Destitute On His Doorstep (21 page)

When she woke it took her a moment to convince herself that she wasn't trapped in some bad dream, but as she emerged from the mists of sleep, memories of the previous day's events came back in all their dreadful clarity.

 

It was mid-morning when she heard footsteps approaching the door. When she heard the key turn in the lock she got dizzily to her feet. The door opened and Francis was there with Justice Littleton. Justice Littleton had been in the courthouse meeting with several aldermen. They were concerned about the arrest of Jane Lucas—no one had been tried for witchcraft in Avery for five years. He had left when Colonel Russell arrived demanding to speak to him and to be allowed to see to the prisoner.

Francis had arrived back at Bilborough after spending the night at his brother's house. Alice had been present and much of what she'd had to say had been about Jane
and made no sense. Alice had told him in detail of her conversation with Jane when she had called on her the morning after the fire. She referred back to the time he had spent in Avery as Atkins's prisoner, sympathising at the treatment meted out to him and going on to say how fortunate it was that someone had gone to his aid and made it possible for him to escape from the vestry in the church where he was being held.

Francis was perplexed. How did Jane know that? How could she? He had told no one that he had been imprisoned in the church. Only one person knew the details of his escape and that person was Tom since he was the one who had made it possible. No matter how hard he had thought he could make no sense of it.

To clear his head he had walked to the paddock. Resting his arms on the fence and watching Arthur grazing across the paddock, he recalled how he had stood and watched Jane that day when they had ridden Arthur together. He remembered how she had looked, how the breeze had toyed with her hair, and how animated her expression had been. He remembered the moment when she had turned in his direction—and her face became frozen in his mind.

Suddenly it hit him why she was so familiar. ‘Tom!' He had said it out loud. ‘Good Lord!' Why hadn't he seen it before? The black hair framing the creamy visage, eyes as dark as two shining blackberries, the soft and sensitive lips. Even with the undisguised fullness of womanhood, the features were unmistakably Tom's.

A chuckle started deep in his chest. ‘Well, I'll be damned.'

As quickly as it had come, the moment of amused astonishment had left him. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her he had known she was familiar, but when he had returned to Avery to thank the one person responsible for making possible his escape, he had been looking for a flat-chested lad with short cropped hair—who was not a lad, he had just discovered, but a girl, an untried girl with a spirit he'd admired and honoured, a spirit that had not been broken by whatever had happened to her since. The girl who had risked her life to save his had become a full-grown woman—a woman who now had just cause to despise him and to regret what she had done for him that day.

He was enlightened by this new-found knowledge, but found he didn't quite know how to deal with it, for Jane must know who he was and for some odd reason wanted to keep it to herself.

When a distraught Hester and Isaac had arrived and given him an account of Jane's arrest and imprisonment, he was engulfed with a fury such as he had never known. His visage grim, he had lost no time in heading for Avery, for he was not prepared to wait for the culmination of Atkins's sadistic plans for Jane. Jane's plight shocked him more than he cared to admit, and the thought of her in some stinking cell shocked him to the core.

Jane saw Justice Littleton say something to Francis, heard the deep half-audible answer, and she felt something that had been knotted inside her for a long time release itself at the sound of Francis's voice. At the sight of him her relief made her weak in both her knees and her senses. He stood for a second, looking at her. Then,
very slowly, he moved towards her. He towered above her, and when she looked up at him she thought she had never seen him look so tall—or so pale. Or was his pallor and those deep lines at the corners of his mouth due to some trick of the light? He was wearing a plain brown jerkin over his white linen shirt, and as far as she could see he was not armed. She felt her blood pounding in her temples. Taking her hands, he drew her close, searching her face.

Seeing her in such distress tore at Francis's heart, but not so much that he had not already assessed the situation fully. The evidence brought against her by Atkins was flimsy. It was unlikely she would be tried for witchcraft.

‘Jane. Are you all right? Are you hurt?'

