Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron: includes all of Julia Quinn's text, a pride and prejudice fanfic

Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron

by Mrs Sarah Gorely

Chapter 1

It was a dark and windy night, and Miss Priscilla Butterworth was certain that at any moment the rain would begin, pouring down from the heavens in sheets and streams, dousing all that lay within her purview. She was of course shielded from the weather in her tiny chamber, but the window casings rattled with such noise that there would be no way she would find slumber this evening. Huddled on her thin, cold bed, she could not but recall all of the events that had led her to this bleak spot, on this bleak night. But this, dear reader, is not where our story begins.

We must begin at the beginning, which is not when Miss Butterworth arrived at Thimmerwell Hall, nor even when she arrived at Fitzgerald Place, her home before Thimmerwell Hall. No, we must begin on the day she was born, in a small cottage in Hampshire, surrounded by roses and butterflies, on the last day before the town was ravaged by pox.

The epidemic took her beloved father, but miraculously spared the baby and her mother. Also among the fallen were her paternal grandmother, both grandfathers, three great-aunts, two uncles, a sister, and a second cousin. The Butterworth family, well respected in the area though never rich, were hence all but wiped out by the dread disease. Oh but that that bucolic community had only heard of Dr Jenner's work with vaccination – but tragically it came some years too late for them to benefit!

Mr Butterworth, though a gentleman, and distantly related to a Baronet via his grandmother, was not rich. He had some small investments in shipping, but supplemented his income by writing. He was commissioned to write books on behalf of those who wished to promote themselves but were not adept at silky prose, which he referred to as "ghost-writing" in that he never appeared in person, or was given credit. Such books might be family histories, some veracious, some bordering on the fictional; others accounts of travels abroad, or of the glories of a certain estate and its landscaping. When such work was not available, he wrote lurid gothic novels under a pseudonym: "ghost stories", as he used to chuckle, savouring the play on words perhaps beyond what was reasonable.

Mrs Penelope Butterworth was beyond grief-stricken at her bereavement, for not only had she lost her beloved husband, and her second child Portia, a darling blonde girl of but two years old; but her eldest son Perseus had caught the pox himself and had been gravely ill, recovering after only many weeks but with his face and body sorely ravaged by the scarring. Furthermore, their pretty little cottage with its beautiful flower-strewn garden was only rented, and without the income from her darling husband's writing she knew not how she was to support her tragically-diminished family. The anxiety, the terror of being destitute played heavily upon her mind and body and, being unable to afford a wet-nurse, she was unable to nourish poor Priscilla as she would have wished. The infant did not thrive, she was small, and weak, and she seemed listless, when she was not crying. Her wails tore at her mother's loving heart, and oftentimes she would weep uncontrollably for her little one's distress which she was quite incapable of succouring.

Moreover no one in the little village of Chawton where they lived could aid them, suffering as they were themselves with the loss of so many of their own relatives. Mr Butterworth's family were all gone, his father John had had nothing to leave him, having lost everything in an ill-advised shipping venture some years previously, and his younger brothers, now deceased from the terrible disease, had not had a chance to make their way in the world before being struck down! Only Mrs Butterworth's mother remained, and she was frail, and lived many miles away in Cambridgeshire. Oh that her father had not been visiting them when the epidemic began! Mrs Butterworth felt the weight of guilt for asking him to stay bearing down upon her, and multiplying her grief and fear for the future.

The shrunken family struggled on for some time in their lovely little cottage. The baby Priscilla did not die, as Mrs Butterworth had dreaded, and the apothecary had foretold with gloomy visage. Nonetheless she stayed small, and walked late; perhaps in compensation she talked early, and once she had started never stopped. Her brother Perseus loved his sister, and talked of her as "my baby" because he, of course, was now the man of the family, albeit being only five years her senior.

The next tragedy to strike the little family was the complete failure of Mr Butterworth's investments, with the loss of almost all the capital, due to a tragic shipwreck. This income almost completely dried up, and Mrs Butterworth had to dismiss their only maid, and perform all the menial duties herself. Eventually, however, and in spite of Mrs Butterworth's economies, around the time of Priscilla's fifth birthday there was nothing with which to pay the rent and the little family were evicted by their heartless landlord. They were, as Mrs Butterworth had long feared, homeless and destitute!

There was nothing for it but to throw themselves upon the mercy of Mrs Butterworth's mother. How they made the trip to Cambridgeshire fortunately the young Priscilla never fully knew, for even after selling off their pitiful remaining possessions to raise a few shillings, they must needs travel as outside passengers on the coach, and the wind was biting, and their clothing threadbare. It rained, and they shivered, but Mrs Butterworth protected the children with her own body as best she could. When they finally arrived in Abbotsley, near St Neots and many miles west of the great university town of Cambridge, several days later, she could barely stand, and once she had ensured her children were inside the house and safe she collapsed, and spent the next week with a severe lung fever, for most of the time barely conscious, writhing and tossing and calling out for her dead husband George as if he could come back and save them. Priscilla's grandmother despaired of her survival, and twice begged the vicar to come and bless her when all seemed lost.

However, recover she did, and after a lengthy period of convalescence, she set out to find some other way of supporting the family. After much fruitless searching she was able to find only lowly work as a straw plaiter, though she had not been trained in the art, and hence she could only work the simplest of articles and her income thereby suffered. Further, she had to walk to St Neots to deliver her plaits and collect more straw, which took up time, and wearied her. Even at age seven, Priscilla knew how keenly her mother felt her descent in the world, and how she suffered on behalf of her children who would never have the privileges she had enjoyed before she was widowed.

Perseus tried so hard to help his mother, but with his ravaged face no one wanted to employ him in any work that would be visible to the public, lest his appearance terrify customers. The best he could find was to clear the waste from a local enterprise which kept chickens and turkey-fowl and pigeons. It was vile work, and close and dusty especially in the pigeon lofts, but it seemed that it was all that there was for the disfigured boy.

In spite of this, there simply was not enough money coming in to manage. Not when Grandmother's cottage was so old, and the roof leaked; and Grandmother was ailing and needed medicines which they could ill afford. Eventually when things grew so bad that the roof needed major repairs, Grandmother had to sit down with her daughter and tell her the unpalatable truth that they could not go on as they were. Priscilla was listening at the door, and heard it all. They were going to have to beg a distant cousin, a Mr Brocklehurst, to take Priscilla in. Mrs Butterworth wept, and argued, and grew angry, but it was no use. Even she could see there was no other option.

So letters were sent and received, and the day finally came. Priscilla's mother could not face the heart-rending parting, and so Grandmother had to enter the hired carriage with Priscilla and her few meagre belongings, and make the journey yet further north, up the Great North Road and into Lincolnshire with her. The carriage was old, and poorly-sprung, and the horses well past their prime, but eventually the gates of Fitzgerald Place hove into view. Priscilla was frightened, and her Grandmother guilty at the task she must perform, so almost the whole journey had passed in silence.

Eventually they drew up at the forbidding portico of the house. The carriage door was opened; they stepped down; the pitiful bundle of Priscilla's possessions was handed down from the roof, and the two of them stood and looked at each other. They could find no words. Priscilla saw tears running down her grandmother's face. Suddenly the older woman gulped hard, turned, and abruptly entered the carriage. She rapped on the wall, and the driver clicked to the horses who began to move. Priscilla could see her face through the grimy glass, stiff and unyielding as the carriage rolled away.

'Grandmother! Grandmother! Don't go, I beg of you. Please, please don't leave me here all by myself.'

Priscilla stood in front of the great house for several minutes, a small lonely figure watching her grandmother's hired carriage speed down the lane and disappear from view. She had been left on the doorstep at Fitzgerald Place, deposited like an unwanted bundle. And no one knew she was there. Her grandmother had not even knocked upon the door to alert her cousins of her arrival. She was but eight years old.

Priscilla, lying uneasy in her bed, broke off from her reverie at a terrifying sound which burst upon her, even outdoing the moans of the wind and the rattling of her ill-fitting window. It was a deep, mournful groaning sound, pitched so low it seemed it must come from the very bowels of the underworld. She clutched her thin blankets closer to her slender frame and shivered with fear and terror. Dare she look beyond the little window to try and discern the origin of such an unearthly howl?

It came again, louder than before, but somehow seeming no nearer. Priscilla screwed up all her courage and slipped daintily to the floor, her small pale bare feet making no sound on the rough boards. She leaned forward to the diamond-patterned glass, screwing up her eyes in an effort to penetrate the stygian blackness outside. There were only vague shadows discernible in the pathetic light cast by her solitary tallow candle, just the wild swaying of branches, and a few stray leaves blowing past as if the hounds of hell were chasing them.

Then she saw them, for the first time. Eyes! Glowing, red eyes, hovering as if suspended in the air, unblinking, malevolent. Priscilla started, stepped back in horror, falling backwards onto her bed and barely keeping hold of her candle. She threw herself under the covers and shook, praying as hard as she could, trying to comprehend how she could have fallen prey to such horrors, waiting for the next baleful moan.

Minutes passed, and there was nothing. Then, gradually at first, the rain began. Small drops clattering against the glass, then within a score of seconds huge gobbets of water, slashing at the walls and window, forcing their way through the cracks in the glass and running down the stone to the floor and disappearing through the boards..Priscilla warily peeped out from beneath her bedclothes and saw the torrents racing down the window. She again crept across to the glass and tried to peer through but there was nothing. No shapes could be discerned in the mad rush of the storm, no figures, and above all no eyes.

Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat raced less furiously, gradually she calmed herself. No good would come of searching in the night, she told herself firmly. Whatever it was has vanished into the tempest. You should go back to bed and try to sleep, or if not, make a plan as to how you may escape from this place. But sleep would not come, and her mind would not focus, and again she found herself slipping back into the past.

The abandoned eight-year old stretched to reach the great brass knocker but she was too small, even on tiptoe. She tried to knock on the oak panels with her little gloved hands but they made almost no sound. She tried again with her glove removed, but it was little better. She felt tears coursing down her cheeks, in spite of her resolution to be brave. No-one would hear her; she would have to sleep on the step, she thought.

But then the resourceful little girl had an idea. She would knock with her wooden doll; that would make a sound that would attract attention from the house! Eagerly she pulled the doll from her bundle and with a quick apology in case it hurt her, she rapped with the doll's head on the forbidding entrance.

Was that a sound within? It was! At length the door swung open to reveal a tall man dressed in severe black and white.

'And whom may you be?' boomed her interlocutor.

'Miss Priscilla Butterworth,' came the subdued reply. 'I am to live here with Mr Brocklehurst.'

'Are you indeed? We were not expecting you today.'

Priscilla did not know what to say. She kept silent, and stared up at the man, who must surely be Mr Brocklehurst's butler.

'I suppose you must come in,' he said eventually. 'Make sure you wipe your feet thoroughly.' He turned, and once Priscilla was across the threshold, closed the door and marched off down the hall. She was left to follow, trailing behind clutching her bundle and her doll, her eyes switching left and right in awe as she passed one forbidding portrait after another.

Priscilla's memories of Mr Brocklehurst's residence, Fitzgerald place, were somewhat sketchy. The overwhelming feeling was one of being unwanted, which might account for the lack of detail in her recollection. The housekeeper Mrs Snowden was slightly less unbending than the butler, and there was at least adequate food – though nothing beyond plain fare for her. Mr Brocklehurst was a clergyman of austere views, and the rector of two large livings from parishes some twelve and forty miles distant. However he employed curates at the lowest salary possible, and never bothered himself with actual services or sermons, let alone visiting the poor or needy in his cure.

He believed strongly in the old-fashioned dictum that children – especially children that were charity cases – should be seen and not heard, and it took many a set of raps over the knuckles before Priscilla's talkative soul was silenced and she learned to keep her teeming thoughts to herself. Besides, she had red hair, and freckles on her nose, which were not at all the thing, and rendered her not just second-rate but possibly fourth-rate.

Priscilla was accommodated in the nursery, and took all her meals there. There was a governess who attended upon Mr Brocklehurst's children, a boy of fourteen who was deemed too sickly for school, and a girl of thirteen. Both saw themselves as far too important to bother with their much younger, but more significantly, poor, distant relation, and ignored her almost the whole time, except as it might be to tease her cruelly for some trifling mistake she made in speech or action. The governess spent almost all her time with them, and Priscilla was left to her own devices in her corner of the room, or told to read improving books such as Mr Bunyan's great allegory, or to copy out great swathes of instructional material of severe moral tone.

For the most part, therefore, she read: Mr Brocklehurst's library was extensive and although there were no children's books as such, she was able to find atlases to inform her of the world, and books about Britain's history, and poetry, even if she did not always comprehend them fully at her tender age. She liked the few books with pictures, such as Astronomy treatises with star charts, and books about those who had visited Rome, or Jerusalem, or Casablanca, and had architectural drawings to show for it. Occasionally she was able to open her window late in the evening and compare the sky she saw with that in the charts, and try and work out whether she could tell planet from fixed star, and maybe even see a meteor.

Learning new things that her cousins did not know in some way compensated for not being able to discuss them with anyone. She made do with making up discussions between herself and the scholars and travellers whose deeds she was reading, and in her fantasies, she sometimes managed to better them on an obscure point or two.

Priscilla accepted that the children of the house had jam with their bread, and ate pudding, whereas she had neither; that their clothes were of finer material and cut than her plain brown stuff gowns; that they were taken out on visits with their father, while she was left with only her own company. She accepted it, and she said nothing: this from a girl who once talked incessantly, who made her mother and grandmother chuckle with her wit, and who loved stories. Somehow she knew that the only way to get by in this house was to be a mouse, so a mouse she was.

Mr Brocklehurst summoned her to his presence once a month, and subjected her to an unvarying catechism concerning her gratitude for being allowed to stay in his residence, her progress with her education (based on the pages of copy of that month submitted to him by the governess) and her submissive attitude. These interviews lasted ten minutes at most, and never once did they result in praise, always in admonitions to be obedient and to be thankful. Priscilla stood with folded hands and downturned gaze and spoke little and in a soft voice, which seemed to satisfy Mr Brocklehurst. But inside she was bursting, with she knew not what. Was there no more to life than this? Must she always be subject to drabness and monotony and routine?

Sometimes she crept out of her bedroom late in the evening and leaned over the balustrade as far as she dared to try and see and hear when Mr Brocklehurst entertained guests. How she admired the ladies in their silks and jewellery, and the men in their Hessian boots and finely knotted cravats. She could hear the sounds of silver knives upon porcelain and tried to imagine what delicacies they would be eating. Sometimes someone would play upon the pianoforte, and she swayed as she listened to the music, and tried to sing along if there were a soloist – albeit very very quietly, to be sure.

The day after her twelfth birthday – not that anyone had taken the slightest notice of this anniversary, of course – Priscilla's life changed again. She was still very small for her age, and dainty; and being subdued in her actions she was very careful, but occasionally accidents will happen to the best-behaved of children. She was walking along the hall on her way to perform an errand for the governess, when she knocked into a jardinière, precipitating the vase which stood upon it to the marble floor upon which it shattered into thousands of pieces. Priscilla was full of remorse, and tears, as well as terrified; the butler who attended on hearing the commotion was horrified; the housekeeper baleful; Mr Brocklehurst when informed was implacable.

Though it was her first such offence she was informed that she was no longer welcome at Fitzgerald Place. No reasons other than the accident were given; and it was not until many years later that Priscilla was able to realise that with her cousins reaching the ages of seventeen and eighteen, economies could be made: the governess could be dispensed with if she were not there. She was of no importance, and could be ejected at whim. The vase was but a pretext, but a pretext that had her in a carriage (admittedly a finer vehicle than the one that had brought her there four years earlier) and heading back to Abbotsley the very next morning.

Again standing alone on a threshold, at she had at the age of eight, she knocked on the shabby door. This time however it opened to the astonished face of her mother, and a welcome all the more joyful for its unheralded nature. The cottage looked the same, except for a badly-repaired roof, her mother looked the same as she had remembered, albeit older and worn-down; her grandmother was now exceeding frail, and almost chair-bound. But the change in her brother was what startled Priscilla the most. He was terribly pale, his breathing laboured, so that he could not speak a full sentence without pausing. He looked not long for this world.

'What ails Perseus?' was her first words once she had been released from the embrace of greeting by her mother.

'We do not know,' she replied, 'but I believe it is the unhealthy air in the poultry and pigeon pens. The miasma seems to have sore afflicted his lungs.'

Priscilla turned to Perseus and hugged him most carefully. She could not stop hot tears welling in her eyes. Was she to lose another relative? How could she bear it?

'You never replied to my letters, Priscilla,' her mother said, sadly, and with a hint of reproach.

'But I never received any,' Priscilla replied, blinking back the tears that she knew would trouble her mother. 'And Mr Brocklehurst forbade me to write to you, he said there was no need. Dearest Mama, did you think I did not care? Oh, Mama!'

'Never!' replied her mother, but Priscilla could see in her eyes that she was not telling the truth.

Priscilla thought for a moment. 'Do you suppose that Mr Brocklehurst was too mean to pay when your letters were delivered?' she asked. 'He never otherwise spent a penny on me if he could help it.'

'Surely he would not do such a thing? He is a man of the cloth, after all? There must be some other explanation.'

Priscilla held her counsel, and instead moved over to greet her grandmother. But she knew what must have happened, and stored the sad and bitter memory up in her mind.

Chapter 2

In her lonely chamber, Priscilla still could not sleep. The rain had eased a little, but the wind had strengthened, and now great rolls of thunder shook the building, and the clouds were rent with lightning. She was beyond scared, beyond terrified, beyond fear. Her petite frame shivered, her mind raced, but she could not stop herself recalling the awful events that had followed her return home.

Within days of arriving back in Abbotsley, what she had dreaded on her arrival had come to pass. Perseus still struggled to work, barely able to climb the ladder to the pigeon loft, coughing and wheezing the while, and with only just enough strength to move the piles of droppings. But one morning he did not rise for work, and Priscilla could tell at once he had a lung fever: he sweated, and writhed about in his narrow bed, and called out fragments of words, and his lips were cracked and dry. By evening it had worsened, and though his mother did all within her power to nurse him, before dawn his struggles to breathe had weakened and finally stopped, and he lay there, white and still. He was just seventeen.

Mrs Butterworth was beside herself with grief. Her wailing rent the air in the tiny cottage, and grew only more heart-stopping when she realised her own mother had also succumbed to the fever and was tossing feverishly herself. She could not bear to lose her too! Surely life could not be so cruel?

Trying to control herself she held Priscilla close, yet the little girl could feel her quivering with sobs. Mrs Butterworth started to speak to her, to give her motherly advice, but although Priscilla knew it was important and significant counsel, and that it had been something she had committed to memory at the time, she could not recall dear Mama's words at all clearly, as she cowered under the blankets in her lonely room in the thunderstorm. In fact the events of the next few days were dreadfully unclear to her still, and Priscilla could not understand why she could not retrieve the memory of those awful times. Perhaps it was all too terrible to bear?

All she knew was that after a while, Mama had got up and her face had changed. She had talked of the pigeons – birds of the devil, she had called them. And then she had marched to the door and down the street in the first gleamings of dawn. Priscilla had followed, keeping a little distance from her, until she turned into the farm where Perseus had worked, and strode across to the ladder to the pigeon loft. That was where Priscilla's memories stopped. From here on there was nothing but a blank.

All she knew was that her beloved Mama was dead! She knew not how, she could not picture it, it was all a blur in her mind. There were hazy impressions of her mother's body with blood all over her neck; of people coming to the cottage; of her grandmother's body being removed on a barrow, of a solemn but brief funeral service and then a triple burial in a pauper's grave.

And then there were lots of men talking, and looking her way, and shaking their heads. They were the parish overseers of the poor, she thought. Deciding what was to be done with her at least expense to themselves and the parishioners. Nobody considered consulting her. She was just another orphan, a nuisance. And a girl, to boot. Not much use to anyone.

And so it came to pass after two weeks that she found herself on another carriage at first light, heading north, along the same Great North Road that had taken her to Mr Brocklehurst. That reverend gentleman had been deaf to the requests of the overseers, and as she now had absolutely no relations at all beyond him she was to be sent into service in a large house. The gentleman in question, who was to employ her, had been visiting one of his relations in Abbotsley, and had been prevailed upon to take on an extra scullery-maid, as he would have to pay her almost nothing but her board. And so there she was, shivering next to the footman on the back of the roof of the coach, while the gentleman sat warm and comfortable inside on his own, rattling along the rutted road northwards.

Where she was going she had not been told. She had not been informed of the gentleman's name, or what would be expected of her, or whether she had had any other choices, though she suspected not. The footman beside her was very tall, but quite young, she thought, and she wondered if she was allowed to address him, as he looked so fine in his livery. After four years holding back at Mr Brocklehurst's she was wary of speaking out of turn.

Priscilla reasoned that firstly, she was a lady, even if now she was going to be a servant. Secondly, this man, though finely uniformed, was also a servant. Hence, she might converse with him without transgressing. Couldn't she? She looked up at his face, partly hidden by his hat, and thought he looked approachable.

'Excuse me, my name is Miss Priscilla Butterworth. May I ask what you are called?'

The footman turned to her and laughed. 'Miss Priscilla Butterworth?' he mimicked. 'You'll 'ave to drop some of your airs and graces if you're to be a kitchen skivvy, you know'

His accent was unfamiliar to Priscilla, it sounded wild and untamed. He dropped aitches and ran words together, but he sounded friendly enough. She tried again. 'What's a kitchen skivvy, please sir?'

'Maid of all work,' he answered, 'Up at dawn, cleaning pans, scrubbing tables, swabbing floors, all the horrible jobs no one else wants to do. Do you think you're up to it? You don't look as though there's anything to you, all skin and bone.'

Priscilla bit her lip. It sounded awful.

'How old are you, then?' the footman continued.

'Twelve,' replied Priscilla, 'but I am very small for my age, so I have been told.'

'Twelve!' The footman looked almost shocked. 'Well, all the best, that's all I can say. I started at fifteen in the stables, but once I'd grown to five foot eleven I got promoted to footman. Sir Rupert insists all his footmen are at least that tall.'

Priscilla decided that this man wasn't going to tell her off, at least she hoped not, so she began to tell him about what had happened to her over the last few years. He didn't say much, but he seemed to not mind her chattering on, which was such a relief after so long holding her tongue. She also asked him about their destination. Sir Rupert Lucas was a Baronet, he was unmarried and about thirty-five years old. His house was called Thimmerwell Hall, and it lay in the parish of Ranby in Nottinghamshire, near East Retford, and at the northern edge of Sherwood Forest. This was about ninety miles from Abbotsley, and the journey would take them all day. Sir Rupert had frequent visitors, and three evenings a week hosted dinner parties for gentlemen only, followed by cards, which often grew very boisterous, and led to an uncommon deal of work for the servants to clear up afterwards, as well as keeping them up late into the small hours. The footman's name was John, and he was twenty years old. There were nineteen servants including the stable staff and the gardeners. It all sounded very intimidating.

The carriage stopped for lunch at an inn and Priscilla tried to keep very close to John as they went in to eat with a rowdy bunch of workmen, servants and stable hands sitting on rough benches set at bare wooden tables. She had seen Sir Rupert being escorted in to dine in a parlour with a good fire, and wished she could be there, because after all, she was a lady. In the meantime she kept quiet, ate what she was given, and was cautious enough to refuse when she was offered a pot of cider, thinking that no lady of her age would touch spirits (though she wasn't exactly sure what spirits were, she knew that ladies did not partake). And she was determined that she would stay a lady, whatever her circumstances might be.

By the time they arrived at Thimmerwell Hall Priscilla was very tired and exhausted. John vanished, joining a crowd of other footmen who had materialised to assist Sir Rupert down from the carriage, escort him into his residence, unload his luggage and generally ensure he had to do nothing himself. Priscilla was left perched on the high roof, too scared to get down unaided. Eventually the driver was ready to take the vehicle around to the stables and tutted at her still sitting there, when he turned around to ensure all was clear. He grumbled as he climbed from his perch, and grumbled as he lifted her down (none too gently), telling her to make herself scarce and report to the housekeeper in the kitchens at the double.

Priscilla of course had no idea where the kitchens were, but she was a resourceful girl who had enough sense not to try and enter by the grand front door. Clutching her bundle, she skirted the house, looking for a door and the sound of bustle. She slipped in, and stood quietly in a corner of a high-ceilinged kitchen looking about her. No-one took note of her, they were all busy preparing food, presumably for the master's evening meal, or heating water, or cleaning pans, or issuing orders to other maids who hurried in and out.

A lady in a black satin gown and cap entered. She did not start fetching and carrying like the others but surveyed the scene critically, holding a notebook. Suddenly she noticed Priscilla in her corner.

'And who might you be?' she asked.

Priscilla stood up as straight as she could. 'I am Miss Priscilla Butterworth,' she said, trying to keep her voice steady, 'and I am an orphan. Sir Rupert has brought me here to be a kitchen ... something, I can't remember the word.'

'Really? Miss Butterworth, eh?' The housekeeper paused, looked Priscilla carefully up and down. 'You're a scrawny one, aren't you? How old?'

'Twelve, Ma'am,' answered Priscilla, and bobbed a little curtsey because it seemed as if one was expected.

'Right, well, we can't be doing with a 'Miss Priscilla' in my household, you will be known as Polly, and you are to be a scullerymaid. Elsie here will show you your bed after we have finished with dinner but in the meantime you can set to and help Dora with those pans over there. Leave your bundle on this dresser, and look lively now!'

At the memory of Mrs Thirlwell, the housekeeper, Priscilla decided she might peek over the covers, as the storm seemed to have abated somewhat, and it was getting rather airless buried under blankets. Her candle had burned low, but it still showed rain racing down the cracked panes of glass, and the window continued to rattle, as the tempest swirled about. She tried to judge how long it had been since the last burst of lightning, and how long a gap had elapsed before the thunder rolled.

There was another flash! But it was feeble compared to what had gone before; and the grumble of thunder was delayed by many seconds. Perhaps the storm was passing over? She ought to try and sleep, for she had much to do on the morrow. Priscilla lay back in her bed, musing that this bare and draughty room was quite unlike the one where she had slept for nearly five years at Thimmerwell Hall. Here was stone-built and unplastered, with ancient weaponry displayed on iron hooks which seemed incongruous for a servant's room. At Thimmerwell, too, she had had another maid to share her room, someone to stave off the feelings of acute loneliness that assailed her when she lay down to sleep. But now she was isolated and friendless, and she must decide where to go when she fled Stanage Grange, as she knew she must, and on that very day!

She thought of the Baron, and the letter she had read, and the terrible import of it, and yet still the events of the past intruded so powerfully that she was helpless under their power.

Life at Thimmerwell Hall fell rapidly into an exhausting pattern. Up at dawn, a sketchy wash in cold water, and then continual heavy work all day, every day, work that made Priscilla's hands red raw, her back ache, her spirit sink low. She was so little they had to find her a step to reach into the deep stone sinks; she could not carry the larger pans when they were full; but she was nimble, and her slim arms could reach behind dressers for mislaid utensils, and she got by.

Priscilla missed her books, though. Time off was in short supply, and when she had finished her labours she was often so tired she fell straight to sleep. Sunday was supposedly a day of rest, but almost the only respite for a young scullerymaid was the couple of hours spent walking to and from church and sitting through the service in servants' pew – at the outermost end, as all were seated in order of importance, and she came last, of course. She did have one half day off per week, and on the evenings when there were no visitors for cards, she was able to stop at six. At least the servants ate well, as well as finishing up the leftovers from their master's dinner-parties. Priscilla, or Polly as she was now known universally, was occasionally handed some less-desirable portion from these, and they were heaven.

Somehow Polly knew that she needed to keep hold of her real identity, even if she was a nobody here. Hence, every morning when she woke, she would repeat to herself, 'Good morning, world! My name is Miss Priscilla Butterworth, and I am a lady.' The same formula served at night, with the appropriate substitution of the word 'evening'. In between, though, it was 'Polly do this!' and 'Polly do that!' and 'Polly fetch the other!' from all and sundry.

After a few weeks she tentatively asked the butler if she might be allowed to read any of the books in Sir Rupert's library, and to her great surprise he said that Sir Rupert had no objections to the servants using his library, as long as she didn't damage them in any way. Further, he expressed surprise at her request, as none of the maids had heretofore expressed any interest in learning – and indeed many could not read, of course. Polly thought that he treated her with a little more respect after this – or at least, less disdain; and she always had one volume in her attic bedroom to peruse in odd moments, being careful to re-shelve each tome in the exactly correct place, and of course only to enter the library when it was known that Sir Rupert was out.

Whereas at Fitzgerald Place her life had been drab and wholly uneventful, here at Thimmerwell Hall, though there was unending drudgery and labour, somehow Polly began to suffer mishap after disaster after calamity. Coming so soon after the loss of her brother, mother and grandmother in quick succession, she wondered if she had done something to vex Fate itself.

The first event was after but a month, when she had been sent out to the rear of the mansion to search for one of the stable men. Being told he had gone toward the woods, she trotted along, but saw a sheep which had somehow got stuck on a moderate cliff where there had presumably been some stone quarrying in years gone by. Polly, full of compassion, forgot her errand, and immediately clambered up the slippery and irregular wall of stone to try and reach the animal. It was tricky work, but her small feet fitted into tiny crevices that larger person could not have utilised, and gradually she made her way upwards and across. She could almost reach out and touch its fleece when abruptly her footing gave way, and she was precipitated a dozen feet to the hard earth below. To add insult to injury, the sheep, startled by her fall, leapt up and sideways and then trotted off quite happily, while Polly lay completely winded and bleeding from her arm which had struck a projecting rock as she fell.

On this occasion she was able after some fifteen minutes to collect herself and rise unaided, though aching all down her left side. She made her way slowly back to the kitchens where she was first scolded for not finding the stablehand, and then for getting her dress dirty, before the cook took pity on her and dressed her wounded arm – and then straightway set her to peeling vegetables.

A couple of months later she was assisting with the laundry, a backbreaking job in all its stages. She was feeding some sheets through the mangle which was being turned by another, more well-built, maid, when some part of her hair must have escaped from her cap and she was pulled into the mechanism, being brought up when her head struck the rollers. Her hair had jammed in the cogs, and she had to be cut free, leaving her looking most odd and lopsided, until the housekeeper decided she looked too untidy to be seen in church like that and gave her a coiffure a la Titus, or rather, a very rough home-styled approximation of one.

Eventually of course this unbecomingly short hairstyle grew out, but before this could happen poor Polly was beset with a quite different and more serious ailment. She had been "borrowed" by the innkeeper in the next village who had an unusually large contingent of important guests, and as Sir Rupert was away the housekeeper was able to spare her, no doubt at some profit to herself. She had to stay overnight, in order to attend to the guests in the morning with their washing water and emptying of slops, but when she rose she found her legs covered in small, itchy flea-bites.

On her return she immediately put all her clothes into the washing-boiler, scrubbed herself in a bath and changed into fresh garments, free of fleas, but four days later she felt unwell, with a high fever and a headache. She was unable to rise from her bed, and for the first couple of days she was left alone except for food and drink being brought to her by one of the kitchenmaids. On the third day however Polly had bad pains at the tops of her legs and she could feel several swellings there, together with some black marks on her skin. She was suffering cramps in her muscles, and Mary who brought her food was alarmed enough to ask the housekeeper to attend.

Mrs Thirwell came, inspected Polly carefully, and left without saying anything, her face full of foreboding. However from then on no one else entered the room, and Polly's food was brought on a tray and pushed toward her with a broom. Polly discovered later that the housekeeper had made enquiries of the inn where she had worked and stayed, and then in fear she had summoned the doctor, even though for only a lowly scullerymaid. He had felt her swellings, and inspected the blackening, and confirmed Mrs Thirwell's fears, reporting with a shaking of the head that there had been other cases at the inn. Polly had contracted the Plague! The Black Death!

It seemed that some of the travellers she had served had come lately from abroad, in an area where the disease was known to rage, and Polly had shared accommodation with their servants. The doctor had advised total isolation from the patient, and said that the disease would run its course within about two weeks. Death was the most likely outcome!

Polly had been unaware of this at the time, and had lain in her bed, not understanding why nobody would come and talk with her. She felt utterly weak, she had a cough, her legs hurt, she could not change her clothing, the chamber pot was stinking, and she despaired. But time passed, and gradually her symptoms abated. The swellings went down, the sweats ceased, the marks faded, and she grew a little stronger.

The other servants were wary of her when she first emerged from her room. The doctor had talked sagely of "bad air" at the inn, but Mrs Thirwell had retorted that she would tolerate no bad air in her establishment, thankyou very much. No-one else in the household had fallen victim to the disease, and once Polly had been able to wash, and change her clothes (all the bedding and clothing from her sickroom was burnt and the room fumigated with herbs) gradually one by one the others grew bold enough to let her near them.

It was a good while before Polly was strong enough to walk far, let alone resume her duties, and she used the time in reading about the history of the county, and the explorations of the American continent, and then found a book called "Euclid's elements" which she absolutely adored, not realising that it was not thought suitable for girls to study mathematics.

Too soon, however, she was back to her drudgery. Her thirteenth birthday passed by unmarked, and she took note of her bad luck, and did all she could to be careful. It was indeed not until the following Yuletide that she next fell foul of Fate. She was walking back from church, and had deviated from the route taken by the rest of the servants to inspect some flowers which had bloomed out of their season, as the winter had been visited by an exceptionally mild spell. Rising from admiring them she espied some others, further into the forest, and then some more, until clambering over a log she came suddenly upon a large and very hairy beast! It had tusks, and a snout, and wild eyes, and on seeing Polly it pawed the ground, snorted, and set off directly at her!

Polly gathered up her skirts and ran, and she was gaining on the beast when she tripped over a bramble and went sprawling. She struggled to her feet just in time, and set off again as if she were fleeing Beelzebub himself. Crashing through the undergrowth she fled blindly, scratching her arms and tearing her clothing, desperate to escape. At last she saw an open area through the trees, burst out into the meadow, and turned to search for her pursuer. He was nowhere to be seen, and the crashing noises seemed to be coming from over to her right. Panting hard, she searched the fields to try and discover where she was, and at length saw the group of servants over in the next field, on the path. Trotting to join them, she felt foolish for having strayed from the group, but she was still shaking when she approached the others.

Just at that very moment there was a renewed tumult behind her and the monster burst from a thicket and headed straight at her! Exhausted from her flight she turned to face it, and hopped sideways at the last minute. The beast seemed to see the larger group, and maybe it thought better of charging all twenty of them, for it halted, pawed the ground, and then disappeared back into the forest.

