Then, as she sat, she was sure she heard a creak. Spinning about, she assumed it was from the corridor. Was someone coming at last, answering her pull upon the bell, or had they heard her shouts?
The creak came again.
But it wasn’t from the passageway—at least not the one beyond the door.
In horror, her gaze fell upon the panel in the wall.
Chapter 20
Someone was there.Rosamund knew it. On the other side of wall.
Quickly, she pushing the nightstand sideways, in front of where the panel would swing open into the room.
If someone wished to enter, it wouldn’t stop them for long, but she'd gain some time.
No sooner had she done so than she heard a click and the panel sprung forward half an inch, hitting the obstacle before it. There was a muttered curse and whoever was behind gave the panel a shove. It opened another inch and the tips of three fingers appeared.
Without pausing to think, Rosamund pushed the door with all her might.
There was a bellow from the other side and the fingers retreated.
With her heart thumping in her chest, Rosamund looked about the room. Most of the furniture was too heavy for her to drag but she managed to lift the dressing table stool.
Placing that beside the nightstand, she shouted, “Go away.”
It was ridiculous, of course—as if whoever it was would politely do so.
All was quiet. The person was still there, Rosamund was sure; probably thinking what to do next.
How long did she have until they tried again?
Or, would they simply come around another way and unlock her door?
Whatever their intent, she was sure it was evil-minded.
The only other way out of the room was through the window. Throwing it open, she looked out.
There was a ledge that looked to run all the way past the rooms on this side, with a low balustrade, about a leg’s length under the window. Mightn’t she jump down and shuffle along, hoping to gain entry through another window left ajar?
Even if she managed it, what then? Who would she go to for help? Mrs. Penhorgan, or Jenny? Would they believe her? That someone in the house intended her ill?
She only wished she knew who.
Mrs. Cornwort perhaps—or Madame Florian? She hadn’t observed the Frenchwoman leave the abbey. Mightn’t she be here still?
Rosamund fought to remain calm.
Hurriedly, she shrugged off her dressing gown and put on a woollen skirt over her nightdress, then a jacket, fastening as many buttons as her trembling fingers would permit. There was no time for stockings. She simply shoved her feet into her boots and tied the laces at the top.
She would try at least.
Perhaps the best thing would be to leave the house altogether—right away, if she could. Walk to the village on foot. Find the vicarage. Beg a lift to Weymouth.
There was no time to pack a bag but her skirt had a single pocket. She opened the leather box containing the ruby set, pushing the heavy jewels down deep, and placed her purse on top.
All the while, Pom Pom had been sitting on the bed, watching as she dashed about the room.
She couldn’t leave him.
