Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

H e had changed. He'd been nearly thirty when she married his uncle, yet a selfish boy weary of living on his uncle's sufferance, wheedling for a raise in his allowance, for a piece of the property to sustain him. Leda had heard the rows rising from her husband's library when Eustace's debts and scandals grew costly.

There were whispers about him, too, worse than Bertram, who was ever dabbing his wick in places it wasn't wanted. There'd been a woman in Eustace's village, a woman known for bartering her body to keep her children fed, found strangled early one morning behind the pub. There'd been a girl, a younger sister of a woman Eustace was courting for marriage, who'd been bundled away swiftly to a faraway school.

There was a little scullery maid, freshly hired, who had come to Leda with a bruised wrist the morning after Eustace ended a visit and said, not meeting Leda's eyes, her mum was ill and she was needed at home, directly, to see to the babies. Leda, still na?ve then, had let her go, but had felt the urge after to look up the girl and help her household, except no one could say exactly where she lived, where she had come from, or where she had gone.

Eustace, a colder, older Leda now knew, was a worse monster than Bertram had been: the cast and mold of his uncle, but without the thin veneer of respectability, that slim leash of caring what his neighbors thought, of pretending he could demand their respect. Eustace did not care for anything but his own desires.

He breathed heavily as he regarded her. He had gained two stone in weight in the years since she'd seen him, had gone from stocky to portly. His cheeks flushed as his eyes moved over her, lingering on her bosom. He licked his lips.

"Hello, Auntie. You've been a difficult woman to find."

The opening of the nearest tunnel was some distance from her, an open maw gaping in the shaved white sides of the cliff. Grasses and weeds grew up the sides of the bank, just as shrubs and small trees had begun filling the basin, nature creeping over the scars left by man. There was one lane into the pit, and Eustace stood in the center of it, trapping her as if she were a vixen at bay.

Leda hugged her arms across her chest. "You were never supposed to find me. They were to say that I died."

He held a riding crop and tapped it lightly against one bulging thigh. His boots were crusted with sand, the tails of his coat damp with mud. It had been him on the beach that morning. She hadn't been seeing apparitions, not Nanette, and not him. She was sane as the morning.

"And yet here you are. In the living flesh," he said. She shivered at the way he examined her, his eyes dark and beady, cold yet covetous. Tap, tap went the whip.

"You little fool," he added. "Living buried in Bath all this time? I was going to rescue you from the madhouse, you know. Only needed a bit of time past to make it seem respectable. My mourning over. You recovering your wits. I would have made you a very pleasant offer."

He lumbered closer, and Leda sidled away. He smelled like must and old sweat and spoiled mutton.

She must not anger him. He was big, and he was angry, a giant badger to her field mouse. "How very generous of you. I hope you are well-settled now. Married? Any children?" The thought of any woman having to submit to Eustace revolted her, but she had felt the same of Bertram and survived.

He huffed, the sound not of amusement. "Imagine my surprise, after all this time, when I went to a wedding in Cheltenham and heard all about the friend who had advised the bride to take her groom. A handsome woman named Leda, with a crown of dark hair and violet eyes. An interesting description, I thought. How many women have I known with violet eyes? And I wondered, has my dear aunt arisen from her pauper's grave?"

Leda gulped down the lump in her throat. "You came to Bath looking for me."

He loomed. "Where is the boy, Leda?"

Her throat closed. There would be no swallowing anything. "Ives—the boy died. I killed him, remember?"

"Then why would your cook and that feral bitch of a housemaid run away? She wouldn't let me touch her, though my uncle enjoyed her now and again."

Bertram had "enjoyed" many women. Leda doubted they had enjoyed him.

"They ran because I was mad, and a killer." If she reminded him of her crimes, he would back away. He would leave.

He would not demand anything. And he would not send her back to the asylum. The mouth of the tunnel was nearly at her back. She would never enter a place like that madhouse again. She would bury herself in this hill first.

Eustace snorted. The sound might have been a laugh; his second chin shook. There was no way to dart around him, and if she tried, she would not get to the horse in time. He had a longer reach, with his whip. She could only retreat.

"You'd best come with me," he said softly.

Cold brushed the back of her neck, the continuous wind, bearing the chalky damp of the hill. "I don't see why."

"They won't take you back. Not that old beldame in Bath. Not after I told her about you."

"What did you say?"

"No more than the truth." He sneered. "But why go back to her when you've made yourself a nice nest here. A baron to keep you, mad as he might be. I suppose you think it a good trade."

