Further afield — Hemlock Hall
It was a curious thing; a sudden quickening of the heart; an inundation of adrenaline so acute there might have been an immediate threat to be tended to. Charles Bicknell had yet to move from his place outside the carriage; the guards stood still as statues. And yet the pang of unease settled there in his chest, one beat so intense that he felt it ricochet, felt the pain of it through his lungs; and the next so quiet it might not have been there at all. Perhaps, he wondered, it had stopped. Perhaps he would prefer such an end to whatever was about to be spoken. For he recognised the look in Charlotte's eyes; resolved and unyielding. Whatever she was about to say, she would not be swayed in the slightest.
"Dear me... He has an ashen look about him, does he not?"
Sidney felt the back of Charlotte's hand running down to the pulse at his neck. A look of concern had washed over Linton's face, and it was directed at him:
"Master Parker... are you certain you're all right?"
Charlotte's hands moved lower to the place where his overcoat hung open, the torn hem of her skirts secured tightly around him.
He was not all right; not in the slightest. The intensity of disquiet coursed through him at the thought of how quickly the transition had occurred in her. Charlotte, one moment, hardly able to speak, visibly shaken by what had happened with Lord Townshend and Bridges. And the moment he had spoken, the moment he had revealed that Lord Townshend was that much nearer Georgiana and Arthur, the resolve had taken root like some impenetrable weed that could not be plucked.
He could see it in her eyes. In the look she gave him, still...
She was about to propose something—to do something—and he had a good idea of what that something might be.
"Sidney," he watched her lips form his name, fearing the next words that would come from her...
"Can you hear me? Is it—?" Her hand had moved lower toward the wound.
He shook his head, breath caught in his throat for a moment before he could speak, "No," he said at last, and Charlotte lifted her gaze, her hand hovering at his waist, "It has nothing to do with that..."
His fingers had reached out of their own accord, circling the cuff at her wrist, and he felt the tendons there, the tension relaxing ever-so-slightly.
He waited, hoped beyond all else that he had misinterpreted, perhaps picked up on a fear of his own in reading her.
"Perhaps...," Linton said, ruminating, "... it is the light that has had a most unfortunate effect upon your pallor." He leaned forward as if to examine Sidney further, "Very unfortunate, indeed..."
It was enough to make him remember precisely why they were seated here, breath steaming, minds whirling. At an impasse they had yet to cross.
Georgiana. Arthur. How would they possibly reach them in time when every second felt as if it might potentially be their last?
He must find a way to snap out of this state, and quickly...
He must reassure them that he was not as damaged as they feared.
He must...
"Any distress that you see upon my face," he said quietly, turning to Linton, "has everything to do with the fact that we are still stranded in this carriage, surrounded by guards led by a man who seemingly refuses to assist us further while Lord Townshend is...," he stopped, feeling suddenly light-headed, as if his mind had frozen over and he had to grasp for the words, reaching further than he thought possible to retrieve them. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.
Think, he thought, bringing the heel of his hand to the crown of his head, then down to squeeze the bridge of his nose, visions of Charlotte swirling before him; visions of what was to come. And as much as he wanted to quell the next words that came out of him, he found that he could not.
"And I... I haven't the faintest bloody idea of what to do next."
The hand fell back to his side, defeated. And he wanted to scream for having said the words, for Charlotte's eyes had reeled him in once more. And there it was. Something deep in her expression; in the set of her chin.
"Well, in that regard," Linton said, "perhaps we might be of some assistance to you."
"Perhaps," Sidney said absently, the swell of dread reaching his heart.
"As I understand it thus far," Linton continued, "Lord Townshend happened upon the very horse that you rode from Raynham Hall... and abandoned his carriage in favour of the horse. But why?"
Sidney traced the edges of her face, committing her to memory, "...Perhaps... he feared the loss of it."
For he could see no further, just then. No further than the images of her in his head, each possibility sending a fresh jolt of apprehension down his spine.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, "Or perhaps...," she said gently, "he had the very same idea that Sidney had: to take the back road that leads to the house. If indeed such a road is impossible to travel by carriage after such rain, it would be a suitable—and far swifter—alternative."