Polly endured no end of ribbing about going off to hunt the wild boar on her own, but truly she had been terrified and aghast, and somehow the jests of her fellow-servants made it all feel a little less overwhelming. She resolved not to wander off on her own again – a resolution she was to remember with a grimace when she found herself avoiding a more human foe a few years later.

Chapter 3

Polly's fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays came and went unheralded, yet also to her surprise, without further disasters. A whole year and a quarter without near-tragedy! She had developed quite a reputation in the small community for her alleged prowess at hunting, and more significantly for surviving the plague, but her life was grindingly hard. She had got a little stronger, but grew no taller, and stood only four feet ten in her boots. Her red hair marked her out as unfashionable, and she could count eleven freckles on her nose. She was timid, being particularly frightened of fluttering birds, especially pigeons, and tended to stutter a little when addressed by Mrs Thirlwell. She was still the most junior of the servants, but at times was allowed some latitude from her tasks in the scullery, being sent on errands to the village or nearby towns, for example.

It was on one of these excursions that she next suffered at the hand of malevolent Chance. She had climbed aboard the old coach that was not now smart enough for Sir Rupert, but rather was used by the servants to transport goods. Together with the coachman, she, two footmen and the maid who assisted the housekeeper were bound for the town of Worksop where they all had business. The coach was as indicated, elderly, and the harness worn. The horses also were past their prime, and rather hard in the mouth.

It was quite a treat to be allowed to sit inside, rather than be exposed to the elements on top as she had been used to on her few melancholy journeys previously. The four of them jested about being lords and ladies until, tiring of this, the younger footman, John, with whom Polly had travelled on her journey to Thimmerwell Hall, applied his attentions to Joan, the maid, which seemed to not displease her, judging from the squealing and giggling that issued from her lips.

Polly was not sure where to look, being so young and still totally innocent of the ways of men, and tried to survey the scene from the window on the opposite side, and ignore the sounds of misbehaviour. There was then a swaying to the left as Joan let down the window and leant out to the coachman to ask how long they would be on the road; a lurch back as John grabbed her from behind and she shoved him back; and then a worse lurch as the two of them fell against the window and hung half out of the coach. The coach chose this moment to fall into a rut, which magnified the lurching, and then Polly heard a cracking noise, seeming to come from below them. There was a shout from the coachman and an anxious whinny from the horses, and the whole carriage tilted onto the left and veered off the road, with further cracking and creaking and grinding, then tumbled the opposite way and landed on its side with Polly at the bottom of a pile of bodies.

She was dazed, and in dreadful pain, though at first she could not determine from whence it came. There was cursing from the footmen, and from Joan also, much to Polly's shock and dismay; the door on which she lay had fragmented and sharp splinters were pricking her bottom; the whole world seemed to have turned upside down. She heard more cursing from outside, tried to raise her head, and then swooned into blessed unconsciousness.

Polly came to her senses to find herself lying on a grassy bank with the wreck of the coach directly opposite. The horses had been released and were nibbling the grass, seemingly unconcerned. The other menservants were nowhere to be seen: but Joan was kneeling by her, looking distraught.

'What happened?' were Polly's first mumbled words.

'A wheel broke; the harness snapped; the carriage overturned,' said Joan, not meeting her eyes.

'I hurt,' Polly groaned.

'Yes.' Joan didn't seem to want to continue, but wrung her hands instead.

'What's wrong? I should get up, shouldn't I?'

Joan started, and laid a hand on her brow. 'Don't do that,' she implored, 'I don't think you should try.'

'What is it?' Polly's fear grew with the unsatisfactory answers Joan was giving her.

'Just lie still,' she said. 'They've gone for help, they won't be long.'

Polly tried to sit up, but terrible pain gripped her lower legs, and she fell back. 'What's wrong with my legs?' she cried in panic.

Joan looked guilty, and frightened, and looked anywhere but at Polly. 'I think you've broken them,' she whispered at length. 'I'm so sorry.' She would not say any more, except to repeat at intervals, 'I'm so sorry,' and to implore Polly not to move.

Eventually the men returned, and brought with them a surgeon, who examined Polly's legs and looked grave.

'I shall have to set the fractures,' he said, 'and I cannot answer for the results, but I am afraid you may be permanently lame even if they do knit properly.'

'She won't lose the limbs, will she?' asked Joan, sounding mortified.

'I think not, as the skin does not appear to be lacerated, but one can never tell.'

He busied himself with his bag, and then administered one quarter teaspoonful of laudanum to Polly. It tasted foul, but after a few minutes she drifted off, dreaming, only partially surfacing as her limbs were straightened and bound with boards. She recalled little of the homeward journey, except when they struck a bigger rut than usual, and was only vaguely aware that she was being laid in a bed in a different room from her usual attic eyrie. At last she was able to sleep, albeit a sleep filled with horrid images of falling, of being trampled, and of being trapped in a thorn bush with prickles piercing her in every part.

At least this latter element of her dream was explained the next morning when she was visited by Mrs Thirlwell, attended by two of the housemaids. After some introductory admonitions about Polly's extreme propensity for misfortune, the good lady instructed the maids to change Polly's clothing and made sure she was comfortable. In the process of this it was discovered that a large number of splinters from the coach door had penetrated Polly's behind, and Mrs Thirlwell was summoned back, much to Polly's embarrassment. She herself saw to the task of their removal, and the cleansing of the skin, and dressing of the wounds, and by the end her mien toward Polly had softened to the extent that as she left she kissed the small girl on the head and murmured something about 'You poor thing.'

After the first few days Polly began to worry that she might be discharged from service as she could not work. And then what would she do? Would it be the workhouse? Or destitution? And what if she could not walk, or could only hobble, or have to use crutches for ever? She had passed one particularly worried night full of images of sleeping in barns, and begging, and being accosted by ruffians in her lowly abode, when in the morning as well as a tray of breakfast, Joan brought in a pile of mending with needles and threads, and told her she was to earn her keep by sewing, since she could not do other work.

Joan seemed to hang back after she had left her burden by Polly, and eventually she sheepishly asked Polly if she could forgive her.

'What ever for?' Polly replied, mystified.

'Well, it was because John and I were messing about in the carriage that it rocked so; and they are saying that is why the wheel splintered, and it's all my fault that your poor legs are ... well, like they are ...' she trailed off.

Polly looked up at her with understanding. 'Don't you fret,' she said, 'it's all done now; I don't blame you. Or John, for that matter, and he should take more than half the blame if there was any to be had.'

Now broken legs take a long time to heal, and it was a full four months before Polly was able to lose her splints and take wobbly steps around the room in which she was being nursed, a room on the ground floor near the kitchens, for the convenience of the other servants. In the meantime she grew most accomplished at mending, and progressed to sewing alterations in clothes, and even a little embroidery, under the instruction of the other servants whose tasks these usually were. She carried on with her reading too, and learnt about the classification of animal and plant species, and the geology of the area around Bath according to Mr William Smith; not to mention devouring the first three (but irritatingly not the fourth, which seemed to have gone astray) volumes of "The Mysteries of Udolpho" by Mrs Radcliffe. And each evening and morning without fail she recited to herself her mantra, 'My name is Miss Priscilla Butterworth, and I am a lady.'

Still, and yet still, sleep would not come. The rain had ceased, and the wind subsided into a mournful soughing around the walls of the mansion. Priscilla's candle had guttered out, but the wan light of a watery moon glistened on the damp walls and the ancient swords and shields suspended upon them. And still the memories kept coming, crowding in upon her one by one, as if her mind needed to search for any explanation as to why she was now being put in such mortal danger not by a natural force, or disease, or accident, but by a malevolent fellow-human – if indeed he truly was human, and not some kind of demon in human form!

Who then was Lord Savagewood? And why would he want her? And was his purpose one of unremitting evil, as she suspected, or was she misjudging him? What did she have that anyone could want? She was after all only plain Miss Priscilla Butterworth, she had no money or title or grand pretensions. She was a lady, and had her pride and her dignity, but little else.

Aged sixteen, Polly was well enough to resume her wonted tasks, though they were now supplemented by sewing, as she had shown herself to be an exceptionally neat and nimble seamstress. She had even put on a little weight, though no extra height, and at length her dressmaking skills were needed to let out her own dresses as she began to develop a woman's body. She felt most uncomfortable about this, because she seemed to be all out of proportion, being swollen above but with hips like a boy. There was nothing to be done about it, of course, and much to learn about how to deal with the new forms of catcalling from the footmen and stablehands.

Polly learnt a nice line in put-downs, and gradually became more used to her bosom, though never to the way in which men would stare at it, rather than look her in the eye. Even though her legs had healed quite straight, thanks to the splinting, and she could move freely without pain once she had built up her strength, it altered the way she walked, and she felt conspicuous because of it.

Her dresses were high-necked, but in the heat of the kitchen she found it intolerable to be fully-covered, and so she would roll up her sleeves and undo her bodice's buttons, though only to a level that was still entirely modest. It was on an unseasonably warm day early that spring while unbuttoned in this way that the next tribulation befell her.

She was out in the garden gathering herbs and vegetables for a stew, and paused on her return to admire the daffodils and crocuses, and especially the brilliant yellow flowers of Sir Rupert's prize shrub, especially brought to the house from China and said to be the only one in the country, or indeed in Europe. It was named Forsythia, after a Mr William Forsyth of the Royal Horticultural Society, and Polly was fascinated by the sight of early butterflies flitting around it, and looked to see if she could find a particular type of moth named the Gothic, which she had read was attracted to the plant. Not finding any, she stood listening to the drowsy drone of itinerant insects investigating its tempting trumpets. She leaned in to smell the flowers' scent, and all at once felt the tickle of a large bee flying inside her bodice. She jumped back in alarm, and batted at her chest in an effort to dislodge the intruder. To no avail: she felt a sharp pain pierce her bosom!

The agony rapidly multiplied, and she saw with horror that her chest was swelling rapidly around the site of the insect's attack! The skin was stretched and white as linen where it engorged, and she started to panic. Dropping her trug and scattering the herbs and vegetables across the grass she hared off to the kitchens for aid. As she ran she found her breath becoming constricted, and her pace slackened. Truly terrified now she attempted to call out, but her voice seemed thick and did not carry.

At last she reached the kitchen door, and burst in. The faces of the other servants as they turned to her changed from mild curiosity to utter shock in an instant, and then the poor girl collapsed on the stone floor! She did not lose consciousness – quite – but she was only dimly aware of helpful hands lifting her onto a table, of others scrabbling to loosen her dress and help her breathe. It took all her efforts to force air through her swollen throat, so that she was only peripherally sensible of the fact that she ought to be mortified by the exposure of her bosom by those aiding her, and the startled expression on the face of John the footman who happened to be in the kitchen at that time!

The cook approached her, brandishing a knife, and she was too weak to resist when the good lady nipped off the dying bee and sliced into her skin at the site of the sting. She put her lips to the cut area and sucked out what poison she could, and then applied some liquid which another maid had hastily prepared, of soda bicarbonate. At least that eased the agony, but it did nothing for the constriction of poor Polly's air passages!

The staff, interrupted in their labours, could do nothing more for her but watch and wait. Polly lay there, chest heaving with the effort, and one by one the maids moved silently back to their tasks. The cook deemed that it was not safe to move her, and so the routine of food preparation resumed around her.

It was more than an hour before Polly's breathing began to ease, and not until nightfall that she was able to rise and stagger with the aid of two maids to her room. The swelling lasted nearly a week in all, and after this she was very careful to avoid the flower gardens! She avoided even the mention of a bee, adding all such insects to her abhorrence of anything resembling a pigeon.[Sarah Pleinsworth's p33]

Polly's time at Thimmerwell Hall came to an abrupt end early the next spring, shortly after she turned seventeen. You may hope, dear reader, that this move may be in the nature of an improvement in her fortunes, but sadly this was far from the grim truth. It came about in this way. Being only a lowly scullerymaid she was not required to attend when Sir Rupert hosted his card parties, and indeed she was rarely in the main part of the house at all, except to select a book from the library, or if she crept to the landing to look down on the fine gentlemen as they arrived, just as she had at Fitzgerald Place. She had never spoken to her employer and had only seen him face to face when summoned to line up outside the front of the Hall with all the rest of the staff when he arrived back from an absence of several weeks.

One evening, however, at the conclusion of dinner, all the female servants except the cook were summoned to assemble in the entrance hall, with the housekeeper standing to one side. Sir Rupert and one of his guests came out from the dining room and walked up and down the line, as if it were some sort of military inspection. The other men stood at the side, watching and grinning at each other. At length, the guest pointed at three of the maids: two noticeably pretty young girls who were chambermaids, and Polly.

'These three,' he said, with a haughty expression, 'they will do admirably.' Without further ado, he turned on his heel and strode to the card room, with the other men following.

Sir Rupert delayed a few moments to explain. 'I find I must reduce my household,' he said, 'and Lord Savagewood is desirous of increasing his. Hence you three will depart on the morrow for his Lordship's residence in Hathersage, near Sheffield. Please make the arrangements, Mrs Thirlwell.' With that curt instruction, he departed and soon shouts of congratulation and much laughter were heard coming from the card room.

The servants turned to each other in shock. Sir Rupert was sending three of their number away as if he had sold them? But what could they do? If they were dismissed would they be able to find an alternative post? Mrs Thirlwell's face was like stone, but she gathered her dignity, and sent the rest of the servants back to their work.

The girls who had been selected remained behind and after a while she spoke. 'I do not like this one little bit, girls, but I do not see what else you can do but go. I should be on your guard, however, for I do not trust Lord Savagewood. He visits but rarely here, but when he does my instincts are that all is not well with him. He has a wild look in his eye, and his residence is on the edge of the wilderness of the Pennine Hills. I can but implore you to be cautious.'

So on the morrow the three maids were packed off and travelled eastwards to their new home, thirty miles distant. During the journey, Priscilla resolved that she would be no more known as Polly, but that she would reclaim her true name at her new abode. She entreated both of the others (who were each called Mary) to support her in this, and they agreed to.

'Why do you think Lord Savagewood selected us?' she asked them.

'I've no idea,' said one.

'Oh come now,' said the other, taller one. Just look at Poll ... I mean, Priscilla's figure. And you are the handsomest girl I ever did see. I shall say no more.'

Priscilla did not understand what she meant, and tried to interrogate her further, but she remained silent, though Priscilla thought she blushed a little as she put her questions. Eventually they reached their destination and were assigned their rooms in the uppermost floor by the butler – there was no housekeeper – and given their tasks. They were also issued with a uniform as it seemed that they would be expected to wait at table as well as look after the rooms and work in the kitchen. It was not so grand as a footman's livery, being plain black stuff gathered with a high waist, as if it were a lady's gown in the fashion, with white at the rather low neckline and at the cuffs, but it was very unusual for mere maids to be so attired. In fact the whole household was unusual.

Priscilla was puzzled that all the rest of the female staff seemed to be elderly. There were two younger footmen, it was true, but none of the five women was under fifty, and they seemed very taciturn, refusing to answer almost all of her questions. She did learn that the house was known as Stanage Grange, after a local outcrop of millstone grit. Lord Savagewood was a Baron, and quite wealthy, though his mansion and estate were both small, and she understood he gained his income from business. He seemed to be around forty years of age, and though he had been married his wife had died many years back and there were no children. It was said that he had also been engaged the previous year but his fiancée had also died. It was not certain what she had died from but there had been talk. He was said to be a man of few words, and to be frequently away on business. Beyond that he was a mystery

The following morning the three new maids were summoned to appear before their master. He enquired of them their given names and their ages, and on hearing two Marys, both of twenty years, and a Priscilla aged seventeen, he looked thoughtful.

'Priscilla will do admirably,' he mused, 'but Mary will not do at all. Let me see now.' He paused, and gazed out of the window. 'I believe you shall be known as Seraphina,' to the taller Mary, 'and you as Lucretia,' to the other.

The maids did not know how to respond to this, but they kept their counsel, as Lord Savagewood was a tall and forbidding figure in his black coat and faultlessly-arranged cravat. His eyes seemed almost black, and he had dark brows that gave him a perpetually angry look. The three of them were soon dismissed, and scurried from the room back to their duties.

The work was not all that onerous, as Lord Savagewood lived alone, and there was time in the afternoon to rest and acquaint themselves with the parts of the house they were permitted to enter. There were several parts that they were told by the butler were strictly forbidden, such as the master's library and his study, and one of the upstairs corridors, but no explanation was given. It seemed the other servants saw to the cleaning of these areas.

In the evening they were summoned to attend dinner, but had no duties other than to stand in a row, hands folded in front of them, because as they were informed, Lord Savagewood thought it lent dignity to an evening meal. And so to bed, and up early in the morning with more tasks to perform than before, because there was to be a dinner party with several important guests.

That evening they were again required to wait at table. Even more strangely they were paraded in front of the visitors, who were informed of the maids' fanciful names, and that they were but recently come to the Grange. Seraphina whispered to Priscilla that she thought something was Up, and nodded at her most significantly. Priscilla did not know what she meant but then had to obey a summons from one of the guests.

Most of the actual serving of food was done by the footmen and butler, and it seemed that on this occasion too they were merely there to add dignity to the proceedings, though at times one of them was ordered to fetch a clean glass, or pass the salt, or clear the plates away. There were five guests, all men, and two of them were of swarthy and foreign appearance, though dressed in the English fashion. Priscilla did not like how one of them in particular looked at her, though she was relieved to see his attention was more often focussed on the two Marys – she could not really in all conscience think of them as Seraphina and Lucretia as they had been announced to the company!

The next day, when Priscilla awoke, she washed and dressed, surprised not to hear any sounds from the next rooms where the Marys slept. She knocked, then peeped in, and was amazed to find each of their beds stripped bare and no sign of their possessions! And descending to the kitchens she was quite unable to discern from the other servants where they might be. The butler told her not to be nosey, that they had been sent to work at another of Lord Savagewood's properties, but Priscilla was not convinced. Would anyone transfer their servants in the dead of night and without giving them notice so that they might say their goodbyes?

She had to try and discover the truth, and quickly. Fortunately the Baron went out in the early afternoon, and was not expected back till next day. Priscilla knew that she had to take her chance during his absence, and act. It took some time to finish her duties in the kitchen, and then she was to work in the hallway where she had to polish the woodwork. She began with the balustrade, but she was able to edge closer and closer to the Baron's study as she rubbed up the wainscotting in the lower hall. It was not until late in the afternoon that she was able to work her way to near his private door, and with a careful look around to make sure she was unobserved she slipped inside.

It was not a large room, though there were a number of books on shelves, and a large mounted globe to one side. There was but one window, with curtains partly closed, and two wooden chairs with arms, as well as the large leather chair situated behind the main item of furniture, a great desk covered with papers, with quills and ink set ready, and some ledgers to one side.

Priscilla tiptoed around the desk and surveyed it. There were drawers underneath on either side, and also a kind of escritoire or lap desk sat on its leather surface to her right. Should she open the drawers first, or try the escritoire? She hadn't much time before someone noticed she was not in the hall. Perhaps the escritoire? Priscilla pulled down its writing surface and there inside was a small heap of letters. She took the uppermost and smoothed it out onto the tooled green leather in front of her.

Priscilla read the letter as it lay open upon the Baron's desk with mounting horror. It was addressed to "My dear Baron" which was not quite proper etiquette, and signed "Attila Őzgür". It concerned the supply of young Englishwomen to be taken to the East for the pleasure of an Ottoman client. There were details as to how the women were to be delivered at night to the docks at Liverpool, the name of the ship, details of the voyage to Constantinople, and the price to be paid! This must have been where the two Marys had gone. They had been sold into slavery, and she would be next! But why? What did she have that was worth such machination?

'The Baron is a slave-dealer!' she breathed to herself. 'The Baron!'

She had barely taken in the awful news when she heard a sound. It was footsteps in the hall, decisive male footsteps. Had the Baron returned early? Rapidly she whipped the letter back into the escritoire and closed it, spun around in terror, and saw that the only possible route of escape was the window. She slipped behind the partially-open curtains, threw open the casement, and slid over the sill.

Priscilla grasped the window ledge, her ungloved hands clutching at the stone with every ounce of her might. When she'd heard the Baron jiggling the doorknob, she'd known she had but seconds to act. If he found her there, in his inner sanctum who knew what he might do? He was a violent man, or so she'd been told. No-one knew how his fiancée had died. Some said illness, but most claimed poison. Murder!

She could hear him entering the room. Would he notice that the window was open? What would she do? What could she do? Priscilla whispered a prayer, and then, with eyes closed tight, she let go.

Chapter 4

It was only a few feet to the cold, hard ground. Priscilla landed with a jarring shock though, and tumbled backwards into a holly-bush. She tried to keep as still as possible, praying that the Baron had not heard her fall, or if he were to look out, that the evergreen leaves would obscure her form. She barely breathed, grateful that the light was fading and that her black dress would be hard to distinguish under the shrub.

There was no sound of an angry Baron, no banging at the window, no sound but for the scuttling of some small animal among the leaves by her legs, and the sighing of the wind. Had she escaped? Would she be able to find safety? Would she indeed ever be safe, and escape her Fate, which seemed to have a programme of never-ending torment for her?

Priscilla lay there under the bush for at least ten minutes before she thought it might be safe to look out. She parted the branches cautiously, but there was no sign of anyone at the window and no one searching the grounds for a disobedient maid. Slowly, and very carefully, she extracted herself from the prickly bush and brushed her skirts down as best she could. Moving silently forward to regain the house, she saw a movement on the road. There was the Baron's carriage departing again. It was clearly he, she could make out the crest, and she knew no one else would be allowed to use that coach.

Priscilla returned to her task in the hall, careful not to be seen as she made her way through the house. Though her body was occupied with her task, her mind was racing. What should she do? What should she do? What could she do?

She decided that she must confirm that Lord Savagewood would indeed be away overnight, in spite of his unplanned return just now, and then she could spend the time planning what she had to do. Returning her polishing cloths to the cupboard she asked the cook in as offhand a way as she could why the Baron had returned, when she had thought he was to be away till the morrow. Apparently he had omitted to take some papers with him and so had diverted after his morning call to pick them up. Why did she want to know? She was just curious, that was all.

Priscilla was able to retire to her solitary room early, as there was no dinner to serve and no guests to attend. She looked out of her little ill-fitting window and watched the clouds gathering and heard the wind picking up over the fells. She must think of a plan! She had so little time! Lord Savagewood was due to return the very next afternoon, and she would not be safe from his evil plans after that. She could picture herself being carried off, perhaps drugged, or bound hand and foot, across the moors to the distant port, and bundled on board for a dreadful sea journey with only shame and degradation at the end of it. She must think!

For all her efforts to devise a plan, the desperation of her plight and the worsening of the weather made it difficult to come up with any practical ideas. Instead she found herself mulling over the many tribulations of her life up to this point, which is where, dear reader, our story first alighted. It was as if her life thus far ought to be telling her something about how she must act now, but she could not discern what it might be amid the trials of injury and illness and misadventure. Perhaps the very storm had been conspiring against her and preventing her from thinking rationally?

It was not until the first light of dawn turned the black sky to a faint grey that she was able snatch a couple of hours of unquiet sleep, after which she woke with a start, painfully aware that she ought to be formulating sensible strategies to save herself.

Clearly she must leave this place. But where could she go? She was but lately arrived in the district, and knew nobody. She was unfamiliar with the terrain, and the geography, though she did know an unconscionable amount about the geology of Millstone Grit, from her reading at Thimmerwell Hall. She had a tiny amount of money from her time there, because although her wages had been a pittance, she had had no opportunity to spend them. But that would not support her for more than a few days, she knew, and she must find shelter and food and employment.

Which way to go? All she knew of the area was that Sheffield, that great hub of industry, was at no great distance, perhaps ten miles, but she feared the dangers of the unknown conurbation, the disease, the filth, the criminals, the wickedness of which she had heard. In most directions were bleak hills and moors, and although she knew she should attempt to distance herself as far as possible from Lord Savagewood, her heart quailed as she imagined struggling over them in the cold.

Perhaps there was a map in the library, or in the Baron's study? Could she but find a safe haven at not too far distance, she could make for there. Priscilla began to take heart, and began to mentally order her day's tasks. If only she had pen and paper to make a list!

She would begin by rising immediately and visiting the study before the other servants were abroad. Then, she must report to the kitchen where she would doubtless be detained with a number of tasks. Following as much breakfast as she could manage, she would doubtless be sent on cleaning tasks around the house, at which point she would search the forbidden library for cartographical information, if the investigation of the study had proved fruitless, and then set her first goal. She rather suspected this would be the nearby village of Hathersage, but she must first be clear in her mind whether there were other choices.

Accordingly she rose, repeated her mantra to remind herself of who she really was, and descended like a mouse to the Baron's study. The escritoire was gone! Had the Baron noticed that his letters had been disarranged? Would he suspect, when he opened the little desk, that she had intruded upon his fastness? How angry he would be, surely? Priscilla knew he was not due for many hours, but she searched the room feverishly for a map of the district, without success.

Time was pressing, and she heard a gong echoing distantly summoning her to begin her day's toil. She scanned the room, praying she had not disturbed any books or papers that would be noted, then scurried along to the kitchens where she was set to clean tables and scrub pans. After an hour's labour she was allowed to eat breakfast with the others, a silent and dour meal, which she devoured with unaccustomed fervour, to prepare herself for the day ahead, as well as secreting some bread and some cheese in a cloth. Sure enough, according to her expectation but to her great relief, she was ordered to clear out the grates in the drawing rooms and dining room, and was able to slip into the outlawed library. Therein she found her goal, a recent plan of the district, shewing Stanage Grange's location near North Lees Hall: the wild untamed moors with the cliffs of Stanage Edge above it to north and east, the village of Hathersage to the south, and a broad valley leading to the village of Hope and beyond it Castleton to the west. She took this to be a sign, after her years of trial, and resolved to make for Hope, as if she were Christian on his pilgrimage towards the Celestial City.

The sun had still not appeared behind the banks of baleful clouds, and the wind still gusted as she trekked back and forth to replenish the coal in the scuttles, unable to carry a full bucket, being so small of stature and poor in strength. However, there was no rain, and her trips outside to the coal-hole allowed her to better survey the prospect from the Grange. The valley opened before her, and she could see the stone spire of the church, and smoke arising from mill chimneys. The muddy road down to the village wound up to the gates of the Grange, but she resolved to take the track which she could see on the other side of the valley, in case she should encounter the Baron arriving home early.

It was time to act. Priscilla crept up to her room, abandoning her chores, and changed into her old brown gown, reasoning that the black one would be too recognisable as belonging to the Grange. She had little to take beyond the bread and cheese, a change of linen, her old doll, and a shawl, and her few shillings, which she tied carefully around her waist in a small pocket under her skirts. That pocket was now all she had to remind her of her dear mother, for she had embroidered it for her as a little girl when they still lived in Chawton in Hampshire, when they were still a family, before they were cast out on the cruel hard world!

Priscilla stole out of a side door and set her course for the hillside away from the road. It was muddy, and slippery, but her boots were thick and she pressed on, rounding a dark wood and gaining the track. She saw no-one but kept her eyes open for any sign of a carriage on the road, preparing herself to instantly leap into the bushes if one should hie into view.

Eventually after a mile or so she found herself among cottages, then passed a fine church, which she had seen from the Grange, and then came upon an inn, with a sign proclaiming it to be The George. She resolved to apply there first, or at least seek intelligence with the landlord as to where employment may be found. Pausing on the threshold, she was struck with an idea. She ought not to give her name as Miss Priscilla Butterworth, as was her true title, but better should revert to Polly, as being less conspicuous. Polly Bennet, she would be, that would suit.

The innkeeper was a red-faced and welcoming fellow, who on being informed that she was lately come from Sheffield seeking work in a less unhealthy habitation, told her that the village had manufactories for both wire, needles and pins, and for brass buttons; and that he rather thought Mr Eyre from the button factory would be in shortly for his luncheon. She might do worse than apply to him, as the wire mill was no more healthful than Sheffield. She could wait in the public parlour, and could he oblige her with refreshment? Polly shook her head, and said that she was in great need of money, so was unable to expend any on drink, though she was most grateful to him for his kindness.

Seating herself by a window in the parlour she tried to rest, being weary from her night of torment. Within a few minutes, though, a gentleman looked in, holding a tankard of ale, and paused, before smiling in a friendly fashion and approaching her.

'Good morning, my good lady. Are you all alone in this place?' he said.

'I await a Mr Eyre,' she replied quietly, her eyes downcast.

'Would you object if I sat with you, to lighten the interval with conversation? I find I must also await an appointment, and it would be a shame for two people to both be idle when they could amuse each other.'

Priscilla hesitated. He was a stranger, but his manners were charming, and he looked every bit the gentleman in his dress, though perhaps his waistcoat was somewhat overelaborate and highly figured. He appeared young and dashing, not to mention exceeding handsome, and had a playful and slightly reckless light in his eye.

'And perhaps I might offer you some warming drink on this cold morning? Some tea, maybe, or a cup of chocolate?' he continued, moving a little closer.

Chocolate! Priscilla had tasted it but once, when she was allowed to drain the last drops from a cup that had come back to the kitchens at Thimmerwell Hall unfinished. It had been heaven, a minute spark of joyful memory in a swathe of drabness. She decided that no harm could come from spending an hour with this man, and accepting his generosity.

Having ordered the chocolate, the gentleman sat down by her and introduced himself. 'My name is Mr George Wickham, and I reside in this county near a place called Lambton. At present I am completing my studies at Cambridge University, but afterwards I have hopes of being granted the living of one of the parishes thereabouts, in the gift of my father's employer: my father being the steward of one of the great estates in the region.'

'I am Polly Bennet,' she replied, 'I am arrived from Sheffield today, seeking employment.'

'Your accent is not from these parts,' he said, with a raising of an eyebrow. 'You speak very well.'

'No indeed: I was born in Hampshire, but I have lived in many places.'

'How intriguing,' he responded, leaning forward slightly the better to look into her eyes, and raising one eyebrow flirtatiously. Polly felt the force of his attention, and it was not unpleasing, as she had been unused to anyone taking notice of her for so many years. She turned her eyes downward at the novelty, and in slight confusion.

'So how is a lovely lady like you brought low, to be seeking work in this out-of-the-way place?' he continued, his gaze fixed on her face, as she saw when she next dared to look up at him through her eyelashes, which quivered with nervousness as she did so.

Polly did not know what to say, but Mr Wickham did not press the matter. 'You said you awaited a Mr Eyre,' he said, 'may I know your business with him?'

'I hope he may have work for me at the button factory; the landlord said he is expected for his luncheon.' She turned to look out of the window, as much to avoid Mr Wickham's gaze as anything. 'But I am not an interesting person, please rather tell me of your life in Cambridge. What have you been studying?'

'Oh, this and that,' he said airily. 'Of far more interest is the sport, the company of other young men, the dining, the parties and routs. It is most exciting, much more so than this corner of the land, where nothing happens from one month to the next.'

'But surely you must study?' she rejoined, with heat. 'I love reading books, and improving myself. It is such an opportunity to attend the University; I would give anything to be able to attend the lectures and discuss with the professors, but sadly that is denied me by my sex, quite apart from my position in society. I have even been born too late to attend the meetings of the Blue Stocking Society. That is, I mean, if I could have been invited, um, if I were rich; and leisured, of course,' she finished, embarrassed by her passion.

'A girl enamoured of learning? Whatever next?' replied Mr Wickham, noticing her blush with appreciation. Then, appearing to have second thoughts on the matter, he continued, after not a little pause, 'I swear I am most taken by the idea. And why not? It must make a woman even more attractive to have a developed mind as well as beauty of her person. Mmm, I wonder, have you read Mrs Wollstonecraft's treatise on the subject?'

'I have not: the gentlemen to whose libraries I have had access have not favoured such, er, unsuitable material.'

'But you have heard of it?'

'By no means, but I can tell by your manner that it must propound unusual views.'

The chocolate arrived at this point, and Polly thought she saw Mr Wickham pour a little something from a flask into it after he took it from the landlord, though his back was turned to her.

'What is that you are adding to my drink?' she asked, guilelessly.

'Just something to improve the flavour,' he said smoothly. 'It makes the chocolate more palatable and more warming.'

Polly tasted her drink. It was beyond nectar, it slid down her throat like silk, filling her belly and warming her to her toes. 'Thankyou so much for this, Mr Wickham,' she breathed over the rim of her cup. 'I have never tasted anything so wonderful.'

Mr Wickham smiled, and proceeded to give an account of the subjects of various lectures he had heard, and educational visits he had made at the University, which seemed to cover mathematics, theology, logic, beetle collecting and anatomical studies, to name but a few. Polly was most impressed, particularly that he could encompass such a range of academic studies when engaged in the social whirl to which he had earlier alluded.

She was growing tired and sleepy, however, from her disturbed night and the warmth induced by the chocolate; and after yawning twice had to apologise to Mr Wickham for her inattention. He most courteously dismissed her apologies, and asked if she would care to rest in a chamber for a while, he undertaking to rouse her if Mr Eyre should arrive, or rather, after the gentleman had dined, at which point he would be more amenable to conversation. Polly, her eyelids drooping, could not but agree, and he helped her rise from her seat as her legs seemed to have become disobedient to her control.

If Mr Wickham's supporting hand strayed too close to her breast, she was in no state to resist; if his other arm strayed too familiarly around her waist, she was only aware that she needed his support on the stairway; if his head leaned in and tickled her neck she simply tilted her own head to his, it seemed the thing to do, after all, he was a gentlemen, was he not, and she was Miss Priscilla Butterworth, and she was a lady. Or something of that nature, anyway.

Mr Wickham laid her on a bed, and stood looking down at her for a moment. Polly drowsily saw him through half-closed eyelids; it was odd, there seemed to be two of him. Or was it three? She gave a puzzled shake of the head, and a murmur, and wriggled to get comfortable. There was a click as the door shut, some sounds as of a jacket being removed, and then hands at her breast, undoing the buttons of her bodice! Mr Wickham? Mr Wickham!

She forced her eyes open in sudden terror. Mr Wickham's hands were cupping her breasts, stroking them, forcing them up and together past the lowered edge of her dress, he was leaning low over her, his eyes agleam.

'You like that, don't you?' he murmured. 'I can always tell when a wench wants it, you know. I'm what you might call an expert.' He grinned wolfishly, placed one knee on the bed next to Polly and leaned ever closer. 'Shall I kiss you now? Or perhaps a few more buttons first? No, a kiss first, I think.'

She had been frozen with fear to this point, but as his lips descended to hers Polly let out an almighty scream. Rapidly he clamped his hand over her mouth and shook his head, his eyes suddenly hard and cold. His voice dripped with menace. 'You won't do that again, will you, or it will be very much the worse for you? Do as you are told and you won't get hurt. Make a sound and ... well, nobody knows you are here, it would be very easy to, er, dispose of you.'

