Chapter thirteen - Beatrice

Beatrice's heart stopped. Absolutely stopped. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. All the blood drained from her face and her skin went clammy and cold all at once. Mesmerized by the light flooding across the floor, she could only stare. Terror held her transfixed. In just seconds, she would be seen. If she was seen, Narwhal would have her in his greedy grasp once more. He would grope and fondle her with his sweaty, sausage fingers and hot, smelly onion breath until she wanted nothing more than to wretch all over his gleaming black boots. And nobody would make any attempt to stop him.

She doubted the Sheriff would believe it. Narwhal was a respectable businessman. Arrogant and demanding, yes, but would anyone truly believe he would stoop to such lewd, untenable behavior? Her fears and concerns could be dismissed, blamed on female hysterica. Because only a hysterical female would race off into the night when any sensible person would be at home preparing for the end of the day. If the Sheriff refused to believe her, would he arrest Gilbert for kidnapping? On Mr Narwhal's word. Of course he would.  And it wasn't fair. If not for Gilbert, she might very well be dead by now.

It was the horrible thought of Gilbert being arrested that shook her from her paralysis. She ducked down behind the stone face, praying for invisibility. Blood pounded in her ears, and her skin went clammy with terror. She held her breath and watched helplessly as the light expanded over the dusty stone corridor. Expecting to be seen any moment, she shuddered with fear. It was simply too horrible to contemplate. She squeezed her eyes shut, tucking her head to her chest and hunching low as she possibly could.

Over the rushing in her ears, the soft plod of slow, cautious footsteps echoed eerily off the stones. There seemed to be only one set of footsteps. The intruder shuffled to a stop as she listened anxiously. Heavy breathing echoed faintly about the room. Sinking deeper into the shadows, she pressed herself up against the cold stone and held her breath, waiting for the inevitable moment she would be spotted. Her heart pounded with furious anxiety. It seemed an eternity of endless waiting.

Unable to stand the interminable suspense, she cautiously opened her eyes, but she wasn't quite brave enough to peer over the stone. Instead, she watched as the pool of light widened, splashing over more stone walls and masonry. The man must have held the lantern aloft to aim its flickering light further down the passage. Beatrice prayed even harder and held herself as still as possible. She felt rather like the proverbial mouse being stalked by a stray cat.

"Miss Smail?" A familiar deep male voice called softly.

She recognized Sheriff Daimler's rough rasp. If someone was going to find her, she would far rather it be the grandfatherly Sheriff Daimler. He was a gruff but kind-hearted older gentleman, honorable and intelligent. But he was also a stickler for law and order. If he did find her, would he listen to her story or would he prefer to believe Mr. Narwhal's version? Would he give any weight to her fears and concerns? Could she convince him of Gilbert's innocence? After working so tirelessly to nurse her back to health, the man didn't deserve to be arrested. Just then, a panicked young voice echoed through the room.

"Sheriff! Sheriff Daimler!"

"Here, Parker." The older man barked.

The deep boom of his voice echoed harshly, and Beatrice almost covered her ears against the painful sound. The flickering light dimmed as his footsteps retreated down the corridor to intercept his young deputy.

"I thought I told you to stay outside and keep watch."

"Sorry, Sir, but there's a fire in town." Parker explained breathlessly, his young voice sharp with urgency.

Beatrice covered her lips to hold back a gasp. She felt her skin prickle with terrible foreboding. A fire in a small village like Windkirk, where most of the cottages and businesses were so tightly stacked a child could race from roof to roof without ever seeing the street below, could be disastrous. Her family could be in grave danger. She strained to listen.

"Where?" Daimler demanded, his footsteps picking up pace.

"They think it started at the Holsters, then spread all the way to the Mercantile." The younger voice announced. "Young Benson says it's bad."

"Benson brought the news?"

"Aye."

"Where's Narwhal?" Their voices began to fade as they moved off.

"He rode for the village."

"What about the mute?"

Beatrice scowled. How dare the Sheriff label such a gentle man as if his inability to speak was his only defining characteristic. She was so outraged she didn't hear Parker's reply as the two men left the corridor, taking the light with them. It made her so angry. How could people be so carelessly callous?

A solid thunk of the door told her the two men had left. She was alone once more. Now what? She debated with herself. Should she abandon her hiding place or wait here for Gilbert... Mr. Lourson to come fetch her? But, if there really was a fire in town, she couldn't afford to waste any time hiding here. It was imperative she return home and help Sissy evacuate.

Her sister-in-law would never abandon the only true asset left from the Smail estate. As dilapidated as it had become over the years, it was still their home. Not that sentiment had anything to do with her sister-in-law's reasoning. Beatrice had no illusions when it came to her brother's widow. Sissy did not care about the townhouse as a family home. She cared more about the prestige of owning property.  An impressive building, in the most fashionable area of town, despite its current dilapidated condition, was far more important to the class-concsious Sissy. The status alone was far more important. Impressing others with her social status was all she lived for. Her husband was a titled lord, and now her son was the current Baronet. Something she constantly pointed out. Of course, the family was propertied, even if they only had the crumbling townhouse. But not if everything was lost in a catastrophic fire.