She shook her head, touched by his concern. After all her angry words on their last encounter, and the way she had thrown his marriage proposal back in his face, he had not abandoned her. ‘I knew you'd come,' she whispered. ‘I—I hoped you would.'

He looked into her face. ‘How could I not? I'm only sorry it's taken me so long. I was not at home when Hester came to the hall. I was staying with Richard and Elizabeth. I only got back this morning. I had left men guarding the cottage, but they were outnumbered by the mob.'

Shivering inwardly from the gruesomeness of her situation, she said, ‘I'm sorry if you've been inconvenienced, but I—I didn't know who else I could turn to. It would seem that everyone in Avery hates me.'

‘Only those who have been taken in by Atkins.'

‘They—they poisoned Scamp. Did you know?' She
spoke softly, her eyes awash with tears of grief and anguish.

He nodded. ‘Isaac told me. I'm sorry, Jane. I know how much you loved that dog. You did right to send for me.' Behind him, Justice Littleton coughed and Francis turned, his features grim. ‘I regret that you have taken Mistress Lucas into custody. Is it correct that Jacob Atkins had her forcibly taken from her house?'

‘Mr Atkins insisted that he was being a good citizen and was concerned about the possibility of Mistress Lucas being involved in witchcraft and what dangers the people of Avery were in.'

‘Atkins has nothing better to do than cause whatever trouble he can. Since when did Atkins—a man who does not live in this town—acquire the position of authority to enforce the law in Avery?' Francis demanded, trying to contain his fury. ‘Does it not strike you as odd that he has taken it upon himself to represent every member of the community?'

‘Mr Atkins was Gwen Lucas's brother who therefore considers himself a good authority on the matter. He has revealed that on her deathbed, his sister confessed her guilt to the crime of witchcraft, and that Mistress Lucas was involved. Mr Atkins considered it his duty that she be delivered into the hands of the authorities to be examined.'

Unable to believe what he was saying, Jane gasped. ‘That is not true. Gwen said no such thing. I was with her to the end—as was Mr Atkins's eldest daughter Hester. He is lying. There was no confession.'

Francis's eyes hardened imperceptibly as he stared at Justice Littleton. ‘You alone have control over the
custody and disposition of any prisoners, and Mistress Lucas has been in your custody long enough. You therefore have also the power to release her.'

‘I do, but to make such a decision may complicate a situation and make it more difficult while tempers are so inflamed.'

‘She has not been committed for trial, and, in fact, there is no evidence whatever against her,' Francis stated firmly.

‘Mr Atkins has made accusations against her and insists she must be examined for heresy. She must be investigated.'

‘To hell with Atkins,' Francis fumed. ‘There is no merit to the charge. Along with thousands of other women, Mistress Lucas is a herbalist. She does not practise the black arts. Atkins is acting on purely personal resentment.'

‘There is malice against her,' Justice Littleton said levelly. ‘For reasons unknown to me the witness dislikes Mistress Lucas. If she is indeed accursed, then it will show in her behaviour.'

‘She will not be judged,' Francis uttered angrily. ‘I believe in none of this—witches, curses and spells. Witchcraft is the gravest accusation a woman can face. A woman mired in sin, a woman given over to the devil—I have seen women accused of such take ordeals where strong men have turned away sickened. If that is what Atkins wants for Mistress Lucas, then I will see him in hell first. What does he hope for—to see her swim, or to see her burn? The man gained a name for savagery and looting in the early days of the war, and dealt his own kind of brutal justice to those who opposed him. Surely,
having known Mistress Lucas's father, and having her acquaintance for the time that you have, you will have drawn your own conclusions as to her character?'

