The Heart's Companion - By Holly Newman Page 0,72

Lady Elsbeth standing there.

"I was certain you’d have come and gone before I arrived."

"We would, but we don’t know where to go. Chitterdean knows, but his voice is gone. Conisbrough’s untying Mrs. Chitterdean now."

Lady Elsbeth, portmanteau in hand, glided over to Reverend Chitterdean’s side. "He’s burning with fever. Help me get him to the sofa to lie down."

She fluffed a pillow behind his head and covered him with a blanket. "He seems lucid enough. Have you asked him to write their destination down?" she asked matter-of-factly as she rooted in her bag for a particular vial of medicine.

Royce slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "No!"

"I’ll fetch paper and pen," said Mrs. Chitterdean, coming down the stairs before Conisbrough. The little woman moved with a brisk efficiency, every line in her body rigid with anger over their ordeal. She swept past them all into the reverend’s study and returned moments later with an old, well-scarred lap desk.

"Here, dear," she said, placing the desk on his lap and laying out paper on it. She even dipped the quill in the ink bottle before handing it to him.

With a hand shaking from high fever, Reverend Chitterdean laboriously scrawled his message. His handwriting was nearly illegible. It was with agonizing slowness that letters took shape into a word.

T u n b r i d

"Royal Tunbridge Wells!" Lady Elsbeth said excitedly.

Chitterdean nodded and collapsed back against the cushions, then almost immediately leaned forward again to write.

Crawley.

They stared at the word and shook their heads. Reverend Chittenden looked from one to another, hopelessly. Then he looked at his wife, and pointed back at the word.

She started to shake her head no, then stopped. "Cranford Crawley?" she suggested.

"It would figure," she said when her husband nodded. "He’d likely do what they wanted, for a price. For a man of God, he’s more in league with the devil. "

"Where is this Cranford Crawley?" Royce asked, already straightening to leave. He was dismally aware of the time that had passed since the boys had seen the carriage leave.

"Just this side of Royal Tunbridge Wells in the tiny village of Piddenhurst."

Royce and Conisbrough backed toward the door as she spoke, and were out and mounting without a farewell. As one they urged their horses to a gallop. To the west of them the sun was turning brilliant orange as it dipped toward the hills and trees.

They rode hard, without speaking, each man locked within his own thoughts, too grimly aware of their quarry’s lead on them. There was, as Royce predicted, no sign of carriage tracks to follow. There were no tracks at all—no sign of cattle crossing, no imprint of a tinker’s shoes and his heavy cart, no dog prints. Nothing then became their trail. But darkness was falling, and soon they couldn’t see the road. Finally, after about ten miles, they found a collection of bushes and branches, all knotted together, lying in a ditch by the side of the road. "They must feel safe, now," observed Conisbrough.

Royce nodded. "Safe, and perhaps now in need of speed. Pulling that load would have been a strain on the horses. "Maybe they’re not so far ahead of us as we fear. "

"Maybe," was Royce’s only reply as he spurred his tired horse onward.

Georgie stopped the hard driven horses before a neglected cottage. Though evening shadows cloaked everything, Jane could discern an overgrown bed of roses just beyond the sagging fence that ringed the tiny property. The glow of a single lantern shone dimly through the smudged and dirty windows. Jane shivered at the sight, for it was not the warm glow one equated with a hospitable welcome. There would be no help for her here.

An oppressive heaviness sat in her chest. She was tired, hungry, and frightened. It took every gram of fortitude she possessed not to succumb to tears. She clenched her jaw, in her mind imagining the texture of her Ice Witch cloak. She draped it about herself, willing the rents and tears it had suffered of late to disappear. She took a deep breath.

Sir Helmsdon laid his bound hands over hers. He gently squeezed her hands, giving her what silent support he could. If Georgie and Sophie succeeded in marrying him to Jane—though what threat they would use if either said no, he was loath to consider—he would not be the winner he’d once anticipated. He found he admired Jane and that he truly loved her. His past protestations of love sounded hollow and