She angled her head around, trying to take in as much as she possibly could. To her horror, she saw behind her that this cellar had not only been used to keep wine. In the wall was an iron chain and manacle. It was just large enough to chain up something or someone.
Who or what was kept in here?
Then there was a sound somewhere nearby. A door had opened.
Margaret strained against the ropes keeping her wrists bound to the arms of the chair and her ankles to the legs. She pulled as hard as she could, but she couldn’t even work the ropes loose.
There were footsteps now, of someone walking down a set of stairs toward her.
They’re coming. Will it be those men? What do they want?
All sorts of horrible ideas as to why they had taken her filled her mind. It made her frantic, pulling as sharply as she possiblycould. The ropes now cut into her wrists, cutting into her skin so sharply that blood was drawn. She didn’t care or hesitate, she just moved faster, the terror overtaking her.
Another door opened, the creak sounding so close that Margaret’s whole body started to shake.
“There’s no need to be afraid.”
That’s a woman’s voice.
Margaret fell still, the blood now dripping between the ropes on her wrists as she looked toward the open door. A cloaked figure had entered, the face impossible to see with the lantern over her head and the hood pulled so low.
She stepped further into the cellar, her hands now visible beneath the cloak. She wore fine rings on her fingers, her hands showing signs of age with a few wrinkles beneath the knuckles. What struck Margaret the most was how calm she was. Those hands didn’t fidget once, neither did her fingers tremble.
She is certain of her actions.
“Who are you?” Margaret asked, her voice surprisingly croaky. “What do you want with me?”
“To protect you, of course.”
“Protect me? From whom?”
“From the demon.” The figure jerked her head back. The hood trembled a little, but it didn’t fall. “I wish someone had extended the same kindness to me, so I could escape his father. No one was so charitable to me. I had hoped you’d be thanking me.”
Margaret said nothing but splayed out her fingers as much as she could, intimating her tied position with blood pooling around her wrists.
“It was a necessity.” The figure shrugged. “I could not be certain how you would respond.”
“Then release me now.”
“I need to know you won’t return to the demon. Then you will not run to him.”
“Demon? What demon?” Margaret murmured in panic, shaking her head. This woman had to be mad. Perhaps she believed in the occult. It was surely the only sensible explanation for this madness.
“Theodore, of course,” she said simply, her voice light pitched and almost nonchalant. “Have you not seen how much he is the devil’s spawn?”
What?
Margaret’s jaw dropped.
“He spent many an hour chained here.” The figure jerked her head toward the manacle in the corner of the room. “I thought it would urge the devil out of him. I even brought priests here, to exorcise him, but it never worked. He had too much of his father in him. Too much of the devil.”
“Wait…” Margaret now realized where she had heard the voice before. It had been impossible to identify before, thanks to the pounding pain in the base of her skull, but now she remembered that fine accent and husky voice. “You’re… his mother?”
The cloaked figure stepped forward and dropped the hood. It was indeed Catherine Notley, the Dowager Duchess of Thornfield.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Catherine stepped forward, her hood now around her shoulders.