Mr Littleton had narrowed his eyes, and appeared to be thinking intently. ‘Your arguments are not entirely without merit, sir,' he said with formal courtesy, his gaze falling on the prisoner. ‘Yet I find it strange that as her stepmother's brother, who gave you shelter when you left Bilborough, Mr Atkins has brought the charge of witchcraft against you. However, the crime of which Mistress Lucas stands accused is of a serious nature. For me to release her must necessarily cause public outcry—and I would prefer to avoid public unrest.'

‘I quite understand your reservations,' Francis agreed fairly. ‘Perhaps some form of surety might be offered, which would overcome them?'

Mr Littleton bristled, more than a little offended. ‘What do you suggest, sir? Do you have the impertinence to try to
bribe
me?'

‘I had no intent,' Francis said, keeping his voice level, his eyes direct. ‘What I offer is my word that Mistress Lucas will not leave Bilborough until this matter is cleared up.'

‘And how will you do that? Mistress Lucas no longer lives at Bilborough.'

‘She will. For her own safety I shall offer her my protection. She will reside with me at the Hall. I give you my word that there she will remain. When you have found out what you want to know, if you need to question her I shall provide her with a good defence lawyer.'

‘Pardon me,' Jane interrupted gently. ‘I have no need of a lawyer. My innocence and good faith should be
defence enough. I have not committed any of the crimes of which I have been charged.'

‘That still remains to be proved.' Justice Littleton looked from Francis to Jane and then back to Francis, rubbing a finger slowly across his upper lip, considering.

Jane's pulse was beating fast while she waited. She was trying to think logically about the situation, as a means of distracting herself from the crushing disappointment that Justice Littleton might not agree to Francis's offer, that Francis might go away and leave her in that awful place. For an overwhelming instant she thought she could not bear it.

Francis glanced at her and caught a glimpse of her face. He put out a hand and gripped her forearm. ‘Calm yourself, Jane,' he said softly.

Justice Littleton cast a wary look at them both, before his eyes became fixed on Jane and he studied her once more. Her beautiful face was framed in a halo of dark hair. It was a soft beauty that stirred even his cynical heart. He looked at Francis.

‘I am not a stupid man, Colonel Russell. The accusations against Mistress Lucas are unlikely in my mind, but that does not mean to say that I do not believe in witches. I do,' he said fairly and with complete matter-of-fact seriousness. ‘I have known some, when I was the magistrate at the Sessions held in Cambridge some years ago. Two women—they were both condemned. I just do not believe Mistress Lucas is one. She does not look capable of such wickedness. Assisting her stepmother in poisoning a woman—if that is indeed what happened—'

‘She was innocent,' Jane objected fiercely. ‘I swear she was.'

Justice Littleton regarded her with thin-lipped disdain. ‘Then why did she run away? As I was saying, assisting a person in harming another is a serious crime that cannot be acted upon without proof. There is little chance of Mistress Lucas being brought to trial in any sort of timely manner—if at all—in which case I shall agree to your offer. Perhaps it would be better to wait until dark before you leave. It will be safer then.'

‘I shall go now,' Jane retorted, stepping closer to Francis. ‘I have done no wrong. I shall not hide.'

‘Very well, if that is what you want. It just so happens we have a villain in the pillory who is attracting a good deal of interest—so maybe you will be able to get away without being apprehended. Did you bring anyone with you?'

‘Just another horse for Mistress Lucas.' Seeing the tension in her strained features, Francis took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you while you are with me.'

T
hey were making their way to the front of the Court House, where Francis had tethered two horses when they found themselves confronted by Atkins. He stepped out of the shadows. Two burly men hovered at the back of him.

‘Colonel Russell? And where are you taking the prisoner?'

Francis's eyes turned icy with the loathing he bore the other man. ‘She is not under arrest. She has committed no crime and you know it. Stand out of our way, Atkins,' he said with calm deliberation, ‘and go back to Northampton.'