He could hurt Jack because of her. Fear lodged high in her chest, cutting off breath. "He's a friend of the family. I've only come for a visit."

"He won't want you now. Not after he knows. And I'll make sure he does." He whispered the whip against his breeches, leather upon buckskin.

"What do you want, Eustace?"

"The boy, first. And then I have other demands."

"The baby died. You said I killed him. You swore before the magistrate that I stabbed him when he emerged from the womb, and that accounted for the blood."

"Then I wonder why the man at the White Hart says you send so many packages to Tytherton Kellaways. And I found your sister in Chippenham—so surprised was she, to learn her dear Caledonia was not dead after all! There were many to say they'd seen a violet-eyed woman and a lordly kind of man walking Maud Heath's Causeway that day."

"No one would know the shade of my eyes from that distance," Leda said weakly. Her sister had spoken to Eustace? Then she had also told their parents Leda was not dead.

And if she lied about her own death, she might be lying about Ives. He could hunt him down so easily, Eustace and his dogged greed. He stepped closer.

"You didn't kill a babe any more than you killed my uncle."

His nasty smile poured a cold shower of horror down her spine. "I didn't? Then who did?"

"Oh, I'm sure any number of people had it in for that rat-faced bastard. It's a blessing to the world someone blotted him. And enough time has passed, I'll forgive his mad wife. I'll take in his poor, sad relict and give her a home." He leered. "I am certain I can teach her to please me."

The triumph in his gaze alerted her. It was the only explanation that made sense, really. "You killed him," Leda whispered.

His eyes narrowed to dark slits, like the eyes of a snake. "You'd best keep that between us. For you're the one to benefit, after all. You'll be the mistress of Norcott Hall again, but with a young and fitter husband, one who forgives your madness. You'll have all that you wish if you prove a good, smart, quiet, loyal little wife."

Fear dug talons into her throat. He was so close. "I won't marry you, Eustace."

"You were supposed to marry me." He lashed his leg with the whip. "You were supposed to be sleeping your nice little laudanum nap while I took care of things for us. But no, always a meddler, weren't you? Had to come downstairs and surprise me. I had to put the knife in your hand. You're lucky you didn't fall on it and kill yourself while you stumbled around in your fog. A hard one to put down, you are, Caledonia Hill."

She hadn't killed Bertram. She hadn't murdered anyone. Leda's heart beat so fast the rush of blood made her dizzy. "Why would you tell me this?"

"Because a wife can't testify against her husband in court. No one will believe you anyway. I'm the generous one, taking in a poor, mad woman whose family won't have her back. Giving her a home. And she'll show her gratitude." He leered, his hot breath wafting toward her. "I'll breed my own children on you, proper heirs, and you won't dare shame me, will you? You know what it's like to be a woman alone, at the mercy of her own wits. Best cast yourself on my mercy instead."

He put a hand to his groin, adjusting himself inside his breeches, aroused by whatever images his words conjured in his dark mind. Shame and fury scorched Leda's cheeks. It was the same threat he'd made when he saw her carted away to the madhouse, her wrists bound in chains. He would never make such a gesture before a lady.

He would never admit his crimes, either, not where they could come back to him. He didn't mean to marry her. He didn't mean to let her live. He wanted to confirm where Ives was, and then he meant to kill her.

"You don't have the mercy of a stone," Leda said. She turned and plunged into the tunnel.

"Get back out here," Eustace roared. "I'm not going to chase you." She heard the slap of his crop against his thigh as he vented his frustration. He would use it on her if he could.

Eustace was afraid of the dark; she knew that. Leda wasn't. She had made friends with the dark as a girl, all the nights she sat curled at her window weaving dreams from the stars. She had made cold truce with the dark in the madhouse, where they took away the candles for fear of fire.

"What do you suppose you're doing, you foolish bitch? You have to come out sometime."

But she didn't. She could wait him out. She could stay in here until she fainted of thirst, and then she would crawl out on her knees, triumphant.

"Caledonia Toplady!" he bellowed.

The tunnel she was in went straight for a while, casting a dim carpet of light before her. Gray sparks glinted from the walls now and again, like secret eyes. The floor wasn't smooth, clods of chalk breaking apart beneath her boots, dust sliding along her soles. She put a hand to the wall so she could find her way out. Just like walking a hedge maze. The earth smelled fresh and damp and powdery, like Jack's brick mixture.

Jack. If she died here—if she died in the tunnel like a rat, or Eustace found and killed her, which would be worse—how would Jack know what had happened? He would know only that she had left him. Like Anne-Marie.