Linton eyed Sidney carefully, examining him with an expression bordering curiosity: "Miss Heywood... are you quite certain he did not withstand any sudden blows to the head?"
Sidney saw a flash of teeth, but her lips settled quickly back to their previous place, "Certain enough," she said, "I rather wonder if Mr Parker has an affliction of a different sort."
"Any affliction I have," Sidney said, suddenly irritable, "is the direct result of that man," he said, waving in the general direction Lord Townshend must have travelled, "and his increasingly close proximity to my family."
Linton's brow creased at this, and when he spoke again, his voice had gone quiet, "Tell me..." he started, then cut off as if to find the words, "Would his lordship be a danger to her... to Miss Lambe? Or... Master Arthur?"
Sidney felt his own brow settle into the same expression as his gaze locked with Charlotte's.
"If only I had the answer to that," he replied, his eyes still trained upon her.
"Lord Townshend made it clear that he had no wish to harm me," Charlotte replied, "If he were working for Mrs Campion, surely that is the very first thing he would do."
"And yet," Sidney said, "he appeared to have no misgivings whatsoever when it came to me."
"But he was also desperate to get away."
"If our best interests were at heart, he would not have caused either of us harm, and yet he used force—a weapon, no less—to get away from us both."
Charlotte's cheeks had flushed, "And what do you say of the rest? How does that not prove that he wanted no further harm to come to us?"
"Because," Sidney said, his voice rising, "I cannot be certain that he wasn't aiming for you."
"I had broken away from Bridges by then."
"Mere seconds before Lord Townshend threw the bloody knife in your direction."
"The knife...," Linton said, desperately trying to put the pieces together, "...The knife that killed Bridges? Do you mean to say that Lord Townshend... that he was the one to...?"
There was silence, then. So sudden that it rang about them.
"I...," Charlotte started, and Sidney noticed the tremble that had fallen to her chin. She took a breath, wiping tears from her cheeks: "We don't have the time for this," she said, "Either we do something to help, or we risk what we all fear most."
His heart thumped back to life, racing inside his chest at such a pace that for a moment he could not respond.
"You said it, yourself," she said, voice thick as she sniffed, "We must find them first."
"But Charlotte—"
"There is still time. Perhaps not much, but I have to believe that we still might find Arthur and Georgiana." She stared fixedly through the window, "...Perhaps we do what we should have in the first place," she said, "...We take it upon ourselves."
"What are you—"
"The back road," she interrupted, "Do you know where it is?"
"I—" he looked dumbfounded at this.
"The road, Sidney."
"I—yes," he said, shaking his head as if to clear the fog, and ducked low to peer out the window again, his heart beating wildly. "We cannot be far."
"Right," she said, smoothing her skirts as she moved to the edge of the seat, "It is settled, then."
"Settled?" Sidney and Linton spoke concurrently.
"You know the way," she said, her eyes upon Sidney, "You must be the one to go to them."
His heart was soothed for a moment, relief flooding through until a fresh stabbing realisation caught him. For if he was to be the one to go, what would become of her?
"And what, travel on foot?" Linton interjected. "Surely, he is in no form for that."
Sidney's expression turned suddenly cross as he caught Linton's worried gaze raking over him—the very last thing he needed now was for him to steer her in a new direction, one that risked her life far more than his: "Would you stop looking at me like that?"
"I've no clue what you mean," Linton said, his brow raising.
"As if I'm about to collapse at any moment."
"I am merely trying my utmost to keep you alive and well," Linton said, then muttered, "And after you've done just that hours ago," under his breath.
Charlotte extended a hand to Sidney's forehead again.
"No sign of fever," she said, as if she were making a mental list, "No perspiration, and no sign of blood from the wound. He will have to be careful," she looked pointedly at Sidney, "but as long as he does not overexert himself—"
"He had best not overexert himself," Linton said vehemently.