Atkins faced his old adversary with all the hostility and antagonism that this man had aroused in him from the moment he had taken the sight of one of his eyes. They had fought actively in the Civil War, both escaping violent death by the narrowest of margins, seeing their fellow countrymen captured and slaughtered and an England crumbling around them into ruin. They had
seen sights they would never forget for as long as they lived, but for this moment they could forget it all and stare at each other with deep loathing, the greater issues giving place to an instinct as primeval and as animal, which drives two stags to fight come spring.

‘I thought you'd try something like this,' Atkins hissed. ‘As you see, I have taken precautions.' He made a gesture with his arm to the men behind him. ‘Return Mistress Lucas to the gaol before I have her forcibly taken back.'

‘On what charge?'

‘Witchcraft—which you know well enough. She was condemned by my sister on her deathbed, when she confessed all.'

‘Jane was with her to the end. There was no confession.'

‘She's a liar.'

Francis's eyes hardened. ‘You are the liar, Atkins. The lady whom you have so callously slandered is to be my wife, and you should know me well enough by now to guess that I am not partial to having anything taken from me by force, especially when it's something I treasure.'

Atkins's brows shot up. ‘Your wife?'

‘You heard, so you see, Atkins, you are in no position to insist on anything. I am taking Mistress Lucas to Bilborough.'

‘How very cosy,' Atkins jeered.

A cold shiver of dread had settled on Jane's chest and she was almost paralysed by fright, but she had a reflex of self-defiance, and before Francis could answer, she had stepped forwards. ‘For God's sake, stop this cruel
game. Haven't you caused enough misery? Does it not occur to you how hateful and unjust all this is?'

Looking at her, Francis thought she had never looked more beautiful. The silver rays of the sun stretching out across the sky touched her hair and set the dark strands aglow, the soft grey of her high-necked gown created a soft and lovely setting for her delicate beauty. Her striking comeliness caused the onlookers to debate the wisdom of Mr Atkins, for it was clearly evident that this was no raving wicked witch, only a pale and frightened young woman.

Taking her arm, Francis drew her away towards the horses. ‘Come, Jane. Let us be away from here.'

‘Return her to the gaol before I make you,' Atkins demanded, refusing to let all his scheming come to nought.

‘You're welcome to try,' Francis challenged. ‘But if you harm either of us, you will be risking getting yourself locked up.' Having reached the horses, he released the first from the post to which it was tethered.

Atkins sneered. ‘I'm sure my men will be anxious to help.'

‘Do they do everything you say?' Francis probed.

‘Always,' Atkins boasted. ‘I have no doubts concerning their loyalty.'

When Francis turned his back on him, totally ignoring him and his henchmen while he assisted Jane up into the saddle, Atkins thrust a hand inside his coat and brought out a thin-bladed knife. On turning, too late Francis glimpsed the evil glint of the knife being drawn back to strike a death blow. Jane screamed as Francis went reeling backward, but he did not fall. He
grabbed for his shoulder with his gloved hand as blood oozed from the wound down over his arm and chest. He grinned evilly and, unhindered by the wound, knocked the knife from Atkins's grip. It clattered to the ground and Francis placed his boot on it when Atkins bent to retrieve it.

‘Leave it,' Francis hissed, ‘if you value your life.'

With a cry of horror, Jane slipped from the horse's back.

Having witnessed the incident, before Atkins's henchmen could move to finish what Atkins had started, a furious Mr Littleton with two of the gaolers stepped between them.

‘Mr Atkins, enough, I say.'

‘Damn you, Atkins,' Francis hissed, fixing his gaze contemptuously on his old adversary. ‘I could kill you for what you've done, but I am not a murderer. Lock him up, Justice Littleton,' he ordered, as Atkins's henchmen shrank into the shadows and disappeared. ‘This man assaulted me without provocation and for that I demand that you arrest him.'

Atkins was white-faced and visibly shaking with savage temper. ‘Like hell you will.'