Polly shook her head, then nodded, not knowing what was the correct answer. Her terrified eyes must have reassured Mr Wickham, because he slowly withdrew his hand and tantalisingly moved nearer and nearer.

Suddenly the door burst open and a strong hand hauled Mr Wickham off the bed and thrust him to the wall, grasping him by his cravat and causing him to begin to choke. Polly sat upright, and clutched her opened dress to her bosom.

'Was this man bothering you?' snapped out the newcomer. 'I heard a scream. Was that you?'

'Yes, yes,' stammered Polly, Yes to both, of those, it was me, I mean I, who screamed, and ... I'm sorry, I'm blethering.'

'What shall I do with him?' he continued, in a conversational tone. 'Shall I kill him?'

Polly was so shocked she just sat there, opening and closing her mouth with no words issuing forth. Mr Wickham's face was turning blue, and his fists were beating ineffectually at the stranger's grasp.

'It's all right, I won't do that,' he said. 'If you will be amenable to being left alone for a moment I will take him downstairs and simply apply my boot to his behind and propel him into the street. The foulest and muddiest part of the street, that is.'

Polly nodded. She could not speak, but trembled with the shock of the last few minutes and her narrow escape. The stranger grinned at her, hauled Mr Wickham away from the wall, propelled him out into the corridor and shut the door. Polly heard the lock click over, and then a thumping from the staircase, but she had no energy to think about escape from the room. She sank back onto the pillows with a huge sigh, and fumbled with her buttons until she had them fastened again right up to her neck, and tried to gather her wits.

Who was the stranger? What would he want with her? Would he be as charming as Mr Wickham but turn out to be as evil in his designs? Why was she so sleepy still in spite of her terror? And why would Mr Wickham have thought her desirable? She was poor, obscure, plain, and little; she was dressed in a plain, worn servant's dress; she was no lady to be courted or desired let alone kissed. Or worse! The thoughts whirled in her brain, disconnected at times, but all horrifying. What would Mr Wickham have done with her if the stranger had not happened along? She knew nothing of the desires of men for women, she was a pure innocent, who had been savagely awoken to the nightmare of physical lust. What could she do? What should she do? What would she do?

The first thing, she decided, was to get off the bed, and sit herself decorously in a chair as far away from it as possible. She suited her actions to the thought, and then got up again, to move the chair further back, to where she had a good view of the door. Nervously she smoothed her skirts as best she could, and braced herself for the stranger's return. What would he do? Could she resist him? Was she fated to suffer yet more humiliation? Surely death was preferable to that?

Chapter 5

When the scratch of the key in the lock announced the stranger's return she was ready. She had a plan. She would allow the man to come into the room and then bolt past him out of the door and down to the bar, where there would be a crowd, and she would be able to lose herself amongst other people. After all she was very little, and nimble, and could run like the wind. Wryly she remembered the incident with the boar, and how after that she had practised running, in case of a repeat of such an eventuality.

The door creaked open: clearly this inn did not maintain its hinges as well as they had had to at Thimmerwell Hall. Polly leaned forward, prepared to spring from her seat. But the form in the doorway, almost filling it, was of a woman of mature years and comfortable figure, with the face of the stranger peering over her shoulder with an expression of concern. Polly sat still, tensely poised to act.

They entered the room and the stranger spoke. 'I brought Mrs Thompkins here to reassure you I meant you no harm,' he said. 'She is the wife of the landlord, and if you are able, we will descend to the bar parlour where we shall not be alone, and I may see if I can aid you further. Mrs Thompkins tells me you are a stranger in these parts, and knows nothing of you except that you were seeking work.'

Polly relaxed a little at the sight of the woman, and these reassuring words. She hesitated, unsure what she ought to do after her ordeal.

'We can sit in a bay window, where we are in full view of the landlord and his wife and other customers, so you need not feel concerned about what I might, er, I mean, whether I might repeat the behaviour of that nodcock. Not that I would consider it, you understand, but I can see that you would be wise not to trust me, in the circumstances. Besides, the room is required for a visitor; it seems that your assailant did not deign to reserve himself a room before he hatched his misbegotten plans.'

Mrs Thompkins next spoke: 'You come along-a me, dearie, we'll soon have you right. A nice cup of tea will do you, you look fair exhausted.'

'Thankyou very much, Mrs Thompkins,' Polly managed to get out. 'I am feeling unaccountably sleepy, so it would be ... um, I mean,' she yawned, unable to stop herself, 'well, yes, whatever you say,' she finished lamely, feeling dreadfully muddled.

The landlady helped her to her feet and escorted her down the stairs where she settled her in an upholstered chair in the window. The room was busy with customers, and quite noisy, but Polly leaned back and within a few moments was fast asleep.

She came to with a start and for an instant could not recall where she was. Then she saw the stranger sitting opposite, watching her, smiling and looking entirely at home, one ankle resting on the other knee.

'Sorry, I'm so sorry,' she said, 'Um, what ...?'

'Calm yourself, everything is fine. You just slept for nearly two hours, I would estimate. Perhaps you will be feeling a little better? Would you like that tea now?' He signalled to the landlord at the bar.

Polly remembered what had happened, in a rush. 'Oh! Oh dear! Oh yes; Oh!' she exclaimed, flummoxed at the sight of another man gazing at her solicitously. And he was so, well, so comfortable in his own body, whereas she felt so out of sorts with hers. 'Sorry, um, sorry sir for putting you to trouble; you shouldn't have waited on me awakening; oh dear!'

The man simply smiled more broadly and leaned forward. 'Don't think anything of it. I had to eat; my horse had cast a shoe and was being attended to; and I could hardly leave a damsel in distress once I had played St George, now could I? Grant me a little latitude to feel proud of myself, won't you? It's not often I have cause to feel needed.'

'Yes, but..'

'No,' he said firmly. 'You are a damsel, are you not?'

Polly nodded, mutely.

'And you were in distress, were you not?'

She nodded again.

'And I fortunately heard you, and was able to assist you. So think no more of it. My pleasure.'

'Yes, sir.'

The man laughed. 'Besides, I was enjoying watching you sleep. Now, let me introduce myself. I am Mr Royston Danns; I arrived at Liverpool from the West Indies a few days ago, and having concluded my business there I am on my way to Sheffield. Sadly, either my directions were inadequate, or more likely my following of the directions was at fault, but I seem to have strayed a little off course.'

Polly looked at him anew. Indeed his complexion was considerably darker than she had seen before on an Englishman, but it suited him. His laughing blue eyes, his firm jaw, his overlong dark brown hair held at the nape of the neck in a ribbon, all spoke of the confident adventurer, and his well-tailored coat of the gentleman of means. His dress was plain, not ornamented, but he smelled faintly of sandalwood. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, so she said the first thing that came to her.

'Do you not find it cold here in England?'

'Icy,' he laughed, 'but I shall soon be used to it again. I should explain: I am the junior partner in an enterprise ... that is to say, I was the junior partner, but my older colleague is recently deceased, and I am in England firstly to conduct affairs for the business, and secondly to carry out the terms of my late partner's Will. But tell me about yourself, do. A lovely young lady abroad and alone in such a place ...?' He left the question dangling, and Polly didn't know what she ought to say.

'I am Miss Polly Bu ... Bennet,' she said, blushing as she stumbled over the name. ' I am here to look for work, but that man I think must have put some sort of draught in my cup of chocolate and but for you I dread to think what he might have done.'

'And where are you from, Miss Bennet? Your accent is not from these parts.'

Polly had to think quickly. 'Er, no: I was born, um, in Hampshire, Sir.' She thought it was as well not to lie about this, as it would make it easier to remember her story.'

'Hampshire? That is where I am headed after I have finished with visiting the factories in these northern cities. I trust it will be warmer than Derbyshire,' he smiled.

'Indubitably,' she responded, 'Much less windy too, if I remember.' She backtracked in the conversation. 'Why must you mock me by saying I am lovely, when I am quite aware I am of no account?'

'On the contrary, if I may be so bold, your form is most pleasing to the eye. Or why do you think that villain took the trouble to seduce you?'

'You do mock me. See my poor clothing; my lack of possessions, my little frame, my hair. I have no beauty. Or do you think yourself another seducer?'

'No! Thrice no! Though I can see why you would be cautious, and I respect you for it. But,' Mr Danns seemed to be unsure whether he was crossing the bounds of propriety by responding like this, 'your skin is like satin; your face is sweet, your figure is ... well, ...' Here he broke off, perhaps deciding that he should go no further with such compliments. 'Anyway, you speak like an educated woman: what serving-girl uses a word such as "indubitably"?'

'I speak as my late mother spoke, sir. It is no cause for praise.'

'Very well. I can see you are a woman of principle as well. Good for you, to resist flattery, even when it is deserved. So, here is your tea.' Mrs Thompkins, appearing at her elbow, deposited the service with a motherly smile. 'Now, can I offer my assistance in any other matter? I should be off quite soon, if I am to reach Sheffield by nightfall.'

'Nothing, thankyou. I am quite recovered, I think. Don't let me delay you any further.' Even as she said this she unaccountably wished that she could have reason to detain him further. His smile was having a most peculiar effect on her, she couldn't account for it at all. She couldn't even say where in her body she was feeling this effect, but although it was strange it was most pleasant. And that frightened her, which made it unpleasant. And feeling two contradictory things at the same time was confusing, which was also unsettling, and ... well, she just didn't know what to think.

Mr Danns stood, and made his farewells. Polly again was assailed with a wish that she had not dismissed him so soon, and followed him with her eyes as he departed. She sat staring at the door for some time after it had closed behind him, wondering about him, wondering about what might have happened had he seen her dressed in silk at a ball, or even a village dance (not that she could dance, having been excluded from those lessons at Mr Brocklehurst's, and had no further opportunity later, but she could float across the floor in her imagination). But then maybe he was a rake, or a libertine, or a gambler, or in some other way dangerous? Men, she was coming to realise, could not be trusted. Mr Brocklehurst had been cold and unfeeling; the overseers of the poor in Abbotsley took no account of her; Sir Rupert had treated her as a chattel, and then the Baron ... well he was pure evil, surely? Then Mr Wickham, and now Mr Danns. What was a girl to do in this harsh world?

Mrs Thompkins bustled over to her. 'That Mr Wickham has been chased out of the village,' she said. 'Such goings-on in my inn, I never. We are a respectable establishment.' She paused, as if to sum up whether Polly could cope with enquiry. 'He didn't manage to, er, ... I mean, do anything, before Mr Danns got to you?' she hazarded.

'He did not, the Lord be thanked,' said Polly with a blush. 'Well, he undid ... no more than undid some buttons.'

Mrs Thompkins nodded. 'You've missed Mr Eyre,' she continued. 'Tom, that's my husband, he told me he said you should wait and ask him if there's any work for you at the button mill, before you met that scoundrel. So now, you'd best go down there yourself and see if they are hiring. Otherwise, I don't know what to suggest: we don't need no-one just now.'

'Thankyou, Mrs Thompkins, I'll do as you say.' Polly gathered her things together and set off, following the landlady's directions, but looking out along the high road in spite of herself, to see if she could see Mr Danns on his horse in the distance.

No such horseman was visible, and she descended the hill to the button mill, but no work was available. The same was true of the wire and needle manufactory, and again at the two other inns. Dispirited, she trudged back up to where she had started, trying to shield her face from the rain which had again begun to fall, or rather to whistle almost horizontally into her thin body. Should she spend some of her few shillings on a bed in Mrs Thompkins' establishment for the night, and recommence her quest in the morning? She feared she would have to.

Mrs Thompkins was welcoming, and her bed in the servants' domain was not so dear as she had expected, so she ate her bread and cheese and settled down, thankful for the chance to rest after the excitements of the day. The next morning she arose much refreshed and having eaten breakfast, decided she would start along the valley in the direction of Hope, thinking that surely there would be a residence short of a maid, as it was well known that good help was always hard to come by.

Barely had she finished her breakfast when Mrs Thompkins joined her and took her to one side. 'We had Lord Savagewood in here just now,' she whispered, 'enquiring about a runaway servant who he said had stolen some silver spoons from him when she disappeared yesterday. I told him we had seen nobody like that here, but the description of the girl he was searching for sounded like you, so I thought I ought to tell you.'

Polly's heart leapt into her mouth. Lord Savagewood, here! She should have left the village yesterday, she should have put as many miles as she could between herself and the Baron, whatever the weather had been doing. Oh foolish girl that she was!

'Thankyou for not telling him I was here,' she exclaimed, 'oh thankyou!' She opened her bundle, and showed the landlady its few contents. 'You can see I am no thief: this is all I have in the world; but I fear Lord Savagewood means me harm, for I found a letter in his possession which concerns sending maidservants off to the East, to a Turkish merchant, and I dread to think what would become of them once they had departed the shores of England.'

'You do not surprise me, Miss, you do not surprise me at all,' she answered. 'I've never liked nor trusted that fellow, Lord though he may be. That's why I didn't mention you to him. You seemed to me like a good girl, though perhaps a little unknowing in the ways of the world. I did not think you a thief. But what are we to do with you now? You must be gone, and I believe Lord Savagewood will be searching the village for you still. It will be his word against yours, and you will be undone if you are found.'

'And it will mean trouble for you if you are caught sheltering me here,' Polly added sadly. 'You have been so kind, I would not wish that on you.'

'I will go and see if the coast is clear. You wait here.'

Polly, shaking with fear, tried to formulate a plan. If she could only get away from Hathersage, she might find safety. She would head west, further into the hills, towards Hope, as she had planned. She would take the back way through the village and then hurry along the road once she was sure there was no-one to see her. She would try and conceal her appearance by wearing her shawl over her head, which would be unremarkable as the weather was still cold and drizzly, and she would pray. She could do no more.

Mrs Thompkins returned and at her word Polly slipped out of the back of the inn and made her way cautiously along alleys and around by the river until she gained a vantage point overlooking the road west. But what could she see there but the Baron's carriage with a sentinel lackey on the box? The coach sported his gilt coat of arms, which glinted in a solitary ray of sunlight, but this was as soon snuffed out by the rolling clouds. It guarded the route both to the west and to the track up to Stanage Grange. It would be beyond foolish to go that way!

Sadly, Polly retraced her steps and set out for the eastern road, the one over which she had travelled only a few days previously. This rose as it left the village but again she was baulked by the sight of a small group of men, one of whom was on horseback, who appeared to be waiting for something or someone. They were surveying the land which fell away to the small river to the south, so she decided she must cut north and follow a muddy road up into the sheltering hills, hoping that it would lead her away from Stanage Hall by turning west, rather than further north.

This it did, and she started to breathe more easily as she plodded along. She had walked for perhaps an hour, gaining height all the while, when she heard the sound of a horse approaching in the distance behind her. She looked desperately around for cover, but she had reached the open moorland now, and there was nothing but tussocky grass and low scrubby heather. To her left the moor rose steeply to a cliff of irregular and broken appearance which bestrode the skyline like teeth; to the south from where she had come the valley was more gentle, but that was where the human danger lay. She decided, and hitching up her skirts, thankful that they were a little short for her anyway, she set off into the wilderness.

Hoping against hope that the rider was a traveller rather than one of Lord Savagewood's men, she hurried along rather than running, trying to make it look as if she was merely late for some rendezvous. Briefly turning her head to see if she was pursued she saw he had gone off the main track and was following a course that paralleled the crags. Perhaps his horse would not negotiate the rough ground? Would she be safer higher up? What should she do? What should she do? What should she do?

The rider was much closer now. Polly turned and headed straight uphill, praying there would be a route up the cliff face. She gained its lower reaches, and hurried along, seeking a fissure where there might be a route to scramble up. None showed itself, so she pressed on. Allowing herself a second look behind her she saw that the man had dismounted and left his horse to graze, and was pursuing her on foot. It was the Baron himself!

Almost out of her mind with fear, she saw a crevice and entered. At first it seemed she might be able to ascend, but then she found a rock wall far too high for her to scale: she could not even get her foot onto the lowest ledge and there seemed to be no purchase higher up. Hurrying out of the crevice she could now see the Baron plainly. She began to run; he quickened his pace and in a last desperate attempt to evade him she squeezed into another crevice and looked for a path to the open moorland above. She ascended some little way, then could go no farther. Another dead end! She was doomed!

Just then she saw a black shadow deep within the rock. She made for it at once, she had no other choice. Was it a cave that might shelter her? Was it her refuge?

It was inky black inside: it was indeed a cave. A fairly big cave at that, as far as she could tell with no light. She held her hands in front of her sightless eyes, and edged forward, only stopping when she encountered the back wall. Feeling around, she found a boulder and hunched herself up as small as possible behind it. Would Lord Savagewood pass by? Could she escape him? How long would she have to hide in this cold and damp place if he did leave?

She could hear the sounds of the Baron's boots scraping on the coarse rock as he cast about for her, and constant muttering, and occasional cursing as he slipped and perhaps skinned his palms. It was the muttering that most unnerved her, He sounded to be not fully human, to be some sort of animal, beneath the veneer of civilisation that his coat and breeches and cravat proclaimed. He was like the wild boar she had evaded so long ago, though more cunning. But not so hairy, she thought, stifling a snort of laughter. How could she laugh at such a time? She was in mortal peril, either from the Baron wanting to take revenge on her for escaping his clutches, or from whatever fate awaited her in the Ottoman Empire!

She waited, hardly daring to breathe, until the sounds of the Baron had faded away. He must be searching farther along, or maybe he had found a way up to the summit and was scouring the high moor for signs of her flight? Had he noticed that his letter in the escritoire had been moved? And would he therefore know she was aware of his fiendish plans? Surely when he opened the small desk, as he must have done when he conducted his business wherever that might be, he would have seen it was not folded as before? But maybe men were not as observant as women? She could but hope.

An hour passed. Polly was getting very cold, and stiff from her crouched position. She decided that she could raise her head just a fraction and see if there was any sign of him at the entrance to the cave. Surely he would not be able to penetrate the gloom from outside? Very slowly she lifted her head and peered out. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see where the opening of the cave must be, but it was impossible to see more.

Dare she move? Had he really passed on to search further along this millstone outcrop which lay over shale and limestone? Could she stay here till night, when she would be more certain to move undetected, although then she would have to traverse the wild moor without being able to see the lay of the ground? Who knows what dangers lay out there, apart from the Baron? Were there wolves? Snakes? Eagles with rending claws? Demons, roaming the wild places seeking unprotected souls, away from the protection of the villages with their churches and crosses and priests?

That decided it, she must leave while it was still light. Just a little longer, though. She counted to a hundred, then another hundred, and then a third time. Realising this was ridiculous she steeled herself, stood up, and crept out of the cave. As she reached its entrance she paused, and looked at the view lying spread before her. There was Stanage Grange, and near it must be North Lees Hall. And beyond them, nothing but moor!

Polly edged forward, started to descend the rocks, keeping low to the ground. Hardly had she gone twenty yards then – the Baron! He sprang from his hiding place and launched himself at her. She screamed, started to run, hauled herself up a boulder – but it was too late! His claw-like hands grasped her skirts and reeled her in. There was no escape! She was caught in his foul clutches!

Chapter 6

'So, Miss Butterworth, we meet again?' The Baron's voice was silky and menacing; his eyes an intense ice-cold blue. Priscilla shivered, stiffened in his grasp and feared her end had come.

'I do not take kindly to being incommoded in this way,' he hissed through clenched teeth. 'Nor do I forgive those foolish enough to interfere with my private papers. You,' he paused, the better to intimidate the girl, 'are a confounded nuisance, and you shall suffer grievously for it.'

Priscilla shrank back from the rage that emanated from the Baron's very person, from the chill fire that flashed from his eyes. He stood over a foot taller than her, her puny strength was as nothing to his, and she was helpless in his hands. He ripped her small bundle of possessions from her and tossed it contemptuously away among the rocks. Reaching into a pocket the Baron pulled out a length of cord and, spinning her around, bound her hands behind her with cruel force. Priscilla cried out again, until her yells were silenced by a cloth forced between her lips and bound around her head. She tried to kick out at him, but he threw her easily to the ground and began to lift her skirts. She stared at him in horror.

'Such a modest maiden, eh?' he laughed, dismissively. 'I don't think you will stay modest for long where you are headed.' He bent over her, and grasping her ankles, tied them together, then watched her struggles with a smile of pleasure. Fixing his gaze on her terrified face, he slowly hauled up her skirts still further, and deliberately looked at her exposed calves. Slowly withdrawing another cord from his pocket, he then tied her knees together with obvious enjoyment.

'There, I think that should keep you in check,' he rasped. With no apparent effort he lifted her slight frame and tossed her over his shoulder, so that her head hung down his back and his hand rested upon her bottom. Priscilla was mortified at the touch of his hand, which did not simply keep her body in place but kneaded her posterior in a most shameful manner.

In this fashion they descended the hillside, Priscilla alternating between wriggling to free herself and stillness when the breath was knocked out of her by a jerk in the Baron's descent. She could not really see where they were going, and became dizzy with the movement and the blood rushing to her suspended head, but eventually their progress became more even, and she could see they were on a small track.

After a little way the Baron stopped, adjusted his grip on her and threw her over the withers of his horse, mounting behind her and immediately setting off at a rapid pace. Priscilla felt treated like a sack of goods bound for market, like booty stolen from a battlefield, as she bounced around, struggling now to breathe with the movements of the horse, and the obstruction of the hateful gag.

They reached Stanage Grange within a quarter hour, though it felt to Priscilla far longer. Tossing the reins to a servant Lord Savagewood hoisted Priscilla once more over his shoulder and entered his domain. He marched rapidly through the hall and into his library where he dumped her unceremoniously on the floor and searched her skirts for pockets. Finding her money, he removed it and glanced at the few coins.

'A paltry sum' he sneered, 'but you won't be needing English coinage where you are going.'

He pushed her over with his foot and from her prone position she could hear him opening drawers and then the jangle of keys. Twisting around as best she could, Priscilla saw him at the wainscotting, opening a panel and then swinging a section open to reveal a narrow doorway. He turned to her, face contorted in a snarl.

'The priest's hole for you, Miss Priscilla Butterworth,' he snapped, 'and I hope you find it to your taste. I'm afraid the decor is not quite ... well, not quite at all.' With a laugh, he carried her down a short stairway and dropped her on the damp earth at the bottom. 'At least you will not be here for long,' he added as he left the tiny dark chamber, 'your carriage to your new life will be here tomorrow night.' The door slammed shut, Priscilla heard the scrape of the lock and the closing of the secret panel, and then there was silence.

Battered and bruised, humiliated beyond measure and filled with dread concerning her fate, Priscilla burst into tears, her shoulders heaving with emotion. She gave herself up to despair for many minutes, but eventually her breathing settled, her racking sobs diminished, and she began to calm herself. Truly her plight was desperate, but was there really nothing she could do to help herself in the time she was to be kept here?

When she had first entered the chamber it had seemed lightless, but as her eyes adjusted she could see reasonably well. If indeed priests had been secreted here in the days when Catholicism could mean a death sentence, they would have had to stay immured for some days, perhaps? Hence there was a tiny window high up and out of reach in the outer wall, more like a ventilation porthole, and the wainscotting was not close-fitting in all places and some light filtered through. The refuge seemed to be have been built in the thickness of the wall of the building: to one side was the wood of the panelling, and a space of perhaps two and a half feet divided it from the close-set timbers and the wattle and daub infilling of the outer wall. At the far end was a stone ledge, and above it was fixed an iron crucifix.

Priscilla gazed up at the image of the Saviour and prayed for aid. It was a roughly-made thing, perhaps fashioned hurriedly and in secret, in times of great trouble. Suddenly she had an idea. Would its edges be rough enough to cut through her bindings? Would it be sacrilege to use such an object for profane purposes? Surely the circumstances were exceptional, like when David's men ate the shewbread in the Temple?

She wriggled her way along the narrow chamber and twisted till she was sitting against the wall. With enormous effort she levered herself up until she was half-sitting on the ledge, and then rested to catch her breath and still her pounding heart. Was the Baron still in his library? Could he have heard her, and if he had would he suspect what she was attempting? She could hear nothing but the blood pounding in her head, and the sighing of the wind through the window. Gathering her courage, she raised herself further and felt for the cross and the effigy upon it.

Praise be, it was indeed so crudely made that the edges were jaggedly sharp. It was terribly awkward to twist her arms until they could rub on the serrated edges of the image, and several times she had to sink down to rest, but within perhaps ten minutes she felt the first strands of her bonds parting, and though her efforts grew feebler as she worked at the cords, she drew on her reserves of will, and within an hour she was free!

Well, she thought as she sank down and massaged her poor chafed wrists, feeling the stickiness of the blood upon them, partly free. Very partially free. She tried first to loosen the cloth around her mouth, but her fingers would not obey her, and it was a full twenty minutes before she was able to work the knot behind her head open, spit out the loathsome rag filling her jaws and at last breathe freely.

The ropes around her legs were less of a difficulty, as the Baron had not expended so much effort on these, in his haste to load her on his horse and transport her to his mansion, and soon they lay on the ground beside her. A thought struck her, and she gathered up the three cords and secured them around her waist underneath her dress, just in case she might find a use for them, seeing that she had been deprived of all her possessions and – she drew breath in horror – her reserve of money!

The light, never good, was beginning to fade, and though now free from her bonds, Priscilla was still trapped in her prison. What could she do to get out? Was there a way? If she were able to open the door, how could she flee the house unobserved?

Carefully, silently, she ascended the six steps to the secret door. A ray of light penetrated the chamber from just to its left and she pressed her eye to the space. It was a spyhole, in all likelihood constructed for the use of the concealed priest in days gone by. It was partially obstructed, presumably by some intricate carving on the outside which concealed it from casual view. Nonetheless Priscilla could see part of the room clearly: the great window, two cases of books, and a table with papers laid upon it. There was no sound of an occupant, no sound at all other than some clanking of metal which must come from the kitchens.

She judged it safe to try the door, but it was immovable and the lock was set within the oak of its structure so there was no chance of her prying it off. Would there be any other route out of this hideyhole for the concealed priest, for instance if the secret door was discovered? She decided to search before it grew too dark.

Every inch of the wainscotting was firmly attached; the wall where the crucifix hung was solid stone; and the outer wall revealed no hint of a hidden doorway. As her probing fingers felt each beam and post she noticed however that some of the plaster was damp, and friable. Indeed in one place it fell away under her fingers and made a little pyramid upon the stone floor. Priscilla halted and thought furiously. Could she? Would she be able to? Was it possible?

Her nails were short and her fingers lacked strength, but just maybe she could find a way through the wattle and daub, and then surely she would be able to squeeze her slight body between the posts of the half-timbering? It was worth a try, for the Baron could hardly be in a worse humour with her if he found she had damaged his mansion than he was at present. She set to work at once, but soon found that it was more difficult than her initial success had suggested. Most of the plaster was set firm, and the wooden interior was tightly-woven. She simply could not pick the material away as she had hoped, and after a half hour's struggle, sat back in despair.

It was then that her eyes fell again on the crucifix. Perhaps with that as a tool ...?

It was a matter of moments to step across to the wall. It had been to her benefit that it was firmly attached when she need it to stay steady to cut her bonds, but now it resisted her attempts to unfasten it from the iron nail driven into the stone which supported it. Eventually she was able to untwist the wire holding it in place and grasp the holy image. Muttering a prayer of apology, she set to work on the wall with the metal, and soon found she was making progress. It was slow, to be sure, but within an hour she had the outer layer of plaster cleared over an area that she hoped would admit her body, and she was getting to the place where the laths and withies were interlaced. These were more of a barrier, as each had to be broken and pulled out one by one, and she grew tired. Moreover the light had failed and she had to work by touch alone.

As each piece of the wall gave up the struggle Priscilla started to believe the more that she could truly escape. But as she worked away, she also wrestled with the question of where she should head to and what shelter she might find. She still shied away from the idea of Sheffield, for although she could lose herself more easily in the crowds, she had no experience of the large town and feared she might fall into as much danger there as she had with Lord Savagewood. She must not go near Hathersage, in spite of the friendly presence of Mrs Thompkins and her husband, and the village lay between her and escape to the South, so she must head West over the hill towards a village she had seen on the map, which led onward to the road up the valley toward Hope.

Just then there was a sound of feet within the house: boots on the stone floor of the hall changing to the different echo of the wooden floor of the library. There were voices too, men's voices. Priscilla left her work on the wall and crept up to her spyhole, hardly daring to breathe.

The men, whoever they were, had sat out of sight but she could hear the clink of glasses and the pouring of some spirit. Next, bangs, and thuds and other noises with which she was only too familiar from her life of servitude: a fire being built up. She could see the firelight dancing on the wall across from her, but the crackling of the flames tended to obscure what was being said. In spite of this she recognised the Baron's horrid tones, modified she supposed for the benefit of his visitor into civility. She strained to hear.

The other man was saying something about a legacy, about a Will, and his search for the surviving descendants. Lord Savagewood at one point had exclaimed in surprise, "But that was my great-uncle!" and after the other man said something Priscilla could not catch, "Well, my late wife's great-uncle, if we are being precise," in an irritated tone. After this the men's voices dropped in volume and she could only catch snatches. Words such as "fortune" and "insisted upon" and "family name" and "last living descendant" tantalised her, but she could not make out who was offering the Baron an inheritance, or why he should be eligible for any such portion.

Soon the interview drew to a close. The men stood and moved to the door, but all Priscilla could glimpse was the back view of the Baron, and a slight impression of dark hair on the other man. She wondered if she should remain, and was glad that she did because the Baron returned and poured himself another drink, then paced about the room muttering to himself. He sounded quite unhinged, Priscilla thought, which only redoubled her fear of him, especially when he took yet another glass of the spirit and began to curse without troubling to keep his voice down. She had not heard many of the words before, and wished she could stop her ears but she did not want to miss any vital information about the Baron's plans, so she listened on, blushing the while at the Baron's language, until she started as she heard her own name amidst the invective. "Butterworth", he had said, had he not, or rather, "D_ and b_ Butterworth"?

What could this mean but that capturing and disposing of her was as much a priority as an inheritance? She was of value to him, or to his pricked pride, on a level with wealth? She had an importance – albeit not a very tempting kind of importance, but she had for so long felt that she was a nobody, that it felt good that she might be able to best him, quite apart from the dire necessity of saving herself from a fate worse than death in Constantinople.

At length Lord Savagewood ceased his pacing, set down his glass with a clatter, and turned to leave the room. As he did so she saw his eyes, red and staring, like the eyes she had seen from her window in the night. Shocked by the sight, Priscilla returned to her labours at the wall. Although the Baron had said she would be shipped off the next night, she did not want to stay here a moment longer than she had to, and besides, it would be much safer to make her escape under cover of darkness and put as many miles between herself and the Baron as possible. She would have to find somewhere to rest, as she was worn out with the events of the day, but only after she had quitted her prison and fled into the relative safety and anonymity of the hills.

Her progress was slow but before the night was half through she had made an opening in the basketwork which should allow her slender frame to pass. She tested it against the width of her shoulders and decided it would have to suffice. The remaining plaster was simpler to shift, she hoped, but before making the breakthrough she again ascended the few stairs and looked and listened at the spyhole. A clock in the hall struck a single note, which she thought must mean one o'clock, and there was no sign of activity. Returning to the site of her quarrying she sat herself opposite the opening and applied her boot to the remaining plaster. To her satisfaction it cracked and after a few more hefty blows from her heel it fell away outside and cold fresh air rushed in!

Using the crucifix to scrape away some remaining material which project into the gap she pushed one arm and her head through and took a wary look around. There was no movement, no sudden lights kindled, no shouts of alarm. She breathed out, wriggled, squirmed, and at one point considered uttering one or two of the curses she had learnt from Lord Savagewood that evening, but restrained herself. After all, she thought, somewhat inappropriately for the desperateness of the situation, I am Miss Priscilla Butterworth, and I am a lady.

As soon as she was free of the tiny hole, she stood up and shook the debris from her person, and looked around. The sky was filled with thick clouds, and for the moment there was no moon visible. How could she not have thought that she could not find her way in the total darkness? She had no idea which way to go, which way even she was facing. No lights shone from the sleeping villages, nor yet from the Grange. Realising she was still holding on to the crucifix she placed it in her pocket, feeling that it had helped her thus far and she may again have need of it, though it was a Catholic image.

But all was not lost in the enveloping darkness, for soon the clouds parted briefly, and a watery moon cast a feeble light on the scene. Moving from the gravel of the path onto the silent grass she slipped into the deepest shadows and edged around the house until she could tell where the entrance carriageway lay, and set off in the opposite direction.

It would be tedious to chronicle each field she crossed, guided by the intermittent moonlight as cloud after cloud obscured the celestial orb, and all the times she had to halt, too frightened to progress when the darkness was too thick. She hardly noted each hedge or fence she negotiated, every tussock on which she tripped in the stygian gloom, and the streams which seemed to conceal themselves with the express purpose of soaking her feet, but Priscilla pressed on, weary to her bones, until the gradient eased and then headed down hill, and eventually she entered a sleeping village. But here she knew she could not rest, she had covered only a couple of miles, and it had taken her an unconscionable time to do so, so she trudged on until she came to a larger stream, which she could not cross in safety.

Up- or down-river? Priscilla thought, and considered, and peered into the blackness for any sign of a bridge. She reasoned that downstream would be the main valley, and the main road, where there might be more chance of a crossing, and so she set off in that direction. Sure enough, there was a bridge of sorts, well more a pair of beams set across the water, which looked most unstable. Driven by the fear of pursuit she crawled across on all fours, and set off once again, unable to stop herself glancing behind her in spite of the darkness.

She had but the haziest idea of where she was heading, just somewhere she could hide and rest, somewhere with a roof of sorts, and where she would not be seen, where no-one would chance upon her in the course of their labours. She would have to lay low for the day, and only travel at night, until she was much farther away than this. As for food, she was already famished and although she had drunk from one of the streams she could not go on for more than a day without eating.

The first light was appearing in the clouds when she came across a derelict barn, with half the roof missing, and some bare rafters like black ribs against the charcoal of the sky. Inside there was some old straw, and at one end under the surviving roof section an inner wall enclosed an area more sheltered than the rest. Polly burrowed her way into the straw, curled up and was in the arms of Morpheus within seconds.

Chapter 7

Miss Priscilla Butterworth, feeling for the present anything but a lady, awoke and sneezed as a piece of straw tickled her nose. It took a moment to remember where she was, and then she froze. The light seemed to be the same as when she had fallen asleep, which is to say a half-light, and she realised she must have woken at dusk. Her stomach rumbled alarmingly and she knew she would have to find sustenance soon. But for now her task would be to put more distance between herself and Stanage Hall, before she could risk making contact with civilisation.

