She pressed her knuckles into his shoulders and he set her down without a word. Then she was running across the gardens, down the flagstone paths and on toward the house.
He was right behind her when she stopped at one of the back doors. She tried the knob, but the door was locked. He followed her as she tried every door and window. They were all locked tighter than a safe.
“I’ll break a window if you want me to.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to yet. There’s one more place I need to check.” She moved to the north side of the house where the rhododendron bushes were thick as a forest and tangled with thorny wisteria that climbed up one side of the house.
She got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the bushes. The wisteria thorns were scraping her arms and snagging her hair, but she didn’t care. Because she could hear the MacOaf behind her swearing and cursing and muttering. “Ouch!”
She found the small cellar window and shoved up on the sash. It opened with a loud squeak.
A minute later they were inside the dark basement. She looked around for a lamp, feeling her way across the room. A second later a flame illuminated the MacOaf’s face and he lit a small oil lamp that was near the tin washtub.
“One would think this was your home instead of mine.”
He shrugged and she turned and led the way across the room, then up the steep wooden steps. She prayed the door wouldn’t be locked.
Again she thought perhaps luck was in her favor. But she felt her luck die the moment he followed her into the house. The place looked as if it had been ransacked.
She heard him swear viciously as he raised the lamp and light spilled across the room.
She walked from room to room, each one worse than the last. The furniture was there, but most of it was draped or overturned. In the butler’s pantry by the crystal, china and silver serving pieces and flatware were all gone.
There were broken pieces of priceless porcelain scattered all across the floors and rugs. She ran into the clock room and sagged in relief against the door.
The clocks were all still on the walls. Apparently whoever did this didn’t care about the Bayard clocks.
She hurried past Eachann and ran up the stairs to her room. Perhaps the upstairs would be untouched.
She opened her bedroom door and stood there too dismayed to move. The room was a disaster. She looked around and suddenly remembered the last time she’d been in there. She had been upset about the yellowed wallpaper. Now the yellowed wallpaper actually looked good compared to the rest of the room.
Drawers were overturned, their contents broken and scattered across the carpet. She could hear crunching glass from porcelains and broken mirrors as she walked toward the bed. She just sat there, trying to understand what she was seeing and why. Why did this happen?
Eachann filled the doorway. After a moment of utter silence he said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“No!” she said more sharply then she’d meant to. “I can’t. Not yet.” She stood up abruptly. “I came here for a reason. I’m not leaving yet.” She crossed to a wardrobe where the doors were open and her belongings were tossed about or ruined.
She spent the next hour going through the wardrobes, the drawers, the dressers, everything from which she might salvage something worthwhile. She spent another hour in the wall closet. She poked her head out once and saw that Eachann was on her bed. His arms were behind his head and his boots were crossed at the ankles. He looked like he was sound asleep.
She wasn’t likely to be fooled. It didn’t take long to pack up the few things she could salvage. She wondered who had done this and why. When she was finished, she changed into a silk moiré suit with a shirtwaist that wasn’t exactly the right match, but it would do.
She found an old hat under the bed that was the same deep color blue as the suit. She dressed with care, knowing her only hope left was John. She had to explain and hope if she looked good enough he’d be willing to forget her disappearance and the bankruptcy. By now people would know the truth.
She packed two valises and dragged them out of the closet. She walked over to the bed, where the MacOaf was sleeping. She poked him in the arm with a finger. He didn’t stir and his breathing was even and quiet.
She walked over and picked up one of the valises, walked back to the bed, and dropped it on his stomach.
“Goddammit to hell!” He jackknifed upright and shoved the valise off of him. “What did you do that for?”
She was dragging the other valise across the room. She looked up. “Stop lounging around. Let’s go.”
Then she dragged it a little farther. He got up and took the valise from her and lifted the other one from the bed with annoying ease.
Within a half of an hour they were back by the wagon, her valises loaded in the back and her hand holding her hat on her head. Someone had taken every last one of her hatpins.
The MacOaf looked at her and bowed. “Your pumpkin awaits, Cinderella.”
“My bumpkin? Yes, you are, aren’t you.” She lifted her skirts and pulled herself up onto the wagon seat.
