Chapter 7

 

Back at Wainforth Manor that afternoon, I organized my belongings into my traveling bag and read through my collected notes. Justine had offered to pack for me, but I had sent her away. I needed the quiet. Reading my notes convinced me that I could write a good chapter about the house for my father’s book, albeit not necessarily provide readers with all the details. It had been worthwhile to come here, but now the prudent—even urgent—course was to leave.

I decided to speak with Mr. Norcliffe at breakfast the next morning and depart almost immediately afterward, to avoid any awkwardness. Justine had been disappointed to lose a position after only one day’s work, but her feelings were soothed when I proposed paying her for a whole week. It wasn’t quite the fortnight we had discussed, but I also offered to send her a letter of reference once I arrived back home.

After finishing my packing, I went down and found Mrs. Greene in the kitchen.

“Hello, dear!” she called out, her hands covered in flour.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Greene. You sound cheerful.”

“Yes indeed! Nothing like a bit of productivity to keep a body smiling.” She beamed at me.

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m feeling not quite the thing this afternoon,” I lied. I wanted to avoid Mr. Norcliffe. “Would you be so kind as to bring a tray up to my room later? I won’t be coming down to the dining room.”

“Oh, poor dove! You’ll miss Mr. George Nowland at dinner tonight, though.”

“I had forgotten about that. Well, it’s not like I’m needed for anything at dinner anyway.” I could write to Mr. Nowland about any Norcliffe family documents if needed.

“As you say, my dear. Maybe some soup for your supper later?” She did not look overly concerned about my health, but I certainly didn’t mind.

“That would be lovely, thank you so much.” I left her humming and retreated to the library. I wanted to read and browse through the shelves again. If there was one thing I would regret about my early departure—other than, I silently admitted, Thomas Norcliffe’s strong jaw, dark eyes, ill-kempt hair, and open-collared shirts—it was the missed opportunity to better know the many old books in the library.

Soon I was curled into a leather chair with a book of farmers’ remedies for sheep diseases, which was more interesting than I had feared, and Mrs. Greene brought a pot of tea in the mid afternoon. The afternoon crept by slowly. As I was beginning to wonder how any sheep ever survived at all, my eyelids started to feel heavy. I startled somewhat when Justine tapped softly and let herself in.

“Your boots are clean and in your room, miss,” she informed me.

“Thank you, Justine.” I sat up slightly where I had been sliding further and further into the deep chair. “I’m sorry again that your term of employment with me was not exactly as advertised.”

“No trouble, miss. I appreciate the week’s pay very much, it will be helpful for me and Peter. Will you need me at all tomorrow morning?”

“No, thank you. Best wishes to you.” She dipped a tiny curtsey and departed.

After listening to the front door open and close as she left, I stood to light a candle. It was after five o’clock and the sky was darkening quickly.

Carrying the candle, I prowled the shelves for a more interesting book. The Norcliffes had an extensive selection of farmer’s almanacs and regional maps and agricultural titles, but little in the way of recent fiction or classics. I glanced at the verboten bible in its resting place on the lectern shelf, but quickly looked away again. No need to risk further antagonizing Mr. Norcliffe over that subject.

The shelves at the far end of the room nearest the fireplace held the oldest books, so I peered a little closer at a few promising titles. Surely any respectable English country gentleman could boast ownership of some Shakespeare?

The front door opened and closed again, followed by the sound of Mr. Norcliffe’s heavy tread on the floorboards. I groaned internally. I had not wanted to face him again until morning, when I was practically on his doorstep, leaving. If I spoke to him now, with Father Francis’ warning still fresh in my mind, he might see the worry on my face. I should have realized he would be returning to the house after his day’s work and retreated earlier to my bedroom. Instead, I had to hope he wouldn’t notice me in the library.

I puffed out the candle and silently crossed the room to stand against the wall. If he were to casually glance through the doorway, he would not see me. Anyway, it was unlikely that he had reason to seek me out. Hopefully he just wanted to go straight upstairs to his room.

Luck was not with me—his footsteps grew closer. Uselessly, I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my head away from the door. I felt like a foolish child with a terrible hiding place in a game of seek-and-find. If Wainforth’s master were to spot me like this, he would think me mad. I squirmed more tightly into the corner, my backside pressed up against the bookshelves.

