Chapter Twenty-One

‘S hould we not alert the local constable?'

Samuel shook his head at Charles's question as they made their way along the rough track which led to the cottage where Hope's father lived. Information about the precise whereabouts of Jeremiah Sloane's abode had been difficult to come by. No one living in the scattered collection of low stone dwellings which made up the hamlet of Lillybeck seemed particularly willing to acknowledge that they knew the man, much less part with the details of where he might be found.

The offer of a few coins, however, had sufficiently loosened tongues, leading Samuel and Charles to an isolated spot on the very fringes of an already remote community. Although Lillybeck lay only miles from Hayton, it was far enough beyond Liddell land for Samuel to feel quite unfamiliar with this corner of Cumberland. Quite simply, it was a place he'd never had reason to travel to—until now. His scant knowledge of the area made him feel decidedly uncomfortable, as did the warning he'd received from the frail old man who'd taken Samuel's bribe for information. A warning which now rang in his ears.

‘Have a care, sir. From what I hear Sloane is sickening, but I dare say he's still a dangerous man. Whatever your business is with him, if you know what's good for you, you'll keep one hand on your pistol.'

Samuel had thanked the man for his advice, before enquiring if he knew anything about Jeremiah Sloane's daughter. ‘Perhaps you've seen her recently,' he'd probed. ‘I heard that she'd returned to Lillybeck.'

‘If she has then I pity the poor lass,' the man had replied, shaking his head sadly. ‘She ran away from him years ago—no one knew where she went. If she's come back then I doubt it'll have been willingly.'

Samuel shuddered at everything those words implied before glancing at Charles, who looked at him expectantly. ‘No constables,' he said, finally answering his friend's question. ‘From what Hope said, her father supplies his wares to some of the so-called great and good around these parts. If he's got magistrates in his pocket, then he's likely got a few constables in there too. I think we have to proceed without the help of the law, for now at least.'

‘I don't like the sound of that,' Charles replied.

‘Neither do I. But needs must.'

‘So, what is the plan, Sammy?'

Samuel let out a long breath as he drew his horse to a halt. They were near the cottage, although now that he'd laid his eyes on it, Samuel felt that calling it a cottage afforded it too grand a title. It was a crumbling, ramshackle place, barely fit to house livestock, never mind people. Around it the grass grew tall, its days as grazing pasture for sheep clearly a distant memory. Near the rough track on which they now stood, lay the detritus of what would have once been needed to run a small farm: the rotting wood of abandoned carts, the remnants of broken fences and pieces of scythes and other tools, long since forgotten. The whole place reeked of neglect and decay. Samuel swallowed hard as his gaze wandered towards the tiny windows of the cottage. He prayed to God that Hope was indeed inside, and that she was unharmed.

‘We leave the horses here,' he said, dismounting and leading the creature to a nearby tree, before tethering him carefully to its thick trunk. ‘We approach quietly on foot and try to get a look inside the cottage first. We need to assess exactly what we're dealing with.'

Charles nodded his agreement, and together they crept towards the decrepit building, using the tall grass to shield them. If the situation had not been so grave, Samuel would have found the sight of the pair of them laughable. Well clad in fine riding coats and Hessian boots and sneaking towards a place which was the rural equivalent of the slum houses found in larger towns and cities, they looked just about as out of place as it was possible to be. As he tiptoed along, it struck Samuel again just how acutely aware Hope must have been of the difference between their worlds. The poverty and hardship she had known stood in such sharp contrast to the sumptuous comfort of his life at Hayton Hall.

A fresh wave of guilt washed over him. His life, and by extension the life he'd offered her these past weeks, must have seemed utterly intimidating. She must have spent every day feeling like a fish out of water. Little wonder she'd struggled to bring herself to tell him about it. Little wonder she'd felt the need to pretend to be someone else.

Well, there would be no more pretending now, on either of their parts. When he reached a little window, he made a silent vow. He would find her and bring her safely back to Hayton, and he would offer her a life, with him, for ever. A life they would share and build together.

