Page 27 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Twenty-Two

CORNELIUS

T his time, the pounding in his head woke him.

Rather, Cornelius thought he was awake, for his head throbbed and his leg screamed in agony, and something was jabbing into his back, none of these being conducive to sleep.

But he could not move his arms and no matter how wide he opened his eyes, he could see absolutely nothing. Perhaps he was asleep after all.

Pain and utter darkness.

This was his entire world.

Dark, silent, alone.

He struggled again, this time managing to wriggle his aching body off whatever it was he had been lying on and at least some of the agony eased.

He still could not move his arms… or, rather, with some great effort he could, but there was something the matter with his hands.

He could feel the fingers of the other hand, but could not separate them, stuck as they were, wrist on wrist, almost as if…

As if they were bound together with a cord.

With a lurch that threatened to empty his stomach, he remembered where he was, how he had come here.

Last night was the night he had heard mentioned in the tavern at Porthawen. He ought to have left matters to Rainham and his men, merely reported what he knew and left it there. But, fool that he was, he could not just step back and let others act.

All his life he had been called weak or unworthy, and he could support it no more.

His father’s taunts, he could abide. He had lived with them long enough that they meant little, but Julia’s accusations had hit him quite differently.

Perhaps he needed to do something to prove to his father that he had his share of valour, but he needed, so much more, to prove to Julia that he was no felon, that he was valiant, a veritable Arthurian knight.

If he could do this, find some measure of glory, then perhaps he could convince her to listen to him, give him one more chance.

And fool that he was, he had ignored the voice of reason and set off alone.

This was the cove where the crates were unloaded.

He had discovered it earlier on his rambles, and had set up his easel to paint the sky, in case anybody had discovered him here.

He knew the path down to the beach, and by the very last caresses of sunlight, dressed as he was in dark brown with mud and soot covering his face to render him just another shadow in the cliffs, he had made the treacherous descent.

All had gone well at first. He ensconced himself behind the rocks, ears alert to every word that might come his way, and oh, he had discovered a great deal. Rainham would be most interested when he learned of it.

And then he had become overconfident. Crouching down behind the rocks was well and good, but how much more could he discover inside the cave itself? The voices had faded to nothing, and the lantern’s flame with it. They must all be deep within. He could find a place to hide.

Cornelius had crept to the entrance and shuffled along the cave wall, his eyes wide at the rows of wooden crates and boxes that lined the place. This was where it all happened, in this inaccessible cave miles from anywhere the excise men might look. Remarkable!

He had a moment’s warning, nothing more, a slight change in the air, the intimation of a sound, before something came crashing down on his head and he dropped to the uneven, rocky floor like a stone.

Half-insensible, he felt his hands being bound, and his ankles likewise, and rough hands rummaging through every possible pocket, before another crack on his head sent him spiralling into the abyss.

Rough jolts and loud voices had pulled him back to his senses. Oh lord, it had been better in the blackness, in that place beyond the pain.

“What do we do with ‘im?” somebody had yelled from far too close. Every syllable was a needle driving into his ears.

“Do ‘im in now, I say,” screeched another voice. “Toss ‘im into the sea and forget all about ‘im, is what I say.”

“Now, gentlemen, calm yourselves.” Smooth consonants, elegant vowels, no fisherman this, but not a voice that Cornelius knew.

The tiny part of his brain still capable of rational thought suggested he would do better if he feigned insensibility, and despite the din, which was most likely normal toned voices amplified by his broken head, he kept his eyes closed and limbs flaccid.

“Let us not be hasty,” the third man continued. “Truss him up and toss him in the cellar. We can let you-know-who make that decision. He might be worth something to someone. Let the blood be on other heads, not ours.”

“Well, I’m not carrying ‘im all that way,” the first voice complained. “You do it.”

“Not me neither. Let the beggar walk.”

The tip of a boot connected with Cornelius’ side, and rough hands slapped at his face until he cracked his eyes open and groaned.

Someone untied his ankles, before he was jerked to his unsteady feet and pointed towards a long, dark tunnel.

More kicks and shoves inspired his progress, and the sight of a large knife brandished by one of the men—still blurry shapes after the crack on his skull—encouraged him further.

The tunnel seemed endless, inching gradually but steadily uphill. The flicker of the lantern one man carried, sharp jabs to his eyes, hinted of small rooms off to the side at times, but there were no branches or forks, just a single track up through the rock to heaven knew where.

At last, after what felt like miles, they came to a solid door set in the rock.

Or perhaps it was earth here, for the tunnel had been braced by timber for some of the distance.

Careful observation and clarity of thought were distinctly lacking at the moment, with the fuzziness of his recent assault addling his brain and the threat of a knife-wielding villain inches behind him.

Still, Cornelius took note of the door, of the old wooden frame, splintered by time and possibly moisture.

