Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [135]
But the cobwebs were made of grey thread, and the Earl was neither man nor ghost; I remembered the spectre's visitation to Fitzroy Payne's room at the Manor, so many weeks ago, and knew of a sudden who had placed the damning Barbadoes nuts in his gun case.
“Madame,” I whispered, seeing the glitter of her eyes in the candle flame; and she returned a hideous grin. Swift as a cat she sprang to my bedside, the door thrust closed behind her, and wrapped a silken scarf twice around my neck. Though my fingers clung to the fabric, and strained against her force, she was made stronger still by violent rage; she would squeeze the life from me, and I must resist. Bursting flowers of light flooded my eyes even as darkness overcame them; my desperate fingers scrabbled at hers, drawing sharp nicks of blood; but we were both of us almost silent, save for my laboured breathing and her animal grunts of exertion—a deadly intensity robbed us of pleas and triumphs altogether.
I began to sway where I sat, too cushioned by the feathered mattress when I most needed hard purchase, and she profited from my weakness to thrust me down on my back, her knee drawn up and braced cruelly against my chest. I could not move her; and the advantage of her position should finish me in a very little time. I prayed as I have never prayed before—a single refrain only, dear God dear God dear God—even as I felt my strength begin to ebb. As from a great distance, I saw her grotesque fancy dress thrown by the candle in shadows upon my wall, and felt an absurd desire to laugh; but what emerged was nothing more than a pitiful sob.
With a harshness magnified by the silent absorption of our deadly contest, the door burst open, and a man's form was abruptly outlined against the darkened hall. Mr. Cranley, I thought, with rising hope—and then saw that all hope was lost. For it was Harold Trowbridge who stood there, with his evil profile and hooded eye; and that he came to finish what Madame had begun, I felt with all the certainty of despair. The room whirled; I gasped for air; and gave way to a pounding darkness that would not be gainsaid.
• • •
“Miss Austen,” a gentle voice repeated in my ear; “Miss Austen!”
As my eyelids fluttered open, I found the earnest gaze of Mr. Cranley bent upon my own. I sat up suddenly, consciousness regained; saw Madame Delahoussaye bound to a chair and staring at me malevolently; and would have started from the bedclothes in my wildness to be free of her presence, did not the barrister restrain me.
“Do not try to speak,” Mr. Cranley said; “I fear your throat is badly bruised.”
“You came,” I croaked, turning my eyes with relief to his.
“Try to give her some brandy,” said a voice suffused with concern; and I knew with gladness that it belonged to Sir William Reynolds. Mr. Cranley raised me on one arm, and turned to receive the flask from an outstretched hand—which was attached to none other than Lord Harold Trowbridge.
I thrust the brandy away and reeled backwards, choking and spluttering. “Murderer!” I cried. “That man would have killed me! He is in league with Madame!”
“Lord Harold was your salvation, Jane,” Sir William said gently, as he hastened to my side. “He overpowered that woman with not a moment to spare. For I fear we should have arrived too late.”
“Trowbridge was closeted in my chambers, divulging much that you should know, when I received your note,” Mr. Cranley added. “He understood your danger immediately, and flew to your side while I went for Sir William. We deemed it best that a man of the King's Bench be present to receive Madame's confession—did we arrive in time to catch her in another act of murder.”
“I do not understand,” I said, in my strange new voice; “if Lord Harold is become a friend, why has he endeavoured so long to send the Countess to the gallows? Why lie, as he so clearly did, before the Royal Gallery