‘Perhaps the time spent kicking your heels in that stinking gaol to which you consigned Mistress Lucas while you await trial for attempted murder will make you rue the day you ever set foot in Avery. You have long believed yourself to be above the law and you may live beyond this day, Atkins, but I warn you. If the powers that be see fit to release you, you will leave Avery, otherwise I won't rest until I've seen your carcass buried
in a slime pit. You are now the hunted. You have ceased to be the hunter.'

Justice Littleton gestured to the gaolers. ‘Arrest Mr Atkins,' he ordered. ‘Lock him up.'

The gaolers took Atkins's arms and dragged him, protesting loudly, towards the gaol. Inwardly he seethed. All of his plans, his revenge, were falling into ruin around him. But he gathered the last of his strength as he was dragged away and shouted, ‘You're a traitor, Jane Lucas. A traitor.'

Jane was dazed and feeling sick. The shock of seeing Francis reel when Jacob Atkins had lunged at him with the knife had almost been too much. She turned from the prisoner's departing figure without so much as a pitying glance. She was satisfied that he would pay for the crimes against herself. Yet her satisfaction was marred by the fact that he had attempted to kill Francis and almost succeeded.

Justice Littleton turned to Francis, who was clutching his wounded chest with his gloved hand. ‘Atkins is in no position to trouble anybody for some time. Go home and get that tended.'

‘It's nothing,' Francis said with confidence. ‘A flesh wound—nothing more serious than that.'

Jane immediately withdrew Francis's hand from his wound and, opening his shirt, examined it. He winced slightly as her gentle fingers touched his torn flesh.

‘Justice Littleton's right. We must get you home. The wound isn't deep, but it needs cleaning.'

He managed a grin. ‘I'll go willingly, Jane, as long as you promise to tend it yourself.'

And so Jane found herself riding out of Avery at
Francis's side. She was not afraid of Jacob Atkins any more. Since Francis had held her and kissed her and asked her to be his wife, she had lost every scrap of fear she had ever known. He would be her husband. He had just saved her from a dire fate and would transport her back to Bilborough and teach her the joy of marital bliss and fulfilment as a woman. As she rode beside him towards Bilborough Hall, which because of him she would be able to call home once more, there was a warmth and lightness about her as if she would never fail to fear anything ever again.

Francis rode easily, but he continued to hold his chest where Jacob Atkins's knife had penetrated the flesh. He said nothing, and her woman's instinct warned that he was far too proud to admit to the pain it caused him, especially to her. The knowledge of his fierce pride and strength warmed her in a deep and unfamiliar manner.

 

Jane's release from gaol was greeted with great relief and excitement at Bilborough Hall. Hester's heart was sore. How close her dear friend had come to being charged with witchcraft, how close she had come to paying the ultimate price for a crime of which she was completely innocent—a charge trumped up by Hester's own father. How she hated him. How she wished he were dead so he could hurt them no more.

‘Thank the merciful heavens you're safe,' she said as she embraced Jane. ‘I've been nearly beside myself, not knowing if Colonel Russell would find you dead or in what condition you'd be.'

‘I have suffered no harm that a hot bath and some decent food won't put right, Hester,' Jane assured her.
‘The same cannot be said of your father. He has been arrested for attacking Colonel Russell.'

Hester accepted her father's arrest without emotion. ‘I see. Then if he is locked up he will be unable to harm anyone else. I shall go into Avery to see him. In the meantime I think Colonel Russell is in need of attention.'

Jane turned her attention to the wounded man, and no one noticed when Hester slipped quietly from the hall.

 

Leaving Bilborough behind, Hester strolled through fields and followed hedgerows fragrant and lush with cow parsley, Sweet Cicely, celandine and wild celery. But it was none of these that she sought. Shading her eyes from the sun's glare, she paused now and then, peering into undergrowth thick with nettles until at last she found what she was seeking.