She poked her head out from the heap of straw and then crawled into the fresh air. It had been stuffy but warm in there, and she half thought she would like to remain but the thought of the Baron, the Mad Baron as she now thought of him, drove her on. What sort of man would kidnap poor English women and ship them off to foreign parts as if they were bales of cotton cloth, or steel knives? What kind of beast would even contemplate it? And what dark and twisted mind might suppose he could get away with it indefinitely?

How long had this been going on? How many more girls had been dispatched to new masters in the heathen realms? And, if she could only evade his Lordship's clutches, could she do anything to halt it? She was only a maid, in spite of what she told herself every night and morning, and no-one would believe her word against his. But for now she simply had to keep herself hidden, and make good her escape.

Standing up she surveyed her temporary home. The windows were arched, coming to a point, and there was in places the remains of what had to be tracery, as if this had once been a monastic building. In the wall near her sleeping place was a small recess, with a depression that might hold water within. Was it a piscina from an old chapel? Had she slept in a holy place, and hence been protected by its virtue? She felt in her pocket for the crucifix which she had not wanted to leave behind in the cell after all it had done for her, and felt calmer.

Was that voices? Priscilla froze again, turning her head wildly as she looked for somewhere to hide. They would be sure to look in the straw where she had slept; otherwise the building was bare. She looked back and forth, up and down, to and fro. Suddenly she spied an alcove part-way up the wall near the piscina. It had perhaps held a statue of a saint before the iconoclasts had done their cleansing work. Could she reach it? Now she could see the light of a lantern reflecting from the top of the barn wall, and driven by panic she put one foot in the piscina, and scrabbled for a handhold on the rough stone.

She could just reach the bottom of the niche, and there was a projection just there ... and if she could haul herself over the lip, then ... made it! Priscilla backed into the recess, and tried to look like an effigy. Realising that her white face might reflect light, she pulled her shawl over her head and stood as still as she could.

It sounded like two very disgruntled men who entered the building. Their main topic of conversation appeared to be the morals (or lack of them) of their noble employer and his likely destination in the hereafter, and the pointlessness of their search as they cast about and kicked at the loose straw. 'After all,' one of them said, 'It's only a stupid wench, of no account. Why can't he leave her be? Plenty more where she came from.'

Priscilla grew angry at this, but terror held her still and silent. After more grumbles about the lack of food and in particular, ale, with which they had been provided, and aspersions cast upon the Baron's legitimacy, they wandered off into the night. Priscilla did not move until fully five minutes after their voices had died away, and then let out a great sigh of relief.

Now to get down. It had been easier far to ascend than it was to descend, it transpired. Priscilla turned her slim body in the narrow space in order to edge her legs over the lip of the alcove and began to lower herself toward the footholds. In this position she could not see where she had to place her boots and within a couple of seconds found herself hanging in mid-air, legs kicking wildly for purchase. Her fingers were just about to give way when she found a hold with one foot, but her relief was short-lived for that foot slipped and she again dangled in mid-air. She desperately tried to haul herself up but her fingers would not support even her inconsequential weight, and she fell the rest of the way to the ground, landing in an ungainly heap. Fortunately the straw broke her fall to some degree, but she was winded, and cross with her ineptitude and weakness.

Once she had regained her composure, and giving thanks that no bones were broken, Priscilla took stock. She needed to move on, though her present home ought to be safe for the time being, and she needed to find first food and then somewhere who would employ her and give her sanctuary. She could not believe that the Baron held sway over the whole of the valley, as she knew his estate encompassed only a few acres around the Grange, and there must be sympathetic employers further towards Hope. Surely? There must be?

Should she set off on her quest now, in the dark, when she would be less likely to be seen? If she did, no-one would be looking to hire a maid who arrived by night, and indeed she would be out in the open for hours before she could knock on kitchen doors in the morning and request employment. On the other hand, if she waited till dawn she would be exposed to detection as she travelled, and she was so hungry!

That decided her. She must move now or she would perish from inanition. It was surely still only just evening, as the sun set early at this time of year, and so with a timorous scanning of the surrounds for the men who had entered her barn in search of her, she set out up the broad valley.

Again she made slow progress, keeping to the shadows, dodging into cover if she heard a noise, and avoiding all the made roads and open spaces. At one point she climbed a tree, thinking that she saw one of her pursuers on the road, but it turned out to be only a labourer making his way home. Priscilla had not had much experience of tree-climbing, and soon found that it was easier to get up than to get down. She got her skirts caught somehow on a broken branch and had to lean over to free them. Her foot slipped on the damp moss which covered the upper surfaces of the tree, and she fell – but only part-way. Her skirt, still firmly hooked on its twig, broke her fall, and she was left dangling upside-down with her head suspended just too far from the ground for her to reach with her arms. How could she free herself? She was truly in a pickle.

The blood rushed to her head, and she felt quite faint. Fortunately for her, her dress was old and worn, because after about half a minute there was a tearing sound and the hem gave way, the material ripped and she sank ungracefully to the ground. She made a mental note to avoid trees: they were not suitable for a lady in a dress! She set off again, berating herself for wasting time.

Nonetheless she was putting distance between herself and the Baron, and every step made her feel his evil influence waned. A stream blocked her path, but she could leap it. A hedge rose before her but she could squeeze beneath its branches. A gate was firmly shut, but she could climb it. Even when she reached a larger river there was a mill with a bridge, and she could cross.

And there was a village, with a church spire standing squat in the moonlight against the dark hills, surrounded by the low humps of cottages with a few lights burning. Surely she had come far enough now to risk contacting fellow-humans for aid? She skirted the houses by way of a river-path and headed for the church, or rather the vicarage, for she reasoned that there she was most likely to receive Christian charity? Surely?

Hard by the church she found a gate emblazoned with the legend, "Hope Vicarage" and she breathed a sigh of relief, before remembering that she would by no means be certain of a welcome even here. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders and repeated her mantra, reminding herself of who she was, before remembering she ought to be cautious and Miss Priscilla Butterworth should again take on the alias of Polly Bennet.

She gained the rear door of the building, and knocked, at first hesitantly, and then with a firmer rap. There was light inside, which encouraged her, and at length, a woman of middle age answered.

'And what may you be wanting at this time of an evening, Miss?' she asked, crossing her arms and standing foursquare across the threshold.

'If you please, ma'am, my name is Polly Bennet and I am looking for work. I am a hardworking maidservant and I have been travelling for some days, and I am very hungry. Is there any chance I could find shelter with your mistress?' She bobbed a curtsey as she thought what to say next. 'And if you cannot admit me, could you spare a crust of bread or ... anything?'

'And how do I know you're not one of those thieving Egyptians that pass through hereabouts from time to time?'

Polly was unsure what to say. 'Um, I don't know, Ma'am, but I'm not. I mean, I don't know what you mean about Egyptians, I've never left England, um, and I'd never thieve from anyone.'

'Hmm. You speak well, girl, I'll say that for you. How old are you?'

'Seventeen, Ma'am. Just seventeen a few weeks ago.' The woman appeared to be considering, and Polly decided to hold her tongue and keep her gaze demurely downcast, hands folded in front of her.

The woman spoke again, her manner more kindly. 'You just wait here, I'll fetch the mistress, and see what she says. As a matter of fact we could do with a bit of help just now, as Jenny's had to go away for a while, she, er, got a bit too friendly with one of the shepherds and, well, that's not your business, is it? Stay right there.' With that she shut the door on Polly and stumped off.

A few minutes later the door opened again and a lady dressed in the fashion of a few years' since, looked out at her, the cook standing behind. 'Good evening,' she said, 'I understand you are looking for work? It is a bit late to be paying calls, don't you think?'

'Yes Ma'am,' replied Polly, 'but I have travelled so far and I'm so hungry that I couldn't bear to wait till morning.'

'Well come in and let me see you in the light,' the lady said. 'My name is Mrs Marsden, my husband is the vicar here.' Polly followed her in, and stood where the light fell on her face.

'I'm sorry I'm not very clean,' she said, 'but I have been travelling over the moors and I kept falling over, you see.' She waited as Mrs Marsden considered, then added, 'I thought if you can't give me work, I could sell my hair. It's quite long, although it is red, which I know is not the fashion, and I've heard people will pay for hair to make wigs. Do you know how I might find someone to buy it?'

Mrs Marsden gave her an appraising look. 'I don't think that will be necessary. You keep your lovely hair. Pay no attention to which colours may be fashionable, and accept what God has given you. Her hair is a woman's crowning glory. Now to business: Cook said you were seventeen, did she? You look much younger.'

'Yes, Ma'am. I'm told I was a small baby and a small child and now I'm, well, still small. But I can work hard, and I'm careful. Oh, and I'm good at mending clothes, and I'm honest.'

'Do you have any references?'

Polly paused; her face fell. 'Well, no, I'm afraid I don't, ma'am. I have never ... I mean, what are references?'

Mrs Marsden smiled at her. 'Never mind that, come on in and let Cook give you something to eat. I expect that there is more to your story than you have told me, but we can leave that for now.'

Priscilla wanted to throw her arms around her and hug her, she was so relieved, but she restrained herself and just dropped a curtsey and thanked her. Soon she was sitting at the kitchen table, eating bread with butter and crumbly cheese and a slice of some sort of meat pie, and drinking fresh milk. It tasted like heaven, and in the moments when her mouth was not full she couldn't stop saying thankyou to the lady of the house.

'When you have finished eating we must find you another dress so that one can be cleaned, mustn't we? I assume you have no baggage?'

'None, Ma'am, I lost my bundle a few days ago.' A tear came to her eye. 'It had my doll in it, one of the only things I had to remind me of my dear mother.' She sniffed inelegantly, and apologised immediately. 'I do still have my pocket that she embroidered for me, I suppose, though all my money was stolen.'

'I'll leave you in the hands of Cook then. I do believe I saw her putting water on to heat so you may wash.'

Mrs Marsden left the kitchen and soon Polly was luxuriating in the warmth of the hip bath, and the feeling of being clean all over. She was shown into a small bedroom with a pair of etchings on the wall ('This is Jenny's room, you can stay here for now') and a white nightgown. Seeing it she burst into tears and sobbed on the Cook's broad bosom. Cook just patted her on the back and said, 'There, there, duck,' till she quieted herself and was able to tumble into bed, where she fell straight to sleep, before the good woman had even left the room.

The next morning Polly was up at first light, put on her clean dress (which was considerably too long for her) and descended to the kitchen where she set to to clean out the grate and set a fire in the range. Next, she did the same in the drawing room and breakfast room, and was scrubbing the back step when Cook found her.

'Lord a'mercy, child, you've done half a day's work already!' she exclaimed. Come inside, and have yourself something to eat and drink. That old step looks like new now.'

Polly ate her breakfast, prepared vegetables for luncheon, took up her skirts, attacked a pile of mending, and found herself feeling almost secure for the first time in weeks if not months. Mrs Marsden looked in once to see she was getting on satisfactorily, then left her alone until teatime. She interrupted Polly's sweeping of the hall and stairs to ask her to join her in the drawing room and to take a cup of tea with her, much to Polly's surprise.

Shutting the door as Polly sat down, she busied herself with the pot and then turned to the girl, who was perched on the edge of the sofa looking nervous.

'Here is your tea; now, do sit back and try to relax a little, won't you. I'm not going to interrogate you, I'd just like to ask if there is anything you want to tell me about yourself.'

Polly sipped her tea, and wondered what to say. 'What can you mean?' she tried first.

Mrs Marsden smiled. 'You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but it is quite clear to me that you are something more than a regular housemaid. For a start, your speech gives you away; also you carry yourself like a lady, not a servant. And, I don't know, there's just something about you that makes me think you are, well, refined I suppose. I watched you when you ate last night: though you were ravenously hungry you ate neatly and politely.

'Not that you aren't also a housemaid, of course. Cook tells me her pans have never been so clean, and your sewing is a marvel. So, is there anything you want to say?'

Polly wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. 'You've been so kind,' she began, 'but I don't know if ... that is to say, I think I'd better ... well, I mean I should really ...'

'Don't worry, it can wait. In the meantime, let me tell you that you may stay and work for me for three weeks if you need to, as that is when Jenny is due back with her baby, and I will pay you the same as I was paying her. Perhaps by then you will have decided on what you must do, and whether you can confide in me. My husband is away presently, but he will be back in time to preach on Sunday, and if you would rather talk to a man of the cloth, I am sure he would be pleased to listen.'

'Thankyou, ma'am, you're very kind. I think ... I think I would like to wait a while before I say anything; I'm sorry but I just need ...' She trailed off, gulping back tears.

Mrs Marsden put down her cup, leaned across and hugged her close. 'Wait till you are ready, Polly. Don't worry, you are safe here with us. You're going to be all right.'

Chapter 8

Polly spent the next few days carrying out her chores with something approaching contentment. There was only Mrs Marsden to look after, but the vicarage was large and a lot of regular tasks had been neglected as Jenny had approached her time. She was at first surprised to discover that Mrs Marsden was prepared to continue to employ her maid after she had had an illegitimate child, but soon realised it was that lady's nature to forgive errors, to help others and to display real Christian charity. Unlike Mr Brocklehurst, whose morality had consisted of severity and autocracy, with no love, Mrs Marsden actually cared.

This meant that Polly several times accompanied her on trips into the village and out to the more distant farms and cottages carrying various gifts of food or clothing, and sometimes medicines for the ailing. Other visits were simply to provide company for the bedridden or crippled, and occasionally to mind the children while their mother had a break from the constant supervision. Polly carried the gifts, but kept quietly in the background for most of the time, unwilling to let on to the parishioners much about herself in case it got back to Lord Savagewood by some devious path, but she saw how much Mrs Marsden loved playing with the children, and one evening as they returned to the vicarage she hesitantly asked her about it.

'Sadly we have not been blessed with children of our own,' she told Polly, 'though we have been married for seven years. I cannot say I am wholly content with my lot, but it is a joy to help with others' children if I cannot care for ones of my own flesh and blood.' She stopped a moment and looked at Polly, who was looking up at her trustingly, 'I think that is one thing I feel about you, Polly, that you are a child who needs a mother, even though you are seventeen. I hope it is alright to say that?'

Polly was unable to find a word to say. They walked in silence for a while. Then, as they turned into the vicarage garden, she decided she could confide in her employer. 'My father died when I was a small baby,' she said, hesitantly, 'and my mother when I was but twelve years old. But I spent most of my childhood with other families after I was five, as my mother could not afford to keep me.'

Mrs Marsden made sympathetic noises, but didn't say any actual words, for which Polly was grateful. After they had entered the house and taken off their cloaks she suggested they sat down for a cup of tea together, and Polly insisted that she would boil the water and fetch the service, while Mrs Marsden rested. If she was honest with herself, it was because she needed time to think whether she wanted to say any more about her dear Mama, but the subject had been raised in her thoughts, and would not allow itself to be put back in the dark recess of her mind where she had kept it hidden for so long. By the time the tea was steeping in the pot, she knew she had to tell someone or she felt she might burst.

Mrs Marsden made it easy for her, smiling up at her as she took her cup and simply saying, 'It must be very hard to lose both parents so young.'

Polly sat down all of a sudden, and gathered herself. 'My father died of the smallpox when I was so young I did not know him,' she began, the words coming out in a rush. 'My sister died too, and my brother was badly scarred by the disease. But what really upsets me is that I don't know how my mother died. I was twelve; I had recently been sent back from the distant cousin who had been giving me a home, and Perseus, that was my brother, almost immediately succumbed to a lung fever. My mother was beside herself with grief. I remember her taking me in her arms and giving me some advice, something dreadfully important which I took to my heart, but now for some reason I find myself unable to recall it at all. And then, well, most of the next few days is a blank. All I know is that dearest Mama was dead, and my grandmother too, and I was an orphan, and some men had to decide what was to be done with me, and I was packed off to be a maidservant at a house a long way away, and ...' Here she stopped, too upset to continue.

Mrs Marsden said nothing, but stretched out her hand and took Polly's and patted it. Somehow this was better than words, and Polly burst into hot tears that simply coursed down her cheeks, and wracked her body with sobs. Mrs Marsden didn't move, save for the patting of her hand, and gradually the storm of emotion passed, and she quieted. Eventually she looked up and saw Mrs Marsden holding out a handkerchief. Silently she took it and dried her eyes, wiped her face, and blew her nose, perhaps not as elegantly as she might have done, but there was a great deal of emotion to account for.

'Thankyou,' she said, 'I'll, um, I'll see to laundering this tomorrow.'

Mrs Marsden laughed. 'How typical of you to say that, I should have expected it! But now, does that feel a bit better?'

'Yes, Ma'am.'

'Drink up your tea, then.' Mrs Marsden seemed to sense Polly had finished confiding in her for the time being, so she just added as Polly sipped her drink, 'I'm always ready to listen if you need me to.'

The next day was sunny and breezy. Polly was out in the garden hanging washing over lines to dry and to bleach, and Mrs Marsden was gardening. Once the washing was out, she asked her employer if she needed help with the work, and she was given a hoe to turn over the soil and help rid it of weeds. Mrs Marsden carried on clipping back dead growth, and tidying the beds.

As Polly turned over the soil, she saw lots of worms wriggling around on the surface. Perhaps they liked the sun too, she wondered, crouching down to see them more closely. Then, before she knew it, a cloud of birds descended and started pecking away at the juicy treats, flapping and squabbling and squawking. There were crows, jackdaws, pigeons, even sparrows. In panic, she dropped her hoe and stepped back, knocking into Mrs Marsden who was just coming by her to reach another patch of vegetation. The good lady tumbled onto the cleared ground among the birds, who flew up in annoyance, screeching.

Polly was petrified. She could not move, though she wanted to run; she could not call out, though she wanted help; she could hardly breathe. She was like stone, as images flashed before her tight-shut eyes. Her mother, lying on the floor of the pigeon loft, birds at her throat. Herself, screaming, waving her arms, and feeling small and utterly powerless. There was blood, too, somewhere, everywhere, lots of blood. It was all a jumble, all a nightmare, all terrifying.

Then she felt Mrs Marsden's arms around her, pulling her away from the birds, away from her memories. She was shaking, trembling, but she was being held by strong and loving arms, and she gradually settled and calmed and eventually with a huge sigh, opened her eyes to see she was in the drawing room, on the opposite side of the house from the garden, and she was safe.

Mrs Marsden sat with her for a long time before moving, and then she only went to the bell and rang for Cook. She immediately came back to the girl and held her close again, not speaking. When Cook arrived, she turned to her and without letting go her comforting grasp, said, 'Polly has had a bad shock. I think she needs to rest. Can you help me get her upstairs to her bed?'

Together the two women assisted Polly to her room, and undressed her, placing her under the covers where she lay, still trembling slightly.

'There's a bell on this table,' said Mrs Marsden, 'please ring if you need us. But I think you need to rest first, before you talk about whatever it was. You looked white as those sheets you were hanging out.'

She stepped towards the door. 'Will you be alright? I'll pop in from time to time, anyway.'

Polly found her voice for the first time. 'Thankyou,' she said. 'Thankyou. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

'Don't say anything, just rest.'

The two women left the room, and descended the stairs, talking quietly.

'I think it must be something to do with her mother's death, you know,' said Mrs Marsden. 'I don't want to tell you what she told me before in case she wants to keep it private, but please fetch me if she asks.'

'Right you are, Ma'am.' Cook half turned to look up the staircase. 'She's a sweet young thing, isn't she? I've quite taken to her. And she's a fine worker, too.' She stepped back from her mistress. 'Now, Ma'am, would you like me to fetch a brush? Your dress is all over dirt. Did you fall on the soil?'

Polly lay in her bed, mind in a turmoil. How kind Mrs Marsden was. But what had happened out there in the garden? And what did it mean? And what should she do? It was far too early in the day for sleeping, though she had been up since dawn, of course, but she felt utterly exhausted, and just wanted to lie here, and do nothing, and gather herself, and, well, try and understand.

She had jobs to do though: the windows needed a good wash, and now that it was sunny all the smears showed up, and the dirt; then she was supposed to sweep the hallway, and polish the wooden banisters, and then there would be more tasks, there always were. But she simply couldn't face them, she felt so heavy, so dulled, so incapable. Her eyes felt heavy too, even the covers were a weight, and in spite of her turmoil, Polly slept.

[pigeons happens before the book begins. Prince Alexei says it is not accidental: swift justice] [Priscilla relives the incident, which she witnessed, in a dream.]

This was not to be a peaceful sleep. Almost immediately, it seemed, the dreams started. She was back in Abbotsley, she knew that because of the badly-patched roof of the cottage. She was running, trying to keep up with her mother's determined march. Her mother looked like an avenging angel, so set was her face, so determined her manner. And Priscilla, following, could not reach her, as if she was cut off or in another world.

They reached a building she recognised as the pigeon-loft; mother began to climb the ladder, unlatch the trapdoor, disappear inside. Little Priscilla followed, nervously gripping the worn rungs, until her head just poked through into the dirty loft, and she looked around worriedly to see where her mother had gone. There were brilliant shafts of low early sunlight piercing the air from gaps in the roof and the small openings where the pigeons went in and out, glinting on the motes of dust. There was Mama, over by the nest boxes, flailing her arms and yelling, screaming, words Priscilla could not make out, but she knew they were angry words, words her mother never used, she was raging at the pigeons. And suddenly Priscilla knew what she was doing. She was cursing the birds for killing, Perseus! She was lashing out at them, trying to revenge herself, she was beside herself, beyond reason. Priscilla hesitated on the ladder, frightened by the force of her mother's fury, wanting to go and stop her, but too scared to approach.

Then as is the way of dreams, the scene changed. Priscilla was standing up in the loft, by the open hatch, and her mother was surrounded by a cloud of flying birds, batting them away, stepping back, and falling as she caught her foot on a loose board. She fell heavily onto her back, her head struck a beam, and she lay still, mouth open. She must have dislodged some sort of sack as she fell, for a small stream of grain trickled onto her bare neck and upper chest as she lay there. Priscilla's viewpoint changed again, and she was struggling to get closer through the struts and braces that held up the roof. The birds, enraged at first by the flailing arms of her mother, were now crowding onto her body and pecking at the grain as it lay on her neck. As they pecked, her skin became stained all over with blood, and then suddenly there was a rush of redness as a great vein was punctured, and the blood no longer seeped or oozed but flowed in great torrents down her shoulder, and dripped onto the floor making a scarlet puddle which grew and grew.

In her dream, Priscilla felt herself screaming, but no words or sounds came. She tried to reach her mother, but it was like wading through treacle. She tried to shake her (suddenly she was by her side) but she did not respond. The blood kept on coming, more and more, and there were feathers everywhere, and she could not stop it all happening!

Priscilla sat bolt upright in bed, totally disoriented by her dream. Though her eyes registered the white walls of her room, they were smeared with the crimson of blood, blood was everywhere, dripping, running, spreading out in pools; and her mother was dead, lifeless, gone! As her vision cleared, she realised Mrs Marsden was by her side, kneeling by the bed, her face a picture of concern. She did not say anything, just stroked Priscilla's hair, and waited for her to come round.

'What ... what time is it?' Polly asked, as it seemed a safe sort of thing to begin with.

'It's three o'clock; you've slept for four hours.'

'No! It seemed like only, um, well, I don't really know how long it seemed. It seemed to go on for hours, and last just a few minutes at the same time.'

'You were calling out for your mother, and screaming. That's why I came up to you. Would you like to tell me about it? While it is still fresh? I think it may help you.'

Polly started to think about her dream. 'It was about how Mama died,' she began. 'My brother Perseus had just died of a lung fever like I told you, his chest was bad because of working in the pigeon loft, and he caught something and had no strength to fight it. I knew that part before. But then,' wonderingly, 'in the dream I followed my mother to the pigeon loft, she was so angry with the pigeons for taking her only son from her, she screamed at them and they flew up at her, and she fell, and then they pecked her neck again and again, and blood, there was so much blood, and I couldn't do anything to save her. I couldn't stop the pigeons, she was bleeding, she was dying, and I couldn't stop it!'

'You were only twelve, darling, you were only twelve.'

'They pecked her to death, they pecked her to death! How could little birds like that peck someone to death?'

'I've never heard of it, but do you think that is what you saw in your dream?'

'I did. I really did. But how could I not have been able to remember it before?'

'I don't know the answer to that, either, but the mind is a very mysterious thing. Do you think that your dream was showing you what really happened?'

Polly thought for many moments. 'I think it was, you know. It makes sense. Why I've been afraid of birds all my life, and it fits with my last memory of Mama, following her towards the farm where Perseus worked. And she did have blood on her neck before they put her in her coffin. It makes sense. It makes sense.' Polly sank back onto the pillows. 'There was seed, grain of some sort. I think Mama knocked a sack as she fell and it landed on her neck, that's why the pigeons pecked at her so hard. Do you think that might be it?'

Mrs Marsden considered. 'It might be, Polly. And they do have sharp beaks.'

'Pecked to death by pigeons,' she said slowly. 'Well I never. Poor Mama. Poor Mama.' Polly shook her head, overwhelmed by the memories.

'You'd better stay here for the rest of the day, Polly, after such an exhausting dream, and recalling those memories.'

'Do you mind if I don't? I'd rather be up and being busy, it'd make it easier to cope. Besides, all those windows need cleaning, and I'd like to have your house looking nice for when your husband gets home.'

'But ...'

'No really, it'll keep my mind occupied, while it all sinks in. I'm all right now, honestly, I am.'

'Very well, if that's what you want. I'm glad you have remembered, I think we all need to have our stories straight.'

Polly dressed, perhaps more slowly than she might normally do, and descended the stairs to the kitchen to fetch her cloths. She mixed her bowl of water and vinegar, and set to on the windows. It was good not to have to think for a while, except about how to reach the top corners of the glass because of her size, and about how much vinegar should go on her cloth, and then how much beeswax each baluster would take, and so on. Every so often she felt another swatch of her mental patchwork fit into its place. How she had been sent to wash before she was allowed to see her mother's body; how she had stood by her grandmother's bed as her breathing became more and more shallow and then stilled. She recalled standing by the graveside as the three paupers' coffins were laid in it; and how the overseers had sounded as they debated what to do with her. It was all most upsetting but at the same time satisfying to know, rather than to wonder.

Reverend Marsden arrived home at nightfall looking tired, but she made herself scarce, allowing his wife to spend time with him after his absence. She took herself off to the kitchen and talked to Cook while they prepared dinner about her own family, grown up now of course, about what it was like in Sheffield (where her son worked in a cutler's), and about Castleton where she was born, and the mining of lead around about, and heard tales of the wonderful Blue John stone, only found in this one place in the whole world, and how even here it was ever so rare and delicate. Cook had heard tales of great vases being made of it, for wealthy noblemen to display in their palaces, but for herself she had only seen little pieces, made into trinkets for visitors to buy for a few shillings.

She asked Cook if she wouldn't mind serving the meal herself, as she didn't want to have to meet the vicar just yet, and set to on the washing-up to make up for it. She wondered what sort of man he would be: she was wary of men after her experiences lately and she didn't want to have to find out about him until she felt a bit more herself. After all it was Sunday tomorrow, and he would have to prepare his sermon this evening; and she would see him in church from the pew, and could make an initial judgement from there.

Chapter 9

Her early tasks finished, Polly readied herself for church. She didn't have a best dress to change into, but she put up her hair as nicely as she could in front of the mirror, and she had polished her worn-out old boots as well as she could when she cleaned Reverend Marsden's first thing that morning. She washed her face again for luck, brushed a few stray threads from her skirts, and took herself down to the hall to wait for Cook and Mrs Marsden, to follow them to service and to be shown the right pew.

The vicar had left the house some time ago, after a quick breakfast, because he took an early service as well as the main one. Polly knew that some vicars rarely darkened the door of their church, as had been Mr Brocklehurst's habit, but Mr Marsden was most diligent. Indeed Cook had told her that his absence earlier in the week had been because he had spent the time in Sheffield helping out with a mission to the poorest inhabitants, not just preaching but providing actual practical help, including food and shelter, and also trying to raise funds for the work from the well-to-do in the town.

Polly filed in behind the other two women, and sat with them half-way back in the nave. There was a good congregation by the time the vicar entered, and the singing was lively if a little untutored. She spent a considerable part of the sermon regarding the vicar, rather than actually listening to what he said, somewhat to her shame, but she felt she needed to know what sort of a man he might be before being expected to speak with him. She thought her nervousness around men was not unreasonable, not to mention she was still somewhat overset by her recollection of the circumstances of her mother's sad demise.

Mr Marsden seemed to be an affable chap. He recited the liturgy as if he thought it a fine thing to believe in, not a task to be got through as quickly as possible. He was not over-tall; he was slightly rotund, though not fat; and he tended to fiddle with his side-whiskers while delivering his sermon. On top of this, Polly felt he had a kind of presence about him that was somewhat fatherly, and comfortable, and safe. He could be no more than thirty-two or three years old, but he had none of the looks and charm (or danger) of Mr Wickham, and none of the ease of manner and power of Mr Danns; most importantly his eye was open and honest, rather than wild and menacing like the penetrating gaze of Lord Savagewood. She thought she might be able to trust him. Besides, she reasoned, he was married to Mrs Marsden, which must vouch for a great deal.

His sermon (the parts to which she listened, at any rate) was about Justice, and how God's justice is far more far-reaching than the human sort. This steeled her resolve to speak with him about her perilous situation and seek his aid.

Once divine service was over, many parishioners stopped to talk with Mrs Marsden, and Polly saw again how much she was liked in the village. She herself felt awkward and exposed standing near her, with so many people looking towards her, and at the first opportunity asked to be excused and scuttled home where she occupied herself in the kitchen.

After she had served luncheon, Mr Marsden asked to see her in his study. He sat at his desk and placed her in a comfortable chair opposite him. His wife sat on the other side of the room, on a settle near the window. Polly appreciated her presence, though she made it clear by her posture that she was not intending to take part in the conversation.

After a few pleasantries about the weather and the cleanliness of the windows (he had noticed!) he asked her to explain how she had come to be in Hope, and something of her recent history. After all, he said, they would not be able to afford to keep her on after Jenny returned once she had had her baby, as he only received the small tithes, and the glebe land was of no account in this parish. He wanted to be able to help her find a new position, he said. This tallied with what Polly had suspected: that her employer was not well-off, and in addition to this, that he and his wife spent much of their income on charitable works, and that the mission in Sheffield was funded to a considerable extent out of his own purse.

What could she say? Dare she recount her experiences with Lord Savagewood, and the fate of the two Marys? Would he believe her? Could he do anything? He was in orders, making him a man of some standing, but what was that against a nobleman?

'Sir,' she began hesitantly, 'I am truly indebted to you and your wife for taking me in as you have, and I don't want to seem ungrateful. That is to say, Mrs Marsden has treated me more like a daughter than a maid, and, well, I have been so relieved to be here. But I'm not sure whether I should tell you ... that is, I don't know if you would believe me ...'

'Try me,' he said with a smile.

'Um, well, until about (she tried to reckon the time in her head but it was very confused) um, two weeks ago, I was a scullerymaid, well, a maid of all work really, at a place called Thimmerwell Hall near East Retford in Nottinghamshire. Then one day three of us were sent away to work for Lord Savagewood at Stanage Grange near Hathersage.'

Mr Marsden nodded. 'I know of it,' he said.

'It is a very ... odd establishment. After we had been there only one day, the other two maids vanished! I was told they had been transferred to work at one of the Baron's other properties, but I did not believe this. I was frightened, so when I could without detection, I gained entry to the Baron's study and looked for anything that might explain the situation. I found a letter, it showed that the Baron was engaged in sending young women to the Orient to serve Ottoman masters! I feared being forcibly sent there myself and so I ran away. Although the Baron recaptured me once, I escaped again and eventually reached your kind hospitality.' She fell silent, uncertain as to how this might be received.

The reverend gentleman looked grave. 'Do you have any evidence of this?' he asked. 'I mean, any document; or do you know of any person who would bear testimony?'

'I do not.' Polly shuffled her feet as she sat. 'I would not have dared take the letter in which I read about the transactions, and in any case I did not think to do so.' She paused for reflection. 'Also, I think the staff at the Grange were in collusion with their master, for they could not but have known of his activities, and after I escaped I saw some of them helping to search for me.'

'This is terrible,' said Mr Marsden. 'selling English women into slavery in the East. What is to be done about it? The Baron is a powerful man.'

'Do you believe me, sir? Really?'

'Of course! Why would you invent such a tale? How would you come up with one like it? Unless you are a devotee of Mrs Radcliffe, I suppose?'

'By no means, sir! I would swear on the Bible that it is all true!'

'Calm yourself, calm yourself. I merely meant that your tale harks of the fantastical, not that it is untrue. Let me think now what course of action I ought to take.'

He fell silent and cogitated for a long time. Polly felt restless as she sat, feeling guilty about putting the Marsdens to so much trouble. Eventually the vicar addressed his wife.

'What do you think, dearest? We cannot act without evidence, yet we need to put a stop to this abomination.'

'I cannot think what we can do. We must pray about it, of course, but in terms of deeds I am at a loss.'

Polly spoke up. 'Could we not go to the magistrate? He would surely have to take notice.'

'The magistrate hereabouts is Lord Savagewood,' Mr Marsden replied sadly. 'Else I would have taken that course straightaway.'

After some more fruitless discussion, Polly was dismissed, and went back to her work. Lord Savagewood a magistrate! What abuse of power and responsibility! What evils he could conceal in such a position! What could they do? What could they do? What could they do?

Three more days passed, during which no further ideas presented themselves. Polly felt she had recovered her strength and her composure, and was considering how she might proceed when the Marsdens' regular maid, Jenny, returned after her confinement. This had become more pressing because she had heard from Mrs Marsden (who had the intelligence from a relative in church) the news that she had had a little boy a week previously. It seemed she would be retuning in about ten days' time, and Mrs Marsden planned to visit her at her mother's (where she had gone to be delivered of the infant) in Edale later in the week.

Dear reader, you may have been feeling that our heroine Polly has now passed through the worst of her tribulations, and that this period of rest and recuperation presages her moving on in the world, travelling further across the country perhaps, but heading towards a life which she can feel is her own at last, freed from the amnesia concerning her mother's tragic death, and able to influence her own fate. But you could not be more wrong! For late in the afternoon there was a stentorian knock at the door. Being upstairs at the time, Polly peered from the window to see who it might be. It was the Baron!