"Would you stop speaking about me as if I wasn't a foot away from you?" Sidney said, "You might have a degree of trust in my being aware of my own limits."
Linton glared across at him, opening his mouth to retort, the anger appearing to sharpen his features as it filled the space between them.
"Honestly, will the both of you listen to my idea or not?" Charlotte snapped, and Sidney had the distinct feeling he had just been scolded.
Linton's eyes appeared to shrink before them. For a moment, Sidney could tell he was likely debating whether to continue on with his retort. He rather wondered if he would prefer Linton to continue, himself.
Sidney closed his eyes, a strange mix of emotions flooding through him before he blinked them away: "Go on," he croaked.
And in a flash, the moment he had dreaded was upon them.
"It would be a diversion, of sorts...," Charlotte's eyes met Sidney's, her voice lowering to almost a whisper, "If I succeed, I might draw the guards away from the carriage for a spell. Enough time for you to escape and make your way to the road."
Sidney had a sudden vision, enough to turn his veins to ice: horses rearing upwards, the men reacting the moment she stepped from the carriage, swords flashing as they swung through the air.
"And if you don't?" Sidney asked, his throat parched at the thought.
"Don't what?"
"Succeed in diverting them."
"Then, we will have to think of something else, I suppose," Charlotte said, registering the pained look upon his face, "The bandages have held thus far... your colour is returning... it isn't ideal, but if my version of the story is what Mr Bicknell wants..."
"Charlotte—"
"He will have the freedom to interrogate me to his heart's content if it means you have the chance at finding them," she said, "I would go through worse than that, you know I would."
"And I'm supposed to just... abandon you... to leave you behind in the company of Charles Bicknell when he could all but—"
"Listen to me," she turned, eyes fierce, "You would never forgive yourself if something were to happen. Nor would I... It is time for us to put this to rights..." His hand was in hers, now. How had that happened? He looked down at them; felt the pressure, the warmth, "...And I must do my part."
"Charlotte...," he said, searching her eyes, "Charlotte, this is madness."
"It is," she agreed, "and it is also the most sensible decision in the world. You know that I would risk most anything to see them again. And I am not alone."
"And I am expected to just... go along with this—"
"Would you rather take my place? I presumed that you would not want me to be the one to go to the house alone, but perhaps I was wrong in that."
Sidney swallowed, feeling a sudden pang in his chest at the thought of Charlotte, alone, with Eliza Campion. "God, no," he sputtered.
"There is... another option... we have yet to entertain," Linton piped in.
Sidney turned to him, half apprehension, half hope.
"Perhaps... I might go in your stead."
They both looked to Sidney, whose throat was becoming dangerously close to restricting all airflow to his brain.
"What will it be?" Charlotte asked.
Sidney's eye settled upon the cane in Linton's hand, migrating to the hand itself. The skin was thin, like paper held up to the light, close enough to view the network of veins beneath.
Sweat prickled at his brow, the back of his neck, as he sought a resolution—something, anything, other than this.
"There must be some other way," he rasped, "some solution we have yet to grasp."
"There might be a thousand ways," the words burst from her with a renewed energy, "And we might remain here to ponder them all... But it will not bring them back."
"I cannot allow it," he said, "Not you... nor Linton."
"Then... you will go," she said.
No, he thought. It would not do. He must think of another way.
He must.
"I..."
He searched the cabin, eyes landing in all corners as if the answer might be there, awaiting him. But his mind remained awash, diluted with panic as he settled upon her.
How right he had been, he thought, as he met her eyes. For he knew, then, looking at her—knew that the decision had been made moments before. The look she had given him, enough to stop his heart, had housed an idea fully formed. There was nothing left to do but provide his answer.
"If I must..." The words sounded as if they had come from another person. Some other man in this carriage more willing than he to let go of this hand he still held. An act he still was certain could tear him limb from limb.
And though his heart had gone quiet, Sidney Parker felt his fingers loosen as her hand slipped away, watched her say her final words in no more than a whisper—"Bring them back to us..."—and then he felt the cold blast of air upon his face, the carriage suddenly devoid of her, a distant rumbling the only sign of her as she spoke to the guard outside.
