Regency High Society Vol 1: A Hasty Betrothal / A Scandalous Marriage / The Count's Charade / The Rake and the Rebel. Mary Brendan
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Beldale emerald ring and wrapped it safely in her ‘necessaire’ before proceeding—a future Hurst bride might not care for a scratched or chipped ring, she told herself sadly, should their endeavour fail and any other rescue prove to be in vain.
‘One good push, Billy,’ she said. ‘Then we must rest. When I say ‘'now” you must push straight forward with me—are you ready? Take a deep breath—NOW!’
With their combined weight they heaved at the slab together. It did indeed move but, sadly, only an inch or so, and both Harriet and the boy collapsed weakly on to the sacks beneath them, neither of them capable of rational speech for some time.
Gradually, however, Harriet became aware that the deep blackness of the cellar had lightened. Only to a dark grey gloom, it was true, but light was actually penetrating through the small slit. Was it grey dusk or grey dawn? she wondered despondently, then sat up in rigid shock as she heard the unmistakable sound of a man’s voice almost directly above them. She reached out towards Billy and placed a warning finger against his mouth as her ears strained to catch the words.
‘I told her, old girl—if I want to come up home I will—I don’t need her to tell me what I can do. Look what’s happened to our little nest, love—all your dear things—gone. Soon be gone meself, shouldn’t wonder—but I’ll be with you, my Milly …’
It was Joshua Potter! In defiance of his daughter’s instructions he had come back to his old home again and was muttering away to himself as he ferreted amongst the remnants of his possessions.
Harriet pulled herself back up to the flagstones above her head and placed her mouth to the gap. ‘Josh!’ Josh! she called urgently. ‘In the scullery! Come into the scullery!
There was a deathly silence, then all of a sudden the sound of stumbling footsteps came towards their corner.
‘Milly?’ came a breathless voice. ‘Have you come for me? Where are you, lass—can you show yourself? I’m ready to come with you!’
Harriet experienced a momentary pang at having to disenchant the old man of his simple belief in his late wife’s visitation but, since he was likely to be their only hope, she resolutely dashed this feeling from her thoughts.
‘It’s me, Mr Potter—Harriet Cordell!’ she cried through the slit. ‘I am imprisoned in the cellar—with Billy Tatler. Can you see the raised flagstone in the corner of the scullery?’
Please God he has a light of some sort, she thought, and found herself sobbing with relief as she saw the stump of candle in his hand as he bent towards the gap. The flickering light was sufficient for him to see the reflection in her green eyes, now brimming with tears as she recognised his wrinkled old visage.
‘It is you, indeed, miss!’ he gasped in amazement. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you—how’d you get down there, miss?’
But Harriet had no heart to indulge in an explanatory conversation from her present uncomfortable position and begged the old man to open up the cellar hatch and, with some difficulty, eventually persuaded him to shuffle off to comply with her request. Presently, however, he came back to inform her that, unfortunately, a large mass of timber was wedged against the trap-door and that, try as he might, he had been unable to remove it.
Harriet beat her fists against the roof timbers in impotent frustration. ‘Can you not find something with which to lever up the slab?’ she called out in anguish but, as with a growing sense of hopelessness she listened to the old man stumbling about amongst the debris above them, she soon realised that this task would be equally beyond him.
‘Josh!’ she called out again, unable to bear the tension any longer. ‘You must go for help—but only to Lord Sandford—do you hear? On no account tell anyone else of our whereabouts and—please—I know it will be difficult for you—but, please—hurry!’
‘I’m on my way, miss,’ came the wheezing reply. ‘I’ll fetch himself—don’t you worry, miss.’
But Harriet was extremely worried and wondered how quickly a tired old rheumatic with chest problems could possibly cover the four miles to Beldale House—even supposing that Sandford was to be found there!
‘Will he get back, d’ye think, miss?’ asked Billy in a plaintive voice. ‘He can’t walk proper—it’ll take him forever!’
‘Well, Billy,’ said Harriet grimly. ‘We seem to have forever—we certainly aren’t going anywhere—so we’d better think of new ways to pass the time.’
She dwelt on this problem for a moment, then brightened. ‘Do you know ‘'Black Jack Ladderback''?’
‘Can’t say as I do, miss. What is it?’
‘It’s a round song we used to sing as we rode or marched along. I’ll teach it to you. It goes like this …’
‘'Black Jack Ladderback Took the acorn that he found Dug a little hole and put The seed into the ground And the sun it shone, and the rain it rained And in time it came to pass There grew beside the wishing-well An oak tree on the grass.”
And in this way she kept him happily entertained for a full hour as he learned how Black Jack saw first a branch, then a twig followed by a leaf until, inevitably, he found another acorn and the whole song was repeated ad infinitum. This revelation caused Billy great amusement and he insisted on frequent encores. Harriet, for whom the song was less of a novelty, steadfastly put away her tedium and encouraged him to sing out with gusto, all the while wondering for how much longer she would be obliged to keep up his spirits.
By way of their little gap in the flagstones the cellar had slowly lightened sufficiently for each of them to just about make out the other’s person in the gloom and this in itself was cheering. They were boisterously chanting out the words of the song for possibly the fifth time when they heard the sound of the trap-door being swung away. Harriet held her breath as she pulled Billy back into the furthest corner.
A sneering voice fell on their horrified ears.
‘Sing-song, sing-song! What a pretty sound! Here’s a little present for you!’ and a load of brushwood and bracken was thrown through the opening, followed by a considerable quantity of dry straw.
With a sinking heart Harriet realised immediately what their captor’s intention was. He meant to fire the cellar and leave them to their fate! Frantically scrambling down from the makeshift platform, she dealt firmly with her initial terror at the thought of being burnt to death and, with Billy’s help, set about dragging as much of the scattered brushwood and straw as far away from immediate incineration as was possible.
Fear and the deep-rooted instinct for survival had instantly renewed her strength and with a determined obstinacy she then started pushing all the damp and sodden sacks directly below the cellar hatch, reasoning that should their assailant be about to hurl a firebrand into their underground prison, there was an evens chance that it would land on the not-so-readily-combustible pile of vegetables. Although only a few extra minutes might be gained from such a diversion, it could be enough to make all the difference to the outcome.
She held her breath as the trap-door re-opened and, with mounting horror, she saw that the shadowy outline above them had, indeed, set fire to a tarry faggot, for its flickering light enabled her to register the man’s grinning countenance just before he tossed the kindling into the cellar and, with a snigger, slammed down the door once more.
She was certain that she had seen him somewhere before—but where? He was not the man who had directed her to ride up here—but she had no time to dwell upon this puzzle as another, far greater problem was facing her.
Sparks from the firebrand had ignited some of the scattered straw that still lay on the cellar floor and she had to engage her whole concentration in stamping out the various pockets of flame as they took hold. Billy, too, was thrashing his wet sacking at the defiant flickers that were creeping towards the dry brushwood at the far side of their prison.
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