No matter: the latch looked new and sturdy, the door itself thick. There was little hope of escape.

The nob pulled a key from some pocket and turned it in the lock, swinging the door open into a fathomless inky space.

“Welcome to your new home,” the man said from behind him, before giving Cornelius a vicious kick to his backside and sending him stumbling into the space. With his hands bound and unable to catch himself, he tripped and fell and knew nothing more until his aching head had wrested him from oblivion.

What now? With no light, no way to loosen his hands, and no notion of where he was, everything seemed utterly hopeless.

There was no way to know how long he lay there. The abyss beckoned and he drifted in and out of sensibility for some time. Had it been minutes or hours? Or perhaps days? His throat was parched and his stomach twisted within him. Were they just going to leave him here to die in this inky pit?

Visions of his paintings danced before his half-senseless eyes, bright patches of colour and pigment, the landscapes he had not painted, music he had not heard. He would never see his sister again, never sketch another vase of flowers, never hear his friends laugh after dinner.

Worse, he would never see Julia again.

That hurt the most of all. He had hurt her, he knew.

It had been inadvertent in part, but also deliberate in his quest to discover her secret, and the knowledge that he would die without making amends scorched his soul.

He wanted to see those beautiful eyes as he begged for forgiveness, to watch those full lips say she forgave him.

His fingers, now swollen and numb, ached to caress her soft skin, to twirl a lock of that glorious hair, to pull her close.

To kiss her as he had never kissed anybody.

What a fool he had been, allowing himself to fall in love while on this idiotic mission, to find the perfect woman only to lose her and then die, lonely and unfulfilled, never having told her in so many words how he felt.

Would she remember him with any sort of pleasure? Or had he lost her in every possible way?

Tears filled his eyes, and he squeezed them tight enough that he saw light.

A thin line of light…

It was faint, a lessening of the all-encompassing darkness, but it seemed so real. He blinked. Was it really there? Was it not simply his imagination or the ravings of a deluded mind in the moments before death swept him away?

There was a sound, too, faint and rhythmic, like feet brushing against a stone floor.

They had come, at last, to finish what they had not done before. Would it be a knife? Or a pistol? Or would they bind him again and throw him overboard into the roiling sea as they had threatened? It was time to make peace with his God.

“Cornelius…?”

He was even imagining that God was answering back.

“Cornelius?” The sound was louder. Did God not know where he was?

“Can you hear me? Are you here?”

His eyes flashed open and the cotton in his head cleared. That was not God. An angel, perhaps…

“Julia!” He tried to call out, but his voice was nothing but a croak.

Still, she must have heard him, for she called again, closer this time, “Cornelius? Where are you? Oh! A door.”

“I am here… They have me bound and I cannot move.”

The line of light was stronger now; it must be coming from the crack beneath the door. The sight gave him strength and purpose and he shook his head against the floor, shaking out the last of the cobwebs that had smothered him.

“The door is locked,” Julia’s voice said. “Can you see anything at all?”

“Not a thing, but wait…”

Cornelius shifted again, and rolled over, running into a vertical surface.

With a great deal of effort and trouble, he managed to sit himself up, and then, using the wall as a support, eventually brought himself to standing.

He muttered the whole time about his progress, and Julia’s voice encouraged him at every stage.

“There. I am on my feet. Oh heavens, my head hurts. My leg as well. I can stand, but I do not think I can walk. Ah!” He let out a curse as a burst of pain tore through his knee.

“I do not know how long it will be before they return. They said something about dawn, but when, exactly, I know not. Still, we cannot wait. I must get you out of there. Do you know anything?”

Now that he was upright, the world shifted a bit more into place.

“I still see the line under the door, and wait, there is a glimmer to the side. Is the frame not entire?” He felt about himself the best he could with his bound hands.

“The walls are stone, but not carved out of rock, for I can feel the joins. There is some wood… oh, they are crates, like I saw in the cave. I am raising my hands… I can feel the ceiling; it is low, no more than a few inches above my head.”

Steadier now, and biting back groans from the pain, he paced the space to the best of his ability, and then raised his hands above him once again.

“There is a crack in the ceiling, long and straight. No… it ends and goes off at a square… It is a complete rectangle, and… are these hinges? Is it a trap door?”

“Oh!” Julia’s voice rang clear, full of surprise and wonder. “A trap door above you? How large is it, do you think?”

He groped above his head once more, his arms aching and his head pounding anew with every movement.

“Perhaps three feet by four? I cannot tell for certain. Maybe larger.”

There was silence. Had she left? Deserted him once more to his sorry fate? But the light was still there, steady and assuring.

“I know where you are. Or rather, I dearly hope I do. Wait for me and be strong, my love.”

She must have hurried away for the line of light disappeared, but in his heart, it was daylight, for she had called him her love.