Polly was seized with panic. He must not see her, he must not find her! It ought to be her business to answer the door, but she must flee! Where could she go? Where could she go? Her first thought was to run from the back door – but he might see her and give chase! Then, to escape from the window, if she might be able to reach the tree branch that grew close to the house – but that was even more exposed, and she had not done well in the last tree she had scaled. She cast about her for ideas, then lacking any better plan, ran for the stairs to the attics. There she hid herself behind a pile of old vestments, and waited, hardly daring to breathe. Surely Lord Savagewood would not be allowed to search the house? He could not insist on it, could he?

Polly, trembling, found her mind running over all sorts of terrible fates she might be subject to if she were captured. She might be drugged, or bound hand and foot again, and transported in the bottom of a filthy wagon to the docks, where she would be the object of sailors' ribaldry. Then a sea voyage, which she had never before experienced, but she was sure she would be horribly seasick and miserable. It would go on for weeks, and from its beginnings in the icy cold, she would then have to cope with the stifling heat.

And as for the horrors of Constantinople! Polly had read accounts which mentioned seraglios and harems, but she had only the sketchiest notion of what these were. She knew the city was populated with heathens with outlandish practices, such as the wailing calls to prayer from minarets, and that the food was foreign and strangely spiced. What if she could not eat it? Then what would she do? What would she have to wear? She had heard of costumes that were anything but modest, even to exposing the belly, completely unbecoming to a lady. And what would her duties be? They would surely be different from England, and she would be alone, and so far from home, and it would be dreadful!

Oh that her father had not been taken by the dreadful smallpox, and that she had been able to live in Chawton with her family; fed, warm and clothed; safe and able to be educated, perhaps by a governess; and secure of her place in society, and, instead of having to endure a life of drudgery and toil, which had now descended into a nightmare of being pursued and running, running, always running.

How long should she stay here concealed? When would she know if it was safe to come out? Would it ever be safe to come out?

It was growing dark when she finally left her eyrie. She had thought she had heard the bang of the door closing some time earlier, but she thought it prudent to wait longer in case it was a ruse of the Baron's. When she reached the landing she peered cautiously over the banister and was relieved to see the anxious face of Mrs Marsden looking up at her.

'Oh Polly, there you are! You're safe! I wondered what you had done with yourself. Lord Savagewood was here, and I didn't know if you would ... I feared you might suddenly appear.'

Polly descended the stairs. 'I saw his arrival from the window, ma'am, so I did not answer the door, which was a mercy. I hid myself in the attic. I'm so sorry you had to meet him. What did he say?'

'Fortunately Mr Marsden was here when he arrived, because the Baron is an extremely intimidating man. Even in his presence he was most rude to me. It was with difficulty we persuaded him to leave at all.'

'But what did he say?'

'Come into the drawing room with me and I shall tell you. The vicar has had to go and administer the sacrament to a parishioner at home or he would tell you himself.'

When they were seated Mrs Marsden continued. 'Firstly, I answered the door myself and he demanded, rather than requested, admission, almost pushing past me in his urgency. Were it not for my husband appearing in the hall I think he would have searched the house forthwith. However, we managed to get him into this room, and sit down to explain his business.

'He said he was in search of a runaway maid called Priscilla Butterworth. This girl (who I must say answers to your description in every particular) had apparently stolen some silver spoons from his house and taken flight. He said that he had been told we had a new maidservant here in the vicarage, giving us some rigmarole about being told this by a relation of his who lives nearby, when I know that no such person resides here. He said that he was concerned for our interests, and wanted to assure himself that it was not Miss Butterworth, because he was convinced she would repeat her thieving habits and we would be the poorer for it.

'I had not met the gentleman before, though Mr Marsden had, but I was immediately persuaded that he was beside himself, that he was unhinged, mad even. His eyes were constantly on the move, darting around in an uncontrolled frenzy, his face grew contorted when he spoke the name of Priscilla Butterworth. I had no compunction about concealing the truth from such a man, nor had my husband, but he was not at all convinced by our assurances that we had seen no such person, that our maid was away with her mother but due to return soon, and immediately stood and announced that he would search our property.

'Glad was I that Mr Marsden was with me, for otherwise I do not think I could have prevented him from rampaging through the house, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that we restrained him. I prefer not to think of the confrontation, for it was most distressing, as the Baron actually laid hands on Mr Marsden. He assaulted a man of the cloth!' She shook her head in distress and dismay and disbelief. 'Fortunately my husband is more robust than he looks, and afterwards he told me he had learnt a few things about weaponless combat from his mission work in Sheffield, because he was able to throw the Baron off him directly, leaving the dreadful man wringing his hand in pain and I think surprise.

'He quitted the house at that point, but as he departed he paused dramatically on the threshold, saying in an awful tone "I'll be back," before he swept away.'

Polly sat, shaking once more, for even the description of the man returned her to her time as his captive, and she saw again his loathsome stare, looking haughtily down at her helpless body. She felt again his unwelcome hand on her bottom, and rummaging in her skirts to find her pocket from which he had taken her few coins. She shuddered.

Mrs Marsden was looking at her expectantly, but not asking her anything. Polly realised she had to confess all.

'Yes, Ma'am, my name is indeed Priscilla Butterworth, and I am a lady. I'm sorry I did not give you my real name, but I thought it was safer to keep being Polly. That's what they called me at Thimmerwell Hall, they thought Priscilla was too la-di-dah for a scullery maid. And I thought Bennet was easy to remember, because I'm not very practised at deception. I certainly didn't take any spoons, what would I do with silver in such a remote place? You may search my pocket and my room if you like, but I have nothing.' She patted her skirts for emphasis, but then felt something hard there.

'Oh! Well, I did take something of his.' She pulled out the crucifix, and stared at it. There was still plaster in grooves on its surface, and it was worn and scratched in several places. 'He threw me bound into a priest's hole, and I used this cut myself free, and to scrape a hole in the outer wall and escape. I kept it: I don't think he knew it was in there. Besides, he took all my money from me when I was helpless. It was only a few shillings, and I know nobody would believe me, but he did.'

'I believe you. The wicked man! Did he ... misuse you in any other way? If I may ask, that is?'

'I don't think so, I mean, I don't know anything about, um, men's desires.' She blushed as she remembered Mr Wickham. 'No, he didn't, I'm sure of it.'

Mrs Marsden considered. 'I don't think it will be safe for you to stay here any longer,' she said. 'Much as I'd love to keep you, I think he will be back and with some of his men, and we won't be able to defend you. I'm so sorry.'

'I know, I knew from the moment I saw him outside the door that I'd have to go.' Priscilla sobbed, and threw herself into her employer's arms. 'I don't want to go, you've been so kind, but you won't be safe either if I stay.'

'I have an idea. Mr Ramsden is going to Sheffield again in the morning, to the Mission. He could take you with him, though ...' she paused, 'well, he goes on horseback, we do not keep a carriage, but you could ... it would be somewhat irregular, but you could sit in front of him ... or behind? If you don't mind riding astride?'

'Um, well, ...'

She shook her head. 'No, it would be too improper. Not for my husband, of course, but for you. Your reputation, you know.'

'I'm not sure I have a reputation, ma'am. I am a lady, or at least I was, but it's been so long, and so much has happened.' She thought a moment. 'Besides, the road to Sheffield passes through Hathersage, does it not, and I am sure to be discovered. It will be the worse for Mr Marsden to be found with me.'

'Let me think what we must do, and I will consult with my husband when he returns.'

Priscilla trudged slowly up the stairs to her room, and looked around. She had no packing to do, no possessions to gather together, the only traces she would leave here were the bedsheets, and they would soon be washed clean. Her borrowed dress that she had shortened hung in a cupboard, but she would leave that here. She had to leave, and she had to head west, away from the Baron's residence, further into the wild Pennines, further from his baleful influence. And she had to go soon!

Chapter 10

Priscilla was going to leave the vicarage that very evening, but after Mr Marsden's return she was persuaded that the Baron would not come back that night, and she agreed to depart in the morning after a good breakfast, and carrying some food for the journey. They also insisted she took some money, though she protested that she had received plenty from them for her labour in the form of food and lodging, but most importantly love and support.

Hence she set off for Castleton, only a little over a mile distant, fortified with eggs and bacon and almost crushed by Mrs Marsden's hugs. She tried to remember the vicar's instructions about which way to head after that settlement, and had in her mind that if she kept going she would eventually reach Cheshire. She took the track to the north of the high road, which was longer, but she would be less likely to meet any of the Baron's men. It was a fine morning and she swung along feeling buoyed up by the sunshine and the sensibility of evading the machinations of her antagonist.

As she passed along the lower slopes of Lose Hill she looked to the south and saw in the sunlight the outline of a ruined castle on the scarp just beyond the village. This must be Peveril Castle, she thought, Mr Marsden had mentioned it, and told her some stories about its bloody past, but this morning it looked more beautiful than picturesque, and a far cry from the terrors of the Sublime with which the tales had invested it. In fact, she thought it was pretty, if a broken-down castle could be said to be pretty; lovely even.

She was so taken with it that she decided to veer towards the village and take a closer look. Lord Savagewood was concentrating his efforts on Hope, not Castleton, and she wanted to explore a little. Therefore, she turned along a farm track and crossed the small bridge and found herself among houses and bustle once more.

She could see the ruins ahead of her, framed by the buildings, but she thought she would look around the village a little first. There seemed to be a number of shops other than the usual grocer's and butcher's which invited investigation. It couldn't hurt to have a look, then she would be on her way.

Sure enough she found a window full of ribbons and other sorts of haberdashery; and then a shop showing off geologic treasures. She searched the display for the Blue John of which she had heard, but there was none. She decided that she would go inside and ask.

The proprietor was circumspect in his approach to her, and she realised that he must think her unable to purchase anything worthwhile, given her humble clothes, so she apologised as prettily as she could, admitting her lack of funds, and asked if he would be willing to show her the stones, should he have any, as she had read a lot of the geology of the region and wanted to learn more. Seeing that she was truly interested, he explained that the colours of Blue John easily fade in sunlight and hence there were none in his window, but he had some in the back

Priscilla was entranced by the delicate bands of yellows and purples in the stone, by the way it caught the light, and sighed over one particularly lovely piece, that she knew she could never afford to own. Handing it back to the shopkeeper she followed it with her eyes as he replaced it in a drawer, and her thanks when she left the shop made him feel his time had been well spent showing her his treasures.

Priscilla idled along the street for a while, enjoying the sun and a sense of being on the threshold of something, as if she might pretend she was a lady setting out on a tour of the sights of Derbyshire. Her dreaming shattered when she caught sight of a top hat, and the rear view of a black coat and polished boots just thirty yards in front of her. The Baron!

Priscilla dived into the nearest doorway, which happened to be a tavern. She blundered in the sudden dimness to the back of the hostelry, and gathered herself, needing to decide what to do. Oh foolish girl, loitering in this place! Why had she not pressed on towards the hills, towards Cheshire, towards safety?

But maybe he had not seen her? His back had been towards her, and he had been in conversation with another man, who must be one of his stable hands by his clothing. Perhaps he would finish what he had to say and move on, go towards Hope perhaps, or even back to Stanage Grange? She would have to stay in this place for now, and keep out of his way.

Just then the landlord came over to her to enquire whether he could serve her. She asked, on the spur of the moment, where his room of easement was, and followed his directions up the stairs. Since she was there she did her business, and then waited. Unfortunately another woman came along, and she had to quit the room, so she stood in the corridor irresolute. What should she do? What could she do?

To her horror the next thing she heard was the Baron's voice downstairs ordering ale for himself and his men (plural, thought Priscilla, this is getting more perilous by the minute) and then, Ossa upon Pelion, the sounds came towards the stairway, and boots were thumping up the treads towards her! He must be taking his refreshment in a private parlour upstairs!

Priscilla picked the nearest doorway and hurled herself into the room. It was a bedroom, fortunately unoccupied, and she pushed the door nearly closed, but did not dare shut it in case the sound was heard by the Baron or his men. There was no other exit, so if they chanced to come in here to look for her, she was doomed! Or was she? Priscilla looked at the window. They were only on the first floor, and – she checked her waist – she still possessed the lengths of cord with which the Baron had bound her so long ago, it seemed.

Rapidly she undid the lengths and tied them together. She opened the window and looked out. There was a yard, with nobody about, except a horse looking incuriously over a stable door. She tied one end to the mullion and threw the other down. Tugging on the fixed end to make sure it was secure, she looked down. The slightly frayed cord stopped about four feet from the ground. She quailed at the thought of the descent. There was no choice though. She must climb down the cord and take her chances. But what if she turned an ankle, or worse, broke a bone? She would have to risk it.

But then, maybe the Baron would not come into her refuge at all? Surely he was heading for a parlour? Was she sure of that, or was it just wishful thinking?

As fast as she could, Priscilla clambered over the sill and with a quick prayer, slid around until she was hanging from the ledge. She scrabbled for a foothold but found none, and grasping her cord in first one hand and then the other, started to lower herself. It was immensely difficult, the cord was thin and it hurt her hands, hardened thought they were by years of housework. The problem with footholds soon became apparent, as the inn turned out to be jettied on the first floor, and she swung to and fro in the light breeze like a flag. Although she was so light, her strength was commensurate, and she was losing her grip!

Priscilla fell the last few feet, tumbling sideways in an undignified heap and letting out a muffled "Oh!" which she hoped the Baron's men had not heard. She had to stay there a few seconds to gather her breath, not to mention her wits, but there was no head protruding from the window, no shouts of "Stop thief!", in fact nothing at all. But she had to get away from the inn, and from Castleton, and from the whole neighbourhood! And now!

Priscilla picked herself up from the ground and looked around. There was only one exit from the yard, under the carriage entrance, unless she was willing to risk re-entering the inn. She hurried through it, scanning her surrounds for danger. And it was as well that she did, for there at an upper window looking out was the Baron!

Priscilla jumped in shock, and realising that he might not have recognised her (mirabile visu) tried to carry on at the same pace until, once she was sure she was out of his sight, she took flight and raced at top speed away from the inn. She had no idea of direction, she just wanted to put as much distance between her and the Baron as possible. After a couple of hundred yards she was getting so out of breath that she paused, and saw the outline of the castle between two buildings, so she turned towards it, thinking that it was at least something to head for. Building up speed again, she careered around a corner and ran headlong into a large and extremely solid object. Bouncing off, she saw as she tumbled to the ground, and just before she struck her head on a projecting beam, that the object was in fact a gentleman, looking extremely startled, whose face seemed slightly familiar. Before this thought could develop, unconsciousness enveloped her.

Priscilla could not have been insensible for more than ten seconds, but she came back to full awareness extremely slowly. The first sensation to return was that of smell. Was that sandalwood? And woollen cloth? She tried to adjust her posture, she wasn't quite comfortable; was she moving? Her eyes didn't seem to want to open, they flickered rather than moved, so she just let them rest shut. It was very comfortable wherever she was lying. Something was warm on her right side, but not on her left. Why? She let out a sigh. Someone had a headache nearby, she wasn't sure who it could be, but it wasn't too bad.

She was definitely moving though. But she was lying down. How could that be? Priscilla tried to open her eyes again to look, but they seemed to have stuck. She stretched, languorously, and was about to yawn when she felt a fleeting light pressure on her lips. More of a brushing, with something soft. There it was again. And it was firmer now, it felt heavenly, she moved her lips in response, and finally succeeded in opening her eyes and realised she was being kissed most expertly, by a gentleman who was ... carrying her into a building!

It was lovely, though. Featherlight, she could feel it in her belly and all the way down her legs. She kissed him back as well as she knew how, and in some far-off part of her mind worried that she would be doing it wrong having had no experience of kissing. Vaguely she was aware of another thought, that she maybe should not be doing this, but she wasn't sure why. There was a reason, though, wasn't there?

Abruptly she found herself set down on some sort of padded chair, and the gentleman was apologising. Profusely, repeatedly. She thought she ought to reply but she couldn't quite work out how to speak. She reached out her arms for his shoulders, hoping he would kiss her again, but he was standing back a couple of paces, and looked ... wait a moment, she recognised him, didn't she? It was that man from the George Inn in, um, Hathersage, it was! Mr ... Danns, he was called. Yes, Danns.

Abruptly she came to her senses and looked around her. She was in a public room in an inn, not the same one as earlier, there was only the one man behind the bar, and the last thing she remembered was that she had been running, running from ... the Baron! She started at the memory, and sat up straight.

I'm terribly sorry, sir, I wasn't looking where I was going, I didn't see you, I'm sorry to have been any trouble, I'm quite all right now ...'

'Hush, don't trouble yourself, you have had a nasty bang on the head. And it is I that should apologise, it was unforgiveable, to take advantage of your insensibility like that.'

'Like what? I mean, how? Take advantage, I mean.'

'I should not have kissed you, Miss Bennet. I should definitely not have kissed you. It was ... I behaved in a most ungentlemanlike manner. But ... I felt I could not help myself. You looked so sweet, so beautiful, so ... defenceless and little, as I carried you here. But I could have stopped.' He paused, looked reflective and chagrined at the same time. 'But I find I did not want to. So I must apologise again for that.'

Polly, recalling her alias, shook her head. It did ache a little, but it was receding. And although she knew that he should not have kissed her, she also knew that she should not have enjoyed him kissing her so much. After all, she was a lady, and ladies did not ... that is to say, should not, enjoy such things. Should they? Perhaps she was still confused from the blow on the head.

'Sir,' she began, 'do not apologise further. I believe I may have, I mean, I did, um, kiss you back a little? So I should also apologise for that. So we are even.'

'Miss Bennet,' he replied, and executed a small bow, which she found most gratifying.

Memory was coming back to her in full measure. She felt it was high time they changed the subject, and got away from the topic of kissing, because it was too disturbing. 'Sir, when we last met you were headed for Sheffield, and then to Hampshire, were you not? How is it that you are back in these wild parts?'

'Let me order you some tea, and then I will tell you.' He motioned to the landlord and once the order was taken, continued, looking, she thought, relieved at the chance to discuss neutral matters. 'I have indeed spent almost all of two weeks travelling. It is most wearying. I conducted my business with the merchant in Sheffield, and then sought my second reason for going there, only to find that the gentleman in question resided in Hathersage of all places!' He chuckled. 'So I returned straightway. However, the gentleman was not the gentleman I sought, as it turned out, so I headed to Hampshire as you recalled so correctly. I paused only briefly at our factory in Nottingham, but on reaching my goal found that my Hampshire business was not in Hampshire, but had flown North. I followed a trail, with a skill worthy of any Indian of the Americas, if I may say so, enquiring of all manner of persons for my quarry, and found myself back at Hathersage again! What a turnabout!'

'I am sorry you have been put to so much trouble,' Polly replied, not sure if she had understood at all the reasons for Mr Danns' travels, but feeling much sympathy with him. She tried to question him about the nature of his business, but apart from explaining how his firm imported vital goods to the islands of the Caribbean which were not manufactured there, such as high quality Sheffield knives and tools, and machinery; and luxuries such as Nottingham lace, he was not forthcoming about his other business, saying only that it concerned his late partner's Will, and hence was confidential.

The tea arriving, Polly drank it, having watched carefully to ensure that no foreign substance or drug could have been introduced, and felt considerably better. She felt easy in Mr Danns' company, and found him most attentive without being too pressing. That is, if one could overlook his kissing her. Which she found she could not, but somehow she could not hold it against him as an offence. Quite the contrary, she was shocked to discover.

'So what takes you so far up the dale as Castleton, sir?' she hazarded, thinking if he would not discuss certain matters at all, he might assuage her curiosity in this matter.

Mr Danns laughed loudly. 'Well there is the best jest of all,' he said. 'You know I said that the gentleman I sought in Hathersage was not the gentleman, after all?'

Polly nodded.

'Well, it seems that the other person I was seeking had somehow ended up in Hathersage with the gentleman himself! So he was in a way the gentleman in question after all, and I had a return trip to Hampshire for no reason. What a to-do, eh?'

'Indeed, sir.' Polly was yet more confused by this. 'But why are you now in Castleton? And who is the gentleman to whom you refer?'

'Perhaps I should not refer to him as quite a gentleman,' mused Mr Danns, 'though he has a title. However, needs must, and I have thrown my lot in with him as it turns out we are both seeking the same person.'

'But who is he?' persisted Polly, beginning to experience a feeling of dread, and a rising panic.

'His name is Lord Savagewood,' said Mr Danns carelessly, 'and I shall be meeting him in half an hour down in the inn by the church.'

'And whom do you seek?' Polly hardly dared to ask, and hoped her voice did not betray her fear.

'A lady by the name of Priscilla Butterworth, that is who. What chance that he and I should need to get hold of the same person. I can hardly credit it!' He chuckled again. 'I believe the noble lord has intelligence she may be in this very village, so we hope to run her down together.'

Polly felt herself to have gone pale. She put down her cup, aware that she rattled the saucer in doing so. The Baron and Mr Danns were in league! How could she have been so trusting to have sat with him so long? How could she have let him kiss her? Well, she amended the thought, she could not have helped that, as she was unconscious at the time, but she should not have enjoyed the foul embraces of someone in cahoots with the evil and mad Baron! What should she do? What should she do? What should she do?!

Chapter 11

Polly thought furiously as she sat opposite Mr Danns. She tried to scrutinise his features without his noticing, to determine that taint of evil that was so obvious in the Baron. Try as she might, she could not see it, indeed all she noticed that had not been apparent before was a dimple in his cheek that showed only when he was merry, as he was at present. He must conceal his wickedness with consummate skill, she thought. This made him all the more dangerous, a man she dare not trust, a duplicitous foe. Even more pressing then to be gone from his presence as soon as she could fashion an excuse.

'May I enquire if you have been successful in your search for work, Miss Bennet?' Mr Danns' enquiry broke into her frantic thoughts.

'Oh! I'm sorry, I was woolgathering. Indeed, I did find employment, but only for a short while, sir. I must be off soon, as I need to go to' she realised she must not reveal her true intentions to this fiend in human form, 'Bradwell, where I have been told there may be a post for me.'

'Well I wish you well. I hope you are now recovered from your fall?'

'Quite recovered, sir.'

'So, although I would love to detain you longer, we both have business to attend to. I would wish that I may see you again, as I so have enjoyed your ... conversation, but I fear it is unlikely.'

Polly gulped. 'Unlikely, sir, it is unlikely.' I'd better do my best to make sure it is impossible for us to meet, she thought. You and your despicable crony the Baron.

They made their farewells and Polly set off in the opposite direction to that which Mr Danns took, not caring whether it lay on her route out of town. Lost in thought, she found herself traversing a narrow alley when she saw two roughly-dressed men approaching. At first, she tried to press herself into a doorway to allow them to pass, but then, when they were just a few yards away, one of them called out.

'That's the lady-bird! Get her!'

It was the lackeys of Lord Savagewood! Polly turned tail and fled, evading their filthy hands grasping at her skirts by a whisker. She ran as she had never run before, ducking left and right through the maze of streets, dodging around innocent bystanders, missing being crushed under the wheels of carts by inches, fearing yells of "Stop thief" that would spell an end to her flight. But there were no such calls. Either the men were slow-witted or they believed their appearances would not cut the mustard with such an accusation.

She had no idea where she was going, but all of a sudden she caught a glimpse of the castle standing proud on its hill, and without a second thought headed for it. The houses thinned out and she was in open countryside. Risking a quick look behind her, she could see no sign of her pursuers, but she pressed on, chest heaving, looking for cover, for a way to gain the heights and perhaps find sanctuary in the walls of the fortress.

There was a broad open area sloping steeply up to the ruined walls, but she turned to the side where there was a wooded wilderness, with broken rocks showing jaggedly through the trees. Polly had run so far and so fast that she needed to catch her breath and still her racing heart before attempting the climb, and she gratefully plunged into the sanctuary of the trees.

Pushing forward in the gloom below the canopy her progress was slower, and eventually she scrambled beyond a large craggy outcrop and leaned back on the stone, hands on hips, watching her bosom rise and fall as she gasped for air, trying to make the sounds of her breathing as quiet as possible and to listen for signs of pursuit.

She was perspiring, and her hair had come adrift, so she undid several buttons of her bodice and sleeves and tried to fasten the errant tresses as best she could. If only she were a boy, and could go about in breeches and shirt! Not to mention the simplicity of short hair, as she had had after the accident with the mangle! But then, God had seen fit to make her a woman, a lady even, and she would not fight against nature.

After a few minutes she had heard nothing, and dared to hope that the men had lost her scent. There was no crashing in the undergrowth, no calls of birds disturbed from their business, no yells of pursuit. Polly moved away from her sheltering rock and made her way diagonally uphill through the trees.

The ground underfoot was stony and irregular, there were tree roots to catch an unwary toe, and overhanging branches to duck beneath. Several times Polly sustained a nasty knock to her head, and twisted an ankle, though not sufficiently to stop her carrying on. How she wished she could ascend by the open grassland! But it would not be safe, for she could be seen from a great distance clambering up there.

Polly reached a particularly thick tangle of briars and branches and decided to make a detour over a rocky area covered in moss, as offering less obstacle to her progress. She moved forward on all fours, edging around and up, but all at once her foot slipped and she slid helplessly down, scraping over the rough limestone and plunging off onto a steep earth bank!

Polly slid precipitately over some muddy and wet grass and then over another rocky lip. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase, her feet kicked in the air as she plummeted over the edge, but just as she was abandoning hope of saving herself her right hand grasped a tough stem of some woody plant and held on, at the cost of the loss of some skin from her palm. She grasped with her other hand and managed to find a grip on a projection of rock,

Fearfully she turned her head to see where she had lighted. Her heart contracted at the sight. Her feet dangled over a precipice of a hundred feet or more, a fall to certain death, smashing onto the unforgiving slabs below!

It is said that fear can give one superhuman strength. Surely Polly needed that now? But she found she only had her natural powers, and would they be sufficient? Would the bush she held onto hold? Could her little fingers hooking over the knob of limestone haul her small frame up and around? Would there be anywhere for a foothold? Again she rued her skirts which obscured her view of the rock below where she might find purchase.

She was again panting, from fear as much as exertion, and fought to calm herself and to think clearly about what to do. First she must find somewhere for her foot to lodge, so she could lever herself upwards. She must feel for the rock face, search it by touch, stretch out in all directions, scrape her boot toe over every ... there was a ledge! She transferred some of her weight to that toe, relieving the strain on her fingers and thanking the heavens for mercy.

Now what? Could she push her body up so she could find a higher grip for her left hand, the one gripping the rock? It was only a few inches, but she could reach out ... Yes! There was another hold.

Inch by painful inch, Polly hauled herself ever upwards. Next she found a way of pushing herself with her other foot wedged into a crack in the stone. Then it was another plant stem, then a fissure in the rock that formed the lip over which she had fallen. Once her foot slipped and she dropped abruptly, but she managed to hold on to her woody stem while she screwed up her nerve to continue. After more agonising minutes she found she could twist herself and bring one knee up to the rock edge, and by dint of a huge final effort slide her hips around and onto the more level ground!

Polly lay there, panting, shaking with effort and terror, face pressed into the dirt and stones, unable to move for several minutes. The very hills wanted her life, not just the Baron, it seemed. It was hard to tell, given the gloom of the forest, but it seemed that the light was fading, so maybe she should stay here under cover until it was safe to climb upwards on the easier open ground?

Eventually she raised herself on her elbows and levered her battered body upright. No more rock scrambling for me, she thought. I will head back toward the grass, still going up diagonally, but before I reach the open I will look carefully for the Baron's men and then I will await darkness. Sound plan. Good, now let me see. Which way was the open grassland?

The fall had left her disoriented, and all she knew was that she had to head away from the cliff over which she had so nearly met her end. Treading ever more carefully she worked her way uphill and away from the abyss, avoiding any rocks that could precipitate her downwards again, squeezing under low branches, eyes straining for the light that would signal the open ground.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a movement. A sinuous, stealthy movement. A speckled, brown sort of movement, winding its way towards her. A snake, head weaving to and fro, headed in her direction! She froze, held her breath.

Polly knew nothing of the snakes of England, for all her wide reading. All she was certain of is that she did not want to meet one in a dismal wood, for who knew if it would be poisonous or not? She pictured enormous fangs, dripping with venom; or coils enveloping her body and squeezing the life out of her. Did such worms of myth and legend roam the hillsides of Derbyshire?

Polly blinked, trying to clear her mind of these fantasies. The snake was barely two feet long, it could not envelop her, or swallow her whole. Silly girl, she told herself. This was no Ourobouros, no Lernean Hydra. Its diamond patterned length would be almost pretty if she had not felt such an instinctive loathing for it. She would wait, and it would go away.

The snake paused; waving its head as if seeking some prey, some scent. It moved, slithering over the roots and it seemed to have Polly as its target. Suddenly panicking, Polly struck out at it with her hand as it passed, and startled by the movement it struck at her! Its speed was blinding, but it only caught her forearm tangentially with one fang. Nonetheless Polly felt a sudden and sharp pain, there was a spot of blood, a tiny scratch, and the snake had whisked off into the undergrowth.

She recalled her bee sting of the previous year, and terror again gripped her. Frantically she wiped away the blood, and tried to suck out the venom, as she had heard it was the thing to do. She sank her teeth into her flesh, she better to extract the noxious substance, and spat indecorously on the ground. Would she swell up as with the bee, and find her throat obstructed, her breath restricted? Out here in the wilds there were no kindly servants to care for her if she slid towards death's door once more.

Shaking, she gripped the elbow of the injured and wounded arm in the hope it would stop the spread of the poison toward her heart. The site of the wound was minute, but it was already swelling, and reddening, and the pain was mounting. Oh unlucky day! What other terrors did this wood contain? Surely there would be no wild boars, they would not relish the steepness of the terrain, would they? Wolves? Wildcats? Goblins, even?

She sat on a small tummock and watched with horrid fascination as her arm swelled, dreading the whole limb becoming useless and agonising. But for once, the fates had dealt kindly with her. The tumour stopped growing when it was only three inches across, though the pain was fierce. Perhaps she would live? Her heart, though beating fast, seemed to be strong. Her lungs brought air in and out without hindrance. Just the lancinating pain seized her distressingly, and that could surely be borne?

It could indeed, though Polly did not feel able to move from her seat for an hour or more, until the knife-like quality of her suffering had eased to a dull ache and throb. By then the woods were darkening and she could scarcely see the boughs and tangles of undergrowth. She forced herself to continue, holding her injured arm close to her, and after some ten minutes reached the edge of the vegetation, where she stopped till it grew fully dark, still fearful of the Baron's men.

She could see the castle through the last of the trees, the curtain wall quite near now at the top of the rise with the keep standing proud behind it. There was no-one about, no sounds but the calls of owls, but perhaps, was that the strains of a fiddle coming from the town? Gaiety, dancing, company? The fiddle called to her mind Civilisation, from whose delights she was excluded, because of the machinations of the mad and evil Baron. Curse you, Baron, she thought. Curse you! Curse you!

Chapter 12

Full darkness had fallen, though the moon gave some fitful light when it appeared between scudding clouds, before Miss Priscilla Butterworth crept out of her sylvan shelter, hoping to find a better and drier refuge among the walls of the ruins of Peveril. Surely there would be some cranny with the remains of a roof? The high walls would shelter her from the wind which was picking up and howling around the mount on which the castle stood, and it was so damp here among the trees. Her dress was dirty and torn in places; she had long ago rebuttoned her bodice to keep warm, and her shawl was not sufficient protection from the elements. It seemed sure to rain, and the leaves of the thicket would only protect her for a few minutes.

If only Priscilla had paid more attention when she had perused the works of Mrs Radcliffe, dear reader, and less to, for example, reports in the Gentleman's Magazine of the discovery and capture from the French of the Rosetta Stone or Stele, arrived in the British Museum only two years ago, she might have thought again about her plan for shelter! Was it wise to seek a ruined mediaeval castle, gaunt and lonely on a hillside, in the dark and with an approaching storm? And just when she had discovered that Mr Danns, whom she had thought was a gentleman of honour, was not what he had seemed, but in fact was a foul co-conspirator with the malevolent and mad Baron, Lord Savagewood? Could she not foretell from these numerous portents that her sojourn there would not end well? Sadly, she could not, she would not and she did not.

Therefore, impelled by an overwhelming urge for solid shelter Priscilla clambered up the remainder of the steep bank and slipped through the gaping jaws of the gatehouse into the bailey of the fortress.

The keep ahead of her stood black against the charcoal of the sky. Its irregular silhouette seemed menacing indeed, and when brief silver shafts of moonlight caught it, it looked as if it had eyes, gleaming white eyes that sought to hold Priscilla in its thrall. She shook herself, trying to banish such fantasies, and set her course for the building.

Entering the shell of the keep she paused to let her eyes adjust to the even deeper gloom, and moved around its interior, feeling the wall as she went to steady herself and help her detect if there were a cavity or alcove, or even the remains of a room in which she could shelter. There was an old fireplace, but it was a little way up the wall as it presently stood, and would require a dangerous climb up slippery stones. Priscilla had had enough of mountaineering for one day, and pressed on.

In the opposite corner her hand, used to the chill and roughness of rock, felt something wooden. It was a door, and it was ajar! Eagerly she pulled on the rusty handle and the portal opened with a loud creaking, as if it were used rarely, if at all. Moving almost completely by touch now she insinuated herself into the chamber and, feeling for obstacles on the floor with an outstretched toe, stepped gingerly forward. She completed a circuit of the walls, finding nothing there at shoulder height but bare stonework, except for a small fireplace which by the smell of it contained the remains of an old fire.

There was a ragged hole in the outer wall which had once been a window, set at the level of Priscilla's head, but the moon when it appeared was on the other side of the castle and little light penetrated through its aperture. The room appeared to be about eight feet square and, mercy of mercies, there seemed to be a roof – or at least Priscilla could discern no signs of the sky above her. She pulled the door to, not quite closing it in case it were to jam, and taking herself to the far corner, slid down to the floor, leaning against the two walls, and let out a sigh of relief.

Here she could rest, and ride out the impending storm; here she would be safe and sheltered, if not exactly warm. She was thankful for this at least. And she could plan her next move. Also, she could eat some of the provisions which Mrs Marsden had provided and recover a little of her strength.

The first drops of rain began to fall, plashing on the outside walls, but none invaded her refuge, the wind hurling them headlong into the valley and away from her window. She heard the first growls of distant thunder, and steeled herself for the shock of the coming lightning flashes. The fury of the wind increased; the tempest howled in the trees, and she was convinced that if she had stayed outside she would have been whirled off the crag and into the gorge over which she had so recently been suspended.

Then came the glare of the thunderbolts, each one brighter than the last, coming closer and closer together and followed more contiguously by their attendant roar. Priscilla's eyes were glued to the window, she was transfixed by the power of the storm, dazzled, overwhelmed, thrilled.