Suddenly, I heard a tiny metallic ping, then the bookshelf was no longer there. It swung inward behind me and stole my balance away with it. I tipped backward, then stumbled, flinging one hand out to grab at the wooden shelves, and missed. I flailed wildly and crashed downward, farther than I thought possible. I hadn’t hit the floor, but rather a flight of stone steps.

My backside collided with a step, then I tumbled head over heels down another step. I tried to protect my head with my arms and earned a shot of pain to my elbow for it as I bumped sideways further down the flight. My skirt was tangled around my knees and I could hardly tell which direction was up as I gracelessly thrust out my feet to stop my fall. Finally, after what felt like several stories, but could only have been a short distance, I came to a halt on a landing. I groaned as pain washed over me. The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was a group of people staring at me. I yelped in surprise. My addled brain struggled to process the information that I was staring at a group of large oil paintings leaning against the stone wall.

Most pressingly, though, the bookshelf—the hidden door, I corrected myself—had not stopped moving at the top of the stairs. It reached its widest-open point and immediately reversed course to start closing again. Inexorably, the light coming through the opening dimmed as the door slowly swung shut.

“Wait!” I cried out. Would Mr. Norcliffe hear my voice, or had he caught the sound of my fall? No response came through the door as it continued to close. I struggled to my feet, intending to dash back up the stairs and squeeze through, but as soon as I put my weight on my left ankle, a stinging jolt of pain flared, and my ankle collapsed under me. I was lying on my side, one arm propped on a step, the rest of me still on the small landing, as the door thudded firmly back into place, taking all the light with it. I heard the same metallic ping, then total silence.

I let out a disbelieving moan. Could I possibly be trapped in a pitch-black hidden passageway under the house of a man I didn’t trust? No one would look for me in the dining room, and Mrs. Greene would doubtless leave a tray of food politely outside my bedroom door if she thought I was sleeping.

With that thought I began to cry in earnest. I just wanted to go home to Peterborough to my simple, boring life and my friendly little house where no bookshelves had ever moved an inch.

After a few minutes, I wiped my eyes and nose on my skirt and assessed the bodily damage. Left ankle, truly painful. Right elbow, sore but working. Backside, certainly bruised but well padded. Sniffling, I held out my arms, trying to feel the dimensions of the space.

I crawled back to the top of the stairs and pushed on the wall, where the door did not shift even a fraction. No light emerged from under it or around the seams. I banged my fists on it and hollered. “Hello? Helloooo? Peter? Mrs. Greene? Mr. Norcliffe? Thomas!” I started crying again. The sound of my fists on the wall was pitiful, any noise soaked up by the thick stones and the heavy shelves of books on the other side. A person standing in the library would not have heard a thing. Not that anyone would even be standing in the library.

Sitting down on the top step, I took a deep, steadying breath, then felt under my skirt for the petticoat layer. Raising it to my mouth, I used my teeth to start a small rip. The fabric tasted dusty, and I spat onto the floor.

Carefully pulling at the fabric, I tore a long strip from my petticoat. It was agony to remove the shoe from my left foot, and as I touched my ankle I could already feel the swelling in the joint. I wound the fabric strip tightly several times around my ankle and under the foot to help support it. I tied it off as best I could without being able to see a thing.

“Right, Katherine,” I said, hearing my father’s voice in my head. “Think, think.” The hidden door was built into the library for a purpose at some point. The most likely possibility, given the age of the house and the history of this part of Yorkshire, was that it was a bolt-hole for persecuted Roman Catholic priests. Maybe I could follow the passageway and get out at the other end.

Moving carefully back down to the landing, I felt around with my hands. Before the door closed, I had seen that the stairs turned at a right angle at the landing and continued downward. After locating the stack of paintings, and opposite them the stone edge, I eased myself down on my rear end step by step.

After a dozen more steps I was at the bottom. I felt left and right with both arms extended, and I could touch both walls. They felt like packed dirt. Extending my arms above my head, I slowly stood, keeping all my weight on my right leg.

