."
She felt his hand, stiff from the cold, against her brow, sapping the heat from it.
Otis raised an eyebrow, "She ... have you not sensed how poorly you look, Townshend."
His hand went halfway back to his own brow before he paused, lowering it. "I've some idea, yes," he admitted, "but I assure you it looks worse than it is."
Otis looked dubiously at him, as Georgiana tried to make him out. There seemed an air of eagerness about him, a twitching about the eyes, even his fingertips vibrating with energy in excess. Perhaps it might have been a result of the injuries, and yet, she could not help but question what, precisely, brought him rushing through the gardens of Hemlock Hall in the middle of the night.
"In all honesty," Townshend reassured, "it is no more than a scratch."
"No more than a scratch—?"
Might it have been a concern for Otis?
She observed him for a moment, as he and Otis bickered over his injuries. Might it have been other motives that drove him to this place...
She almost smiled at that. For she knew even then that she didn't really have a choice. He was the only person who could possibly help them, now.
And the sooner she spoke, the sooner they could get on with it.
"Oh, honestly," she said, extending an arm out to Otis, "Would you stop your squabbling and help me up. If we have a hope of saving Arthur, we must go at once."
The two men stopped, turning to her as if only just coming to the realisation that she had been observing them all along. That is, until what she had just proposed took hold.
"And why would I do that?" Otis replied, "So that you can encounter even more danger before the sun rises?"
"This is not about—"
"Did you take anything that Arthur said into account? That it is far too dangerous for you to go anywhere near—"
"Then, I suggest you revisit the idea at once," she said, swallowing back the anger that swelled, trying to tame the annoyance she felt at having to point this out, "You said that he could not be carried with the two of us. But surely, with three—"
"Three?" Otis said, and for a moment he glanced at their companion, "You expect Townshend to carry him out in his state...?"
"Of course not," she said, seething as she raised her chin, averting her eyes and yet she could feel the intensity of his as she looked up at the large four-legged creature behind Lord Townshend, the idea forming solidly in her mind, "I expect the horse to carry him out. The three of us would be capable of lifting Arthur, I should think."
Lord Townshend glanced back and forth between them, "Will someone tell me what the devil is going on?"
Georgiana glared at Otis, incensed that she somehow couldn't find it in her to look away.
"Mr Arthur Parker," Otis said, his eyes still upon her, "He is in a bad way, I'm afraid."
"And he will not survive if we—"
"Tell me where he is," Townshend interjected.
"The fountain court," Otis said, lifting his gaze, at last, "and he will not have moved unless someone else got to him, first. Mrs Campion, she..."
"She sent the hounds after him," Georgiana finished, "...Mutilated him... Left him to die, alone." Tears sprung fresh, overflowing and hot, "And if we do not go to him... if we do not find some way of getting him out..."
"Christ..." Townshend swallowed, looking briefly as if he might be ill.
"He will not survive it," she finished, feeling suddenly too drained to cry.
Townshend spun on his heel, resuming his jagged path back to the horse. He stopped at its side, deep in thought for a moment before he reached for the reins.
"Take him," he said, holding the reins out to Otis, "You'll find a carriage to the west on the main road, very near the place we discussed."
"But..." Otis pulled away, "It is not a task suited to one person. He cannot walk, for starters—"
"I will find Mr Parker and bring him back to you," Townshend added, firmly, his voice peaking in volume as the words rushed out, "... regardless." He closed his eyes and pushed the cloth back to his brow roughly.
Otis remained out of arm's reach, a slow shake of the head as if he didn't quite know where to start. "Impossible... You expect me to leave you to face that on your own?" said Otis, pointing in the direction of Hemlock Hall. "When this was my plan... my proposal," he stepped closer to Lord Townshend, "If anyone here should—"
"And it will be your last if you persist," Townshend said through his teeth, as the blood dripped down his face, and this time, he did not wipe it away. "Please," His voice changed suddenly, becoming desperate, wavering, "Do me this favour and continue on as you were. Take the girl and go back to Raynham."
"And what if it is your last...?" Otis asked, "You would wish for me to live with the consequences? Of being the one who sent you off, alone, in the state you're in — When you know as well as I that there is only one reason why Eliza Campion has returned to Norfolk — She knows, Townshend. She must."
Townshend had a blankness about him, his mouth slack, cheeks hollow as he stared off into the distance; but for a moment, Georgiana could have sworn that she saw something, there in his eyes. Some hint of emotion. "Yes," he croaked, at last, "I imagine she does."
"She knows we've been here under false pretences. She knows we've been bloody spying on her—that we know of every misdeed, every transgression she has taken part in—"
"Enough," Townshend said suddenly, almost fiercely as his eyes shifted to Georgiana.
"What?" she said, raising her eyebrows, challenging, "You think I haven't figured that much out on my own?"
"I think," Townshend said, "that you likely know far more than you should."
The words came out in a cloud, soft and fleeting, and yet they hit Georgiana like a stone, the persistent sting of them lingering as if they had been lodged in her flesh.
"Now go," Townshend urged, "Just go. There is nothing left to be done—nothing left but to—"
"To what?" Otis stepped toward him, incensed, "to sacrifice yourself?"
Townshend's jaw tightened, jutting out slightly as if chewing on the words, "There is nothing left..." he repeated, "but to listen to your superior officer and retreat when you are commanded."