How quickly it could happen, he marvelled, staring down at his empty hand, the scent of her still circling, each breath of her fainter than the last.
How quickly she had gone.
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A Distant Corner of the Gardens — Hemlock Hall
It was as if the world had turned to glass, so frozen was everyone in their circle—bodies so still they might have been on the verge of a fatal miscalculation—to set off a chain reaction of cracks threading through.
Georgiana found that she was as frozen as the rest of them, her attention fully captured by the man who appeared as if he might bleed out within the hour. The sound was unsettling; a steady drip, drop, drip—the dots of crimson forming something eerily close to a puddle at his feet. The cloth he had used to stem the flow hung loosely at his side. And his eyes, so intent upon the woman who had just emerged from the shadows, as if she held him there, paralysed, for as long as she desired.
"Lord Townshend..." she said, a glint appearing in her eyes, "And here, I had begun to assume you would not arrive."
Now was the time, the ideal moment she could find a way to conceal herself, to hobble off in the direction of the fields; to find the carriage that supposedly waited for them along the main road. Surely, now was the time.
"Eliza, please," Townshend croaked, his voice so mangled she might have been holding him by the throat.
Georgiana's eyes darted to the side, searching. Were there others, hidden away in the hedge row? Others watching them, waiting for her to even attempt an escape?
"I stand corrected," her voice sounded again, the tone somewhat different. And Georgiana found herself drawn back to them.
Townshend swallowed, swaying on the spot, and yet his eyes were solely upon Eliza Campion. She had paused before him, examining the gash at his forehead with an expression bordering curiosity, then lifted a hand to his face. He spoke, agony in every word that ground out of him: "Why did you not remain in London."
Her hand hovered, as if she might sweep the locks of hair from his forehead, before she shook her head, lowering it. "I received word that the house had been ransacked again. And I found that I could not sit idly by while a certain thief was looting my house," she said, glaring over at Otis. "Imagine my surprise when I found not one, but three in our midst."
She stepped back a fraction.
"I imagine that my brother-in-law and Mr Bridges are not far behind?"
Georgiana felt a flush travel up her chest, a shiver at her spine. Brother-in-law.
The name of Robert Campion had been prominent on the bill of sale she had discovered in the Campion study. Robert Campion, who now owned a slave ship and plantation in Antigua.
Why would Lord Townshend have been travelling with Eliza's brother-in-law? And this other man... Mr Bridges. She had a distinct feeling that she had heard the very name before.
A flashback to Otis from hours earlier played over again in her mind:
We had a plan, Georgiana. It was all arranged.
Lord Townshend stared at Eliza, his mouth slightly ajar, eyes searching as the blood dripped from his chin.
"You do look a fright," she said almost impatiently, her gaze moving down to the cloth at his side. She plucked it from his grasp and pressed it to his forehead. And as he stared at her, breath bursting from his lungs, she lifted his hand to replace hers. "You will want to keep a firm hold on that," she said, her hand over his before turning back to the men who had escorted her.
"Barrows," she called over her shoulder, "We must give Lord Townshend his payment. I shall escort him to the house, and wait for you there. Inform me the moment Mr Campion arrives."
Payment.
Georgiana chanced a look in Otis's direction. His chest moved rapidly, as if he were at risk of hyperventilation. Lord Townshend had asked him to leave, begged him. Did he know more about what was to come than Otis? Was he trying to prevent something beyond their imaginings from occurring? Or had this all been part of the greater plan?
"And...," Barrows stepped forth, "And the others, Ma'am?"
The look in Otis's eyes told her all she needed to know, and Arthur's voice met her there, just as her heart threatened to stop, her feet nearly buckling beneath her; Arthur in her memory, panicked and quivering: Go. Fast as you can.
Eliza had paused, as if caught off-guard: "Others?"
"Mr Molyneux and—"
"You know well enough what to do with Mr Molyneux," she spat.
"Yes... of course," said Barrows, cowering slightly, "But... forgive me, Ma'am... What shall we do about the girl? About Mr Arthur Parker?"