The booming and crashing must have been so loud that she was deaf to all lesser sounds. For all of a sudden there came a yellow light in the doorway, first just in the thin crack that she had left when she pulled it to. It was quite distinct from the brilliant whiteness of the bolts of Zeus, and Priscilla's heart leapt into her throat. Could it be the Baron? Who else would come up here in such a storm but a madman? Then the light increased as the door first yawned a little wider, and then flew open with a bang. Two men, one with a lantern, and dripping with rain, stood there staring down at Priscilla who cowered away from them.

'And what 'ave we 'ere?' ejaculated the first man. 'Ain't that a turn-up? A little present for us 'ard-working folks on a cold wet night! A bit of warmth for a cold pair o' lads.'

The other man, who carried the lantern, pushed past him. 'No, Sam, can't you see, it's that chit we was after earlier. You know, the one his Lordship's so mithered about. Priss something, that's her. The one who can run like the devil's on her tail.'

The first man, Sam, leaned closer. Lord, you're right, Joe, it is the very ladybird we was chasing.' He addressed Priscilla. 'Gave us a right piece of trouble, you did. But now you won't get away so easy, not now we 'ave you in here.'

Joe backed off and closed the door, it seemed to fit its opening much better than a centuries-old barrier had any right to. Sam rummaged in a bag he carried, and pulled out an iron key.

'Just so's you won't be thinking of leading us another merry chase, my duck, I think we'll be fixing you in your place for a while, eh?'

He moved over to the wall opposite the fireplace and began to fiddle with something Priscilla had not seen when she first entered in the darkness, something low down on the wall that clanked and rattled alarmingly: iron chains fixed to the wall, leading to manacles!

Joe had left the door and his bulk was looming over her. There was no escape: he hauled her to her feet and cast her down beside Sam who grasped each hand in turn in his noisome grip and secured one broad cuff around one wrist, locking it with his key, then yanking her other arm away from her body with ease, locked that in place on her other side. She was held pinned against the wall, and though she tried to kick out at the men they dodged her with contemptuous ease and laughed at her struggles as they looked her up and down in a lecherous manner.

'There's not a lot to the rest of you, my lady,' Sam said, with a mocking bow, 'but you've got a fine pair of bubbies on you, ain't she Joe?'

'That she has,' concurred his accomplice, leering down at Priscilla and staring hungrily at her chest. 'Shame we'd better be leaving her be, though, the Master would be a bit upset if we was to touch her, wouldn't he, and we don't want his lordship upset, no we don't.'

'Like as you're right,' sighed Sam. 'Like as you're right. Master getting upset is not a good thing, not good at all.' He thought a minute. 'But ain't he said he wants her dead now? Not just brought back to the Grange like we was to do before?'

'That's it, Sam. Dead and gone, he said.'

'So is that what we should do with her? Kill her? 'Cause if that's so, we could have a little play around first, couldn't we?'

'I'm not doing no killing, not for any Lordship, Sam. I couldn't bring myself to do it, could you?'

'Not that I could, come to think of it.'

'He can do his own killing, can't he, if he wants to. Anyways, he might have changed his mind again, he's a terrible one for changing his mind, the Baron, and if he doesn't want her visiting St Peter, and we've sent her up to the pearly gates pree-mature, like, there's no telling what he might do. And as for playing around ... If we've as you might say, damaged the goods, and he does want her alive, we'll be for it. '

'So what's to do?'

Joe appeared to consider this very carefully. He scratched his stubbly chin and hummed and hawed awhile, then looked up. 'What I think is, we stop here till this storm is done, and have ourselves a warm and a dry, there's firewood over there, and I have a flint and iron; and then we go down to the village and roust him out, and he can come and do whatever he wants with the moll.'

'Good plan, Joe. I'm wet through.'

The two men busied themselves with clearing some of the ash out of the fireplace and setting a rough fire. It took them some time to conjure a spark with their flint, but after a few false starts and a lot of swearing the flames began to leap upwards. They huddled over it, shielding Priscilla from most of its heat, and after a while she began to see steam rising from their clothing, and a stench of stale sweat and tobacco and dampness filled the room in spite of the open window-hole.

Throughout all this Priscilla had kept silent, too frightened to speak, too terrified about what they might do to her, her arms held out at her sides by the chains, her puny strength no match for theirs. Her teeth began to chatter with cold and fright, her right arm hurt abominably where the snake had punctured it, and from the rough handling of the men, and her whole body had started to ache from the bumps and bruises she had sustained that day, and the strain of hanging by her fingertips and levering herself back from the precipice.

Worst of all was the intelligence that the Baron now wanted not just to capture her to ship her off to a life of slavery, but actually wanted her dead! Why should this be? What had changed since he imprisoned her in the priest's hole? Was it something she had done to infuriate him, even such a thing as evading pursuit for so long? Or was it his madness that had got the better of him? Or was it the evil influence of Mr Danns, who she now saw could have subverted the Baron's plans to his own nefarious ends? What fortune that he did not know who she was, that he thought of her as Polly Bennet from Sheffield, lately arrived in the district!

But what reason might he have to want her demise? He was from the West Indies, or so he had said, only arrived in England this month, so he could know nothing about her. Perhaps that was all a tissue of lies, perhaps everything he had said was fabrication? The criminal mind worked like that, she believed. Why tell the truth when a lie will muddy the waters? Truly Mr Danns must be depraved and wicked!

But then, as she considered her memory of him, he had not had the mien of a deceiver. His eye had seemed bold and true; could anyone be so good at deception? And then there was his kiss. Partially insensible as she had been, it had still thrilled her to her core. His lips had been so gentle, they had brushed against hers with a swansdown touch, like the very edge of one of those peacock feathers Sir Rupert had displayed in his hall that she had once dared to take and stroke across her cheeks and mouth, in order to dream of a life away from her drudgery, a life filled with beauty and romance and gentleness and wit. And of course, the most wonderful of kisses.

The men had been taking in low voices the while, and once or twice passing a small flask which Priscilla though must contain ardent spirits between them, and taking draughts from it. Though their bulk did steal most of the fire's heat, the room was distinctly warmer than it had been. Moreover the storm seemed to be calming itself. The lightning flashes were less frequent, the thunder rolls were separated from them by more of an interval, and the sounds were less overpowering. The rain seemed to have stopped, and the sky as far as she could see it through the hole in the wall was lighter, as if the clouds were parting and the moon shining more strongly.

The men noticed this too, and Joe, who seemed to be the leader, went over to the door and looked out into the shell of the keep. With another unpleasant glance at Priscilla's body he rejoined his comrade and told him he thought it would only be another quarter hour before they should leave. Sam grunted in response and carried on toasting his legs.

Eventually the two of them got up, and prepared to leave.

'Shall I put out the fire?' asked Sam, picking up the lantern.

'Might as well leave it. If he has changed his mind, he won't want her to catch a lung fever, now will he?' Joe reached down and tossed another log on the embers and as her left, made a low and exaggerated bow to Priscilla.

'I hope your bed is as comfortable as you would wish, Madam,' he said. 'Breakfast will be served at ... when will breakfast be served, Sam?'

'Couldn't rightly say, Joe. Couldn't rightly say.'

The two of them chuckled as they left the room and Priscilla heard the sound of the lock being engaged. They were off to fetch the Baron and he would be here in surely no less than an hour – and she was locked in, and chained to the wall to boot!

Priscilla frantically examined the manacles and their fixing to the wall. These were no mediaeval relics, they could not have been secured here for more than a few years as although the iron was a little rusty in places, the bolts that disappeared into the stone were immovable and the chain was quite clean and new. The locks had turned easily when Sam had locked them, and it was soon clear there was no way she was going to break the metal or the mechanism. Futilely she jerked at her bonds, but she just hurt her wrists and jarred the swelling the serpent had made. She was doomed! She was going to die! Oh woe!

Chapter 13

Priscilla, overwrought, burst into tears. Was she to die so young? She was only seventeen, she had a whole life before her, she had done no-one any wrong. Her slight body was racked with sobs. She gave herself up to sorrow for several minutes.

Then, as is the way of these things, the storm of tears passed. Drying her eyes, an idea came to her. She was only a slender thing, and surely these manacles had been made for men, or those with thicker wrists than her tiny ones? Hurriedly she twisted herself so she could see them, and tried to grasp the one with the other hand to gain a purchase. But the chains were too short, and so she had to struggle one-handed to wriggle and squirm and tug and – at the cost of quite a bit of skin – scrape her hand free! Hurrah!

The other hand was easier as she could hold the manacle in the best position, and soon she was able to drop the second chain and hurry across the room to warm her abused wrists by the fire. Then it struck her. She was free of her chains but the door was still locked! What could she do?

Rapidly she checked that the door was indeed firmly fastened, and then she sat back by the fire and thought furiously. There was the window, of course! It was quite high up, but the stones were uneven, and she should be able to climb up that far. Deciding, she assessed the ascent, grasped a projecting stone and placed her foot in a crevice. Within a few quick movements she had gained the ledge and looked out.

Her heart quailed at the sight. The fortress was built upon a steep slope and the window on this side though quite near the ground within the building, lay twenty feet from the ground outside! The skies had almost cleared and she could see quite well in the moonlight, and the drop looked sure to kill her, which would fulfil the Baron's wishes for him. What to do?

She felt frantically for the rope she had stored around her waist, and then remembered with dismay that she had already used it in the inn in Castleton. What could she use to help her descend? It was true that the stones outside looked eroded by the rain and weather, and there were plenty of footholds, but they were wet, and it was dark, and the wind still blew, and she had nearly fallen to her death on a rock face earlier, and she was afraid.

Could she fashion a rope from her underskirt, though? Awkwardly in the confines of the windowsill she undid the fastenings and considered it. The fabric was well-worn, but if she tore it ... so, and twisted it ... like that, and fastened each twisted piece carefully together, using the best knots she knew ... That would suffice. It would have to suffice. Now to find somewhere to attach it.

There was a good stone on her right side, it stuck out from the wall about four inches. Priscilla tied the makeshift rope to it, and tugged on it. It held, and she threw the other end over the edge. As far as she could see it reached nearly to the ground but it was difficult to be sure. But she had no choice, and resolutely and for the second time today she started to descend.

The first time she had done this she had had the benefit of being able to see what she was doing, but no footholds; this time it was quite dark, but her small feet found many cavities in the wall, and she could take a lot of her weight on her legs, fearing the old material of her underskirt might not stand up to such treatment. At least she could more readily avoid seeing the drop below her, and avoid turning dizzy from it. Carefully, carefully she let herself downwards, trying to stay close to the wall, until she felt the end of her rope. She looked down, hoping she was not too far from the ground. Joy of joys, she was within two feet of the grass, and so let herself drop the last little way.

The earth was uneven and she toppled sideways, but fortunately no harm was done. Now, she must be gone from this place. She looked back at the window of her cell and saw the yellow flickering light of the fire, and her route of escape plain for all to see. And she must hurry, for the Baron and his men may be back at any time, and she could not hide in the trees this time because she would not be able to tell her way. Perhaps if she went through that gap in the curtain wall and descended the hill another way?

Priscilla hurried to the broken-down wall and clambered over the loose rocks. She moved more carefully forward in the shadows, and it was well she did because without warning she found herself on the brink of yet another precipice! The land fell away into a wooded gorge, descent here was completely out of the question even if she had not had her fill of rock climbing. Disconsolately she returned to the bailey and skirted it to the ruined gatehouse, not daring to walk in a straight line across the open space.

Anxiously and fearfully she peered round the corner at the broad approach to the castle, but no-one was in sight. No lights showed, not a sound could be heard, beyond the soughing of the wind in the trees. The village was asleep, but somewhere there she knew was the Baron, and he must surely by now have received news of her imprisonment, and would be coming to murder her! She decided: she must traverse the open ground as fast as possible, and gain the safety of the shadows at the bottom of the hill before stopping.

Priscilla bravely started to run down the hill. The moonlight was bright, but without the brilliance of the sun, and she could hardly see her footing at times. The grass was wet, and she slipped more than once, barely righting herself, before plunging forward once more. It was not many yards before she realised she was out of control, and could not halt her headlong flight, and eventually the inevitable happened. A foot stepped in a rut, or an animal scraping; she lost her balance, and was flung forward, landing on one shoulder and turning somersaults again and again down the hill.

She was getting so dizzy! The stars raced by her vision; the earth was above and then below her; she bounced and bumped and slid. The fence at the base of the hill approached: desperately she spread out her limbs to try and gain purchase on the sward, and just in time she ceased to rotate, her grasping hands gained some traction on the damp grass, and she slid to a halt not three feet from a solid-looking post of the boundary.

For nearly a minute the world carried on its revolution, while Priscilla tried to catch her breath and still her racing heart. The first time she attempted to stand she swayed and fell immediately, so she tried to crawl along so she would be in the shadowy safety of a row of trees.

And none too soon! For the Baron and the two stablemen, Joe and Sam, were beginning to ascend the path! Priscilla hunched herself as small as she could, and held her breath. The Baron seemed to be in a strange mood: a mixture of anger at being rousted out of his inn, and triumph at his capture of his prey. His step was rapid and firm, and his head held high; but his two henchmen kept their distance from him and said nothing when he cursed at them for the hour, and the cold, and the steepness of the path, and the wretchedness of the country.

They ascended the hill, and his hateful voice faded away. Priscilla knew they would discover her flight in a very few minutes, and be back on her trail soon after. She had to move, and now!

As silently as she could she crawled towards the point where the path entered the grounds of Peveril, and once she was sure she could not be seen from on high she stood up and hurried along the track. The route would take her back into the village, she knew, and perhaps towards the clutches of Mr Danns, so as soon as opportunity presented itself, she bore left towards the west, towards Cheshire, towards freedom.

The houses here were small and in bad repair, as far as she could judge, not likely places for a gentleman such as Mr Danns to lodge. The alleys and lanes were narrow, though, and cut off a lot of the moonlight, which made her progress more hazardous, what with the unevenness of the cobles, and potholes, and a pile of material left presumably for road-mending into which she tumbled, bruising her hands and muddying her face.

At last the path turned up hill slightly, and seemed to be leaving the village. Very soon it split in two, and Priscilla halted for a moment, trying to decide on her mostly likely route to safe haven. She tilted her head to the heavens, where the stars were now spread out before her like specks of sunlight coming through threadbare curtains in a scullerymaid's bedroom, and tried to locate the Great Bear. There he was, pointing her way to Polaris, the North Star, and so the right hand route, the lower one, would take her more directly westward to the passes into the next county. Priscilla set herself to the journey, though she by now was getting very tired, with the lateness of the hour and the effects of her exertions, her terror, and her narrow escapes from death.

The track was extremely indistinct and the countryside seemed eerie in the washed-out colours of the moon. Several times she turned to check for pursuit, but all she saw was the broken silhouette of Peveril castle upon its crag seeming to radiate an uncanny composite of evil and familiarity: she had found shelter from the storm there but also imprisonment and almost death. Did she see a light in one of the windows, or was she imagining it? Was there movement on its approaches, or were there spots before her straining eyes? She pressed on.

She had now lost the path entirely, but feeling she might be safer further up the hill and hence away from the high road and habitation, she strode westwards by the stars and slightly southwards by her instincts. Here was a dry stone wall to cross, a scramble and a grazed knee; there a rivulet, easy to jump. Here was a tussocky area, where it would be too foolish to hurry, in case of a turned ankle, so it was worth another look back.

Lights! She could not be imagining them, they were clear yellow spots, and moving, swinging to and fro and coming towards her. There were two lanterns, she was sure: The Baron had carried one and Joe had had the other when they had passed her on the hillside. They were after her! How had they caught her scent? She could not hear a dog, for if they had one she would surely be lost. Perhaps one of the men had been sent into the town to rouse Mr Danns, or to follow her if she had dared to retrace her steps? In any case, they were gaining on her little legs, and were sure to overtake her soon if she did not put on a spurt.

Priscilla turned back to her route and started to run, careless of the roughness of the field, for if she saved herself from a twisted ankle but fell into Lord Savagewood's clutches she was doomed. She could not but help keep glancing over her shoulder, at the lights bobbing about as they moved ever closer. Then, one step failed to make the expected contact with the ground, she tripped, fell forwards and dropped. She could not tell how far she fell, but elbows and knees attested to several encounters with first the steep earth bank and then rough stone walls, and when she brought up on her back on a broad ledge against a heap of loose earth the breath had been quite knocked out of her.

As she lay there helpless for the moment to move, looking up at the sky far above her, she began to hear the sounds of her pursuers. The Baron was not troubling himself to use stealth, but was roundly cursing her escape, her dear mother and father, her sex in general; impugning her morals, and describing what he was going to do to her body when he had caught her in such vile detail that Priscilla blushed to the roots of her hair, even though she did not understand fully three quarters of the words, and even with her being in such a perilous situation.

The sounds of her enemies grew closer until they seemed almost on top of her. 'Where can the b_ whore have disappeared to,' came the Baron's voice. 'Her footprints were quite clear until just a hundred yards away when she turned off the track. She's a woman – she hasn't the brains to fool us on purpose.'

'Maybe she went straight up hill?' replied Sam, Don't s'pose she knows where she's going, she was stupid enough to go up to Peveril after all.'

'Where you two buffoons managed to let her escape!' roared the Baron. 'Why did you both come to rouse me, instead of leaving one on guard with her?'

'Yeah, you said,' spat back Sam, his voice dripping with sarcasm 'only about six times already.'

'I might just kill you too.'

'You and Napoleon's Grand Army between you, eh? Like to see you try on your own.'

'Don't you underestimate me, you worthless peasant. I'd do it like a shot if I didn't need you to help search.'

'And because the rest of 'em'd squeal on yer if yer did any sich thing, boss.'

The Baron seemed to pull himself together with an effort, because Priscilla heard a pause and then a very deep breath.

'Very well, let us continue with our search. Mind that shaft, you don't want to fall in, do you? Maybe I'd be better off if you did, though.'

'Right you are, boss. Right you are.'

The sounds of the searchers moved away and Priscilla found she was able to breathe again. She didn't like to move though until she had ascertained just where she was lying. She didn't seem to have broken anything, but it was possible she hadn't reached the bottom of this pit, and she didn't want to find out the hard way.

'It was very dark down here, and all she could see was a patch of sky studded with stars. She could make out the whole of Auriga, the charioteer, and shed a tear when she remembered that the next constellation, just out of her line of vision, was named Perseus, the name of her dead brother. She felt around with one hand for a loose stone, and with the other for any sort of edge to the ledge on which she lay. There did seem to be one a foot or so to her left, and she tossed the stone in that direction. It clinked on a rock, then there was a long pause, another faint clink, and then a distant splash.

She lay above a drop of perhaps hundred feet! She dare not move from her present position in case there was an instability of the earth on which she lay which could take the whole shelf sliding down to the unknown pool below, where she would surely drown! There was nothing for it but to stay perfectly still until sunrise. Dare she sleep? Or would she roll over in her slumbers and plummet to her doom?

Chapter 14

Priscilla had intended to stay broad awake all night and guard against unwary actions in her dreams, but she was so exhausted that this resolve lasted but five minutes before she was lost to the world. By the time she awoke the sun was well up and she could readily appreciate the extent of her predicament. She had tumbled into an abandoned lead mine!

She lay on a ledge of earth about two feet wide with a further six inches of rock exposed beyond, and after that a black orifice yawned. She cautiously sat up and tossed another stone over the lip. It made no sound for seconds until again she heard the splash of water. Her ledge was about five feet long, and above her the blue sky seemed impossibly distant. The wall of her prison were uneven, some rock and some earth and even vegetation, and seemed to rise for so many feet that she despaired of climbing out.

She was hungry, and thirsty, and stiff, and the pain from her snake bite had not eased at all, though Priscilla thanked God that it had not worsened either. She decide to pause and eat another part of the bread she was carrying and a little of the cheese to give her energy and fortitude for the task ahead, but when this was done she took stock.

Part of the climb would be fairly easy, unless the earth was even more unstable than it looked, but in the section above this, the shaft was quite narrow and there seemed to be few hand and foot holds. Also, her skirts would hamper her dreadfully. Priscilla decided. She may be a lady but this lady was going to hitch her skirts round her waist and tie them out of the way. Propriety be d_!

With this rousing sentiment, Priscilla looped the enveloping material around and secured it with her girdle. Freed, she set to the ascent with vigour, and soon reached the point where the shaft narrowed. It was a little like a chimney, and she thought of the little chimney sweep boys who spent their whole lives doing this, in dark and sooty spaces. This spurred her on, and she wedged her small body into the shaft and progressed in a motion like a caterpillar upwards.

From time to time there was a foot hold where she could rest, or a ledge which she grasped with her fingers to haul herself upwards. Twice she slipped back, and had to wait for her terror of the abyss below her to abate before she dared move a muscle again. At last, the shaft broadened out again, and rather than helping this made her climb more difficult. Instead of levering her body against both walls she had to find holds in just the one, and it was far easier lose her grip and fall backwards. However, eventually she found herself at the foot of a conical depression, only about twelve feet from the surface.

Priscilla fell back on the sloping ground exhausted. Her body would not stop trembling, and she had to keep her eyes turned from the rocky margin of the working she had just clambered out of to stop herself breaking into hysteria over what she had just escaped. It was a good half hour before she felt able to resume her climb, a far easier slope this, but one which would take her to the outside world, and perhaps – The Baron!

For a start, which way should she go? Should she still keep to her plan of travelling westwards until she reached the plains of Cheshire? She had some money but from what she remembered of Mr Marsden's map there was no village where she could buy food for many miles and she had nearly finished the food she carried. Nervously Priscilla climbed, on all fours, up to the brink of the mine working, and peeped over the edge, fearing that the Baron might be waiting for her to appear, and would grasp hold of her, and that would be her end.

But the field was deserted except for a few sheep, which looked up incuriously at the sudden appearance of a bedraggled head amongst their pasture. Priscilla emerged from the hollow, stood up, and unloosed her skirts. She turned around to get her bearings and saw the village of Castleton barely half a mile away. Had she come so little distance last night? It had felt like miles when she was being pursued. The village held food, and shelter, but also the Baron and the duplicitous Mr Danns, and she dare not venture into it. She set off therefore in the opposite direction, finding her passage infinitely easier in the sunlight, and soon came upon the path from which she had strayed earlier, and by it reached a road of sorts, which wound away from the village, and into a narrow gorge.

Directly across the road was a gaping cavern mouth, with a few ramshackle buildings clustered about it, and piles of broken stone and rusty machinery here and there.. Priscilla by now had a wholesome dread of mines to add to her fears of pigeons, bees, wild boars, snakes, tree-climbing, and rock faces, and gave it a wide berth, deciding that she would follow the road as that way she would have at least some assurance of not falling down a shaft concealed in the grass.

The high crags which girded the valley on both sides looked somehow less foreboding than they would have if the sun was not shining, though it cast deep shadows in places, and any of these could easily conceal danger. Priscilla felt herself vulnerable by now to any and every peril, human, natural or even animal, for although she had not yet been set upon by a wild beast other than the snake, it seemed only a matter of time before she encountered some large, hungry and sharp-taloned creature. The steep sides hemmed her in, so she would have only one route of escape if her pursuers caught up with her.

The walk up the valley could, she reasoned, have been most pleasant under different circumstances, but she could feel none of those sentiments now, instead being aware of the grey rocks towering over her and the broad areas of loose stone which looked as though they could slide down and engulf her at any moment. Amazingly, sheep – or were they sure-footed goats? – dotted the most inaccessible places on the escarpment, and a few early flowers bloomed here and there by the roadside in patches of low scrubby vegetation. Even in the sun, though, the wind swirled around and moaned against the jagged rocks, and Priscilla set her best pace the sooner to quit the confines of the ravine.

An enormous black bird appeared on the skyline between two pinnacles, calling out its hoarse cry, circling in the draught, eyeing the ground. Priscilla saw the raven as an omen of more terrible things to come, and huddled into her shawl, hurrying on even faster. The road rose steeply as it rounded a bend, and a second bird joined the first. As it did so, clouds which had been gathering in the west for some little while covered the sun and the atmosphere in the canyon became more chill. The road behind her back into the village remained empty as far as she could see, until the bend cut it off from Priscilla's backward glances, and now she focussed her attention ahead, to the open moor that must lie beyond.

Where would she search, if she were the Baron? What would be his plan, and could she know it so as to avoid his next cast around the hills? And then there was the unknown quantity of Mr Danns. Was he simply the Baron's accomplice, or did he have his own evil designs on her, some other end beyond her murder?

As the road levelled out she saw a farmstead ahead. Could she risk knocking on the door and asking to buy a drink of milk, and some bread? Surely her enemies would not be lurking in an isolated dwelling like this? Also, she could confirm that she was heading on the right road to Cheshire, and safety, could she not? The events of the night had put the memory of the route quite out of her mind, and she was uncertain now of almost everything.

Approaching the farm with care, she found the back door and hesitated. There had been no sign of a fine horse tethered nearby, and surely the Baron would not pursue her in the daytime on foot? She rapped on the door, and a stout woman answered.

'Morning,' she greeted her, 'no, afternoon, it is by now, surely?' She looked up at the sky. 'My old clock she don't keep good time these days.'

'Good afternoon, madam, said Priscilla. 'I am a traveller toward Cheshire, and could I trouble you to sell me some bread and a drink of milk, and tell me if I am on the right road? I do have money to pay,' she added, reaching for her pocket, realising that her appearance might not be all she would hope for.'

'You on your own in this wild country, miss?'

'I am, madam, and I wish I were not but I have no choice at present but to travel westwards alone.'

'Well, I'll ask no questions, so I'll be told no lies, but come you in, girl, and have a warm. I'll get you some food: we've a broth on the stove and some fresh milk. Put them coppers away for now, we'll settle up when you're feeling more like it. You could do with a bit more than that shawl up here on the moors, the wind's cruel thin, it is.'

Priscilla sat where the matron indicated, and looked up as she ladled some soup into a bowl. 'You said that the wind is thin, ma'am? What does that mean?'

'It means it's a sharp wind, it cuts your flesh from your bone, or it seems to, anyroad. I could tell you're not from hereabouts. Now, you get this inside you.' She set the bowl down and put a hunk of bread by it.

'Thankyou, madam,' and Priscilla ate hungrily.

'It's been a queer morning it has,' the farmer's wife replied. First we had a gentleman on a fine horse stop by, asking after a lady by the name of ... now what did he call her? ... Priscilla Butterworth, that was it. Said she might be travelling by this way, he did, or mebbe she could have passed in the night. Not that we'd have se'n her if she had, being abed like Christian folks.' She glanced up at Priscilla who carried on eating, trying not to show any emotion.

'He mentioned she might be dressed as a servant, though she was quality, really. He said he was slightly-built and had orange-red hair. He was a polite gentleman, for all he was dark-skinned, and he spoke in a gentlemanlike manner. He said he sought this young lady because he had something to communicate to her, "to her advantage", that's how he put it. Fine way of talking, he had. Handsome divil, too, I'll be thinking, and the legs he had! If I was twenty years younger ...'

Priscilla kept her head bowed over her soup and said nothing.

'What would be your name, now, miss?'

'Polly Bennet, madam,' was her short reply.

'You haven't come across this Miss Butterworth, then? No reason why you would have, mind.'

'I have not.'

'I liked that man, though,' the matron mused. 'He treated me courteous-like. Better than that other one, for sure: he looked evil as Satan himself, (here she crossed herself), pardon my language, and he talked as if I was his plantation slave. Two fine gentlemen a'visiting in one morning. Not the time of year for rich folk seeing the sights, is it? Anyhow, the rude fellow got no change out of me, that he didn't. I wouldn't tell him if his coat tails was on fire, I wouldn't. His eyes! Burning, black as coal, and somehow red at the same time. He seemed half-mad, he did. I should keep out of his way, if I were you, miss.' She looked significantly at Polly.

Polly swallowed her last mouthful. She dropped her gaze from the older woman's. 'Thankyou for your warning,' she stammered. 'I'll be sure not to cross him.' Her host kept silence, so she added, 'Was the second gentleman seeking someone too?'

'That's the funny thing, he was. The same girl, as well. Hope he don't find her, he's bad news. I saw him when he left, whipping his horse something cruel. If there's one thing I can't stand it's mistreating a dumb animal.'

Polly drank up her milk. I'll be sure to avoid him,' she repeated. Now, how much do I owe you? And am I on the right road for Cheshire?' Again she pulled out some coins.

'You just keep straight along this road, pass through Sparrowpit, and you'll be in Chapel in about six mile. You can ask again there.' She selected a couple of coins. 'And just you wait a minute, I'll fetch you an old bonnet I don't have use for any longer. Keep your head warm, keep your body warm, that's what I say. And you might want to brush your nice red hair and fasten it up properly, out of sight of anyone that might be seeing it?'

Polly thanked her profusely, and having tidied up her hair as best she could, tied the old-fashioned bonnet onto her head dutifully. It was very ugly, but she was grateful for any protection from the weather.

As she crossed the threshold, the woman wished her farewell. 'And I won't be telling anyone about your visit, Miss Butterworth,' she said.

Priscilla blushed, but turned away to hide it, calling back further thanks set off at a fast pace. It was clear to her that a lone woman out in the hills was a rarity, that she would be easily identified by anyone asking after her, and that she must get herself to Chapel with all haste. Besides, the weather was closing in again, the clouds that had covered the sun had thickened and blackened and the wind was now gusting and tugging at her skirts.

No sooner had she turned to the right out of the farm gate and started down the lane than she saw a lone horseman in the distance, trotting his mount at a lively pace. She could make out nothing but his tall hat, but knew in her bones that it must be the Baron! Would she never be rid of him? Could she not avoid his baleful presence whatever she did? Should she just give up and accept her fate?

Perhaps he had not seen her? That hope died as she saw the rider spur the horse to a canter, and so she scrambled over the wall and set off across the fields, skirting the farm where she had just rested, hoping against hope that the horse would not be able to follow her over the rough ground. She hared over the grass, running for her life, through a gate and on to a track that seemed to lead downhill and away from the road.

Behind her the Baron set his horse to the first wall and flew over it. He was gaining on her, and fast. Priscilla raced on, her lungs burning, the ties of her bonnet streaming behind her and her arms pumping, aware that she could not outrun a horse, but not wanting to admit defeat.

The Baron hauled on his horse's head viciously and set it at the next wall, trying to cut off the corner and gain further yards on the fleeing girl. The abused animal took the corner with a skidding of hooves but at the last minute before taking off dug in its feet and came to an abrupt halt. The Baron flew in a graceful arc over the dry-stone obstacle and landed, rolling across the rushy grass before coming to a stop in a hollow. Priscilla could not wait to see how he had fared, but kept on at her best speed, glancing back from time to time at her pursuer, hoping he might have been disabled by the fall, or at least winded so he must rest before continuing after her.

There was no sign of him for a minute or so, and she allowed her headlong pace to slacken, but then she saw him again, hatless, continuing the chase on foot. He appeared uninjured! The horse however must have made a break for freedom from its owner, and bolted somewhere, and she realised he would be angrier than ever. He legs were far longer than hers and she was again hampered by her skirts, but at least the contest was less unequal than when he was mounted.

The track bore slightly to the right, and she saw she was approaching some other mine workings, with the usual litter of debris and equipment, and huts for the workmen. Would there be anyone there who could protect her? Or would they side with the Baron out of fear for their livelihoods from the threats of a magistrate?

In the event, the place was utterly deserted. No sound of hammers rent the air, no picks or spades struck the rock, there was no smoke from the chimneys of the huts and the whole place had an air of lifelessness. Priscilla was so intent on scouring the yard for aid that she forgot to mind her footing, and tripped over some small roughness, and tumbled painfully over onto the gravel. While she was prostrate the Baron caught up further and, circling around, blocked her exit from the stoneyard. Priscilla, rising to her feet and looking wildly about her, retreated reluctantly towards the mouth of the cavern, looking for a way out between the buildings but realising with horror that the yard nestled in a cutting in the hillside and that she was trapped!

The Baron slowed his pace, satisfied he finally had cornered his prey, and advanced deliberately on the quivering and panting girl with menace oozing from every pore. Priscilla backed away, not daring to take her eyes from his face, until she bumped into something solid. It was an iron wagon on small wheels that ran between wooden rails leading into the mine. Priscilla dodged behind it, though knowing it offered her little protection.

'What do you want from me?' she cried, panting with her exertion.

Lord Savagewood was himself considerably out of breath, and he paused, looked around him, and considered. 'I want your life, trollop. But first I might want to hurt you a little, for all the trouble you have caused me. Look at the state of my coat, and my boots are quite ruined!'

'But I am of no account!'

'That's what you think. You know far too much to be allowed to live. And beyond that, you are in my way.'

'In your way?'

'Yes, to think of it, a little doxy like you, in the way of a great and noble lord such as myself.' He laughed, a cold hard bark of a laugh. 'Still, in not a few minutes nothing will remain to prevent me claiming my reward.' He almost casually reached into his coat and withdrew a flintlock pistol. He examined it carefully, and appeared to caress it.

'You wouldn't dare!' ejaculated Priscilla in horror.

'Would I not?' The Baron's lip curled in amusement. 'How entertainingly naive of you. And with me having spent so long practising my aim, too.' An idea seemed to strike him, and he withdrew a second pistol from a pocket and considered the two together. 'Perhaps the first shot to the belly, where it will cause agony but not death, at least not for many hours. And then, the second one to the heart. To make sure the job is finished. And after that, your worthless carcass shall be tossed down a shaft, never to be seen again. Yes, I think that will serve.'

'Lord Savagewood, you are mad!'

'I, mad?' His whole face contorted in rage. 'You know nothing about madness, snivelling fool. My mother was mad: my father kept her in an attic for years, she raved and screamed, she tore her clothes, and once she attacked my father when he visited her, and her nails ripped at his face tearing it so badly that he was evermore disfigured. That is madness. He never forgave her for it, though it did not weaken his love for her, and it distressed him so much that when I was old enough to realise what she was, I procured a certain substance from an apothecary and poisoned her gruel. She died in agony, but my father was inconsolable, and not long after he himself died, they said of a broken heart.'

Priscilla's heart went out to the late Baron and his poor wife, in spite of her perilous predicament, and tears of pity rolled down her face.

'My mother had been beautiful once, a veritable diamond, and he doated on her, but it ruined his life. She ruined his life. All women ruin men's lives, and that is why they must suffer!'

'But you were married once,' Priscilla whispered in a small voice.

'Yes, the parson's mousetrap, they call it. The archbishop's mantrap, I call it.'

'Did you love your wife?'

'Love? What is love? She did not love me enough to live, that is for sure.' The Baron began to edge forward towards the terrified girl.