It took a moment for Otis to absorb the words, the sounds of the night taking over as he let out a quick breath, his eyes upon some distant tree or other, resting anywhere but on the man in front of him.
"I see," he said, at last, angling his head up to the man, "You... you command me, then."
"If I must."
"You command me to stand down... while you salvage what's left of my own bloody plan."
"Molyneux—"
"No," Otis said through his teeth, "Can't you see that there is nothing to be done but to leave this place as fast as our feet will carry us?... We must go back to Raynham to regroup — to find others to help."
"There is no time for that," Georgiana interjected. "We must act now... or Arthur is as good as gone."
Otis looked to her, "You know as well as I that Arthur would want you out of harm's way—as far as I could carry you."
"That was before," she nearly shouted at him, "If you're so desperate to get out of here, then go."
Otis clenched his fists, "I am desperate to get you out of here. I couldn't bloody care less about what happens to me."
The night took over for a spell, the eerie unrest of the trees unsettling as the wind picked up in speed, then dropped off to nothing.
Lord Townshend stared at Otis, tight-lipped and trembling, as if he were about to burst. Then he smiled, albeit briefly, the corners of his eyes creasing as the curve of his lips fell. He stood, hands hanging loosely at his sides, reins threatening to fall to the ground, the dark path of blood travelling past temple and cheek:
"We were so optimistic, weren't we... so confident that we would succeed." He leaned into the horse's side, hands clinging to the saddle, and as he let out a breath, they watched it as if it might be his last, rising like a soul into the sky. "...What fools we were."
"Townshend," Otis said, one last appeal, "This is not the way."
He blinked, the sad smile returning to his face, his words quiet when they finally emerged:
"It is the only way."
It was the last remark that Georgiana heard, for a time. The conversation was reduced to half-hearted murmurings, a picture of something else taking hold. Something remembered far too late. Something far more important than whatever either man in her company had to say.
She could almost hear the pages fluttering in the breeze, open to the world. Pages stained from travels far afield — a witness to the unimaginable, and yet they had survived — vellum and ink, leather embossed in gold, bearing the secrets of this house, this family:
Pages that had been left behind, under the watchful eye of a seraphim, a merry fountain bubbling in the background.
And Arthur.
Her hand drifted back to the buttons at her pelisse. It was still there, the crackle of paper beneath the fabric. But would it be enough?
She glanced up at Lord Townshend, and felt an unexpected pang in her heart for the man. Would she find it in herself to spare him, if she had the luxury? Had he been manipulated by Eliza Campion as so many others had been? Was this document she held so close to her chest—the very same document she had come upon in Mr Campion's study—evidence of his loyalty to another...? Or was it a sign of something far greater. Of a love so blinding that he could not see sense. Of a deed done that he regretted every moment?
Would she ruin him... if she had the chance...
Townshend smiled briefly, wincing again, sinking in the silence as he looked down at his hands. He took in a breath: "... Whatever they tell you... Whatever information you become privy to from this moment on... I beg you—" his eyes narrowed to darkened dashes, melding together with the wounds that surrounded them, "... Remember this," he said, offering the reins to Otis again, dropping them in his hands as if to free himself of the burden, "Remember that I wished you well."
Georgiana took one last look at the line of trees, branches knocking together as they were caught up in the wind, and when she looked back, Lord Townshend had stepped away.
The trees rustled as the tails of his coat floated away from his body, whipping almost violently. And she saw it there, in the set of his shoulders; she had heard it in his voice. Desperation and guilt melded together into one powerful, all-consuming force.
It was a dangerous thing, having nothing left to lose.
"Wait..."
He had nearly reached the viburnum when she called out.
The muscles ached at her hips as she rose from the ground. Her hands were on fire, radiating heat as they throbbed, the more vivid pain at her ankle overshadowing it in a single step.
The footsteps paused. For she looked not at Otis, the reins held loosely in his hands, but to Townshend.
"I believe I've left something behind."
"Georgiana, for God's sake, let it be—" Otis called out, sounding desperate for her to speak no more. But at that moment, she felt an overwhelming urge to walk back into the fire.
"The evidence you sought against the Campions—" she said quickly as Townshend spun around slowly, facing them.
It was as if the life had drained from his face, all signs of breathing stopped, as Townshend peered at her. "Molyneux, what is this about."
"I know where it is."
She heard a swish; the sound of metal on metal.
Otis had dropped the reins.
It was such a simple act — one she might have overlooked were it not for the expression that accompanied the action as the reins swung in the periphery.
Otis burst forth suddenly, a shadow closing in behind him.
And in a blink, he was immobile, arms pinned in place.
She felt another presence, then; she saw it in Otis's eyes. The fear as he writhed forcefully against the figure that was holding him, and her own pulse darted through her veins as if it were suddenly too contained.
She had the sudden urge to flee, to run as fast as her legs would carry her. But it was as if the world had slowed around her, the air thick and restricting as water.
White flashed before her eyes, blinding in its brightness.
Then footsteps, so smooth as they traversed over the gravel path, pressing it, compressed until it became impenetrable.
It was a dress, brightened by the early morning light, its layers caught upon the wind, whipping as violently as the tree branches that surrounded them.
Lord Townshend exhaled, his eyes drawn to her, as if by a string:
"Eliza."