Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 88
“I love you,” Bertie said again. “I don’t know if you can love me back—if you see me as only a governess, or a pickpocket, or the girl with the funny name. But this girl loves you, and always will. Don’t matter if you send me away—I’ll always love you.”
And I’ll always love you. “Bertie.” He made his mouth move.
Bertie raised her head, her eyes streaming with tears. “Don’t die, Sinclair.”
“Trying not to.” Sinclair wet his lips. “Say it again.”
“What?” Bertie wiped her cheeks. “That I love you?”
“Yes.” Sinclair sighed and let his eyes close again.
Bertie shook him, which hurt, damn it. “You stay with me,” she said. “I have to get you home.”
His own bed would be a much more comfortable place in which to die. Then Sinclair clenched his teeth. No, he wouldn’t die, neither here nor in his bed. He wouldn’t let James win. The man had ruined Daisy’s life—it had taken Sinclair and Daisy years to put it back together again. James could not come in now and wipe all Sinclair cared about away.
He cracked open his eyes. “We need help,” he managed to say.
“I know that. But I’m not leaving you here to run and fetch it, and you can’t run anymore. It should be all the way dark by now—we might be able to slip through and find your coach.”
“Too much of a risk.” Sinclair wet his lips again. “Any chance of some water?”
“No. I haven’t been back to keep the place up.”
“This cellar . . .” Sinclair turned his head to look around and groaned as he pulled at his wound. The walls formed a triangle around the small space, where houses had sealed off the end. Why it was done and whether the current inhabitants knew the space was here could not be said.
“That wall.” Sinclair tried to point to his right and gave up. “It leads to another house?”
“Yeah. Used to be one house, it looks like, but broken up into flats now.”
“How solid is the wall? Can we break through?”
“Are you mad? Though . . .” Bertie trailed off. “Let me look.” Sinclair heard her skirts swish as she walked the small distance from him. He hated her gone, because he was so cold.
“It’s brick, but also plaster,” she said. “Who knows what’s on the other side?”
I’ll leap off this bed and break it down, Sinclair told himself. Any moment now.
“Let me see what I’ve got down here.” Bertie moved out of the circle of light, and Sinclair heard things clanking and thudding. “The builders of long ago left things lying about. Nothing worth much.”
Or she would have taken them home and given them to her father to sell, Sinclair knew. Anything, nailed down or not, could be sold in these streets, including the nails.
“Here’s something,” Bertie said at the same time Sinclair heard voices above them.
Bertie went absolutely silent. It was uncanny how she could do that—no more rattling of lumber or metal in the corner, no sound of fabric, no words, not even her breathing. She came back to Sinclair, holding something, but Sinclair couldn’t make out what it was.
She put her hand to his chest, stilling him, though Sinclair didn’t need to be told not to move. Above them, boots thumped, and voices became clearer.
“There’s blood,” a man said in thick Cockney. “Drops of it. Fresh.”
“Down there.” The Irish tones of James came through. “Another twenty quid if you make sure he’s dead.”
“A gentleman and barrister?” said a less thick voice but still a working-class accent. “Not bleeding likely. Having him crawl off to die after you knifed him is one thing. Shooting him deliberately is another.”
“Fine. Just the girl then.”
“The girl, I can do. Her father’s been a pain in my fundament for years, and she’d a nice bit of flesh.”
Bertie’s eyes were wide with rage. “I’ll give him a nice bit of flesh,” she whispered.
Sinclair managed to move his hand—his whole arm came alive, energy flowing through him. “No, you start pounding on that wall. If we get trapped in here, we’re done.”
The banging would attract the men’s attention, but they were going to check the cellar anyway. Bertie turned away, hoisting the bit of beam she’d found. Sinclair tried to swing up to help her, and found himself sitting down again.
Bertie hurried to the wall. She looked at Sinclair before she drew back for the first stroke. “When I said I loved you? I meant it, you know.”
Sinclair’s lips moved upward in a smile, his heart flooding with warmth. “I mean it too.”
Bertie’s sunny smile beamed out at him, then his beautiful, tender lady turned around and smacked the post into the wall with a resounding boom.
As Bertie crashed the solid wooden beam into the plaster wall, another shout sounded upstairs, and their enemies started coming down. The door at the bottom of the stairs was locked and bolted, but they could break through. The only question was whether Bertie would—or even could—break through her wall first.
Bits of plaster rained down from her onslaught, old whitewash flaking over her hair and gown like snow. Bertie was terrified, but also glowing with joy. I mean it too.
