Get help,Isla pleaded silently to Mrs. Darst.Oh, please, hear me silent prayer!
As Lamfort shoved Isla and Oliver into the carriage and slammed the door, Isla saw Mrs. Darst in motion. She was not screaming, not calling. Her stout figure scurried towards the front of the house, where Benedict’s quarters would be more easily accessible through his private entrance.
Please, Benedict… come for us.
Isla closed her eyes, clutching Oliver tightly, a sliver of desperate hope piercing the darkness.
Benedict returned a few hours later, his anger cold and sharp from the conversation with Kenneth and the pointless ride through the city. He replayed it repeatedly in his mind on the carriage ride home, desperate for sleep that he knew would not come. He was barely through his private entrance when the household erupted.
Old Mrs. Darst was waiting, hysterical and frantic, her stout figure hobbling up and down.
“Your Grace! Your Grace!” she sobbed, dabbing her eyes with her apron and rushing towards him. “Oh, thank goodness you are here!”
“What are you doing up, Mrs. Darst? And in my private quarters? Surely you finished your shift hours ago,” he rasped. “Have you been in the liquor cabinets again?”
“It was one time Your Grace!”
“Well, what is it then?”
“A man! He took Her Grace and Master Oliver! Out the back! In a carriage! I saw the carriage! Heading west I saw!”
The news hit him with such raw, immediate force that it shattered his calculated indifference. Everything faded away, and all he could see was red. He had been sitting in a gentleman’s club, trying to drink his self-imposed sorrows away. Meanwhile, his failure walked right into his house. Someone took the one thing he was supposed to protect right from under his nose.
My family.
His chest seized with a terrifying mix of guilt and primal rage. He didn’t hesitate. There was no room for caution or protocol or even proper sentences. He moved with a furious pace to the door and sprinted to the stables.
“Horse. Now,” he shouted to his stable master as he bounded through the stalls, kicking the door down with a thud. He was presented with and quickly saddled his fastest horse, Fury.
“Let’s go, Fury!” He yelled to the horse, a whirlwind of frantic, desperate action. He vaulted onto the horse’s back and drove his heels into the animal’s flanks as he took off into the night. “Yah!”
The thunder of hooves against the London cobbles was the only sound, riding recklessly in the direction Mrs. Darst had indicated.
He kicked the horse harder than he would normally, veering to avoid carriages and pedestrians as he searched the streets for his wife and child.
“Watch where you are going!” A coachman yelled, who had to turn at the last moment to avoid a collision with Fury.
“Yah!” Benedict yelled as he kicked the horse once more, oblivious to anything other than his need to find them.
The carriage ride was a nightmare of grinding turns and tense silence as Isla tried desperately to think of a solution to their impossible problem. The wheels of her mind turned in time with the carriage to no avail. She could not figure out what would possess Lamfort to do such a thing; in fact, she barely knew him.
Why is this happenin’? Perhaps he is just mad…
Oliver, nestled in Isla’s lap, was quiet, occasionally whimpering against her chest as she tried to soothe him. Lamfort sat opposite them, the pistol resting on his knee, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, feverish triumph as the scent of stale liquor assaulted her nose.
To what end does this man think he can win, though?She wondered as she looked about, looking for landmarks. Isla tried to calculate their route, guessing they were following the Thames.We must be headin’ for some secluded dock or warehouse.
She held Oliver closer.
“Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh: gu naomhaichear d’ainm. Thigeadh do rìoghachd. Dèanar do thoil air an talamh, mar a nithear air nèamh. Tabhair dhuinn an-diugh ar n-aran làitheil, agus maith dhuinn ar fiachan, amhail mar a mhaitheas sinne d’ar luchd-fiach. Agus na leig ann am buaireadh sinn, ach saor sinn o olc. oir is leatsa an rìoghachd, agus an cumhachd, agus a’ ghlòir, gu sìorraidh.Amen,” She whispered as she kissed the boy’s head.
“What in the devil are you speaking?”
“The Lord’s prayer,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross.
“No one can help you from your fate now,” Lamfort hissed.
Finally, the carriage lurched to a starling halt, launching them forward with a bump. Lord Lamfort yanked the door open roughly.