He just had to find her first.

‘I can't see her,' Charles whispered as he peered tentatively through the window. ‘The place is deathly quiet. I don't like it.'

Samuel found himself bristling at his friend's poor choice of words, before taking a look for himself. Sure enough, Charles was right—even in the dim light of the single-room dwelling it was evident that Hope was not inside. He cast his eyes around, taking in the simple, sparse furnishings, the bare stone walls, the last remnants of a single tallow candle, left burning in the middle of a table. Someone had been there, and not so very long ago from the looks of it.

‘If this place is anything to go by, I'd say crime doesn't always pay,' Charles whispered. ‘I always thought smuggling was a lucrative trade, but it seems not.'

‘It's a cut-throat enterprise,' Samuel replied. ‘Some win and some lose. It looks like Jeremiah Sloane has been on the losing side for some time. Hope said he runs some illicit stills from nearby caves too. However, that old man told us that his health is failing. Perhaps his business has been failing at the same time.'

Out the corner of his eye, Samuel caught sight of something, like a flicker of movement on the ground. ‘What's that?' he hissed. ‘See there—behind the table? It looks like a boot.' He squinted, trying to peer through the gloom and murk to see more clearly. ‘I think it's...it's moving. Someone is in there, lying on the ground.'

Instinctively, he darted away from the window, rounding the cottage and heading towards its single wooden door. If it was Hope and she was bound or, God forbid, injured, then there was no time to lose. He'd detected no other signs of life within. If she was alone, then he had to rescue her before her father returned. He had to get her away from this dreadful place—now.

‘I think it is a boot,' Charles hissed, scurrying behind him. ‘But Sammy, it might not be...'

Charles's words were cut short by the loud thump of Samuel's boot as it made contact with the door, followed by the brittle crack of the old wood as it gave way feebly to his force. Samuel hurried inside, Charles still following him, to be confronted by a scene which made them both gasp loudly. Beside the table, a man was lying on the floor, groaning softly, his limbs twitching and his eyes rolling as he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness.

Samuel bent down, his gaze immediately drawn to the large bloodstain which was growing across the man's filthy shirt. ‘It looks as though he's been shot,' he called, looking over his shoulder at Charles, who lingered behind, looking distinctly pale about the face.

‘Should I send for a physician?' Charles asked.

Samuel looked back at the man. He suspected there was no time for that—the man was in all likelihood mortally wounded and would be dead by the time a physician arrived. However, Samuel decided, they had to at least try.

‘Yes,' he began. ‘Perhaps ask that old man...'

‘No...' The man's voice was raspy but insistent. ‘I'm done for.'

‘Are you Jeremiah Sloane?' Samuel asked, his shock at the scene he'd uncovered abating, and the urgency of finding Hope gripping him once more. ‘Where is your daughter? You must tell me, man. Tell me now!'

A sliver of a smile appeared on the man's weathered face. ‘You must be Samuel,' he croaked. ‘She really must have been like a harlot between your sheets if you want her back.'

Samuel felt the heat of indignation rise in his chest at such a remark—uttered by her father, no less. The man really was the lowest of the low. It was a mystery to him how such a person could have sired such a lovely, brave and intelligent daughter.

‘Where is she?' he repeated, through gritted teeth this time. Samuel was not a man to allow his temper to get the better of him but, even so, he could feel himself close to losing it.

Jeremiah Sloane coughed weakly, causing blood to bubble up and trickle down the side of his cheek. ‘George has her,' he wheezed, his eyes rolling again. ‘They've gone north.'

‘North?' Samuel repeated, his heart lurching as all that those words implied became clear. ‘You mean to Gretna? To wed her?' he asked. Hope had never named him, but he realised George must be the terrible forced fiancé she'd described.

‘Doubt...he'll...do that.'

Jeremiah Sloane's breathing grew laboured now, and Samuel realised they were almost out of time. If Hope's father would not part with his knowledge before slipping away to meet his maker, then their chance of finding Hope might be lost. She might be lost to him, and that was a thought he truly could not bear.