----------
Further afield — Hemlock Hall
The warmth had been sapped from the carriage, the clouds of each exhale rising, every nerve-ending itching to move until he could stand it no more. Sidney heaved himself up, launching toward the door that had yet to latch. If he hadn't wasted too much time, he might have a chance at preventing Charlotte from—
Something had caught his overcoat; a surprisingly strong force that pulled him backwards. "Too soon, Master Parker." He was off-balance in a flash, tumbling back into his seat, the stern gaze belonging to Linton at eye level. "Far too soon," he said gruffly.
"I know that," Sidney bit back in frustration, "I'm trying to rescue her, not go along with this... this reckless plan."
Linton pulled himself up a bit, rising to his full height, "Upon my word, the greatest example of reckless behaviour is seated before me, about to defy sense and endanger all our lives by engaging in a violent outburst in front of the royal sodding guard. And once again, I am left to wonder where on earth your head has gone off to."
"My head?" he said obstinately, baring his teeth. "Can you not see that we must intervene before it's—"
"Must we?" Linton asked, the corners of his mouth lowering into a disapproving frown, "If that is truly your thought on the matter, I might ask you to look again."
Sidney huffed.
"Be angry with me all you like," Linton said, "But take in the scene before you if you've any more plans to act in such a rash manner as this."
He stared daggers at Linton, lifting a hand to brush aside the window covering with as much force as he could muster.
"Careful, now," Linton said, eyeing him, "I won't have you hanged for destroying property of the Crown."
"If anything happens to her, it is the least of the destruction that would occur."
"Yes, well," Linton said, already peering out from his side, "I don't think that will quite be necessary."
He bristled at the comment, but it was enough to entice him, to make him break away in favour of the faint light that now streamed through the window.
Charlotte had her back to the reeds. The guards approached her with an air of what could only be construed as apprehension. Even the guard stationed outside the carriage had left his post, and was now lingering halfway to Charlotte, as if uncertain of how to proceed.
"Three guards drawn away from us already," Linton said, sounding nothing short of impressed, "And how long, I wonder, will it take for the fourth?"
Sidney found he could not reply, eyes fixed upon the scene, his extremities twitching with unease.
Perhaps if he left quietly, without drawing attention to himself...
"Miss Heywood," barked Mr Bicknell, "I really must insist that you go back to the carriage at once."
"My apologies, Mr Bicknell," came her soft reply, a hand lifting to her temple, "but... it's only that... I'm feeling frightfully unwell. And I found myself desperate for a bit of fresh air."
There was a pause, the distant cadence of the waning night the only sound that greeted them.
"A... a bit of fresh air?" Bicknell asked warily.
A chuckle escaped from Linton, his head shaking from side to side as he reached into his coat pocket, a hand emerging with a cloth that he then dabbed at his brow.
"Yes," she replied quickly, "I find that I do not travel well, you see."
"Miss Heywood, this is not a matter that is up for discussion. Return to the carriage or I shall command the guards to escort you there."
Charlotte's hand was back at her temple, circling there, "I... am not sure I..."
She weaved slightly on the spot, as if she was on the verge of falling over. And Sidney and Linton both watched, rapt, as the fourth guardsman dismounted from his horse.
"I take little pleasure in admitting it," said Linton, casting his eye out over the scene before them, "But every so often, your obstinate nature acts in your favour."
Sidney looked over at him, "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Linton said, lifting his cane, "that as intolerably stubborn as I find you to be, I am grateful that you ran after our Miss Charlotte—and that Mr Bridges met his end, however horrid an experience it may have been."
"He deserved no less, the bloody—"
"Precisely," Linton finished, looking out at her, "I've never known someone with such a knack for finding a way out of situations I may have deemed impossible, myself."
Sidney smiled despite himself, "It is the very reason I insisted that she join us... Though I can't say I haven't regretted it, all the same."
"Regret it all you like," Linton said, "but I dread to think what might have become of us if you hadn't been so insistent."
