With a wince, the Reverend handed the reins to Seth, expounded the events at the cottage and gave him his instructions. Then he steered his now very subdued offspring towards the ominously closed front door.
‘Mayhap we should go straight to bed father,’ offered Chastity, clearly anxious to avoid their stepmother.
‘Without any supper?’ responded Charity with a frown.
‘I’ll starve and die a skeleton if I don’t get anything to eat,’ complained Prudence.
‘I want my supper,’ wailed Anthony clutching at his blanket.
‘Fiend seize it,’ muttered Patience bringing up the rear, out of her father’s earshot obviously.
Just as they reached the entrance, the door was flung open, and a wild-eyed Percy appeared. Indeed, he looked as though he was about to make a run for it.
‘What the deuce are you doing Percy?’ demanded the Reverend. ‘Did you give Agnes her salts?’
‘Don’t you give me that bag of moonshine Percy Noon,’ came a screech behind him causing the Reverend to swallow nervously, his earlier pint curdling ominously in his stomach.
‘You tell me where my son is right now, or you’ll wish you you’d never been born.’
Percy groaned and without speaking, tossed the bottle of salts at the Reverend and disappeared out into the night.
‘Thunder an’ turf,’ muttered Augustus Shackleford. He stared longingly after the fleeing curate, wondering for a second if he should take a leaf out of Percy’s book.
But hiding in the deuced vestry wasn’t going to get him out of the basket. His wife could carry on her Friday face for months if required.
Squaring his shoulders, he thrust the youngest four siblings through the door in front of him, much in the manner a battering ram, then he coughed and called, ‘Dearest, I’ve brought him home. Anthony is here.’
‘Anthony,’ screamed his mother, picking up her skirts and running towards her pride and joy. Indeed, the Reverend had never actually seen her move at such a pace and couldn’t help wondering if she’d actually be able to stop. Just in case, he steered his offspring to one side.
Unfortunately, the recipient of her attentionchose that moment to burst into tears and tell his mother he’d nearly drowned and been turned into some porridge.
‘Ghoul,’ muttered Prudence, ‘not gruel.’
‘Oh, my darling boy,’ wept Agnes, who not only succeeded in stopping before she crashed into the front door, but actually managed to get down on her knees. If the Reverend hadn’t been so concerned about how she was going to get back up again, he would have been quite impressed. He did think briefly about slipping quietly away while she fussed, but unfortunately after barely a minute of enduring her smothering, Anthony decided enough was enough, and fighting his way clear of her tearful embrace, dropped his blanket and announced that he was now ready for his supper.
Deciding the gallantry was clearly the way to go given that the alternative was to leave her by the front door for the rest of the evening, Augustus Shackleford stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Dearest, let me help you to your feet,’ he murmured solicitously.
‘Don’t you dearest me Augustus Shackleford,’ his wife snapped, nevertheless grasping his proffered arm. ‘If anything had happened to my darling boy, you’d have been meeting your maker minus your demned head.’
After that, there didn’t seem to be anything else to say, and fortunately Lily chose that moment to announce that dinner was served.
∞∞∞
Hope’s first thought as she drifted back to consciousness was that she finally realised how Lord Northwood must have been feeling. Indeed, she couldn’t help wondering if her head was about to fall off. Her second thought was that she felt sick and with that her eyes flew open, and she promptly cast her account all over the breeches of whoever was seated behind her. For seated she was. On a horse.
‘Blast and bugger your eyes,’ swore a voice crudely as a pair of hands shoved her forward towards the horse’s neck. With the realisation that the beast on which she sat was actually moving, Hope threw up again, now consumed with a white-hot fear. Instinctively she began to struggle against the hands that held her, all the while looking around her wildly.
‘Give me a bloody hand will yer?’ a voice ground out behind her, yanking the horse to an abrupt stop. ‘If the bitch flashes ‘er ‘ash agin, I’ll toss ‘er on ‘er bloody ‘ead.’
Hope’s vision finally cleared and through the darkness she could just make out two more horses picking their way along the path to the right and behind. As they got closer, she recognised the man riding the first horse as the swarthy stranger from the cottage. He was holding a lead rein tethered to the horse behind.
On which, a clearly insensible Gabriel slumped forward, his body strapped to the saddle and his arms tied around the horse’s neck.
Hope did her best to stifle a cry.
‘Why the bloody ‘ell don’t we just kill ‘er?’ her captor was saying. ‘She can’t cry rope if she’s pushing up bloody daisies.’
His companion drew to a halt and handed over a soiled rag. ‘John said to keep ‘er alive ‘cos it gives us a bit o’ summat extra to bargain wi’ if ‘is nibs tries anything.’
