Page 6 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Six

By the time Rosie arrived back in the safety of her bedchamber, her fear had subsided, and she was berating herself for not trying hard enough to discover the identity of the two men. Since she was far too fired up to climb back into bed, she decided to take Trixie outside to do her business. There was always the chance that she would hear and recognise the scoundrels’ voices – though she acknowledged it unlikely. After all, she’d heard them through a door.

As she carried a reluctant Trixie outside, she thought about how she was going to enlighten the Duke about the invasion of his study. Though she’d known her Uncle Nicholas for the whole of her life, she didn’t really know him, and Rosie couldn’t deny she’d always found him a little intimidating.

As the highest-ranking member, he was deferred to by the whole family, though it wasn’t simply because of his title. Mayhap it was in part because his wife was the eldest sister and he and Grace had married first, but more than that, he’d always taken the welfare of his wife’s extended family very much to heart – believing unreservedly that they were all his responsibility. Naturally, as more of the sisters married, his duties became less onerous - indeed, his closest friends were his brothers-in-law, which, of course, could be partly because of gratitude…

However, while he’d always been the person everyone went to whenever there was a problem, Roseanna couldn’t help being apprehensive at the thought of coming to the stern man’s attention- especially as the knowledge she wished to share with him had come about through prying into affairs that were essentially none of her business.

Still, there was nothing she could do about that. She’d simply have to take the set down with good grace. But when best to do it?

She fleetingly thought of confiding in her father, but since she didn’t know whether her uncle had shared the whole smoky business with anyone other than the four people she knew about, doing so might well cause more harm than good. No, she needed to speak to the Duke. And in a place she would be sure to get his attention.

As she walked along the path, Rosie kept an eye out for anyone looking particularly shady, but as it was, she saw no one at all and consequently was able to spend the time deliberating on how best to approach her uncle. Finally, after doing a full loop of the house, she reluctantly concluded that the only time she could be sure of his undivided attention would be while he was in his study. And, while she wasn’t privy to his schedule for the day, she could be certain he’d be in there at just after eleven o’clock this morning. He’d have to listen to her then…

Despairing he might have been, but the Reverend’s character was basically that of an optimist. By the time he and Flossy had done a full circuit of Blackmore village and returned for breakfast, he had at least an inkling of a plan, though on this occasion it was an unusually simple one. Broadly speaking, it entailed depositing the whole deuced problem at his son-in-law’s door.

Augustus Shackleford decided he was simply far too old to tackle a dilemma such as this and, after all, it wasn’t his fault his granddaughter had decided to bring her meddlesome father-in-law along. All he needed was for Nicholas to nominate someone to assist him in keeping Dougal Galbraith occupied and out of mischief until the garden party was over. Obviously, it would have to be someone who wouldn’t be too unhappy at the thought of missing out on all the hobnobbing – though the Reverend would rather have Flossy chew his toenails off than spend time consorting with politicians and peacocks, so that part of the whole deuced business didn’t concern him at all.

According to Grace, Dougal would be arriving tomorrow, and the Reverend knew acutely that he needed to have his strategy entirely in place before the Scot had time to do any damage. Though Nicholas hadn’t yet informed him when the Duke of Wellington and Earl Grey would arrive, he knew it wouldn’t be until Thursday at the earliest. Until then, there would only be the family at Blackmore. But that didn’t mean Dougal could be left to his own devices.

While he was eating his porridge, Reverend Shackleford made notes. It wasn’t something he normally did as he generally relied on Percy to do all the tedious bits - he’d always hated dealing with trifles. However, experience told him that when the Almighty stepped in, too much complaining would simply see him burdened with an additional problem that would very likely be worse. So, at the end of the day, it was better to just get on with it. Though looking at his scribbles, the Reverend wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to read them should he ever have need. Hopefully, whoever Nicholas delegated to assist him would also have a good pen.

By the time he put the last mouthful of porridge on the floor for Flossy, Augustus Shackleford concluded that there was no time to lose. He looked down at his pocket watch. If he set off now, he should arrive at Blackmore just after eleven o’clock…

March 1808

The boy huddled in the corner of the pitch-black cell. With no blanket and no food in his belly, he would almost have welcomed death. Almost.

He’d lost count of the number of days he’d been here. One day merged into another, though he had a suspicion he’d been lying on the stone floor for a long time. On the rare occasions the sun shone through the tiny grill set high in the stone wall, it seemed to have moved.

But he didn’t know if it was winter or summer. The temperature never seemed to be anything other than freezing. But if it was summer, then surely, he wouldn’t feel this cold right down into his bones as though he was about to turn into one of the ice sculptures the monks used to make before Mont Saint Michel became a prison.

Sometimes he fancied he could still taste the apple that had led to his downfall. The judge had said he’d been tempted by the serpent, like in Adam and Eve. The boy just wished the devil had seen fit to tempt him with a block of cheese. And in truth, he was certain he’d have sold his soul willingly if the exchange had been a hot meal.

Before he’d been thrown here, he’d never imagined prison would be such a quiet place. Broken only by of the intermittent sliding of the grill in the bottom of the door through which a stale heel of bread was pushed if he was lucky. It didn’t feel as though he was often lucky. There wasn’t always water, and when there was, it tasted like someone might have shat in it. He licked what he could from the dripping walls. The only other sound was a faint wet crackling that was usually followed by the sound of something being dragged along the floor. The boy quickly realised the wet crackling meant death.

Then, one day – if it was a day. He couldn’t tell – he was woken by the clunk of a set of keys. Seconds later, the door to his cell was pushed open, and an oil lamp held high. Squinting in the sudden light, the boy wondered if it was his turn to be dragged along the floor. He wanted to tell the holder of the lamp that it must be a mistake – he wasn’t dead yet.