The smile broadened upon Sidney's face, making its way up to his eyes for only a moment, the spark fading gradually in the silence.
Linton stared down at his hands, as if deciding how to proceed, "... I do not intend to go on about it—in fact, I ask for only a word..." He had begun fiddling, as if to rub out imaginary ink stains along his index finger, his attention wholly fixed before he spoke again. "Is she... quite all right?"
Sidney attempted to meet Linton's eyes, but he had moved his attention to the cane at his side, tracing the wooden carvings upon it, and Sidney was suddenly grateful for the lack of connection. His hand had formed a fist, and he brought it to his mouth, pressed it into his lips as if he might dampen the shame that weighed upon him, still. "He tried to kidnap her," he said, at last, "... Bridges."
Linton glanced up at him.
"Until you interceded?"
Sidney's brow furrowed, "Not exactly... I was too preoccupied with Lord Townshend to notice... the fool that I am."
"Yes, well I've no doubt of that," Linton said, in such a matter-of-fact manner that Sidney met his look of amusement with one bordering on defiance. And in a flash, it was as if Linton had regained his sense of purpose; that any sense of discomfort had been swiped aside, and in its place, a twinkle was once again present in his eyes. "Oh, come now," he said, nudging Sidney's knee with his own, "It is far better to be a fool in love than a self-destructive fool as you once were. And if I may be so daring to admit... infinitely more preferable for the staff."
Sidney's mouth curved at the corner, a hint of a smile forming as Linton spoke again, staring out at the scene. "It was his lordship, then, was it?"
Sidney mimicked him, and turned his attention back to Charlotte. "Who threw a bloody knife at Bridges just as Charlotte broke away? You must have garnered that much."
"I had, yes," Linton said quietly, his attention upon the cloth in his hands, "And... before that... he was the one to cut through your bandages."
"Yes."
"Unscrupulous man," Linton said through his teeth.
"He did little damage in the end," Sidney said.
"He might have done more quite easily," Linton said, his voice rising.
"Yes, well..." Sidney replied, not quite sure how to finish.
"Yes, well...," Linton echoed, "It is best not to dwell on such matters, I suppose."
"Not when there are far greater matters to dwell upon," Sidney said.
The quiet settled between them, and the very thing that often happened in Linton's company—that familiar feeling he had experienced so often before—came back to Sidney just then. As if he had, in his own way, found the source of all his misery and drawn it out.
"... I thought I had lost her," Sidney said under his breath, "How could I possibly leave her now."
Linton shifted forward, elbows resting at his knees until Sidney saw the light catch his face, noticed the pallor of his skin, the sheen of sweat at his brow, "What happened before... was an exception. But I think you'll find that she is quite capable of looking after herself."
"But... I can't just—"
"Yes, you can. Look at her."
Sidney gazed through the window, as entranced as the crowd of guards that now surrounded her.
"She has been protecting you, all this time. And here you were, so determined to do the same for her that you could not see it."
What happened next would be difficult for Sidney to describe. And yet he would remember the feeling, always; the pain and the pull of his heart as he watched her, the tightening at his abdomen; the deep ache at what he was about to do; the relief that if he proceeded alone, he would arrive at the scene before she had the chance to see it, herself. For he might only imagine what awaited him at Hemlock Hall.
"Now," Linton said, moving to the edge of his seat, "Be assured, Master Parker, that I would do no less for her than I would for you... should any exceptions arise."
"And that is supposed to be a comfort to me?" he asked.
"That was my original intent, yes," Linton said, his lips curving at the corners before flattening again, "Though I do see your point. Perhaps I would do no less than you would for her. Is that more agreeable?"
"It is a comfort, yes," Sidney admitted.
Linton looked down at his hands again, diligently smoothing the cloth as if to prevent a single crease, "As I said before... I would go in your stead."
"Linton..."
"All you must do is ask."
Sidney observed the man across from him, the colour absent from his face. And as the light crept in, it caught the sweat prickling at his brow, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, every crease and crevice that surrounded his eyes. And he knew, then, just as he always had.