Priscilla looked desperately around for a route of escape. She tried to stall for time. She assumed her most pleading expression. 'Do you expect me to beg for mercy, Lord Savagewood?'

'No, I expect you to die, Miss Butterworth'

[page 144 in Hyacinth/Olivia's copies: madness, disfigurement, insult and tears]

Chapter 15

'I expect you to die, Miss Butterworth. There is nothing you can say to me that can change that.' The Baron slipped one pistol back into his pocket and raised the other, holding it with both hands, pointing it at Priscilla's middle, and cocked the hammer with deliberation.

Priscilla dived wildly to one side, rolling as she hit the ground and fetching up behind some barrels which had perhaps once contained blasting powder. The Baron must have had a hair trigger to his pistol because his charge exploded as she flew through the air and the ball pinged off the rock at the mouth of the cave. Priscilla huddled behind the cooperage, while the Baron retrieved and cocked his other pistol.

'Ha!' called the Baron, 'a mercurial foe! You intend to provide me with some sport, eh, Miss Butterworth?'

Priscilla was looking about her for some route she could take to flee without exposing herself to the Baron's gun, and did not reply.

'A dumb foe as well, I see. Dumb in speech and dumb in understanding.'

She could hear him moving around, and risked a peep over the barrels to make sure he could not surprise her by taking her from the rear. Was there really no route to safety past the advancing monster? Could she risk racing by him and trusting in her nimbleness to keep her unharmed? She believed she could not, not with him wielding his pistol, not with the range so close.

'And I thought I would have the fun of hitting a moving target, Miss Butterworth. Do not deny me my small pleasures, I beg of you.'

Priscilla ignored his taunts, and made up her mind. The only way she could outfox this man would be to give herself more space in which to manoeuvre, and that meant ... She steeled herself for action, gathered her resolve and braced her body to spring. All at once she dashed for what she believed to be the only route of escape, the mine entrance, and hurtled inside into the darkness.

His second shot whined by her feet as an accompaniment to her flight as she passed through the portal, and she paused only after several yards, pressing herself behind a timber for shelter and giving her eyes time to become used to the dimness. The Baron was not following her in as she had anticipated, she knew not why. After a few minutes she found she could see better, and slipped deeper and deeper into the mine, which sloped downhill, careful not to trip on the rails which here were iron plates bolted to the mine floor, until she could not see at all. She stopped again, fearing blundering into a vertical shaft under her feet, and waited.

What could Lord Savagewood be doing? Surely he would pursue her if he was so set on ensuring her demise? He could not just stay outside the entrance and wait for her to come out, could he? There was water in here, she could hear it dripping, and she had a fragment of cheese in her bundle, and a little bread. She could wait it out, could she not?

The light at the end of the tunnel dimmed slightly, as if someone had stepped into the entrance. Was the Baron coming after her at last? There was no sound, no footfalls of someone approaching. But without warning a deafening detonation echoed down the tunnel and something whirred past her head, crashing into the wall just beyond her. He was shooting at her again, shooting in the hope that in the narrow tunnel he might score a hit without having to see her! Priscilla pressed herself back against the wall in the meagre shelter of the timber and prayed. Almost immediately there was another detonation, another ball whined by her and spent itself in the depths of the mine.

That was both his guns discharged, at least. He must have reloaded them during the time she had waited in the darkness, she reasoned. Priscilla dared not penetrate the shadows any further; she dared not return to the light; she was held in a limbo between two terrors, one known, the other unknown, and both equally dreadful. All she could do was wait. So wait she did, for many long minutes, until she thought the Baron must surely have had time to recharge his pistols and make his plans.

At length a yellow light appeared alongside the white of the mine opening. So that was it, he had presumably broken into one of the miners' huts and found a lantern, and kindled a light the better to pursue her, in addition to the reloading of his discharged weapons. Priscilla turned, and using the flickering light now shed by the lantern as it neared, slipped ever further along the adit and deeper into the unknown.

'Come out, you harlot, you whoring wench, and show yourself!' The Baron's yell echoed eerily along the passage. Priscilla moved ever further from the light, keeping just at the last reaches of its glimmer, where she could sufficiently perceive her footing. Could the Baron see her as well as she could locate him by his lantern? And if he could, could he shoot his pistol with sufficient accuracy to wound her? Perhaps in a tunnel the ball would ricochet off the walls and strike her no matter where it was aimed? She hurried on.

The tunnel abruptly opened out into a wide cavern. At least, Priscilla realised it must be a large space, by the alteration in how her footsteps echoed, and by her extensive knowledge of the geology of the area. As far as she could recall from her reading, the limestone was frequently dissolved away by the rain, and underground rivers formed, which then drained yet further into the rocky depths leaving huge cathedrals of stone, with amazing deposits on the walls. Her heart leapt: perhaps she might even see deposits of the fabled Blue John in their virgin state?

But for now she must safeguard herself, and withdraw from the mouth of the tunnel before the Baron reached it. She felt her way along the wall, hoping to move more quickly once the Baron's lantern lit the cave as he emerged from the adit, and waited. The light in the tunnel mouth brightened, and then the Baron's bent form emerged and stood erect, blinking. Of course, she had walked easily along the passage being so short, but he had had to struggle bent almost double. This realisation filled her with something like glee, and she backed off further.

There they were, gleaming in the lamplight – stalactites and stalagmites such as she had read about! Oh joy! She had never hoped in a million years to be able to actually see such things. And there were some pairs which had joined into each other over uncounted thousands of years! Columns of living stone, laid open for her to enjoy.

A crashing and reverberating bang and the crash of a ball striking the rock by her face brought her to her senses, and she threw herself behind the beautiful formations into cover. Oh foolish girl, she thought, how could you think about geology when your life is at risk? Her forehead stung, and she put her hand to it. It came away bloodied: a chip of rock must have struck her, splintered from the wall by the gunfire. She looked back at her adversary, and saw the cloud of smoke drifting lazily in the lamplight, and soon smelt the acrid tang of the black powder drifting toward her.

'There is no escape for you,' the Baron yelled, sounding quite frantic. 'You might as well give yourself up.'

'Never! Never while I have breath!' she called back. 'You may think yourself better than me, with your title and your riches and because you are a man, but I know many things that you do not, and I have a true and loving heart, whereas yours is tainted beyond redemption. It is you that should despair, you that will be judged at the last, you who will burn in the fires of hell!'

The Baron spat in disdain. 'Foolish chit, brainless jade, ignorant game-pullet! He again took careful aim, and the ball struck the column behind which Priscilla sheltered, whanging away into the darkness.

'So now Mr Clever, now you have no more shots!' Priscilla yelled back, emboldened.

'No matter, it will give me greater pleasure to tear the life from you with my bare hands. Now I think of it, Mr Danns may wish to see your corpse, and it would not do to have it sullied with a ball of lead. It must look as if you met your death by falling off a precipice or some such fate.'

'Mr Danns? Why should he have designs on me? Or is he just your unthinking minion?'

'I shall not satisfy your curiosity by answering that conundrum. Just know that we both want to find you and it has fallen out most pleasingly for me to have him aid me in my search. What irony, eh?' The Baron broke into gales of laughter, which echoed and re-echoed in a demonic cacophony around the chamber.

Lord Savagewood put away his pistols and moved towards Priscilla who retreated from behind the pillar of stone that had protected her, deeper into the cave. As the Baron circled to his right, his lantern threw its glow on the wall, where his ball had ricocheted, and chipped away part of the stone. There exposed lay the yellow and purple striations of the stone for which these mines were bored. Blue John! Priscilla thrilled to see it, and wished even in this extremity that she could take some.

She looked behind her for cover, for somewhere she could be at an advantage over the larger and stronger Baron. She ran rapidly towards the other wall of the chamber, where the vault was even higher, disappearing above her beyond the reach of the lamplight. The Baron moved across in response, to cut off her route to the exit tunnel, and began to advance across the floor, relatively smooth just here, stepping carefully over the rails which ran from the adit by which they had entered and away into the depths, towards more recent workings, no doubt.

Priscilla realised that in the open she had no chance of dodging the Baron's grasp, as his longer legs would outpace any run she made for safety. But maybe there was an answer! Yes, she must use the natural geology of the cave to her advantage. Priscilla took a deep breath and then dashed for a part of the cavern where there was a veritable forest of stalagmites growing out of the floor, with their progenitor stalactites above, though only a few were close to joining up. She thought that without his weapons, the Baron would have to go around the calcareous forest either one way or another, and she being nimbler than he could dodge him and perhaps be able to make a break for the exit.

But the Baron was moving closer, and she feinted to retreat further into the cave, hoping to lure him sufficiently far in one direction so that she could dash in the other, and pass him and escape. He halted, and turned to approach her from his left: she responded by reversing her movement. For a while they havered, she mirroring his every move. Then he stood his ground and considered her.

'Very neat, Miss Butterworth. I go one way, you go the other. We could continue this dance for some time, I see. Perhaps it has not the finesse of a cotillion or a minuet, do you think? Would you not prefer to come to my embrace for a waltz?'

'I would not contemplate your embrace for a king's ransom, you poltroon, you knave. Leave me be, and go about your business!'

'Ah, but you are my most cherished business, my dear. My goal, my Promised Land: I covet you.'

'Blasphemy, sir! Do not talk in this way.'

The Baron though did not respond. While continuing to address Priscilla he had been considering the stalagmite field. Suddenly she realised: he intended to plunge straight across it, destroying thousands of years of gradual accretion in a moment! Sure enough, he set down his lantern on a rock and began to engage her once more in conversation.

'Would you not like to know about Mr Danns?' he began.

Priscilla, though bursting to comprehend this gentleman's involvement in the base conspiracy, made sure she was balanced for instant flight before replying, 'Surely.'

'Well, I first met him – Ha! – the very day I had ensnared you by Stanage Edge, by all that's holy! There you were, lying in the priest's hole, trussed up so you could barely move. I did enjoy securing those ropes, it has to be said,' he added, as if to himself. 'And there was the redoubtable Mr Danns, just feet from you as you lay ...'

He broke off as with a mighty lunge he leapt into the field of recrystallised lime, and hurled his grasping hands toward Priscilla. Forewarned, she bounded to one side, avoiding his fingers by a whisker, and raced toward the lamp. She picked it up in one movement as she flew by, and headed for the egress. The Baron, frustrated in his designs, howled abuse at her, calling her the Harlot of Babylon, Beelzebub, Gorgon, Harpy, and all manner of other names which she was too intent on escape to register. She fled through the narrow passage as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels, which in many ways they were, and did not slacken her pace until she reached the pure white light of day, could breathe untainted air, and could be free.

Now, surely she could find respite? Lord Savagewood must take some time to find his way out of the cavern, and it was even possible he might in the dark plunge into one of those shafts of which she had been so fearful. Nonetheless, she must get away from here with all speed, for there was no telling if indeed he would be delayed by the darkness, and she abhorred the possibility of his trapping her again.

But where should she go? Where should she go? Where should she go? Back up the hill towards the Sparrowpit road was the most sensible surely? She ought to head for the road, as the smoothest way towards her goal? If the Baron realised this, he would head that way himself, though. Nonetheless. She set herself to that target, and began the ascent.

She had climbed no more than a hundred yards when on the horizon, on the very crest of the hill, she saw another figure. Not an itinerant shepherd, not a mineworker in dusty homespun, but a man with a tall hat, and a dark coat with a snowy waistcoat and shirt. It could be nobody but Mr Danns! And just when she thought she had outwitted the Baron! She turned herself round forthwith and fled down the hillside.

[chapter 15 ends with Priscilla nearly hanging from a cliff ie running with no escape but to go there – see IIHK p 17]

[Before this she has hung from a building and a tree]

Chapter 16

Priscilla fled, but not exactly the way she had come, rather bearing away from the mine entrance in case the Baron should reappear and cut off her route. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that the newcomer was not running at pace, but was instead loping in a cautious way down the rough grazing, so that she was easily keeping her distance from him.

Where should she head? The details of Mr Marsden's map had long left her wearied mind, debilitated as it was by days of tension and anxiety, and she was guided only by her native wit, which struggled in its unfamiliarity with the country. A large hill rose to her left, the highest part of a long ridge, with a forbidding face composed of crags and cliffs, and areas of broken stone sloping down to a mad jumble of hummocks and little gullies which sat like a scar on the landscape. Truly a desolate prospect.

But there in the vale to her right was Castleton, with its church and its houses, where she dare not head, for there lurked no doubt the uncouth Joe and Sam, ready to intercept her if she sought shelter there. Behind to her left was Mr Danns, and (she quickly checked over her other shoulder) – oh horror of horrors! – there was the Baron himself, advancing also somewhat slowly. Indeed, he seemed to be limping. Had he injured himself in the mine? Had he tripped over a rail, or slipped on a pile of spoil? She suppressed a burst of joy at the perception, feeling she should not glory in the injury of a fellow-creature, but taking heart from it all the same.

The only way to go seemed to be towards the lowering mountain. Mam Tor was its name, she suddenly remembered. Mam Tor: the shivering mountain. She shivered herself at the thought, but set her course to it and pressed on. There were cliffs there, which she dreaded after her earlier experiences, but where else could she go? Where else indeed?

On the one side, the mysterious and ill-intentioned Mr Danns. On the other, the enraged and probably insane Baron, now made all the more malevolent by his injury, no doubt. On the third, Joe and Sam, affronted by her escape from the manacles. Ahead, the towering mass of the Shivering Mountain, seeming to lean towards her as if it wanted to fall onto her and devour her. Priscilla's heart quailed, but she again broke into a run, and prayed as she fled.

She was getting so tired. So bone-achingly, muscle-batteredly tired. How much longer could this go on? Was there to be no rest for her, short of death? How could she, a small, weak young girl, stand up to the foul intentions of two full-grown men? She had come so far, and struggled so long. How much longer? How much longer? How much longer?

She reached the first of the broken ground, and paused on a small summit to look back. Mr Danns it surely was, but he was keeping away from the Baron: rather than joining forces they were sweeping towards her like the two arms of a battle formation, such as the one employed by Wellington at Salamanca. Both men approached at a circumspect pace, the Baron because of his limp, and Mr Danns – she could not tell why. Why had he had not run her down in the more open country? He surely could have done, he was a fine muscular man, who looked every inch the athlete.

Though her heart was beating almost to burst from her chest, and her bosom heaving with effort, as he came closer she felt something else affect her circulation, something infinitely more pleasant than the results of terror and exertion. She could not name it, but she stayed a few moments, staring at Mr Danns' form, trying to take his measure.

He stood straight and proud, but not arrogantly, for he had a modesty that few men of consequence possess. His clothing was no longer as unblemished as when she had encountered him in Hathersage or later in Castleton, but it still sat perfectly on him. He was tall, but not overwhelmingly tall, and well-muscled, but not like a prizefighter or a labourer. His hair, disarrayed as it was under his hat (which itself was not seated quite in the fashion, but then what man of fashion could retain his headgear in a chase across moors?) would please the most fastidious of hairdressers, though it was disarrayed by wind rather than by artful use of the comb. His eyes were rakish and his lips perfectly moulded. And he possessed a dimple, right above the left corner of his mouth, that he would surely deny if she were ever brave enough to point it out to him.

Though his eyes indeed had a rakish air, she decided, they appeared true, and not false, as they ought to seem in such a malefactor. To be plain, he looked kind, which baffled her. How could such a scheming mind possess a countenance which so belied his intentions? How could he rouse in her feelings which she had not felt before in the presence of any man? Feelings she had first perceived surely after he had rescued her from the dastardly intentions of Mr Wickham in the George, and which had been augmented by his kissing her in the street in Castleton. Was she falling in love with a villain?

Mr Danns paused perhaps thirty yards from her, and she thought he was trying to address her. The wind whistled through the long grass, and carried away his words if indeed he had uttered any. Poised to run, she still hesitated, but then out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Baron!

So preoccupied had she been with her attempts to discern Mr Danns' true character that she had forgotten the Baron! How could that be? How could she have found her mind insensible of that callous scion of the nobility? He had dominated her thoughts for weeks, and shot at her in the cavern, and she had forgotten his threat? How could that be?

She thought these disturbing thoughts simultaneous with turning and fleeing into the peculiar area of low hummocks, of broken stone, and of small stands of bushes and occasional thin, windblown trees. Progress was slow, as the ground was dreadfully uneven, but the hillocks were taller than she was, and she could hide her route from the men if she was cunning.

Priscilla felt a pain in her right foot, and looking down saw that the sole had worn through, such had been the demands that had been placed on her already ageing boots over the last days. They could not carry her much farther; indeed she doubted she could make her body take her much farther, especially over these sharp stones and thorny trailing stems of the scrub.

She could hear behind her loud male voices, raised as if in some sort of argument, but the wind snatched the words away from her and tossed them into the wilderness. Were they debating the best way to corner her? Which of them was truly in command? Perhaps Mr Danns was the master criminal, and the Baron under his sway. No, it could not be. Mr Danns must have been suborned into the Baron's machinations, perhaps he was being blackmailed? That might explain everything.

Priscilla hurried on, her head twisting and turning in all directions to keep on her course and at the same time to watch out for Mr Danns and the Baron. It was all very well that these mounds hid her from the men, but likewise they hid them from her, and she feared at any moment one or other would leap out from round a corner and hurl her to the ground, or arise from behind a mound ahead of her having outpaced and encircled her .

It was growing ever darker, as both the day began to draw to its close and the clouds thickened and piled ever-higher. Was this Northern country forever in the grip of perpetual storm and tempest? Did its denizens ever enjoy the warmth of spring, the calm of a beautiful English May day, the glory of trees in bud? Priscilla reasoned that they must or their crops would not grow, and their sheep not thrive, but it seemed impossible to imagine here on the blasted slopes of this mountain.

Through the gloom she caught a movement on her right side. Was that the Baron? Had he in spite of his lameness threaded his way through this labyrinth on an easier path? She looked again: there was nothing. Were her eyes playing tricks on her now? Or had it been simply a whipping of a bush in the wind, or a bird wheeling on the currents? Surely no animal would seek for prey here? Again her fears of the claws of the hunter arose, and she pushed them down, the better to concentrate on her human adversaries.

The first rumble of thunder sounded from far-away, and she toiled up a stony heap to try and see where she was, and where her antagonists had reached. Of the Baron there was no sign, but there was Mr Danns, progressing purposefully directly behind her barely fifty yards away, and pausing as he caught sight of her to call out. She heard her name: "Miss Butterworth!" through the roar of the wind, but the rest of what he said was drowned in another clap of thunder.

So, Mr Danns knew her true identity! Of course he did, there had been an age since he had carried her in ignorance into the inn in Castleton, and he must have been told by the Baron of her appearance, her dress, her very movements. Indeed she would not be surprised if the Baron could sense her plans before she made them, with some infernal and preternatural talent. He had certainly found her out most rapidly whenever she had emerged from hiding, or ventured into the society of this valley.

Mr Danns' posture seemed to implore her to come to him, rather than his being set on overtaking her to destroy her, but she dismissed that as yet another of his dissimulations, and turned away, trying to make for the lower reaches of the slope. But there was the Baron in the distance below her, it was him this time, and no natural creature, he had cut off her path to the valley and there was nothing for it but to climb higher, to ascend nearer to the cliffs and walls of the shivering mountain.

Why did it shiver? she asked herself. The mass of limestone towering over her seemed solid and everlasting, but there was this huge area of broken shale over which she was picking her painful way, which seemed as if it might be unstable. But we do not have earthquakes in England! Nothing that would make the ground tremble. It must be that the mountain exuded an aura that made the stoutest heart tremble, as hers certainly was doing. That must be it.

Priscilla's pace had slowed to a walk, the better to protect her exposed foot from the stones, and because she was now headed directly up the hill. The rain was beginning, a cold drizzly rain which stung and bit as it lashed into her face from the side, driven by the wind. And the lightning had started: flashes lit the sky with thunder but moments following. Priscilla could see brilliant jagged lines strike from cloud to mountaintop; and sometimes the clouds themselves were lit from within as the bolts leapt from cloud to cloud. The noise was tremendous, awe-inspiring, terrifying.

And still she climbed. Never would she have ventured onto an exposed hillside like this in such a storm if it had not been for her twin Furies behind her. Never would she have risked being in the path of the energies of heaven as they crashed to earth, or ventured to tread on the rain-soaked rocks that bordered such implacable cliffs, but for the fiends at her rear.

She turned once more, and there was a figure, raising itself over a boulder, not twenty yards from her! He yelled through the gale, words storm-tossed into the abyss, but meaning crystal clear. She was to die, and to die now, and to die without fail! She was breathy and short of breath, but Priscilla ran like the wind as she saw Lord Savagewood coming toward her. He was coming closer, and Priscilla ran, but she could sense she was coming ever-closer to the impassable cliffs. [end of chapter]

Chapter 17

[three chapters to go after this (IIHK p320); also eleven chapters (IIHK p59)!]

Priscilla thought she could see the Baron's eyes glowing red as he plunged towards her. She forced her weary body to run, but the burst of speed that sudden terror had given her was fading, and her foot pained her more and more, and there seemed nowhere further to run to. Just then there was a cry behind her, and turning she saw the Baron prone upon the scree, clutching his leg, and howling invective to the heavens. Priscilla breathed thanks for prayers answered, and strained every limb to force herself upwards, perhaps to get out of sight before the Baron could rise.

The hill was getting steeper, the rain falling more heavily, and there were rivulets between the stones which were turning the earth to mud. Several times Priscilla lost her footing, and slid helplessly backwards a few yards. She rounded a boulder and leaned back on it for a moment to try and catch her breath. Her heaving bosom was sodden with rain, her skirts weighed her down, she was nearly spent. Her hair plastered itself to her head, and her tears mingled with the precipitation. Surely it stung more than ever? Indeed, the drizzle had turned to sleet, tiny flecks of ice mingled with the water and rattled off the rocks round her like a military snare drum roll.

Through the rain she now saw the cliff edge, not ten feet from her supporting rock. She must head away from there, for this was no easy slope but a sheer precipice of bare limestone, plunging down and down to the broken rock-field below, where bones would be sundered from flesh and brains dashed to smithereens. Groaning with pain, she pushed herself away from the boulder and headed crabwise across the slope. As she left the rock behind her she saw the figure of Mr Danns climbing past the Baron, who still sat on the ground, clutching at his ankle. The Baron made a grab at Mr Danns' leg as he passed but he fell short of his target, and in despair Priscilla realised that there was no hope for her now: she would be caught, and caught soon. She had done all she could, and she had no reserves of strength.

Now she had to go up on all fours, the stony ground was so unstable, and she was moving like the proverbial tortoise. It was as if everything around her had slowed, time itself had elongated, and she was running without making progress, like the desperate struggles to escape in a nightmare, where legs and arms feel like lead and it seems as if one is running through a quagmire.

[this is page 193 in Olivia Bevelstoke's copy and chapter 17 in Hyacinth Bridgerton's)]

Priscilla scrambled up the hillside, her fingers digging deeper into the dirt with each step. She could hear him behind her. He was closing the distance between them and soon she would be caught. But for what purpose? Good or evil? How would she know? How would she know? How would she know?

And then she recalled the advice given to her by her mother, before the blessed lady had gone to her reward, pecked to death by pigeons. [note: Lady Danbury hasn't heard about the pigeons at this point but this can't work in the context] She had been only twelve, far too young for such a conversation, but perhaps her mother had anticipated her early demise. Her mother had clutched her hand, and with sad, lonely eyes had said, 'Dearest, dearest Priscilla. There is nothing in this world more precious than love. But there are deceivers, darling Priscilla, and there are men who will attempt to take advantage of you without a true meeting of the hearts. You will need to trust your instincts, dearest Priscilla, but I will give you one piece of advice. Hold it to your heart and remember it always, for I vow it is true.'

Priscilla leaned forward, touching her mother's pale cheek. 'What is it, Mama?' she asked.

'If you want to know if a gentleman loves you,' her mother said, 'there is only one true way to be sure. It's in his kiss,' her mother whispered. 'It's all there, in his kiss.'

Priscilla recalled the tenderness of Mr Danns' lips when he had carried her into the inn in Castleton, the featherlight touch that had so thrilled her as she had felt it down into her belly and right down her legs to her toes. Could it be true what her mother had insisted all those years ago? Could she trust her instincts? Could Mr Danns really have her best interests at heart, and that he was not in fact in league with the Mad Baron?

Was there any other choice than to surrender herself to him, for although he may have his own foul reasons for capturing her, at least those reasons were unknown, and the Baron's motivation full clear. The Baron had first designed to sell her into slavery in the East; and now wanted for reasons she could not fully fathom to murder her, indeed had tried to murder her on several occasions, whereas Mr Danns ...

Well, what had he done? He had been in the Baron's chamber while she was immured in the priest's hole. He had met him again at some point, presumably at Stanage Grange, and had been due to meet him in Castleton when she ran headlong into him. He was in search of the same Miss Priscilla Butterworth as the Baron. She could think of no reason why he might seek her, other than as an accomplice of the Baron, but of the two men she would infinitely prefer to be caught by him. If nothing else, he did not appear mad, and his eyes did not glow red like the fires of hell!

She could hear the clatter of rocks behind her as Mr Danns closed the gap between them. Seized with an idea, she kicked out at the loose ground and was gratified to see a cascade of rubble bound down the slope into Mr Danns' face. Shaking himself like a dog, he continued up towards her.

'Stay, Miss Butterworth. Stay there, go no further, you will perish from the storm or tumble from the cliff. Let me come to you: do not fear. I now know what the Baron intended as your fate, and I will protect you from him. Stay!'

Priscilla dared not stay. She dared not believe him, though her heart wanted to. She turned to climb further, and had to bear to her right to avoid a sheer face ahead.

'Stay, I implore you. There is the edge of the cliff ahead. Please let me come to you.'

Priscilla looked, and he spoke truly. There was nowhere left to go. On the one side, the sheer face above her. On the other, the drop to certain death. She sank to the ground, exhausted, beyond fighting any longer.

And Mr Danns came up to her and sank to his knees by her and pulled her into his warm embrace. Miracle of miracles! Half-insensible, Priscilla could not fight, indeed did not want to fight. He breathed thanks over her for prayers answered, he held her as gently as a baby bird, enfolded her to his chest, and rocked to and fro as he held her.

'My little darling, my sweet,' he breathed. I have you now and no-one will be able to take you from me.'

What was he saying? Priscilla did not know, she did not care. She wanted to believe him, she needed to trust him. She snuggled her head deeper into his breast, and sighed. She was safe.

Chapter 18

Priscilla sighed again. Well, to tell the truth, she sighed and she shivered, because she was chilled to the bone, and in stopping her flight her thin body had started to cool rapidly. Mr Danns was embracing her but he was wet through too, and his skin was cold, but she felt safe in his arms. She could not explain why, she just knew it in the core of her being.

Out of nowhere came a roar, and Mr Danns fell away from her insensible, his head bloodied by a rock with which the Baron had struck him. Priscilla leapt up, and clutched in desperation for any sort of weapon. He clawing hands grasped her skirt: inside in her pocket was still the crucifix! With an effort she freed it from the drenched cloth and grasped it firmly. She faced the Baron and stared him in the eye.

The Baron was in possession of more secrets. Priscilla was quite certain of that. The only question was - would the truth ever be revealed? Why had he installed manacles in the tower of Peveril Castle? Had he kept others prisoners there? Had he tried to kill not just her, but perhaps in the past, had he plotted and in fact committed other foul murders? Was it that he had murdered his wife and his fiancée, perhaps for their money? And who knows how many other unsuspecting victims could have met their eternal fate at his hands.

Had he other businesses that the Crown should know about? Did he run contraband, or defraud the rich, as well as his foul trade in Englishwomen sent to their degradation in the heathen East? Was that why he wanted her dead, because she might reveal his shame to the world?

'Why do you pursue me, fiend?' she yelled at him. 'What have I done that you need my life?'

'You escaped from me twice, for that you deserve to die!' he yelled, his voice cracked and hoarse. 'You are beautiful, and all beautiful women must be destroyed. And you have been given what should be mine, and by your death it shall be mine!'

'I know of no secrets of yours but for your trade in enslaved women. I only sought to save myself.'

'Silence, fool. All I now require of you is the silence of death!'

The Baron was possessed by an overpowering mania, she could see. He could not be reasoned with. He could not be deflected from his purpose. It was him, or herself, for Mr Danns, though groaning his way back to awareness, was unable to aid her. And she was so puny compared to him. Was this the end?

The Baron leapt at her, and she struck out. The metal, with its ragged effigy, smashed into his face, and he staggered back, clutching at his eye. Blood flowed around his hand, and he roared the more, incoherent in his rage. He gathered himself for one last lunge, and as his hand left his face to balance himself, Priscilla could see that his eye socket was gaping and pouring with blood. She glanced down at her cross, and it too dripped with gore.

The Baron leaped forward. Priscilla ducked, and swung at him again with the crucifix. Her arm swished through the air without making contact, but as she raised herself from the ground the Baron had vanished! A cataclysmic flash of lightning simultaneous with a detonation of thunder illuminated a muddy scar on the scree where he must have landed. In the silence after the thunderclap she could hear an enormous rattle of loose stones where he had slid down the slope engulfed in a landslide, followed by a long-drawn-out scream. The scream faded gradually, as into the distance, and ended in a sickening thud, after which all was silent but for the rattle and rumble of rocks far below.

Had the Baron fallen to his death? Priscilla dared not move, lest she herself slide uncontrollably down the hill and over the cliff. But move she had to, for Mr Danns' sake. With the utmost slowness, she edged back towards the prostrate figure of Mr Danns, who was just raising himself on his elbows, still moaning. She took his head in her hands and kissed the bloody wound gently.

'He has gone, sir. I think he has fallen from the cliff, and is no more. I am safe. You are safe. Praise be.'

Chapter 19

Priscilla watched as the rain washed the blood and dirt from Mr Danns' wound as he came to himself. It looked terrible, but he had only been unconscious for a few seconds and surely he would be able to carry on in a short time? She was strangely heartened by hearing him cursing under his breath, and then he sat up and put his hand to his wound, and looked blearily at her.

'Curse that man! How my head aches! Did you say he is gone? Wonderful woman, have you dispatched him?' He swivelled to look all around but again clutched at his head. 'I mustn't do that,' he said. 'It hurts abominably. And my vision is all shot to pieces. Are there two of you?'

'Just the one,' smiled Priscilla. 'Just the one. And yes, the Baron is gone. I truly believe he is gone.'

'I do apologise for being in this state,' Mr Danns continued, 'the last thing I remember is catching hold of you, and then a roar, and then, nothing.'

'Lord Savagewood struck you from behind, sir. A cowardly action, from a base adversary. I see now that you were not in league with him as I feared.'

'In league with the Baron? Whatever gave you that idea? I was only ... But explanations can wait, we must get down from this accursed mountain immediately before we both perish from cold. I think I can see straight enough now. There is just one of your lovely face.'

Priscilla thrilled at his words, but stayed him from rising. 'Sir, we must go very cautiously, the ground is shifting and I fear sliding after the Baron.'

'Very well, I will follow your example. Must we proceed on our behinds?'

'I believe that would be the best, sir.'

'Let us hold on to one another in case either slips, then. It will not be an elegant promenade, but I fear my cravat is disarrayed in any case, and my pantaloons soiled, and I seem to have mislaid my hat.'

'I am in much the same case, sir,' Priscilla giggled. What man would jest in such circumstances? 'My dress is torn in several places, and muddy beyond belief.'

'But you appear to me the epitome of elegance, Miss Butterworth. Even here on the mountainside you would grace the walks of Hyde Park on any morning.'

Priscilla did not respond to his nonsense, but scrabbled sideways across the scree slope, clutching his large hand and leading him away from the drop. After a dozen yards she judged it allowable to head more downhill, and they did so, with much slithering and clanking of rocks and, somehow, laughter. In the release of their deliverance, she supposed, her spirits had soared, and the privations of their physical travails were as nothing.

And so they reached more stable ground, and stood, and walked hand in hand through the heaps of debris.

'You are limping, Miss Butterworth!' Mr Danns said with concern once they were upright.

'It is of no matter, sir. My boots have had enough of this country, and so have I.'

'I had fancied earlier that I might carry you away from this hell-hole in my arms,' he replied, 'but I do not yet trust my balance, and I see that you are a capable and resourceful woman who might not appreciate the service.'

Priscilla pictured the blissful scene, of resting safe in his strong embrace, and sighed. 'I thank you for the offer, sir, and would not wish to spurn you. But you are injured, and still bleeding, and it would be unwise to strain yourself in that way.'

He paused, and turned to her, smiling. 'You are so little, I believe it would not be an imposition even with my wound.'

Priscilla gulped under his steady gaze. 'Perhaps, sir. Perhaps. But I think we shall proceed very nicely as we are.'

'Very well.'

The rain was almost gone by the time they reached a grassy field below the rubble, and soon they chanced upon a track, which was much easier going. Again Mr Danns made his offer, and Priscilla reluctantly but playfully refused him.

'Very well, he answered her, 'but you shall have new boots tomorrow, and (in spite of my earlier statement about your elegance) new clothes too.'

Priscilla's face fell. 'I cannot afford such things, sir. Do not tease me.'

'We shall see,' was all he replied. 'We shall see.' He looked himself over too. 'I for one will need a little attention to my attire if I am to pass muster at Almack's. Do you not think?'

'Possibly, sir. Possibly.'

'My boots are quite ruined, I think. My valet – if I had a valet, that is – would be in despair. So at least I have saved a fellow-creature from suffering by being so lately come to England as to not have yet employed one.'

They walked as fast as they could to try to keep warm, splashing through puddles and slipping on muddy places, and laughing at the absurdity of it all. Within a mile they reached the outer dwellings of Castleton. The clouds had passed over, and the sky was showing the last vestiges of the day, reddening the buildings as the sun broke through from its low angle behind them.

'The Nag's Head, I think, should be our destination, if that suits, Miss Butterworth. Not the Bull, for there may lurk the Baron's men. Until they are apprised of the death of their master I think it would be prudent to avoid them, do you not think?'

'Indubitably,' she replied, with a knowing smile, remembering their first meeting.

'Ha! I perceived even then in the George in Hathersage what you were, but I did not pay enough attention to it! Fool that I am. Well, we shall indubitably avoid the Baron's men, and dubitably, if that is a word, hie us to the Nag to find a huge fire. Yes?'

'No, sir.'

'What? You thwart my wishes?'

'An enormous fire, if you please.'

'Your every whim, my lady, is my command.' He bowed, and nearly tripped into a puddle.