The space was not large enough for me to stand fully upright, but I could shuffle along, leaning heavily against the wall to keep my balance. My progress was agonizingly slow. I stopped once to adjust the wrap on my ankle. I started to wish for a drink of water, but forced myself to stay focused on the immediate task. Thinking about a lack of water would only make me feel panicky. Would there be spiders down here? Some horrible type of oversized moor-rat?

The tunnel stretched into the darkness endlessly. After a certain point it would be difficult for me to reverse course and get all the way back to the stairs, so I told myself that to continue forward was my best option. I kept one hand on the ceiling above my head to avoid bashing it on beams or protruding rocks and the other arm pressed against a wall for support. I distracted myself from the pain in my ankle by trying to orient myself with the world above. Since the hidden door had been on the south wall of the library, and I had turned left at the landing, and if the tunnel stayed relatively true, did that mean I was walking roughly east?

I shook my head. “You’re only guessing.” I had no way of knowing if the tunnel was angled in relation to the library.

Finally, after what must have been a lifetime, I felt a waft of fresh air, immediately followed by sticky spider strands on my face, the first web I had yet encountered. Both seemed like good signs. I hastily swiped the webs away and increased my pace as I peered ahead into the darkness. Would the end of the tunnel be blocked? Maybe at least someone would hear me if I shouted.

The gloom lifted further, then the end of the tunnel came into view only a dozen paces ahead. “Yes, please, get me out of here,” I muttered. The tunnel dead-ended into a metal ladder that rose straight up. I tilted my head back and saw a grid above in the darkness—slats of wood nailed together covering the top of the hole. No daylight reached me, but dusk had already been falling when I was in the library. It would be full night by now—the weak light in the tunnel originated only from the moon and stars. I could still feel drafts of fresh air moving around me, so I had hope the opening was not tightly sealed.

The metal ladder seemed sturdy enough when I gave it a couple of tugs, although it felt somewhat clammy and damp, and my injured ankle would be a major obstacle. There was no good way to climb a ladder with one foot, and I was not about to try hopping from rung to rung. I gritted my teeth and rubbed the sweat off my palms.

“Dear Lord,” I prayed, “help me out of here and I’ll go straight home and sit quietly for the next decade, causing You no trouble whatsoever, I swear.” I stared back up the dark shaft and grasped the ladder rails, placing my good foot on the first rung and starting upward.

I found I could gingerly employ my left ankle if I moved slowly and used my arms to support much of my weight. After three rungs, I could see a lessening of the darkness above. It was no longer black, merely murky gray.

While I was moving onto the fourth rung, a stronger beam of moonlight suddenly broke through the covering at ground level above me. The dirt walls around me were illuminated. I looked over my right shoulder at the tunnel floor. To my shock, it was littered with lustrous white bones. “What!” I gasped, and jerked my hands involuntarily. Both feet slipped off the rung where I had been perched, and I slid right back down the few feet I had ascended.

I bent my left knee to protect the ankle as I crumpled to the earth. I was surrounded by innumerable bones, as beautiful as ivory and as still as death. I was more infuriated than injured by the short drop.

“No!” I screamed uselessly. “This is ridiculous! Why is this house riddled with bones? I absolutely refuse to tolerate any further awfulness!” I rose to my feet, panting, and dashed my filthy hands across my cheeks.

Anger lent me renewed strength, and I rushed up the ladder again. I was certainly doing further damage to my ankle, but I could deal with it later.

As I clung like a disheveled barnacle about halfway up the shaft, the earth around me began to thrum rhythmically. It was the unmistakable beat of a horse’s hoofs. “Here!” I yelled. I did not pause to consider whether another human might be more danger than help. “I’m here!” I climbed another two rungs, and the hoof beats grew closer.

Finally the noise stopped, and a moment later the cover was torn off the shaft.

Thomas Norcliffe’s face appeared in the opening, and I almost laughed. “Please don’t kill me,” I said hysterically.

“Katherine? However on earth…?” He disappeared and I felt a twinge of panic that he might just abandon me, but he reappeared quickly without his jacket, his white shirt gleaming. He lay on his belly and reached one long arm down towards me. He called me Katherine. The possibly violent madman was getting quite familiar.