That he could never ask.
"You mustn't worry about me," he said.
"It is far too late for that, I'm afraid," Linton sighed, turning away from the scene outside, "But, if you are indeed feeling up to it..." he said distracted, his face drawn closer to the window, so close that his own breathing fogged it over in bursts, "...now might be as good a time as any."
Sidney quirked an eyebrow, a sudden thought occurring to him, then flicked his gaze sideways at Linton. "Our Miss Charlotte?" he asked.
"Mmm?" said Linton, and Sidney thought he certainly did not look well.
"Before, you said... you called her our Miss Charlotte."
"Yes... well—" Linton cleared his throat, and Sidney eyed the ruddy hue of his neck, forming in patches that travelled upwards toward his increasingly pink ears. "I am not one for open displays of affection, Master Parker. But if it is of any value to you, I would advise that if we indeed come out on the other side of this... and assuming that she is prepared to give you even the slightest chance... for the benefit of us all, try not to make a mess of it."
A smile lit across Sidney's face. He let out a quick exhale before he found himself looking at his own hands, "It may be far too late for that," he said, quietly.
"And yet, something tells me... that you might prove your worth to her yet."
Sidney's gaze lifted, settled upon Linton's hand, which he had placed upon the door.
"Shall we, then?"
"Shall we what?" Sidney asked, eyeing Linton as if he'd never quite seen him clearly.
Linton met his gaze, and were it not so close, Sidney may not have seen the slight tremble at his chin, and yet his voice was strong:
"Let us put an end to this misery... so you can get on with your life."
-----------
Further Afield, Cont.
He did not hear the click of the door as it opened; he could feel nothing but the shock of adrenaline that forced him forward, his heart sounding in his ears as the scene outside unveiled itself.
The huddle surrounding Charlotte had dipped: she must have dropped to the ground. Linton had disappeared, carried away as a sudden gust threatened to latch the door. Sidney caught it just in time, holding it ajar as he watched Linton stagger toward the lone guard who still stood halfway to Charlotte.
A diversion—and a rather chaotic one, at that—unfolded before him. The lone guard caught sight of the sudden movement and chased after Linton, who was now bent over a rather large patch of reeds. It was a sight Sidney had witnessed what seemed like ages ago, and a chuckle escaped his lips as it all connected in his mind. Linton's sallow appearance; the sheen of sweat on his brow. He had been holding it back for this very moment, it seemed, for the sickness was likely genuine after having been thrown about in the carriage.
The door pushed at his fingertips as it caught the wind, then pulled away from him, swinging open on its hinges, and Sidney knew that there would be no better time. He slipped out into the roaring gale, the sound of the commotion mere feet away as he darted behind the carriage to the nearest tree, looking for some sign of where they were on the road.
He looked longingly over his shoulder, wondering briefly how severe a punishment it would be to steal a horse from the Royal Guard.
"Miss Heywood," Bicknell shouted, bringing him to, "Miss Heywood, are you all right?"
His gaze lifted, seeking her out, wanting assurance above all. But he found his attention seized, however briefly, by another scene...
It was Linton. He had stopped in the safety of the reeds, hunched over and heaving, until a freshly shined pair of boots appeared at his side. It must have taken every last part of his will to destroy those boots.
Such dedication, Sidney thought, as the guard shouted loudly at Linton, who had since moved back to the reeds, profuse apologies emitting from him every chance he had.
He glanced beyond, a lump in his throat as he caught sight of the frayed hem of Charlotte's skirts, two boots poking out as she lay prostrate on the ground. He could have sworn, then, that there was an almost indiscernible movement, an ever-so-slight shifting of her toes, as if she knew he would be looking on, conjuring new reasons why he simply could not leave.
There might have been a thousand ways that this scene would unfold. But perhaps, he thought... perhaps this might be the very one that succeeded. For a time, he had to believe that it would.
He could not hear the grasses crunching beneath his feet. He could not have said whether he left footprints in a trail that would be easily tracked. He simply ran to the east, eyes upon the horizon as scarlet turned to gold.