But the guard didn’t even look at him. Instead, he stepped aside and what looked to the boy to be some kind of large animal was shoved into the cell. The door slammed behind it, followed by the echo of keys being turned in the lock and gradually fading footsteps.

Fearfully, he peered at the bundle of rags motionless by the door, his heart thumping in time with the dripping water. At first, he thought the creature was dead, but eventually, it lifted its head and slowly got to its feet. The boy couldn’t tell if it was a man or a beast. But the slowly shuffling footsteps told him the thing walked on two legs. A grunt and then the figure collapsed into the opposite corner. The boy pulled his legs up in an effort to make himself as small as possible and stared into the stygian darkness, straining his eyes in terror. But the figure didn’t move and after what felt like hours, his head sank onto his knees as he drifted into a fitful doze, only to be woken by a snarl and a blast of fetid breath inches away from his face.

And that was when the boy truly began to believe he’d already gone to hell.

The boy endured the beatings by curling himself up into a ball and protecting his head with his arms. The only reason he survived was the simple fact that starvation will render even the biggest man weak. And it was a man. The boy discovered that when he woke to a warm stream of stinking urine hitting his face.

Unexpectedly, the brute did not steal every piece of bread shoved through the grill. Occasionally, he would toss a piece into the boy’s corner. It was enough to keep his wasted body alive, though barely.

It was the unexpected arrival of another prisoner that saved his life.

From the moment the door opened, the boy knew things would be different. This time, in the lantern's light, he could clearly see it was a man. He was preceded by two guards dragging in a straw mattress. They didn’t speak, but each held their free arm up against their nose and mouth to avoid breathing in the stench. They threw the mattress on the floor, up against the wall, before hurrying out.

Seconds later, the man was pushed, none too gently, into the room. The door clanged shut, and the key turned in the lock. But this time, before leaving, one of the guards hung the oil lamp just outside, allowing the weak light to shine through the small, barred window at the top of the door. It was the first time the boy had even noticed the opening was there.

The newcomer looked disdainfully around the dank room and held his arm over his nose, parroting the guards. Then he stepped carefully towards the mattress and sank down, his back against the wall. For the next few minutes, there was a taut silence. Then the creature, as the boy had begun to call him, pushed himself to his feet with a growl and staggered determinedly towards the man on the mattress, clearly intending to take the bed for himself.

‘I would think very carefully before you make your next move.’

They were the first words the boy had heard in … truthfully; he did not know. He stared fearfully between his two cellmates as the creature stopped uncertainly.

‘If I die at your hands, you will undoubtedly be praying for your own death – likely for days,’ the man continued conversationally. ‘But if you leave me be, I will keep you alive.’ He turned his head towards the boy and added, ‘Both of you.’

In the following weeks, the boy became stronger. The food, while not plentiful, came twice a day and even consisted of the dreamed of cheese. True to his word, the man shared his bounty between the three of them. The boy learned that the man’s name was Pierre d’Ansouis. From his voice, it was clear he was not a sans-culotte . His clothes, though ragged, were well made, with fine cloth. He even had a coat - which he didn’t share. Indeed, it seemed to the boy that the Monsieur complained about the cold even more than the stench.

The first time he heard the creature’s voice was the first time he believed the brute to be truly human. That, and the grovelling towards d’Ansouis. It was almost impossible for the boy to believe this was the same creature who’d tormented him so. His name, or so he told the Monsieur, was Etienne Babin. He came from a village called Guisnes and was a cabinet maker by trade. He did not say why he had been thrown into prison, and the Monsieur didn’t ask.

Neither man asked the boy anything at all.

Things continued in much the same vein for the next few months. For the first time the boy knew the difference between day and night and gradually his mind became clearer as he listened to the Monsieur speak – the man did love the sound of his own voice.

And then, one night, all hell broke loose.

July 1808

The Albatross rocked gently at anchor, hidden by enormous cliffs on three sides. They’d arrived at dawn and expected to remain in hiding until their passenger arrived.

Captain Roan Carew was not good at waiting. He’d ordered the ship cleaned from forward to aft and now the brasses gleamed, and the deck had been freshly holystoned. Not that his sailors were any happier. Scrubbing the decks with the great slabs of gritty rock made for backbreaking labour. Only the promise of extra grog and a share of the prize money kept the complaining to a minimum.

Sighing, Roan stood on the quarterdeck and stared up at the French cliffs, so like their counterparts on the coast of Cornwall. From this angle, the narrow path they would bring the freed prisoner down was almost invisible. He didn’t envy those who had to make the precarious descent in complete darkness, and he suspected that more than one man would lose his life this night. He only hoped that Pierre d’Ansouis wasn’t one of them. There would be no coin for a body.

The boy was woken by the shouting and then the sound of a gunshot. Terrified, he shrank against the wall. His eyes automatically flew towards the Monsieur who was climbing to his feet in apparent unconcern. He peered through the small window, then turned towards Babin. ‘Come. Make sure you stay behind me.’ His voice was low, but the boy didn’t miss the suppressed excitement.

Without hesitation, Babin clambered to his feet and hurried to stand behind d’Ansouis. He asked no questions, his faith in the Monsieur complete. The boy watched wide-eyed from his corner.

Minutes later, there was a small woomph and the shouting became louder. Petrified, the boy climbed to his feet and watched as faces suddenly appeared at the small window. The sound of the key turning in the lock, then the door, was pushed open. ‘Follow me, my lord.’ The voice was urgent, and its owner turned away without waiting to see if d’Ansouis obeyed. The boy watched as the Monsieur immediately stepped out into the passageway, Babin at his heels. He glanced back into the cell, then, leaving the door wide open, disappeared from view.

The boy remained where he was for a few more terrified seconds until panic galvanised him and he sprinted after the disappearing lights.