Slowly, cautiously, Beatrice made her way around the rubble, her arms stretched out, hands searching for the wall to use as her guide. Before she managed to touch anything, a sudden tug at her skirts stopped her, and she ran her fingers down the material until she found the snag. When giving it a gentle tug failed to dislodge the snag, she turned back and bent to deal with the problem. She didn't want another rip in her skirt. The dress was patched enough now. A few more gentle tugs were enough to wiggle the material free. With a satisfied sigh, she straightened and took a couple of steps only to pause.

Was this the right way? In the inky darkness, she strained to see anything that might give her a clue. She turned this way and that. Surely, she reasoned, the old door should let some light through to point her way. Squinting, she could see a very faint light in the distance. It seemed oddly high up the wall, but it was the only light she could see. Deciding she was facing the right direction after all, she reached out again.

When one hand brushed against the stone wall, she sighed with relief and shuffled forward. Thinking the wooden door must be just a few steps away, she kept moving. Step by a cautious step, she eased her way forward. Where was the door? Surely, she should have reached it by now. She hadn't come this far before, had she? What seemed like an eternity passed as she continued along the stone passage. Panic began to eat at her conscience. What if she had gotten herself turned around when her skirt snagged on that rock? What if she was heading in the wrong direction? Where did this corridor lead to anyway?

Weighted down with indecision, her feet shuffled to a halt. What if she got lost? Would Gilbert not come to her rescue? Certainly, he would, if he was able. But what if he wasn't able? What if Sheriff Daimler arrested him and carted him off to jail? What if she was all alone here? Would she ever be able to find her way out?

Just as she was about to succumb to panic, she heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping against stone. Beatrice froze in place, holding her breath, her eyes wide with fright. She was stuck here, waiting. She couldn't go anywhere. She couldn't see anything. But the man with the light would certainly see her the moment he stepped into the corridor.

What if it was the Sheriff returning to have another look? What if it was Mr. Narwhal? Now that everyone else was gone, it would be the perfect time for the portly merchant to come along? He might well beat her senseless this time. Why couldn't that man just leave her alone? Hadn't he done enough harm already?

As she watched, the hall around her lightened. But the source came, not from in front of her as she expected, but from behind. So she had been going the wrong way.  There was a heavy tread as the man firmly stepped through the door. It couldn't be the sheriff. He had moved softly and quietly. This man moved heavily, almost deliberately stomping, as if warning her of his approach. Then she heard a tuneful whistle. Beatrice frowned. It sounded like a bird call. Why would anyone whistle like that? If he was trying to get her attention, why did he not call her name? And then the answer came in a torrent of relief.

"Gilbert?" She called hopefully.

A snorting roar was her answer, and she was so relieved a giggle burst from her lips.

"Oh, thank goodness. I'm here. I got lost." She happily admitted, turning toward the light as it brightened.

Now, the man barely made a sound as he advanced, his steps much lighter. Obviously, he had been deliberately stomping his feet, attempting to warn her of his presence. Now that she had acknowledged him and he was assured she knew who approached, his footsteps lightened. For such a big man, he could certainly move as silently as a ghost. It seemed to be a habit.

When he was close enough for her to see his familiar face, she almost wanted to fling herself into his arms in relief and barely restrained herself. He carried a lantern at his side, which illuminated his square features, the warm glow softening his mottled skin. She warmed with delight at his relieved smile. But then her gaze flicked back to those blotchy patches of skin, and she recalled her speculation that he had survived a fire.

The fire! The Mercantile was on fire! Sissy and the children could be in danger. There was no time to lolly-gag. She hurried forward, desperate.

"We have to go, now."

He stood there, still as a statue. She watched his smile fade into a frown of confused concern. He didn't understand this sudden urgency. Desperately, she grasped his shirt-front and clutched at him.

"Gilbert, please. My family. They could be in danger."

Using the grip she had on his shirt-front, she tugged at him, trying to turn him back to the entrance. But the big man didn't budge. He was still frowning in concern. She blew out a frustrated sigh as he raised a hand to her forehead. He thought she was delirious again.

"I don't have a fever, Gilbert." She shook off his touch and continued to tug and push his chest. "My brother's house isn't far from the Mercantile."

Still, he frowned down at her, and she almost stomped her foot in frustration.

"If that fire spreads to the house..." She stuttered to a halt in horror at the devastating thought. But then she glanced up at Gilbert's face.

It was painful to watch. All the color seemed to leach from his cheeks. His eyes widened, and she felt his body begin to shake beneath his hands. It was far worse than his reaction when she asked about the fire that took his voice. Her heart cried out with sympathy. She wouldn't ask him to face this with her if she had any choice. But they were her family. The only family she had left. And she needed his help, his strength, if she was to get home.

"Gilbert, please. I have to be certain they are safe. We have to go. Now. They are the only family I have left."