And so they dripped their way into the inn, where the landlady, after expressing suitable horror that they had been out on the mountain in the storm, bustled the shivering Priscilla away into a chamber, stripped her of her sodden garments and put her in a hot bath, then rubbed her down energetically with a towel. She wrapped her in woollen blankets and oversized knitted socks and a ridiculous nightcap before returning her to a parlour where the fire was indeed gigantic and hot. Priscilla was already missing the company of Mr Danns, and wondered if propriety would separate them, but she need not have worried for he entered almost immediately arrayed in a most colourful set of draperies.

'I believe I am become a fribble,' he complained, sitting down by the fire next to Priscilla, 'and I do not believe I would gain admittance to the best sort of balls in such a gaudy outfit, do you?'

'I think you would be all the rage, sir. But you lack footwear for dancing. See my glamorous socks!'

She put forth one foot: Mr Danns responded by holding both sets of bare toes towards the blaze and wriggling them, sighing with the heat.

'I was delayed by the time it took to remove my boots,' he said, yawning. 'I thought they would have to pull my feet off too. And the leather is quite beyond saving. How sad. But at least,' he brightened, 'I still kept both feet, though I am not sure if I can feel them yet. They do look to be there, though.'

Priscilla yawned too. They do, sir. A little blue, perhaps, if I might be so bold?'

'I concur. And in places, red, and white, and black, and all manner of colours they should not be. Whereas yours,' he leaned forward to see, 'are a fetching candy-stripe of pink and yellow. Much healthier-looking.'

They toasted themselves at the fire, but Priscilla's head was drooping, and in a few moments she was asleep in the chair. She was woken by the arrival of steaming bowls of thick soup, and they both ate as if they had not fed for a week. Hardly had she finished when she began to yawn again, and the landlady coming to take their bowls took charge of her and marched her up to a bedchamber.

'But I cannot pay!' she objected, seeing the size of the room, and the sumptuous high bed, and the fire kindled in its grate. 'I have not enough money for this splendour.'

Don't you mither yourself,' said the lady of the house. Your Mr Danns has taken care of it. And I found you out an old nightdress, it's warming by the fire. You sleep, for all it's only seven o'clock now. You'll feel much better in the morning.'

Priscilla slipped out of the blankets, donned the warm flannel nightdress, and jumped under the covers. It was heaven. She had so many questions though. So much she needed to ... She slept, dreamlessly.

The light of dawn awoke her, slanting through her window and rippling onto her face. She leapt out of bed – or at least she began to leap, but everything ached, everything was creaky, and the best she could manage was to tumble off the edge, landing inelegantly on a rag rug on her bottom. Since she was there, she inspected the sole of her foot which ached worse than the rest of her. It was cut and bruised and swollen where the rocks had poked through her boot sole, but did not look angry as if it were becoming infected. She heaved herself to her feet and staggered stiff-limbed to the window, and looked out.

It was a beautiful day beginning. There were birds singing as she threw open the window and leaned out, and the grey stones of the buildings seemed to sparkle. She turned back to her room, and addressed the problem of what she would wear. Her dress had vanished, and had she heard aright when her landlady had told her it was fit for nothing but to be sold to the rag merchant?

It was too early for anyone but the maids to be up, so spotting a brush and a comb left out on a small table she took herself to the mirror and tried to do something with her hair. It had dried as she slept and was all of a tangle, but a little perseverance with the brush, and a few unladylike words under her breath, and it began to behave itself. Nonetheless it was all of a frizz even when brushed out, so she wove it into two long plaits and coiled them on top of her head where they would be out of the way.

She considered her reflection carefully. Her naturally pale, almost transparent skin, was reddened on both cheeks by the elements to which she had been exposed these last weeks; she had a cut on her forehead where the splintered rock had gashed her, and a bruise around one eye, gained she knew not how, in one of her numerous falls, she supposed. The fact that she had eleven freckles on her nose seemed hardly to matter any more.

Yet the Baron had been enraged by her beauty! Not that she trusted his judgement on any matter, but still! What had he said? "You are beautiful, and all beautiful women must be destroyed"? It was something, at least. And Mr Danns, now there was a different proposition. He had called her "My little darling, my sweet" and had said her face was lovely, had he not? What could this mean?

There was a timid knock at the door, and a young maid entered. She looked about fourteen, and held a dress and a woollen chemise in her arms as well as a jug of water.

'If you please, madam,' she said, bobbing a curtsey, 'I heard you moving about and Mrs Warren said I was to bring you this when you was awake.' She set down the jug and held out the dress. 'Yours was quite beyond repair, they said, and this was the best we could do of an evening.' She blushed. 'The truth is, it's one of mine, but it's quite clean, and you're welcome to borrow it until you get one of your own made.'

'Why thankyou, Miss ...?'

'Amy, Miss. Just Amy. And I brought you a needle and thread in case you needed to let it out at all.' She looked between Priscilla and her own flat figure. 'Well, yes, I think you might need to, a bit. But we're much of a height.'

'Thankyou again, Amy. Thankyou. I'll return it just as soon as I can.'

Amy scuttled out, and Priscilla considered, head on one side. The girl had called her Madam, and had expected she could command the making of a dress over the next few days. What did this mean? She needed to find out a few things. But first, she needed to try this garment on.

As expected, it was far too tight in the bodice, but some half hour's work with scissors and thread let it out as far as it would go, and she squeezed into it, grateful to be decently clad once more. She could manage without boots for now, and so crept silently down the stairs in bare feet, in search of breakfast.

'Good morning to you, Miss Butterworth,' said Mrs Warren, her host, as she entered the breakfast room. A fine morning it is too, is it not?'

'It is indeed, Mrs Warren. And I cannot thank you enough for your kindness last night. I slept most wonderfully. And,' she indicated her dress, 'for arranging for me to borrow this too.'

'So Amy found you alright? It fits you reasonably well, but it is hardly the thing for a lady. Still, you'll get that sorted out today.'

'But it suits me fine, Mrs Warren. It is a plain, working costume.'

'You will see, Miss. You will see,' said Mrs Warren, mysteriously. 'Now I kept this to give to you.' She reached into a pocket and handed over a small fragment of stone. 'They found this when they drained your bath water. Visitor hereabouts like this sort of thing, so I kept it for you, in case.'

Priscilla took the stone and turned it over. It was a fragment of Blue John, just showing a streak of yellow and a smudge of indigo. She looked up at Mrs Warren. 'You said it was in my bathwater?'

'Right you are. Must have been tangled in your hair, or some such. It ain't much, but it's what we're famous for hereabout.'

'It's lovely! I'm so glad you saved it for me. You are so kind.'

'Think nothing of it. Now you'll be wanting your breakfast, I'll be bound?'

'Yes please. I'm famished.'

Priscilla sat at a table contemplating the flake of gemstone that she never thought she would own, until a maid brought her tea, and eggs, and bacon, and oatmeal porridge, and toast and butter and preserves and all manner of things. There was no sign of Mr Danns, which made the feast less cheerful, but she ploughed ahead with the food and was on her third slice of toast spread with quince marmalade when he walked in.

'So you are up, at last?' he bammed her.

'I have been up since dawn, thankyou very much,' she replied calmly, taking an enormous bite of her toast, preventing her from uttering any further. She tried to look down her nose at him but the effect was rather spoiled by her bursting into laughter and spraying him with crumbs.

He was arrayed in a motley collection of garments, which were all either too short, or too wide, or too tight for him, and he looked wonderful to her. His feet were in workmen's boots and his legs in leather gaiters; his breeches were worsted and his shirt coarse unbleached linen; his coat might have been once a gamekeeper's, it had so many pockets.

'May I sit and partake with you?' he said, taking his place without her being able to reply. 'That is, if you have not consumed all my breakfast as well as yours?'

Priscilla swallowed her toast. 'Pray do, sir. I believe I have left you a couple of crusts.'

Mr Danns poured himself tea, and sipped it with great satisfaction. 'I have not been idle as you suppose,' he began, 'I have reconnoitred the shops and identified a dressmaker and a tailor – well, the same shop, if truth be known, divided by the sexes as is customary. There is also a cobbler, though I do not think he would rejoice in the title of bootmaker, who might amend your current lack of footwear. He smiled down at her little pink feet, which she tried to conceal under the hem of her dress without success. Perhaps it was a bit short for her after all.

'I believe I shall wait for my own boots to dry and wear them until I may bespeak others: they are of course ruined as to the appearance but will protect my feet from stones. Whereas yours – my dearest Miss Butterworth, how were you able to walk here in them? They were all to pieces!'

'Not all of us are able to buy whatever we wish, sir,' she said her face falling as she remembered her position. She showed him her small piece of Blue John. 'This is my only treasure in the world now. I have a few coins in my pocket, if Mrs Warren has not put it in the rag box, and that is all. It is very good of you to give me my own room and this food, but you know I can never repay you.'

'Ah! As to that, I believe we must speak, and now would be as good a time as any.'

Priscilla tightened up in her stomach, and put down her toast, suddenly lacking appetite.

'Now, I must first question you about your family. Your father's name was ...?'

'Mr George Butterworth, sir. He died just after I was born, together with my sister Portia.'

'And your mother and other siblings?'

'My dearest Mama and my brother Perseus perished the same day when I was twelve, sir.' What was this interrogation about? she thought. Why did he need to know these things?

'And your father, did he have any family?'

'His two brothers died of the same outbreak of pox that took Papa,' she answered, slowly.

'And his parents? What were their names?'

'I never knew them; the same outbreak took them too. But I believe they were called John and Maria. The pox took all three of my grandfather's sisters, too, Mama told me.'

'Ah, good. That all fits. And they lived in Chawton, in Hampshire?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you have no surviving relations at all, that you know of?'

'None at all. I am quite alone in the world. Well, apart from Mr Brocklehurst and his two children, they are distant cousins on my mother's side. But he has rejected me. That is why when Mama died, the overseers of the poor packed me off to be a scullerymaid at Thimmerwell Hall.

'Ah, yes. Thimmerwell Hall. Sir Rupert is a most – unusual man. But I believe you gained some local notoriety there? Fame, even?'

'Sir?'

'There was a matter of a wild boar hunt, I heard? And a carriage accident? And an outbreak of plague? And a bee-sting that nearly proved fatal? And no doubt many other misadventures, but I had not leisure to hear them all out.'

'How can you know all this? And why?'

'Is it not obvious? I could see you were a lady when I met you in Hathersage but you were calling yourself Polly Bennet, and I did not know your history at that time.

'It is true, sir; I was born a lady, and I repeat that to myself every morning and night, but I am now a servant, and of no account. Why do you trouble yourself with me?'

Mr Danns leaned closer to her, gesticulating with a piece of toast. 'Because, little Polly Bennet, alias Miss Priscilla Butterworth, my late partner was Lewis Butterworth, you grandfather's uncle, and he left his fortune to be divided between any descendants of his older brother, your great-grandfather, that still bore the name Butterworth at his death. No distinction to be made between male and female, as long as they bore the family name.'

Priscilla gasped. She was an heiress! But wait! What of the other branches of the family? Would there be anything once it was divided up? She put that to Mr Danns in confusion.

'There are no other heirs living. The nearest claimant, and the one I knew of when I came to England, was Lord Savagewood. His late wife was your father's cousin, though there had been no contact between them for many years. But he had no claim, unless all others bearing the name Butterworth were dead. And that is why I believe he wanted to kill you. Well, the main reason anyway, because I think he was deranged, totally beside himself, the more so the longer you outwitted him.'

'So I am not poor?' she said slowly.

'Not at all. I believe the sum amounts to four hundred pounds.'

'Four hundred pounds? That is riches indeed. If I were to invest that in the most secure way, how much would it earn? I would not want to take risks, for my father's capital was all lost in a most unwise venture.'

'I beg your pardon. That is the yearly dividend from the investments. The capital is eight thousand pounds, it is in the government five-percents. Not an immense sum but comfortable, I think.'

Priscilla was speechless, then burst into tears. Eight thousand pounds. Eight thousand pounds! Eight thousand pounds!

Chapter 20

Priscilla without thinking flung herself across the table and hugged Mr Danns. 'Oh! Oh! Oh!' is all she could say. Her tears soaked into his shirt, and her breath came raggedly.

Mr Danns' voice spoke in her ear. 'I think you might be able to afford a new dress and a pair of boots,' he whispered. 'If you save up for a while, that is.'

Priscilla beat at his chest with her fists. 'Do not tease me so! I am so happy! After all these years!' She sobered quickly. 'Are you sure? Will not this be snatched away from me at the last? You have heard that my life has not been free of mishap, I know.'

'It is certain. I have investigated it most carefully. I have consulted parish registers of baptism, marriage and burial, and Poor Law minute books, not to mention interrogating all manner of persons who appear to have no reason to dissimulate. If you are Priscilla Ann, daughter of George and Penelope Butterworth of Chawton, baptised in the parish church there in February 1787, then you are the sole surviving heir of my late partner.'

'That is me,' said Priscilla wonderingly. That is my full name. It must be true, then. Praise be!'

Mr Danns saw that she needed time to adjust to the news, so he addressed himself to his eggs and poured himself more tea. At length Priscilla spoke.

'Tell me all about your journeying. I want to understand it all.'

Mr Danns explained that he had arrived at Liverpool knowing only that he needed first to locate a Lord Savagewood who resided in the Sheffield area. He hoped the Baron would be able to appraise him of the family history, and where surviving members might live. Enquiring in Sheffield he discovered that the Baron lived in Hathersage, and so having completed his other business in the town he returned for an interview with the noble lord.

'I did not take to the man,' he said. 'He was overbearing and malicious, I judged. I regretted revealing the true purpose of my questions, and all I managed to elicit of use from him was that he believed his late wife's Uncle John's family lived in Chawton.

'And while you were with him, I was lying locked in the priest's hole behind the panelling of that very room: I had just managed to free myself from being bound and gagged,' Priscilla breathed in wonder. 'We were so close!'

'You were there! If I had only known! I should have torn him limb from limb for mistreating you so!'

After persuading him to finish his story before she explained about her predicament, but touched by his concern for her maltreatment, he continued. He had visited Chawton and examined the parish registers. He established that only Priscilla, Perseus and their mother had survived the pox, and questioned the vicar as to where they had gone. He had followed the trail to the St Neots area, and the parish overseers of Abbotsley, where the Poor Law records had sent him on to Thimmerwell Hall.

Priscilla interrupted him briefly to explain about her time at Fitzgerald Place, and he then continued.

Sir Rupert had been most unhelpful when he called, professing to know nothing of any such unimportant creature as a scullerymaid. Mr Danns believed he concealed secrets, and therefore undertook the subterfuge of dressing himself in rough clothing and falling into conversation with some of the footmen in the local inn over several pints of ale.

'There was someone called John, who seemed to have a soft spot for you,' he said, 'and he told me of how you and two other young women were sent away without warning to Lord Savagewood's mansion some weeks ago. I don't think the other servants were very happy about it, but they could do nothing. Sir Rupert was a distant and arbitrary master, I understood.'

The trail had led back to the Baron, and Mr Danns had had to explain the true purpose of his second visit. The Baron's manner had been even more antagonistic, but he had agreed to aid Mr Danns in his search. Little did he know the reasons for the Baron's being willing to help him at this point.

'Did you find out about his trade in women to be sent as slaves to the East?' Priscilla put in. 'That is why I was sent there, and my two friends were dispatched to a life of slavery before I discovered his intentions.'

'I did not.' Mr Danns' face grim. 'But it does not surprise me, it does not surprise me one bit.'

The rest of his tale was soon told. The Baron's behaviour had become more and more erratic as Priscilla continued to avoid his clutches and Mr Danns had not liked to stay with him at the Grange, which had a most unwholesome atmosphere. Instead he had resided in Hathersage, and liaised with Lord Savagewood from time to time, which seemed to suit them both. His second encounter with Priscilla in Castleton had come at a time when he had determined that the Baron, far from assisting him in his search for his heiress, had his own reasons for finding her, and he from then on had exerted himself to get to her before his erstwhile colleague.

'If only I had known who you were in the street here, when you cannoned into me! What trouble would have been saved! You would not have been put through such distress!'

'It is all well now.' Priscilla patted him on his arm. No wonder the Baron had thought it ironic that Mr Danns was helping him find her, when if he could kill her the eight thousand pounds would have been his! 'The Baron is dead, and I am safe. And I am with you,' she added as an afterthought.'

'Oh yes, I should have said, I asked some men from the village to go out and look for his body, earlier. It seemed the right thing to do.'

They finished their breakfasts together, with a thousand questions needing to be asked and answered. Polly explained her story, and was touched at the indignation evident on Mr Danns' face when she recounted how she had been mistreated and neglected, even by her own flesh and blood.

They left the building a good while later to visit the clothier's and cobbler's, a pair of old shoes having been found which were too big for Priscilla, but had to do. There they were measured and poked and questioned and shown fabric and style designs and embellishments and all sorts of things to do with being properly clothed. Priscilla had never had dresses of such fine material, though this being the country, choices were limited, and Mr Danns smiled at her raptures, imagining how she would be when she got to London and could choose from the finest silks and muslins and satins, and the latest fashions and adornments. He contented himself with ordering some new shirts and pantaloons, and bought a cravat, as he had luggage waiting for him at the George back in Hathersage. He was further amused in the cobbler that Priscilla chose sturdy boots of common pattern, and held his counsel till she should see the choice available in the capital.

Having finished with their shopping and having been assured that their order would be completed with all despatch, they strolled along the street companionably in the sunshine. Priscilla remembered how they had arrived here the previous evening, hand in hand, and wished that it would now be proper to do so again. Even Mam Tor ahead of them looked benign in the light, leaning benevolently over the small community in benediction.

They turned at the end of the street, and walking on the other side passed the shop window containing the geologic treasures she had gazed at longingly on her previous visit. On an impulse, she turned to Mr Danns.

'Are you sure I have money?' she asked, nervously.

He laughed. 'Money and to spare. Why?'

'There is something in there which I ardently desire. Look.' She pulled out the tiny fragment of Blue John and showed him the markings. 'Might I purchase a piece of this, I think it is so beautiful? The shopkeeper was kind enough to show me some, but I could not dream of owning it then.'

'And why not, Miss Butterworth.' Mr Danns' mood was expansive. Here he was, in a beautiful village, in a beautiful countryside, with a beautiful young girl by his side, and he had fulfilled his mission in England. 'You can buy anything you like, beyond trifles such as the Crown Jewels.'

They entered the shop; Priscilla again applied to the owner to reveal his secrets, and the objects were brought out to be inspected.

'Oh! I forgot! I have no money still, even if I am an heiress as you say. What shall I do?'

Mr Danns grinned at her, amused and astonished in equal measure. 'Why, I will buy it for you,' he said. 'How could you think otherwise?'

'But it is such a large amount.'

'It is not, not now. And I think the price quite reasonable, considering how fine the colouring is. You have an excellent eye, Miss Butterworth; this is by far the best piece here. I only wonder that you choose to possess such a stone after your adventures in the mine.'

'They are over; and I loved this piece before I ever encountered the cavern. If I may, I shall have it. If you are sure it is agreeable to you?'

Mr Danns paid, and the stone was wrapped carefully, and secured in his coat, as Priscilla's pocket was with her other clothes. As soon as they had left the shop, Priscilla threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.

'Oh, I am so happy! Thankyou for everything! I'm so sorry I thought you were a bad person, I should have trusted my instincts.'

Mr Danns looked surprised but not displeased by this show of affection. 'So, how did you discover my true nature?' he queried. 'Was it when I finally reached you on the mountainside?'

Priscilla blushed crimson. 'No, sir, I had I think changed my mind about you before then.'

'So tell me, what made the difference?'

'I cannot say. No, I will not say. It would not be proper.'

And try as he would on the way back to the inn, Mr Danns could not prevail upon her to reveal her secret. At the inn, Priscilla asked if she could have paper and ink, which he readily procured for her, and he sat watching her as she wrote, enjoying how she bit and sucked at her lower lip as she concentrated, and at times stuck out her tongue in the corner of her mouth.

She had such a sweet face, he thought. And such a lively mind. Whatever was she writing? It did not look like a letter, and anyway, to whom might she write? It was taking a great effort for him not to try and look over her shoulder, but then the view from where he sat was extremely pleasing. Her borrowed dress was rather tight on her, but that emphasised her charms, and her head sat proudly upon her neck and her back was straight. She had done something funny with her hair, it was all twisted up; and suddenly he was seized with an urge to see it cascading free down her back. So what if it was not the fashionable shade? It would be glorious, he knew, it would be stunning.

Priscilla looked up and caught him staring at her. He looked away at once, but felt a catch in his breathing, and when he looked back she had her head down over the page, but she was flushed a most fetching shade of pink. He smiled again, he knew not at what, but he found just being with her captivating and beguiling.

After a while, she put down her pen, and wiped her face with a hand, leaving a small ink stain on her cheek which he forbore to point out, as it looked so fetching on her. 'There,' she said, 'that is done. May I read it to you?'

'By all means. But what is it?'

'Why of course, a list of all the tasks we have to complete in the next few days.'

Mr Danns was startled. Surely Miss Butterworth would want to spend some of her money on herself and enjoy her good fortune? 'Tasks?' he enquired.

'Of course, there is much to be achieved. First, I believe you came here with a horse. Where is he?'

'I left him at the farm at the top of Winnat's pass as he had gone lame; but I sent a man up this morning to return him to here.'

'Good. We should always think of our animals as well as our fellow-humans.'

Mr Danns kept silence, wondering at this girl – or woman, as perhaps he should rather think of her.

'Numbers two and three are taken care of, getting us clothes and boots, but we shall have to wait here in Castleton another day or two till they are ready. Number four, I want to visit Mr and Mrs Marsden at Hope vicarage, who were so kind to me, and give them a present. I do not think they would accept any gift for themselves, but perhaps if I gave to their Mission in Sheffield? What do you think? Would twenty pounds be a suitable amount?'

Mr Danns did not know what to think. He just mumbled something about it seeming a very good idea, but anyway Priscilla had carried on talking.

'I do not know how best we should travel, because you only have the one horse, and sadly I have never learned to ride, but no doubt you would know what is best. Then, number five, we must retrieve your luggage from the George at Hathersage, and perhaps we ought to stay there for a night, because we must go to Stanage Grange, of course. That is number six.'

'Of course?' echoed Mr Danns, weakly. 'Why of course?'

'To find out his private papers and determine how he was transporting those poor girls to the East, silly.' She stopped and looked thoughtful. 'Do you think we would need to go with a magistrate to make sure we gain entry? Or could you persuade the servants that you have a right to examine his study now he is dead?'

'I ...' Mr Danns did not know what to say.

'But you must see, we cannot leave his crimes for others to carry on! He could not have been doing this alone! I fear it is too late to retrieve the two Marys but we must stop any more poor girls being taken by discovering his accomplices. Maybe his servants will not have heard of his decease? That would be helpful.'

Mr Danns indicated a commotion in the inn's yard and leaned over to the window. 'I do not think that likely, Miss Butterworth. They are bringing him in on a hurdle as we speak. The news will be in Sheffield by sunset.'

'You are right. Well, let us go and see him.'

'But surely, it is not a sight for a lady's eyes?'

'You do not understand, do you? I need to see for myself that he is dead. He has dogged my steps for this long, and I need to know.'

Mr Danns could see she would brook no argument and accompanied her into the yard. There lay the Baron, his head at an unnatural angle, his eye socket bloodied, and his limbs broken and bloodstained. Priscilla looked, and he saw a tear run down her face.

'How can you be sad over such as he?' he asked, then immediately wished he had not spoken.

'He was a man, Mr Danns. He was a fellow-human,' was her reply, and she turned away and re-entered the inn.

'I'm sorry, I should not have doubted your compassion,' he said as they sat down again. 'You are right to grieve.'

'Thankyou. Many men would not understand.'

Priscilla shook herself, and turned back to her paper. 'Where had I got to?'

'We were visiting Stanage Grange to find out the Baron's secrets.'

'Oh, yes. So,' and here she blushed, and ran her finger down the paper. 'The last things on my list are small things: to ensure Mrs Warren does not throw away my pocket, which my mother embroidered for me; and if you do not think it too silly of me, to try and find my old doll which lies in my bundle up on Stanage Edge where the Baron tossed it when he trapped me there.'

Mr Danns gazed at her in amazement. 'You are a gem, Miss Butterworth. A diamond of the first water.'

Priscilla sat back in her chair. 'Don't talk nonsense. I am just me. Though I do like to be organised, if I can be.'

Mr Danns leaned forward. 'There is one thing left on your list, I think. What is that?'

Priscilla snatched her paper away as he reached for it. 'That is private. You may not see it,' but she blushed again furiously. 'Now, I'm going to see about my pocket, and then I'm going to have a nap. I'll see you later.' She waltzed out of the parlour, leaving Mr Danns bemused.

Mr Danns found waiting for her to descend again irksome, though he could fill some of the time by receiving his horse and seeing to the treatment of the lameness, which fortunately was only the result of a stone, now removed, caught under the off-fore shoe. He gave orders for the animal to have the best of oats, thinking of what Miss Butterworth might say if he was neglectful.

Next, he arranged to hire a pony with a saddle suitable for a small lady. In these parts a side-saddle was not thought of as sensible, and could not be had. Besides, he thought Miss Butterworth would baulk at the idea! Following this, however he had little to do but twiddle his thumbs until his heiress rejoined him in the mid-afternoon.

She was bright and full of energy and when he explained what he had been about, she insisted that she receive her first riding lesson immediately, and that they go to the vicarage at Hope in their temporary garb. Mr Danns bowed to the inevitable, and soon Priscilla had hitched up her skirts sufficient to allow her to mount and they were off.

Priscilla had relented enough to allow her pony to be on a leading rein, held by her tutor, but if Mr Danns had hoped to feel a little superior by finding something at which Miss Butterworth was not adept, he was disappointed. It was only a little over a mile to Hope, but by the time they had reached there she had tired of the walking gait, and was agitating to be allowed to trot. She seemed to have an admirable seat and her pony responded to the reins beautifully.

At the vicarage, both Mr and Mrs Marsden were home, and Priscilla was welcomed like a long-lost daughter. The Baron had indeed returned with three men, and forced his way into the house but of course found no trace of his quarry. They received the news of his death with muted joy, and then Priscilla explained about her inheritance, and who Mr Danns was, and his part in the whole affair. When their congratulations had subsided, Priscilla got to the point of the visit. Pulling out her paper again, she ran her finger down it and began.

'I will start with number six on my list, because it is the most important. Now that the Baron is dead, we must exert ourselves to discover his intrigues. Mr Danns and I intend to visit Stanage Grange and investigate his affairs. He was a magistrate, but Mr Marsden, do you know who holds the power in this district now?'

'I believe it might be Mr Eyre, of the button factory in Hathersage. But I myself have some authority, from my position, and I believe the vicar of Hathersage might aid us.'

'Excellent. Once we have reclothed ourselves we shall be going to Hathersage, and we will ask you to accompany us. Mr Danns?'

'Er, yes, Miss Butterworth. If you say ...'

Mr Marsden gave him a masculine grin, and he nodded ruefully. Mrs Marsden marvelled at the change in her Polly to this determined young lady, Miss Priscilla Butterworth, and added her support to the plan. Mr Marsden said he would be going over to Hathersage the next day and would call on the vicar there and also Mr Eyre, and sound them out. Priscilla then continued, her finger resting on point four.

'I find that I am now able to take my place as a lady thanks to the efforts of Mr Danns to locate me and let me know of my great good fortune, and so I am determined that I should share my joy, and I want you to accept a gift of twenty pounds.'

Both the Marsdens were shocked at the sum, and speaking over each other expressed how they could not possibly accept, and so on. Priscilla waited till they had done, and then explained that she had expected this dissent and therefore she would donate the money to the Sheffield Mission, for the good of all and the support of Mr Marsden's work there. This was an offer they could not decline, and there were many tears shed and heartfelt embraces all round before the visitors could take their leave.

Mrs Marsden accompanied Priscilla to the door, and begged her to visit again, and then diverted her by insisting on taking her to see Jenny and her baby. Mr Danns, hanging back with Mr Marsden, who wanted to know more of their adventures, noticed Miss Butterworth had left her paper on the table, and so he picked it up and for a while resisted the urge to read it, up until the point where Mr Marsden excused himself on church business, and left.

The paper seemed to burn a hole in his hand, but listening to squeals of delight coming from the kitchen he resisted. Then all of a sudden he gave in and looked at Miss Butterworth's neat writing. There it was, at point nine: he had to read it twice to be sure. His eyes did not deceive him; it read "Kiss Mr Danns again to check"! To check what? And, "again"? He supposed she meant that she had kissed him back when he had misbehaved in the street in Castleton. He hurriedly replaced the paper on the table, and stood as nonchalantly as he could in the hall till she returned.

What did he think of Miss Butterworth? She was courageous and resourceful, and tough. She was intelligent and well-read, better than any girl he had known. She was remarkably accident-prone, in spite of her neat and dainty person, and not least she was beautiful, and loving, and kind. And why had he felt so driven to kiss her even when he thought she was Polly Bennet, a serving-girl? What was it about her? She just had something, something intangible, that tugged at his heart. Could he? Should he? Ought he to?

Miss Butterworth came out of the kitchen holding the baby, followed by his doating mother and Mrs Marsden. She held the infant as if born to it, and made Mr Danns deposit a kiss on his little forehead before handing him back to his mother who took him proudly. She then made as if to go, and Mr Danns reminded her of her paper, which she scooped up and slipped into her recovered pocket.

Having assisted her to mount, they rode back companionably to Castleton, with Miss Butterworth eulogising about the baby, and how pleased she was to see the Marsdens, and all manner of things. She noted his silence, and commented, but he deflected her with a suggestion that she learn to trot.

This lesson went very well, unbelievably so, and she was soon rising and falling like an old hand. Within a few minutes they were back at the Nag's Head and seeing to the horses in the stable, and then as they returned towards the inn parlour, Priscilla looked up into Mr Danns eyes and fixed him with a steely gaze.

'Out with it, Mr Danns. You are hiding something from me, but I did not want to force the moment when I had a chance to learn to trot. So now we are returned, 'fess up!'

How did she know? This woman was a witch! A very pretty, petite, red-headed witch with eleven freckles, to be sure, but she must have some secret source of information, or could read minds. Now she had stopped walking and was standing there in the corridor, hands on hips, gazing up at him with a curl to the corner of her lip that was irresistible. He really really wanted to kiss that corner of her mouth, or perhaps he would just start with that corner and move on to the rest? He capitulated.

'I confess: I read your paper at the vicarage. Mea culpa. Please forgive me.'

'And what did you read?'

'Er, well, I expect you know.'

'Hmmm?'

'Er, point nine, if you insist. Don't look at me like that. I'm only human.'

'And what did you think about point nine?' she persisted.

'I was surprised.'

'And ...?'

'Well, I was ...' He noticed she had moved nearer to him, and was inclining her head upwards.

'I was ...'

She was really near to him now, and he could feel the heat from her body. Should he? Ought he to? Could he really? Oh well, he was going to anyway.

He swept her into his arms and fastened his lips lightly on that delectable corner, so teasing and sweet. Miss Butterworth's arms flew around his neck so that she lifted quite off the floor, and returned his kiss with passion and unpractised ardour. Her bosom was crushed to his chest, and the scent of her newly-washed hair in his nostrils. It was only the sound of the landlord's polite cough, as he needed to come past them that made them pause, and break apart. Miss Butterworth stepped back, and rubbed her chin assessingly.

'I have two things to say,' she began, her voice sounding slightly ragged. She coughed. 'Firstly, I have checked quite satisfactorily, and I was right the first time. My mother was right, that is. You can tell a man's character by his kiss. You pass, sir. You pass with flying colours. Not that I'm an expert,' she added, suddenly shy.

'And the second thing, Miss Butterworth?' enquired Mr Danns.

'I think you had better call me Priscilla, Mr Danns.'

'The second thing, Priscilla?'

'Ah, yes, the second thing. Well, er, I might have left my paper on the table at the vicarage on purpose for you to find, because I felt, I mean, I was, um, well, embarrassed to ask you if I might, um, check, you see.'

Mr Danns raised one eyebrow interrogatively.

'Yes, I am not used to, well, I am not used at all to ..., so I thought, um, Mr Danns, I thought if I let you know how I felt then it might not be so awkward ...'

Mr Danns grinned at her. 'I know when I've been manipulated. And by the way, hadn't you better call me Royston? Because we might be seeing a lot of each other over the next fifty years or so?' With that he leaned over and took Priscilla up in his arms as he had carried her in Castleton only – how many days ago was it? – and took her warm and slightly wriggly body into the parlour where he deposited her on the sofa and kissed her again, much more thoroughly, until Mrs Warren came in and (having coughed loudly and repeatedly) asked them what they wanted for their tea.

Epilogue

Lord Savagewood's papers were most informative. Mr Danns, the two vicars and Mr Eyre visited the Grange with Priscilla two days later and took away documents which showed the extent of the Baron's evil schemes. They documented the carriers he used to transport women to Liverpool, the ships involved and the dock officers who had to be bribed. Involved in the plot were other cronies of the Baron, including Sir Rupert Lucas, all of whom had visits from Authority in not many days' time, and after conviction were transported to the Australian Colonies.

There were other underhand practices that were laid open to the light of day by their visit. Four of the kitchen staff were there because of threats of blackmail, which explained their compliance with the criminal trade; the Baron also ran a scheme to dispose of stolen property and was in cahoots with a number of thieves and burglars including two members of the aristocracy. It was never proven how his wife and fiancée had died, but circumstantial evidence pointed strongly to his having indeed murdered them by poison, and his fiancée's family were most grateful for the knowledge as he had put about a story that the poor girl had died from drinking to excess and choking on her vomit.

Priscilla's old doll was discovered, damp but otherwise unharmed, in her bundle under Stanage Edge after a protracted search, during which time the couple rediscovered Priscilla's refuge in the outcrop, which turned out to be none other than Robin Hood's cave, of ancient legend.

Priscilla received a proposal of marriage from Mr Danns within a week, but she told him with a playful eye that she wanted to see Society before becoming an engaged woman. He argued that if she said she would accept him later it meant that she had already accepted him, but she just laughed, and told him not to be a silly. She also made him continue to teach her to ride, and refused to take up the side-saddle when one was offered, but became most accomplished on horseback in specially-designed riding skirts.

Finally, it must be mentioned that Priscilla had not abandoned her old ways completely. As she and her new husband descended from the church after their eventual wedding, she somehow managed to catch her slipper in her train and precipitate not only herself but her husband whose arm she held, down seventeen steps, concluding in a large puddle. It can be reported, dear reader, that no lasting harm was done except to a brand-new pair of yellow breeches and a leaf green wedding dress.

The End

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