Her heart jammed in her chest. Of course, she had left him, but she meant to send a long letter explaining why. Because he had not trusted her with the truth about Nanette, and she knew she deserved that. She had not trusted herself.

But she wasn't a killer. She could scarce wrap her mind around this new reality. She'd never lost her senses and attacked a man with a knife. She'd been drugged, and Eustace had murdered Bertram.

Of course . Why hadn't she seen that all along? She wasn't strong enough to drive a carving knife through a grown man's ribcage. The worst she could have done is nicked his skin even if she penetrated the thick cloth of his coat. It took another man, younger, stronger, full of murderous rage. The man who stood to gain everything if Bertram died.

As long as Bertram's so-called heir died with him.

A string of curses exploded behind her, Eustace's voice a bit muffled. "That ties it. I'm coming in after you. And you're not going to like what happens to you if you don't meet me halfway."

That was a laugh. She wouldn't like what he would do to her in any circumstances. She had thought Bertram's use of her something to endure. Eustace would hurt her and delight in her pain. He was that way.

She bit off a cry as she collided with something, a hard jab of wood against her shoulder. She felt along the surface with her hand, the light too dim to make out much. A plank of wood propped up the ceiling. Perhaps the roof of the tunnel was weaker here. She squirmed around the brace and kept going.

Behind her another curse ricocheted, an echoing quality to it. Eustace was in the tunnel.

Leda pushed herself on, keeping her breath shallow and remembering to pick up her feet so a stumble or pant didn't tell Eustace where she was. She'd said goodbye to her parents ten years ago, when they married her to Bertram despite her tears. She'd said goodbye to her sister when the locked door closed on her in the madhouse and she knew her family would try to bury the shame. There were only a few others she'd miss.

There would be no one to tell Mrs. Blake and Betsey and Ives, unless Jack eventually learned of her fate, buried in this hill, perhaps if a stoat or a polecat found and ferreted out her bones. The women would protect Ives to adulthood and set him on the best path they could, she had to die believing that, but she would never live to see fruition of her plan.

And Jack. She would never be able to tell Jack she loved him.

She would never see him repair his relationship with Muriel, or see Ellinore and Nanette flourish in his protective care. She would never know if he succeeded with his dratted bricks. Lady Plume would find a replacement companion, of course. The social round of Bath would go on. So would life at Holme Hall and in the Smithdon Hundred, and they might speak of Leda Wroth once in a while as that West Country foreigner who visited for a time.

Would Jack fall in love with someone else? Marry and be happy with her? Would he ever find a governess who would suit Muriel and teach her aright?

The tunnel forked, and Leda paused. To one side, her left, lay a faint sliver of light: daylight. She could head that way, escape. Take Eustace's horse and Pontus and ride—where? Anywhere. Back to the farm she had passed on the way. Could she escape outside without his hearing her? He blundered behind her, swearing, trying she guessed to worm his bulk through the small tunnels. If he saw her leave, he could follow and catch her. She was safe in here.

Right it was. She kept her hand along the wall, wincing when her palm grazed a sharp outcropping. She was shredding her gloves. She wished she could tell Jack: she wasn't a murderer. She wasn't mad, perhaps never had been. If she could escape, if she could tell a magistrate what had happened, Eustace would be tried and hanged for a murderer, and the house—what would happen to the estate? Could she persuade the justice to give it to Ives?

She would try. She would live, and she would try. She had to find a way to outwit Eustace.

"Leda? Leda! Where are you?"

Her knees went weak at the sound of Jack's voice. Jack was in the chalk pit. An intense joy flooded her chest and, for a moment, overswept her good sense. "Jack!" she screamed. "I'm in the tunnels!"

"Caledonia!" Eustace roared from behind her.

Leda whirled and scurried deeper, away from him. She tripped over another wooden plank holding up the ceiling, recovered herself, moved on. She could not go back that way. There was air in here, dank, ripe with earthen smell, and these tunnels would not have pockets of poison, not like a mine. But her breath grew short nonetheless, panic using her air. She must escape Eustace and get to Jack.

"Who is that? Who's there?" Jack called.

Leda shrieked as a sudden shower of pebbles rained on her. "Don't come in here!" she screamed to Jack.

"Time to come out, come out of the hill, Caledonia!" Eustace shouted behind her. "Run to your lover's arms. See what he thinks when he sees the thing you truly are."

"At least I'm not a killer!"

"Then you didn't murder the boy. I knew it. Where is he, Leda?"