It was a sticky, hairy plant that was found scattered throughout the land. It had stout stems and leaves with large teeth. It had pretty, long spiky flowers, the petals yellow with violet veins. But its attractiveness was deceptive, for this plant was called henbane—also called Devil's eye—often used in small doses as a sedative to help relieve a variety of afflictions. Given in large quantities it was deadly poison.

Picking a large bunch, she placed it in her basket and, light of heart, sauntered back to the house. When she had dealt with the plants as Gwen had shown her how to and she had poured the end product into a jar, she would walk into Avery, to the gaol, to visit her father.

 

Jane looked at the blood oozing through Francis's shirt. ‘Francis, allow me to dress your wound before you
bleed to death.' She looked at Mary, whose alarm-filled eyes were fixed on the wounded man. ‘I don't think it's serious, Mary, but the wound needs to be cleansed. Please fetch me some hot water and clean dressings, and ask one of the maids to prepare me a bath.' She smiled at Francis. ‘I know I should bathe first, but I'm sure you won't mind the stench of the prison while I tend your wound. I can't in all conscience leave it to fester while I languish in my bath.'

‘Do you think I have not smelled worse? Besides, I consider myself fortunate to have such a skilled healer to tend me.'

‘As to that, we shall have to wait and see. I can only hope it will not fester. It is the very least I can do, for if it were not for you, I would still be in gaol and you would not have been wounded.' And so she squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and reminded herself that Gwen had taught her how to tend wounds, and this was not the first time she had been called on to use her skills. ‘I shall do what Gwen has trained me to do. I would do the same for any man, woman or child in need of help.'

The fact that he was Francis Russell mattered to her not at all—at least, not until she found herself alone in a room with him and he put his back to the closed door. His brooding gaze sought hers across the room and suddenly the fact that he was Francis Russell did indeed matter, very much. Being alone with him was worse than unwise, it was downright dangerous. To her chagrin, she found she was unable to speak or breathe or look away. Damn him for the way he could so easily turn her composure to melted butter. She needed to think and
to endeavour to gather her wits about her. She needed to steady her heart.

‘Where would you like me to sit?' Francis asked softly, his eyes not having left her face for a moment.

Dragging her gaze away from the bloodied fabric of his shirt, Jane looked around the room. ‘Over here,' she managed to say finally, ‘close to the table, where I can have the bowl and dressings to hand.'

He did as she asked, unbuttoning his shirt as he crossed to the chair.

‘What are you doing?' she asked.

He peered at her, his dark brows raised. ‘Surely if you are to treat my wound, you cannot do so through my garment.' His eyes held a devilish gleam. ‘Unless my nakedness unnerves you,' he enquired soberly, as if that were perfectly acceptable.

Jane bit her lip and weighed the awkwardness of having him naked against the difficulty of trying to tend him with his shirt on. ‘No—of course not. Of course you must remove your shirt. I will help you,' she said when he winced on trying to pass it over his head, endeavouring to sound brusque and efficient, rather than reveal her true state of apprehension and feeling strange inside.

She moved close, close enough to feel the heat of him and his breath on her neck as she helped him remove the blood-soaked garment. It was a slow and laborious task as she helped him slide it over his head, but eventually he was free of it and was left standing before her, naked from the waist up. As innocent as she was, Jane was woman enough to deduce the sudden heaviness of his breathing was not entirely due to the pain of removing
his shirt. He was as disturbed by their nearness as she was—she saw it in the heat of his eyes.

Though there was an ugly wound above his right breast that continued to bleed slowly, she could only see his wide chest and the smooth, curving slopes of his muscles. She knew he was looking at her, but she dare not meet his gaze.

She stepped away from him while he sat in the chair, relieved when Mary appeared at that moment carrying a bowl of hot water and clean dressings and ointments, which she placed on the table beside Jane. Mary bent forwards to peer at the wound and shook her head. ‘Deep as it is, it looks clean enough, although it's going to need a stitch or two to close it.' She glanced sideways at the young woman. ‘Are you up to it?'