‘Then where?' he prompted, hearing the desperation in his own voice as he shook the man by his shoulders in an effort to rouse him one final time. ‘Damn it, tell me!'

‘Rockcliffe.'

The word was a whisper, barely audible. Jeremiah Sloane choked again, then let out one more whistling, agonising breath. His bloodied body grew still and limp, his grey, leathery face freezing in a contorted expression, eyes wide, lips parted in an O shape, as though death had come as a shock. As though, perhaps, he'd glimpsed something on the other side that he had not wanted to see. A gruesome testament to a lifetime of wickedness, law-breaking and cruelty, indeed.

Samuel got to his feet, turning away from the grim scene at last. ‘Let's fetch the horses,' he said to Charles, hurrying towards the door. ‘You must find the local constable. It's clear Jeremiah Sloane has been murdered, and we have a duty to report it. Do that, then return to Hayton, to your sister.'

‘I thought you said not to involve constables, that Sloane had the law in his pocket around these parts?' Charles asked, frowning.

‘Then if that's the case, hopefully they will be motivated to bring the killer to justice,' Samuel quipped. He sighed heavily. ‘Honestly, I don't know, Charles. I only know that we must report what we have found here, immediately. To do otherwise might bring the law's suspicions down upon us.'

Charles grimaced. ‘All right, point taken. And what will you do?'

‘I must ride for Rockcliffe at once.'

‘But where the devil is Rockcliffe?' Charles asked him, following behind. ‘And who is this George her father spoke of, anyway?'

‘A monster, Charles,' Samuel replied, recalling again Hope's words about the man her father had tried to force her to marry. Shuddering, he glanced back into the gloom of the cottage. ‘One monster is dead, and now Hope is in the clutches of another. I must follow the road north, find Rockcliffe and this George, then I will find her. There is no time to lose!'

Samuel ran along the uneven track and back towards his horse, the same silent prayer circling around in his mind.

Please God, let me find Hope , he prayed. Let her be safe and well. Let her come home with me, so that these malevolent men might never try to harm her again.

Hope winced as the cart jolted on the road, the sudden movement making her already pounding head ache all the more. Despite herself, she let out a sob, partly at the pain and partly at the shock of it all. Tears ran unabated down her cheeks as her mind replayed all that she'd witnessed once again.

The way George had waltzed into the cottage so casually, as if he owned the place. How he'd licked his lips when he'd looked at her, an unmistakably greedy look lingering in his dark eyes. The way her father had scurried over to him like a beggar asking for his supper, pleading for reassurances that his debt was now settled. How George had refused to answer him, laughing and shoving him out of the way as he'd marched over to claim his prize. The way her father had begun to wail and yell like a man overcome by the realisation that he could never win. How that screaming had caused something in George to snap. How George's cheeks had flushed with anger, a cloud gathering over the already foreboding features of his angular face before he swiftly drew his pistol, took his aim, and fired.

How Hope had watched as her father tumbled quietly to the ground, his desperate wailing replaced by the soft moans of a man whose life was ebbing away.

When they'd left the cottage, Jeremiah Sloane had still lived—just. As George had untied her from the chair, unbound her feet and hands and dragged her away, Hope had been gripped by the most overpowering urge to run to her father's side. To remain with him in his final moments. To not let him die alone. It was strange. After all he'd done to her, Jeremiah Sloane deserved neither her concern nor her care, and yet both feelings had plagued her. His cruelty and callousness were unforgivable, but in the end the brute he'd become had been subsumed by an even greater monster—a leviathan who'd enfeebled him, who'd preyed on his weaknesses as age, debt and misfortune consumed him bit by bit. She would not mourn her father but, inexplicably, she realised that she did pity him. Better that, she supposed, than pitying herself. She would not surrender to such feelings. At least, not yet.

