Jocelyn sat in the parlor, sipping her tea and worrying. She looked down and sighed. Her fingers were clenched around her robe, crunching the silk and ruining it. She released the robe that was bearing the brunt of her frustration and set the teacup down on the saucer. William would be alright, she reminded herself. He had Tom, and Piers, and all the stable hands to help him.
She sat back on the seat in a huff, tapping her fingers on the gilt arm. She should be out there, carrying water or doing something to help. Just because she was a woman didn't mean she was useless. But William had insisted. It wasn't safe, he'd argued as he'd pulled on his trousers. And besides, she wasn't dressed properly. It'd be indecent for her to be out in her negligee in front of the entire household. She'd pointed out that she would be wearing a robe, but he'd threatened to lock her in her bedroom if she tried to escape. So here she sat, drinking cup after cup of tea in the parlor, while he ran off, in only his shirt and trousers, mind you, to help the boys. It was only a little fire. A knock at the door interrupted her mental grumbling.
"Yes?" she said eagerly. Perhaps the fire had been put out. She did hope that the horses had gotten away unharmed. She frowned. "What is it Hadley?" The normally impervious butler was standing in the doorway with a look of decided unease.
"Madam, I apologize for the disturbance, but there is a gentleman here to see you." She didn't miss his hesitation at the word 'gentleman'.
"Nonsense, Mr. Hadley, I can't possibly receive visitors at this hour or in this state." She waved him away. "Please tell whoever it is that they may leave a card or come again in the morning." The older man nodded, but she could see the sweat beading on his ancient brow.
"Of course, Madam. But the count was very insistent." He made a small bow and left the room. Jocelyn rose quickly to her feet, shutting the door as she heard the sound of a gunshot in the hall. The count didn't need an introduction. With shaking hands she pulled her keys from her robe pocket, fumbling through them before she found the one she was looking for. She shoved it into the lock and turned it just as the door shuddered.
"Unlock the door, Jocelyn, you're being rude," came a familiar voice. Without hesitation she yanked the key from the door and ran across the room, pulling open the glass doors and fleeing into the garden as another gunshot sounded behind her, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.
She screamed, gripping her skirts as she raced through the roses, tulips, peonies, and violets, whose lovely scents she usually stopped to delicately sniff. Tonight they held no comfort for her as she sprinted through the lovingly tended Eden until she reached the patio, heaving one of their new wrought iron chairs, ordered specifically from Paris, through the glass panes separating her from the safety of her home.
"You can't hide from me, Eve," came the voice of the Devil as she tossed the chair aside, thrusting her hand through the hole and fumbling with the key, desperately trying to fit in into the lock.
"Darling," came the voice again, lower, closer, as she heard the telltale click the heralded her relief. She pushed open the great oak doors, turning to push them closed when she saw him emerge from darkness of the garden. Grabbing the keys, she turned and fled down the length of the table, coming up short at the second set of locked doors, locking her in the dining room.
"Come now, Jocelyn, we both know there's no point in running," he said, gliding over the broken glass. Her wild gaze slid over his advancing form, alighting on the door to the pantry where the servants prepared the food.
"You're not welcome in this house, Mr. Wickham," she said, edging around the table that it was between them. He moved through the darkness, gliding like a panther, his green eyes seemingly more feline in the moonlight that shone through the great windows, glinting on the broken glass. She unconsciously backed up, bumping in the silver cabinet.
"You're being exceptionally rude, Jocelyn," the count said, stopping in front of the door. "First you don't offer me any tea, then you refuse to address me by title. Tsk, tsk."
"You, sir, do not have permission to address me by my Christian name," she said coldly, though she desperately wanted to be sick. Blood pumped through her ears, sending adrenaline coursing through her. Had she imagined the distant slam of a door?
"Jocelyn?" a voice called.
"WILLIAM!" she screamed as the count scowled and darted around the table. She turned and scrambled up onto the cabinet that contained the greater part of her dowry, wrenching open the finely carved doors and grabbing the largest meat skewer she saw as he grabbed her ankles and pulled her down. Her chin hit the edge of the cabinet, and her head swam as he threw her to the ground. He rose above her, a great, black beast, leering down at her. She raised the skewer and threw all her strength behind it, stabbing him in the groin.
He shrieked in pain, pulling metal instrument with a groan from his manhood and kicking her across the face. She scrambled to her feet, making for the door as her husband, who'd followed the signs of destruction, came through the doors, took one look around, and lunged for the intruder.
Bordering on hysteria, she rifled through her keys and jabbed at the lock on the doors, trying twice before she fit the key inside. She pushed open the doors, pulling out the key and turning to see William, shaking with righteous wrath, deliver a blow that knocked the count flat on his back. He looked up and saw her, hanging onto the door for dear life, and leapt over his opponents still breathing form to come to her.
"No, go back," she moaned, tears unwillingly falling from her eyes. "Go back and make sure he's really down," she whispered as he reached her, cupping her face between his hands and kissing her gently. He pulled her into his arms despite her feeble protests as the tears came down.
"Shh," he whispered, holding her close. "It's alright. I'm here." She clung to him, sobbing. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the black shape stir. She pushed against him as the shape rose, wraithlike, struggling against her uncomprehending husband. William. She had to save William.