“What?”
“Alice stayed here today. Confidentially, I think she was expecting a visitor.”
Rhys frowned. “A visitor? Who?”
“Someone she met in town. A man.” Her voice lowered as she imparted her opinion. “I think it was too soon to be inviting him here. Sure, and didn’t I tell her so myself. But she wouldn’t listen. Hussy. And her only meeting him not much over a week ago.”
“Do you know his name, Mrs. O’Hare?”
“Made it a point to know,” she said proudly. “Alice said his name was Michael. Michael Downing.”
Rhys’s shoulders slumped. He had hoped for something more, something familiar. Why could he not understand what was happening? Was he overlooking something obvious and dwelling on the unimportant? “Did you ever meet him?”
“No. Mrs. Alcott saw him once though. She and Alice were in town on an errand and he spoke to Alice. Bold, Mrs. Alcott says. But a splendid looking man.”
Rhys was about to ask her if Mrs. Alcott had perhaps described Mr. Downing in a bit more detail when the back door was flung open and Mr. Alcott stumbled in. His face was mottled and he was breathing heavily. He leaned against the wall, clutching his crushed hat over his heart. “Mr. Canning! Thank God you’re here!”
Rhys pushed away from the table and went to the butler’s side. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
Alcott shook his head, struggling for breath. “Not me. Alice. Someone tried to…she’s in a bad way…they found her near…she’s asking for you, Mr. Canning. Not much time.”
Rhys’s insides roiled. “You’ll take me to her?”
Alcott nodded. “Right away, sir.”
Rhys held the door open and followed Alcott outside. Alcott’s horse was lathered but he refused to take the time to harness another. “Have to return the animal anyway,” he told Rhys. “Borrowed it. Mrs. Alcott is waiting with the buggy and one of your horses is still hitched to it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out of town. Follow the Charles.”
Rhys was unhappy with the pace Alcott set but he had no choice but to keep his horse in check. Alcott was exhausted and doing the best he could to ride and answer Rhys’s questions.
“Mrs. Alcott and I were in Cambridge, visiting her sister,” he explained. “We were just about to take our leave when a young man announces himself without even so much as a knock on the door. He tells us there’s been a horrible thing happen along the river and the girl was asking for us. Poor Alice.” He shook his head sadly. “She didn’t have anyone except us to turn to. Knows we spend our days off in Cambridge though, so that was lucky. I don’t think she knew quite where to find you. Mrs. Alcott and I went with the boy right away. He took us to his father’s farm, not much above twelve miles from here. Said he found Alice when he went fishing, lying curved against a rock. Barely able to keep her head up. Arms and legs bound, then bound together, bending her like a bow.”
Rhys listened to the remainder of Alcott’s recitation with a growing tightness in his chest. If Alice had suffered so at the hands of the abductor, then what of Kenna? He would not allow himself to consider the possibility that she was already dead.
When they arrived at the farmhouse Rhys was immediately shown inside and led to the back bedroom where Alice lay. She appeared to be sleeping but when he knelt beside the bed her eyes fluttered open. For a moment they were dull with pain, then she recognized him and they cleared. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Rhys thought he was prepared to see Alice after listening to Alcott’s description of her condition but he realized nothing could have prepared him for this. Her face was lacking all color though a livid bruise circled her throat like a choker. Her thin arms, lying outside the blanket that covered her, were all that Rhys could see of her body. It was enough. They were marked with ugly scratches. Her left arm was held at an awkward angle and Rhys sucked in his breath as he saw that it was broken.
“Mr. Canning.”
“Shh, Alice.” He touched her head gently. “Don’t talk.” No matter that he had a hundred questions for this girl, there was nothing he would ask of her now.
Tears appeared in her eyes. “Must,” she whispered. “Mrs. Cann…”
Rhys said nothing. He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the tears that slid over Alice’s hollow cheeks.
“It was my Michael. Sorry. So sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“Don’t hate me,” she begged piteously.
“I don’t, Alice.”
“He didn’t want me. Wanted…her.” Her voice faded and Rhys had to lean closer to catch her next words. “She knew him. Called him Mason. I wanted you to know.” She coughed and gasped for breath, looking to Rhys wildly for help, fear clear in her eyes. He reached for her hand and felt her squeeze his fingers in an amazingly strong grip.
