“My shoulder!” she groaned. Setting Portia on her feet, Justin could see the hollow place where her shoulder had been pushed from the socket.
Portia practically screamed.
“I’ll fetch the doctor,” Mrs. Norris said.
“No, you won’t,” Justin replied, doing his best to maintain some measure of calm. “The rain is coming down harder and the longer this is out of the socket the more difficult it will be to put back in.”
Mrs. Norris raised her eyebrows, understanding what he was insinuating. She opened the door as the company, now drenched from the heavy rainfall, fell back into the foyer. “Bea,” Mrs. Norris said, “go and find Dolly. Tell her to send for the doctor and not to waste a moment’s time.”
Bea hesitated for a moment, but set off when Justin shouted, “Go!”
Portia lay on the floor, sobbing and clutching her arm. Rivulets of water and sweat were pouring from her forehead. Justin knew how painful a dislocated shoulder could be. He’d done it one sweltering summer in India during routine training. He’d helped set a few in his day, but it had been over seven years.
“Portia,” Justin said, keeping his voice low. “I need you to take a few deep breaths for me. The next part will be difficult, but I promise that it will bring near instant relief.”
She did not reply, instead holding her arm and nodding. She’d gone a deathly pale color. Mrs. Norris and Justin got her into a sitting position on the floor. “Mrs. Norris, remove your belt, please,” he said, and the old woman went to work undoing the buckles, the jangling of the keys and Portia’s ragged breathing echoing off the walls.
“Here you are,” she said, handing the belt to Justin.
Sighing, he held the belt up to Portia’s mouth. “Bite,” he told her. She needed no further instruction. Taking the bits of leather between her teeth, Portia closed her eyes and clenched her jaw.
Justin took her delicate arm in his hand, bending the elbow. “On the count of three,” he began, and Portia nodded her head. “One… two…”
On the two, Justin rotated her arm and felt the click as joint met bone again. Portia let out a ragged scream as her shoulder was popped back into place. Justin swallowed his own urge to yell and was heartily relieved when the joint appeared to be normal.
“My God,” Mrs. Norris said. “These girls will put me in an early grave at the rate they’re going!”
“Don’t…” Portia said. “You need to go.” Her dark-blue eyes focused on Justin’s. “You need to go; she’s trapped.”
“Blessed angels!” Mrs. Norris’s voice rang like a bell. “Trapped, you say?”
“I’m going after her,” Justin replied, throwing open the door so violently the frame shook. Buttercup was waiting sedately, blowing hard after a long run. Without ceremony, Justin swung up onto her back, well-practiced after the last few weeks of riding, and kicked her back into a gallop.
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Norris was shouting, but the rain and wind drowned out her voice quite quickly. If Cordelia was trapped, he needed to get there, and fast.
Chapter Nineteen
Cordelia wriggled hertoes in her leather boots, relieved when each one responded. Next were her fingers, which were white and shaking as they clutched the red cherry wood box to her chest. They responded in kind, as well.Thank goodness, she thought to herself, and then,if only I could stand.
There was a constant drip which was falling on her chest, the cold chilling her body as the damp spot grew. Inhaling the sickly sweet scent of rotting wood, Cordelia took in her surroundings. She’d fallen flat on her back and was staring up at cracks of gray light coming in through the clapboard wood panels, like a pair of poor shutters.
There was enough space over head to lift up her arms, which moved with very little pain. Turning her head to the side, she could almost make out a shape in the semidarkness. Narrowing her eyes, she saw that it was a box; a long, thin pine box that had weathered with age and mold. She shuddered as she realized that it was a coffin.
Without difficulty, she turned her head to the other side and saw that another coffin was laid to rest beside her. If she reached, she could brush her fingers against it. The lines from the previous riddle sang out in her head once more: “You’ll find me among friends…”
“Portia!” Cordelia tried calling, but her voice was hoarse. Her already tender ribs were now smarting against the confines ofher corset. She’d been in such a rush to find the abbey that she hadn’t even allowed herself to change into proper clothes. Sitting up on her elbows, she was relieved to see the small cherrywood box she’d uncovered from behind the vicar’s pulpit was still intact, sitting listlessly on her stomach, exactly where thexhad been marked on the map.
“Good,” she murmured to herself, running her hands along the box.
Cordelia was sore all over as she did her best to sit up. She’d need to be laid up in bed for a week after this. But there was a sense of relief as well. As soon as they were able to break into the small box, she and her sisters would be free. The thought heartened her and she did her best to stand.
But as soon as she tried to move her leg, a lightning strike of pain made its way from her ankle and up her back. Crying out, Cordelia leaned over to see what the problem was, then swore loudly to herself. Her foot was trapped under some rubble.
“Portia!” Cordelia screamed again. The drip that was falling onto her chest was becoming more insistent, a little stream of water. Was she alone?
Cordelia’s heart began to pound as she realized the seriousness of her situation. What good was having found the Rothesay treasure if she were dead?
“Cordelia!” The voice was so faint, she was not sure if it was real. But there it was again, this time more insistent. “Cordelia!”
