When Elsie looked up, she found that Mrs. Clarke was watching her and nodding. “You see how you are just like me? Missed your first bleed yet? He won’t stay long past that.” Mrs. Clarke’s eyes flew to Elsie’s belly, and fear swelled inside her. If Mrs. Clarke thought her pregnant, would the housekeeper feelsorry for Elsie or think that murdering her sooner was the best course of action.
With a deepening sense of fear less for her position in the cottage, Elsie said quickly, “I’m not with child. He asked me to marry him. His Grace will be honourable. So, I’m not like the others. I’m not like you—I will be his wife. He has given his word.”
With a crowing noise of laughter, Mrs. Clarke shrieked and leant back, seeming to forget her idea about Elsie being pregnant. “They have not changed at all. Barnabas Fitzsimmons told me quite the same. And as a fool I believed him.”
“Kit means it,” Elsie said, lifting her chin up and fixing Mrs. Clarke with what she hoped was a look of her certainty. Whilst they had been talking, she had been working her hands against the bindings that held her, rubbing away with tiny movements, easing the tightness of the rope, in the hope that finally Mrs. Clarke would look away and she could move.
But now was not that moment because the housekeeper, seemingly spurred on by annoyance at Elsie’s defiance, jumped to her feet and grabbed Elsie’s face. “If you think that, then you are a bigger fool than any woman living. Why would a duke marry you? You’re no better than me.” Her dark eyebrow cocked in dismissal, and Elsie was forcefully reminded of her grandmother’s dismissals and cruel comments after Elsie’s apparent fall from grace.
How Elsie wished she could reply with the answer that formed on her tongue, “because he loves me” but the words did not come, as they were not true. So, she lowered her eyes away from the desperate insanity that seemed to grip the older woman as she waited for Elsie to admit how mistaken she was.
She tried to suck in a breath, and then Elsie saw what Mrs. Clarke had been doing. There was a low level of smoke which had drifted from the fire—it seemed that the housekeeper meant for them to die in a burning cottage. Or Elsie, at least, since Mrs. Clarke had a piece of material up in front of her mouth. The madwoman had started a fire, it was spreading rapidly, leaping from rags to curtains with an ease which was frightening.
Already it was proving hard to breathe, Elsie thought woozily.
Without wasting another moment, Elsie made for the doorway, dragging the weighty metal and pulling it behind her. The pistol lay useless and unloaded on the table, but Mrs. Clarke snatched up a wicked-looking blade. She pointed it at Elsie as she stepped in the way of Elsie’s exit. The two of them stared at each other as Elsie circled away from the older woman, putting as much room as she could between them.
“His Grace surely won’t care what happens to me if I’m nothing more than a bit of fluff.”
“Your sister killed my son, so why shouldn’t I make sure all loose ends are done with.” With that utterance, Mrs. Clarke slashed her knife at Elsie who darted backwards, her body banging into the meagre contents of the cottage, a stack of crates which toppled over, the heavy chair she was tied to slowing her down.
The doorway was on the other side of the small room, and there was not enough time without risking a stabbing for Elsie to grab the door handle and open it wide, thereby escaping out into the sandy cove. She could picture it, but when she’d taken a step closer, Mrs. Clarke had swung at her again.
“I think you wanted Peterson to grab Flora?” That made far more sense. Elsie could see that now. Flora was a lady, the sister of a duke, and of course Kit would never leave his sibling with these two. She was the logical one to snatch up, the innocent girl who had been manipulated by Peterson for months. Far more sensible than Elsie, the despoiled and unimportant child of a vicar, whose family would never know the truth of how she died.
“They protect their women as long as—” Whatever Mrs. Clarke had been about to say was cut off when the door was thrown open, and there was Kit.
Uneasy breath flowed out of Elsie, catching in her throat andforming a half smile. Even in these circumstances, she was grateful—even when she doubted, he would be much good, that any good could come of standing in a cottage slowly filling with smoke, when fire and inhalation were a risk to them all.
He had come for her. The look he gave her—one of reassurance, of grace, and dare she hope love—meant that he would always come for her.
The three of them—the occupants of that front room stood in a triangle shape, trapped between their gazes, trapped too with the solid wooden table in the middle of the cottage.
“Mrs. Clarke.” Kit’s voice came through the thick air, gravelly and severe, just as it had been when she first met him, breaking the uneasy atmosphere, pulling all focus to him. His shirt was loose around his arms, seemingly flung on in a hurry, and Elsie saw that his clothes were wet. “I see not all sense has deserted you, and she is still alive.”
Elsie wondered, if she ran towards him through the smoke, where her chest, limbs and spirit wished to be, whether she could make it in time before the blade that Mrs. Clarke wielded found its purchase in her back. Would it perhaps be worth it? To feel his strength and reassurance one last time.
Danger swelled, though, as Elsie saw that Kit carried no weapon with him. Her eyes blinked desperately, wishing to convey the threat that Mrs. Clarke posed, but seeming to be uncaring or unaware, Kit stepped farther into the cottage. He reached out his left hand towards Elsie, and the temptation to race towards him mounted. How she wanted to smell his skin, have his hands stroke her back, and most of all get out of this place of death.
“I know your son is dead,” Kit said. “I can make amends, but if you do anything to hurt my fiancée, you will never even reach a courtroom.” He was moving closer to Mrs. Clarke, placing himself between the housekeeper and the doorway. With his free hand—the one by his side—he gestured for Elsie to move towards the doorway.
Tentatively, Elsie crept forwards, edging nearer towards freedom. She had been working on the ties that Mrs. Clarke had made and was finally able to cast aside the chair.
Kit had left the doorway ajar and beyond the smoke and the blaze of the fireplace, Elsie could see the lapping waves creeping nearer. Soon the whole of the cove would be waterlogged. As soon as they were out of the burning cottage, they would be amongst the encircling cove with only a burning cottage as the safe spot.
“Come,” Kit tried again, “I will help you if you lower your weapon and?—”
Elsie saw the woman swipe the weapon in a slashing movement and turned from her task of moving towards the door. Instead, she shoved with all her might the table towards the housekeeper. It ricocheted into Mrs. Clarke with a resounding bang, sending her into the wall and out of reach of stabbing Kit. With a sickening crunch, Elsie heard the housekeeper’s skull crash into the cottage wall, and she fell down unmoving into the swelling smoke. The two of them stared at her for a moment, but she made no move, and Elsie felt sure she was gone.
Kit was suddenly by her side, snatching her up and pulling her towards the doorway.
Elsie’s breath was ragged, and their hair was frizzing because of the heat. Coughing and spluttering, the two of them staggered from the cottage, the residue of smoke clinging to their clothes and faces.
He yanked her to him, peppering her face with dirty kisses, and Elsie basked in the feelings of relief before Kit took a step back. Even in the darkness, she could see his shining eyes and the fearful calculation of what lay around them.
“I have you.” His voice was sore, rubbed raw from the smoke.
“You came.” She kissed him back. Fear and relief mingled together and made her cling to Kit, desperate for them both to be anywhere else but knowing, if these were their last moments together, she wanted to savour it.
