Jonathan Broughton - The Russian White - A Victorian Thriller

“Ma’m?”

“Cuddles. That’s what makes the world lovely. Abercrombie and I always had them. He liked them too—oh,” she sobbed. “I miss him so much.” Then she dabbed her eyes with her lace cuff, squinted, and asked; “Do you like them?”

“Ma’m?”

“To be held in the arms of the one you love; to feel their warmth and strength all around you. It makes everything so much better. I’m feeling a little bit sad now.” She held out her arms. “Give me a cuddle.”

The young man stepped back. “Your Ladyship, I apologise for not hearing your bell, but the Master is expecting us. The Blue Room on the next floor has a well-stocked drinks cabinet. May I suggest that you make your way there?”

Isobel wailed; “Don’t leave me. I don’t know where to go. I need a drink.”

The man looked flustered. “Ma’m—George here will show you the way.” He pulled the reluctant George forward. “George will look after you m’am. Excuse us.” He ran past her, and took the stairs two at a time, followed by the other servant.

Isobel stared into the middle distance and muttered; “I want a cuddle. Penny wants a cuddle. Cuddle for Penny.”

“Let me show you the way.” George stepped aside to allow her past.

She looked him up and down, as if her were something the cat had brought in. “I know perfectly well what I am doing and where I am going. Do I know you? Are you related to the Barringtons? Such nice people. I had a vacation with them you know. We went everywhere—can’t remember where exactly. I seem to have lost them. Have you seen the Barringtons?”

“Please follow me your ladyship.”

George descended the stairs, and a moment later she followed, first correcting her balance, and then lurching dangerously down the steps like an old drunk. She wheezed and grunted as she tried to keep up.

George opened the door to the Blue Room and ducked inside. No doubt to check the drinks cabinet, thought Isobel, and she took advantage of his sudden disappearance, picked up her skirts, and ran. A Japanese screen stood proud of the wall a little way down the corridor. She squeezed behind it, almost tripping over the brass coal scuttles stored there for lighting fires in the upstairs rooms.

She peeped through the narrow gap between the hinges. George reappeared. He glanced up and down the corridor. He went back into The Blue Room and came out again. He scratched his head. He muttered what might have been an obscenity, and then he dived for the stairs and disappeared.

Isobel waited; she listened to the silence; strange, considering all the commotion. She emerged from behind the screen and tip-toed back to the Grand Staircase. She hurried down the next flight of steps, and came to a short landing lined with recessed sash windows framed with red velvet curtains.

She darted from one recess to the next. Voices echoed below. She reached the last recess and flattened herself against the wall, then peered ever so slowly round the edge of the red curtain.

She was right beside the final flight of stairs that led down to the Main Hall.

Parklands front doors stood wide open, and the Hall’s black and white marble floor gleamed in the sunlight. Two doormen, wearing overcoats, stood on duty as staff hurried through. Had William sealed off all the doors in the House except these to prevent her escape?

She eased herself behind the curtain and glanced out of the window. The drop to the Terrace was too high. Another disguise was needed.

On display at the top of the stairs stood a suit of medieval armour; propped against the wall beside the curtain leant a wooden jousting lance. She released the tie holding the curtain, and guided it in front of the window, taking care not to make any sudden movements.

She unclipped the clasp that secured the sash window, then took hold of the bottom half and pushed it up with the speed of a tortoise walking on a cold day. Each time it squeaked, she stopped. Her shoulders ached with tension, but at last the window was open. She checked that no one was on the Terrace, then pulled off her wig and glasses, and dropped them out of the window.

She knelt behind the curtain and pushed aside the heavy folds to reach the lance. Her fingers curled around its ancient wood, and she dragged the handle across the carpeted floor towards her. The lance’s heavy unwieldy weight made it difficult to move, and its metal tip scraped against the wall. It needed all her strength to drag it behind the curtain.

She increased the angle of its tilt until the tip stuck out across the landing.

Braced against the wall, she took a deep breath, aimed the lance’s point at the armour, and pushed.

The armour rocked forwards, remained motionless, and then tipped. It crashed down the marble stairs in a cacophony of ringing metal. She dropped the lance and flattened herself against the wall.

The clash and clang of bouncing metal died away. There was a moment of complete silence. Her heart thumped in her ears. Then the shouting started and footsteps raced up the stairs.

One of the doormen appeared, breathing hard. He went straight to the open window.

“There’s somebody on the Terrace,” he called. “Get out there. I’ll watch from here.”

Isobel draped the curtain around herself and the doorman, grabbed the window, and pulled it down hard, hitting the doorman on the head. He grunted and collapsed. She pulled him back over the sill, and he tumbled to the floor.

Thank goodness only one of them had come to investigate. She unbuttoned his overcoat and pulled off his boots. The she twisted and squirmed and wriggled her way out of the purple gown. She was hot and flustered by the time she managed to rid herself of it, and she cursed the wasted minutes it took to remove.

She scrubbed off the remains of her cosmetics with the outer skirt.

The overcoat was at least two sizes too large, but it was her only hope of disguise. The doorman’s short brown hair was not unlike her own, she reasoned, though her cut was less severe. She kicked off the tartan slippers and pulled on the boots. They were warm, and her feet slipped around inside. Something in the overcoat’s pocket bumped against her thigh. She pulled out a leather scabbard that protected the blade of a short dagger. Lucky, a dagger might be handy.

She glanced out of the window. Household staff criss-crossed the Terrace in total confusion and shouted contradictory orders. She hummed a low note to find a deeper pitch to her voice. Then she thrust her head out and shouted; “Towards the orchard. She’s been spotted in the orchard.” The orchards grew on the other side of the House, far away from the doors. The confused staff sprinted away on her instruction.

She peeped round the curtain. The Main Hall was empty, and she skittered down the stairs, fast as a cat, as she sidestepped the pieces of broken armour.

A scullery maid appeared at the door and she slithered to a halt. Too late to turn back now.

“The Orchard,” she shouted, and waved her back. “Quick, run. She mustn’t get away.” The girl shot out into the sunlight. Isobel watched her sprint across the Terrace. She turned in the opposite direction and ran for the stables.

The stables at Parklands faced the kitchens across a wide expanse of cobbled yard.

An old man sat on a stool in front of the stable doors, his face turned towards the sun, his eyes closed, as he puffed on a clay pipe. He coughed, cleared his throat, and spat into the dirty straw at his feet.

Isobel released the dagger from its sheath. She sauntered, hands in pockets, shoulders slouched, as she moved her body in imitation of a young man’s swagger.

“Good snooze Grandpa?”

“Just restin’ me eyes lad.” He squinted against the bright sunlight. “And anyway, I ain’t your Grandpa. What you want?”