Cryptic words from her dour Scotsman, but Bertie knew how hard it had been for him to say that. Sinclair didn’t love easily, but when he loved, he did it deeply.
And I’ll always love you. “Bertie.” He made his mouth move.
Bertie raised her head, her eyes streaming with tears. “Don’t die, Sinclair.”
“Trying not to.” Sinclair wet his lips. “Say it again.”
“What?” Bertie wiped her cheeks. “That I love you?”
“Yes.” Sinclair sighed and let his eyes close again.
Bertie shook him, which hurt, damn it. “You stay with me,” she said. “I have to get you home.”
His own bed would be a much more comfortable place in which to die. Then Sinclair clenched his teeth. No, he wouldn’t die, neither here nor in his bed. He wouldn’t let James win. The man had ruined Daisy’s life—it had taken Sinclair and Daisy years to put it back together again. James could not come in now and wipe all Sinclair cared about away.
He cracked open his eyes. “We need help,” he managed to say.
“I know that. But I’m not leaving you here to run and fetch it, and you can’t run anymore. It should be all the way dark by now—we might be able to slip through and find your coach.”
“Too much of a risk.” Sinclair wet his lips again. “Any chance of some water?”
“No. I haven’t been back to keep the place up.”
“This cellar . . .” Sinclair turned his head to look around and groaned as he pulled at his wound. The walls formed a triangle around the small space, where houses had sealed off the end. Why it was done and whether the current inhabitants knew the space was here could not be said.
“That wall.” Sinclair tried to point to his right and gave up. “It leads to another house?”
“Yeah. Used to be one house, it looks like, but broken up into flats now.”
“How solid is the wall? Can we break through?”
“Are you mad? Though . . .” Bertie trailed off. “Let me look.” Sinclair heard her skirts swish as she walked the small distance from him. He hated her gone, because he was so cold.
“It’s brick, but also plaster,” she said. “Who knows what’s on the other side?”
I’ll leap off this bed and break it down, Sinclair told himself. Any moment now.
“Let me see what I’ve got down here.” Bertie moved out of the circle of light, and Sinclair heard things clanking and thudding. “The builders of long ago left things lying about. Nothing worth much.”
Or she would have taken them home and given them to her father to sell, Sinclair knew. Anything, nailed down or not, could be sold in these streets, including the nails.
“Here’s something,” Bertie said at the same time Sinclair heard voices above them.
Bertie went absolutely silent. It was uncanny how she could do that—no more rattling of lumber or metal in the corner, no sound of fabric, no words, not even her breathing. She came back to Sinclair, holding something, but Sinclair couldn’t make out what it was.
She put her hand to his chest, stilling him, though Sinclair didn’t need to be told not to move. Above them, boots thumped, and voices became clearer.
“There’s blood,” a man said in thick Cockney. “Drops of it. Fresh.”
“Down there.” The Irish tones of James came through. “Another twenty quid if you make sure he’s dead.”
“A gentleman and barrister?” said a less thick voice but still a working-class accent. “Not bleeding likely. Having him crawl off to die after you knifed him is one thing. Shooting him deliberately is another.”
“Fine. Just the girl then.”
“The girl, I can do. Her father’s been a pain in my fundament for years, and she’d a nice bit of flesh.”
Bertie’s eyes were wide with rage. “I’ll give him a nice bit of flesh,” she whispered.
Sinclair managed to move his hand—his whole arm came alive, energy flowing through him. “No, you start pounding on that wall. If we get trapped in here, we’re done.”
The banging would attract the men’s attention, but they were going to check the cellar anyway. Bertie turned away, hoisting the bit of beam she’d found. Sinclair tried to swing up to help her, and found himself sitting down again.
Bertie hurried to the wall. She looked at Sinclair before she drew back for the first stroke. “When I said I loved you? I meant it, you know.”
Sinclair’s lips moved upward in a smile, his heart flooding with warmth. “I mean it too.”
Bertie’s sunny smile beamed out at him, then his beautiful, tender lady turned around and smacked the post into the wall with a resounding boom.
As Bertie crashed the solid wooden beam into the plaster wall, another shout sounded upstairs, and their enemies started coming down. The door at the bottom of the stairs was locked and bolted, but they could break through. The only question was whether Bertie would—or even could—break through her wall first.
Bits of plaster rained down from her onslaught, old whitewash flaking over her hair and gown like snow. Bertie was terrified, but also glowing with joy. I mean it too.
Cryptic words from her dour Scotsman, but Bertie knew how hard it had been for him to say that. Sinclair didn’t love easily, but when he loved, he did it deeply.
