Crawley.
They stared at the word and shook their heads. Reverend Chittenden looked from one to another, hopelessly. Then he looked at his wife and pointed back at the word.
She started to shake her head no, then stopped. "Cranford Crawley?” she suggested.
"It would figure,” she said when her husband nodded. "He’d likely do what they wanted, for a price. For a man of God, he’s more in league with the devil."
"Where is this Cranford Crawley?” Royce asked, already straightening to leave. He was dismally aware of the time that had passed since the boys had seen the carriage leave.
“Just this side of Royal Tunbridge Wells in the tiny village of Piddenhurst.”
Royce and Conisbrough backed toward the door as she spoke and were out and mounting without a farewell. As one, they urged their horses to a gallop. The sun was turning brilliant orange to the west of them as it dipped toward the hills and trees.
They rode hard, without speaking, each man locked within his thoughts, too grimly aware of their quarry’s lead on them. There was, as Royce predicted, no sign of carriage tracks to follow. There were no tracks at all—no sign of cattle crossing, no imprint of a tinker’s shoes and his heavy cart, no dog prints. Nothing then became their trail. But darkness was falling, and soon they couldn’t see the road. Finally, after about ten miles, they found a collection of bushes and branches, all knotted together, lying in a ditch by the side of the road. "They must feel safe, now," observed Conisbrough.
Royce nodded. "Safe, and perhaps now in need of speed. Pulling that load would have been a strain on the horses. "Maybe they’re not so far ahead of us as we fear."
"Maybe," was Royce’s only reply as he spurred his tired horse onward.
Georgie stoppedthe hard-driven horses before a neglected cottage. Though evening shadows cloaked everything, Jane could discern an overgrown bed of roses just beyond the sagging fence that ringed the tiny property. The glow of a single lantern shone dimly through the smudged and dirty windows. Jane shivered at the sight, for it was not the warm glow one equated with a hospitable welcome. There would be no help for her here.
An oppressive heaviness sat in her chest. She was tired, hungry, and frightened. It took every gram of fortitude she possessed not to succumb to tears. She clenched her jaw, in her mind imagining the texture of her Ice Witch cloak. She draped it about herself, willing the rents and tears it had suffered of late to disappear. She took a deep breath.
Sir Helmsdon laid his bound hands over hers. He gently squeezed her hands, giving her what silent support he could. If Georgie and Sophie succeeded in marrying him to Jane—though what threat they would use if either said no, he was reluctant to consider—he would not be the winner he’d once anticipated. He found he admired Jane and that he truly loved her. His past protestations of love sounded hollow and false in his own ears. He knew now that it was because he loved her that he did not wish to marry her.
He eyed Sophie as Georgie went up to the cottage. There was a grim set to her mouth that warned against unwarranted heroics. If he proved too recalcitrant, he did not put it past them to find the first available plowboy to stand as Jane’s groom. There had to be a way to avoid this situation. He’d learned when the duns pressed the worst, there was always a way to avoid them. Something came about. He didn’t know what it would be, but he had to be ready to grab for it when it came his way.
Then Georgie was back, hustling them into the dimly-lit cottage.
Jane and Helmsdon strained their eyes against the gloom. There, standing by a faintly smoking fireplace, stood a stooped, straggly-haired man dressed in rusty black. He stared at them with sharp, beady eyes reflecting red coals from the hearth. He looked more like one of those religious zealots than a Church of England clergyman.
“So, this is to be the bride and groom?” he said with a laugh to match his attire. Stooped and nearly hunchbacked, he shuffled forward, cupping Jane’s face between long dirty fingers.
Jane jerked her head back, glaring at him.
He laughed again and turned his attention to Sir Helmsdon. "I’ve heard of you, sir. You will stand to profit the most from this, ah, transaction.” He canted his head slowly toward the other shoulder. "Why do you resist?”
“For the reason that I am being forced,” he ground out, “which is a circumstance that should be abhorrent to you as a man of the cloth.”
“A reg’lar little fire-eater, ain’t you? A pocket knight,” he observed, laughing again.
“Enough chatter,” Georgie growled. "Will you do it or not?”
“For a price, my friend, only for a price.”
“Well, of course! I ain’t so lost to reason.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” the man murmured, patting his pockets for the spectacles that rested among grizzled locks on his head. He finally found them and pulled them down on the bridge of his nose. He stooped to pick up a worn black Bible. "Eh, what price?” he asked, looking at Georgie sideways, a ghoul in the dim light.
“Fifty pounds,” Georgie growled.
The scraggly man putted about, muttering to himself; then he straightened, staring Georgie in the eye. "Not enough,” he said.
Georgie’s mouth worked with rage. Nothing this day was working out right. They should have been far away by now, on the road to London. He seemed ready to slug the man until Sophie laid a staying hand on his arm.
“One ’undred pounds, you old robber, and not a penny mor’r you’ll find word of your not-so-Godlike activities lodged with Bow Street,” she threatened.
Crawley scratched his whiskers. "You have a right persuasive way about you. All right, one hundred it is. But I still can’t do it if you don’t have a license.”