She pressed a fist to her mouth to keep herself from screaming, wasting more air. He could not hurt Ives. She would not let him. The tunnel kept curving—she could tell by the tilt of the surface—and she had no sense of direction. She couldn't go back; Eustace was coming. And she couldn't get out.

He could get out first, get his horse, escape. And find Ives.

"You have to stop him, Jack!" Leda called.

"I will. Come out of there, darling. Those tunnels are—there's good reason they stopped digging. Leda, please. Come to me now."

The wall fell away and she groped in darkness. She was lost in blank space, teetering. She put her arms out, afraid to fall, more afraid to stay where she was. Another groaning sound, then the creak and crack of wood. Eustace was blundering his way toward her, pushing down the wooden supports as he went, as unstoppable as a maddened bull.

You must get out of here . But how?

She wanted to sob, to scream, fall to her knees and beat the earth. She couldn't lose her mind, not here, though everything was so dark it robbed her breath, dulled her hearing. It seemed a great echo rose about her, the earth itself growling.

Think, Leda . You escaped a madhouse. Think .

She couldn't throw a shoe out a window. Jack wouldn't see it. She held very still, breathing. Think .

The king under the mountain would awake one day when he was needed. She was needed. She needed to arise. How would the king know?

She held still and felt it: the cool touch of air on her cheek. Left cheek.

She turned, spread her hands out either way, and found the edge of the tunnel, the branch with the breeze. She plunged into it.

"What the devil?" Eustace cursed. "The bloody ceiling is coming down! Leda, what did you do ?"

She felt the shake and the shudder, then an odd hollow thump. There was hardly a noise as the earth swallowed. But she smelled it, heard the ground behind her collapsing, felt the dust drifting from the tunnel behind her, airy and light.

"Leda!" Jack bellowed. "The hill is caving in. You need to get out now. "

She ran. Rocks collided with her feet, the edges of flint stabbed her palms, once she hit her head on a low outcropping and saw stars dance across her vision. She paused and shook her head until the ringing cleared. But it wasn't a ringing, just a slow rumble. Gathering behind her. On her heels.

" Leda."

The tunnel turned sharply, and she crashed into the side. A swift, sharp slice on her cheek, a sudden sting. Her toe throbbed. She groped with her hands and saw the turn, the oval of light. She threw herself at it. And then, as the oval started to shrink, a dark curtain falling before it, she threw her arms over her face and dove through.

"My God. My darling. Leda."

Jack had her. Jack scooped her up and before she could find her feet she was pressed against his chest. So sturdy, so firm. So warm. He smelled like currants. He clamped one arm like a band around her and the other pushed through her hair, then across her face. His knuckles slid through the damp on her cheek, came away bloody.

"Oh," Leda gasped. "I'm bleeding."

"You're alive. Come away now."

Before she could squeak he swept a hand beneath her legs and lifted her in his arms. Leda clung to his shoulder and watched as the hill caved in. Not a landslide, like when a chunk of sea cliff fell into the water. Just a maidenly sigh as a sinkhole formed in the green dome above, and one tunnel, then another beside it, fell in like a closing mouth.

Leda clung to Jack's shoulders. "Eustace is in there."

"Who?"

"My nephew."

"How did your nephew get in there ?"

"Because he was following me. Jack, he murdered Bertram, and he was going to murder Ives, and possibly me. We have to save him."

" What ?"

She struggled against his grip. "I can't let him die in there. He's Bertram's flesh and blood."

"You stay here. Not another step." Jack threw the words at her as he set her on her feet, his jaw clenching as he turned toward the walls of chalk. "Don't you dare go back inside."

"Don't you go in, either. What if more collapses?"

"Hallo in there!" Jack framed his mouth with his hands. The shout echoed around the pit, ringing with shrubs and greening trees, the dome of the gray sky pressing down like the lid of a teapot. "Can you hear me? Any chance you survived in there, mate?"

They waited. Jack held Leda's gaze. She scrubbed her face. Her gloves were tatters, her hands filthy, and she smeared dirt in the cut on her cheek. Brilliant. She must look a madwoman indeed.

"Leda…" Jack took a stick and tested the fall of dirt and white chalk that filled the mouth of the tunnel. "If he survived the cave in, I don't know that we can dig him out before he suffocates."

She curled her hands into fists, her palms smarting and raw. A great tremor seized her, like a terrier shaking a rat to break its neck. Cold followed in its wake, as if she were caught in an undertow. "We must try."

Jack bolted forward and caught her just as she fainted.