‘Stop weeping, or else I'll give you something to weep about.' The monster spoke without even looking at her, his eyes intent upon the road ahead. He sat close by her side on the bench at the front of the cart, his hands firm upon the reins of the single horse which pulled them along. He'd left her feet unbound but had tethered one of her wrists to the cart, subtly enough that it would not be noticed by anyone else on the road, but firmly enough to ensure she had no chance of getting away. Not that she had any intention of trying to leap on to the road and run—she'd already seen what a good shot he was, and any such attempt to flee would undoubtedly be answered by a bullet from his pistol.

Hope straightened herself, fighting back the last vestiges of her tears. He was right; she did need to stop weeping. The options for escape, she knew, were vanishingly small as it was, and would certainly be undetectable if she was too busy crying.

‘You already did—you killed my father,' she retorted, mustering a feistiness she did not truly feel. Better that, she decided, than allowing him to sense her fear.

‘Ha!' He glanced at her, baring his yellow teeth and grinning in amusement. ‘I've done you a favour there, trust me.' He reached out, placing his hand upon her knee and giving it a firm squeeze. ‘Do as you're told, and you'll have a better life with me than you ever did with him.'

Even through the fabric of her dress, the feeling of his fingers made her skin crawl. Hope shivered, partly at his unwanted touch and partly at the cold which seeped increasingly into her bones. She wore only the plain blue day dress which she'd been wearing when her father had snatched her from Hayton Hall, and although its sleeves were long, its fine fabric was insufficient against the autumn chill. She was sure she'd been wearing a shawl in Hayton's gardens too, but when she'd awoken at her father's cottage it had been nowhere to be seen. Obstinately, Hope stiffened—against the monster's touch, and against the cold. She would not allow this man to detect even a hint of her discomfort, lest he perceive it as a weakness to exploit.

‘And what does this better life entail?' she asked him. She gave him a haughty look, once again masking her fear as her father's warning about being drowned in the river rang in her ears. ‘Because I had a perfectly good one, without my father and without you.'

‘Which life would that be?' Briefly, he took his eyes off the road, looking at her with a gaze so dark it appeared almost black under the gloom of the surrounding trees. ‘The one you spent on stage, or the one you spent at Hayton Hall, playing the harlot for its master?'

Hope scowled at him—better that than allowing the fresh tears which pricked in the corners of her eyes to fall. When her father had made similar insinuations, she'd protested. Now, she decided, she would hold her tongue. Allowing this dangerous, evil man to know anything about Samuel, about how much she'd adored her short time with him or about how much she cared for him, could put him in danger, and she would not be able to live with herself if anything happened to him. Better to let George believe that she'd spent these past weeks being ill-used than letting him know she'd spent them falling in love. A love, she reminded herself, which was lost to her now, even though she would feel it deeply to the end of her days.

‘My life in the theatre, of course,' she lied, meeting his eye. ‘A life in which I did no man's bidding.'

‘Aye, well, you'll do my bidding now,' George snarled at her.

‘As what?' Hope challenged him, although she hardly dared to ask. ‘Your wife, or your harlot?'

George returned his eyes to the road. ‘I've not decided,' he said coldly. ‘But, either way, you'll be running contraband and having my bairns, Hope. That's what I've got planned for you.'

Hope looked away, biting her lip so hard that she might draw blood. All the pity she'd fleetingly felt for her father simply disappeared as she faced up to the sort of life the man had condemned her to, and in its place her anger grew. She'd spent her formative years living with a man who used fear, threats and sometimes violence to get his own way, and she was damned if she was going to spend the remainder of her life with another such man. She was damned if she was going to be forced into committing crimes or going to bed with a man who repulsed her. Frankly, she decided, she'd rather he did just drown her in the river and have done with it.

But first, she vowed, she would defy him every step of the way. She would use every opportunity she got trying to regain her freedom. Starting right now. Hope wiggled her bound wrist, straining against the rope, carefully trying to tease it loose without him noticing. She would bide her time, she would play the hand she'd been dealt, and when the right moment came along she would seize it—just as she always did.