He clasped my wrist and pulled up slowly, helping me manage the last few rungs. He wriggled backwards and grabbed my other wrist, and finally I was up and over the lip of the shaft. We tumbled onto the moor and I rolled onto my back with a groan.

For a moment I lay panting and staring at the moon.

Thomas started to speak. “I’m glad I found you, Miss Gilbert—”

“Stop. I do not know who you are or why there are bones in your tunnel or what Father Francis’ problem is, but it doesn’t matter. And what in the world were you doing galloping around out here anyway?”

“Looking for you. Katherine, you don’t know—”

“You’re quite right, Thomas,” I spat, echoing his use of my given name, “I do not, nor do I care to. I am leaving in the morning.” I clambered to my knees in preparation for standing.

Thomas was suddenly on his feet, crowding into my space.

I glared up at him, not willing to give away how much my ankle was throbbing.

“You say you don’t care to know anything, and I yet I just plucked you like an earthworm from a secret tunnel beneath my house.” He was still too close to me, and I suddenly remembered the bones in the tunnel. Some of the fight went out of me.

“I certainly did not intend to snoop in your secret tunnel. The library shelf practically devoured me whole, I assure you. You can keep your bloody secrets, sir.”

“Just as you did not intend to pry into the family bible or eavesdrop on private conversations!”

My cheeks flushed. He knew about my listening outside the parlor that first evening. “It was a bible, not a bank vault! How was I to have known you would treat it like a family—” Secret, I cut myself off. He had not wanted me to read the family tree in the first pages of the bible, for some reason.

The realization must have shown on my face.

Thomas stated with finality, “You cannot leave tomorrow.”

“What!” I shouted and rose to my feet. “How dare you—ah, bloody hell!” My useless ankle was sending flickers of pain up my leg. I bent over and clutched it.

Thomas was instantly at my side, wrapping an arm around my waist. We were pressed together flank to flank, but he stared at me coldly. “You see, Miss Gilbert, think rationally. You cannot leave tomorrow because your poor ankle is in no condition for travel.”

Tears of frustration pricked my eyes. I had no patience left for the impossible man. I shrugged off his supporting arm and turned my head to the side so he would not see my face until I had my breathing under control. Then I took a shaky step away and faced him again. “Are you merely unpleasant, Mr. Norcliffe? Or are you criminally cruel?” I asked disdainfully. “Perhaps with even just a dollop of insanity?”

This earned me a moment of shocked silence before he found his response. “If I am as you say I am, madam, how unfortunate for you that you inserted yourself quite unbidden into my sphere,” he said crisply. “Perhaps it would be wise for you to cease your taunting remarks in the presence of such…unpleasantness.” His face was set in stone, and he looked as fearsome as I had yet seen him.

He took one sudden step toward me, closing the gap between us, and I gasped and recoiled. I thought I saw a crack in his emotionless features, but when I looked again, he was still stone-faced.

“You cannot walk, Miss Gilbert. I am going to place you on the back of my horse, and then we are all returning home.”

“Fine. Thank you,” I replied, totally drained of further argument. After bringing his horse closer, he put his hands on my waist and lifted me lightly to the saddle, where I perched sideways.

I sat quietly on the horse as Thomas led it back to the house. I was even too tired and pain-riddled to think much about how inexperienced a rider I was—I clutched the pommel tightly and trusted Thomas and the horse to keep me upright. The return journey passed very quickly compared to the interminable time I had spent in the tunnel.

Wainforth Manor’s golden limestone glowed warmly in the moonlight. I was very glad to see it, if only to be minutes from my cozy bedchamber. At the front of the big house, Thomas again put his hands on me to lift me down from the horse, and I braced myself on his shoulders. He made as if he were going to carry me up the steps, but I declined firmly. “I can make my own way from here, sir.”

He assented gruffly and turned to stable the animal.

After a careful climb up to the second floor, I entered my room and flopped across the bed. As I lay there with both hands over my face, I heard boot treads in the hallway. They stopped in front of my door, and I sat up sharply. Not again, I thought with a groan. I doubted I could handle further conflict with my charming host without some rest first. But he hadn’t come to speak with me. The doorknob jostled, then I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.