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MR. SHERIDAN AND I fell in with a crowd of excited villagers waiting to be admitted to the Tunnel of Terrors. We entered from a nearly invisible opening that had been cut into a slight rise in the ground but was still partially obscured by an overgrowth of vines and other greenery. Once we stepped inside and descended down a few steps into the shadowy enclosed chamber, I noted that it did, indeed, appear to be an authentic underground tunnel, complete with darkened pathways leading off in several directions.
Inside, the ceiling and walls of the tunnel were composed of discolored stones, some of which had apparently been dug out to create the low opening in the wall to the outside. Once we had taken a few steps into the tunnel, an apparition, her face smeared with white Venetian ceruse, her body partially draped in a white sheet and carrying a flickering candle appeared from out of the shadows. Saying nothing, but playing her part to the hilt, the girl surreptitiously looked to the right and left before motioning for us to follow her down another series of stone steps that took us deeper and deeper underground.
Folks ahead of and behind us were also exchanging whispered remarks upon the curious rock-walled enclosure.
“I wonder where we shall end up?” I asked Mr. Sheridan, a part of me thinking that no doubt, some part of the underground passageway might very well lead straight to various chambers within Mrs. Crumble’s home, perhaps even to the room where she intended to stage the séance, thereby making it handy for ghosts or other spirit-world specters to appear, and then quickly disappear.
Mr. Sheridan had a theory. “I daresay this tunnel has been used by a score of highwayman, the robbers ducking in here to evade capture after making off with valuables belonging to unsuspecting gentlemen on horseback, or even a carriage full of travelers.”
Oh, my. Everyone in England had heard tales of swashbuckling, masked highwaymen who robbed unsuspecting travelers in the dead of night. They often terrorized and some even killed their victims.
A few feet further on, suddenly a headless cavalier dragging a screaming maiden in a flowing gown with blood upon the bodice leapt out to frighten us. When the grisly sight startled me, I jumped. A number of ladies near me screamed, then we all giggled nervously when the other-worldly creature disappeared back into the shadows. Placing a hand protectively at my back, Mr. Sheridan edged a bit closer to me. I was glad he did; for I soon felt gusts of cold air engulf us and was glad for the warmth emanating from his body. Cupping a hand beneath my reticule, I drew it closer to my chest so the sleeping kitten inside might take comfort from the beat of my heart, which I hoped remained steady, despite the chills and thrills assailing us here.
As we moved through the tunnel, from somewhere nearby we heard the distinct sound of doors slamming followed by long, mournful wails. At one point, we heard chains rattling then suddenly a heavy chain slid down the wall beside us. Coiling at our feet, it startled those of us who stood squarely in the path of it. In other places bones protruded from the walls of the tunnel; no doubt, meant to be from the bodies of slain victims. I spotted a long slim leg bone, a shoulder and arm bone, even a foot that when we passed by, the toes wiggled.
A bit further on, we came upon a young boy dressed in tattered clothing kneeling on the earthen floor as he dug in the dirt. Beside him lay two skulls. Looking up, he said, “I must have three else the spell will not be broken. Will ye’ help me dig, sir, will ye’ help me dig?”
Next, we met up with a straggly-haired girl who had only one arm. Blood dripped ghoulishly from the end of the stump. Raising it, she declared, “They cut off me arm to steal me ring! For my supper now I must sing! Grant me a penny, sir, else I must steal me bread!” She then wandered off to beg pennies from another Fair-goer.
Following several more equally grisly sights, including an ashen-faced man rising up from a grave dug right into the dirt floor, his eyes hollow and unseeing; and a pair of dark shadow-people dragging a screaming child between them, we eventually emerged from the tunnel. The light outdoors caused us to blink as we readjusted our vision to the bright sunshine. The now laughing villagers alongside us all scattered, most heading to another noisy area of the Fair where a variety of games were now getting underway.
Looking up at Mr. Sheridan, I said, a trifle sadly, “I expect I should alert Mrs. Crumble to my presence now. She will likely have the list of names ready for me to study.”
“Let us linger outdoors a bit longer. Perhaps we might walk a bit.” He aimed a long gaze towards a row of chestnut trees growing nearby, the treetops forming an archway. The rock path beneath the cloistered arch gave onto a meadow; it lush with thick green grass dotted with bluebells, pink poppies and yellow Lady’s Slipper, the colorful blossoms dancing in the breeze.
To such a delightful suggestion coming from such a delightful gentleman, I could not refuse.
Before we set out to walk to the meadow, I peeked into my reticule to check on Little Georgie.
“He’s still sleeping soundly,” I whispered.
Grinning, Mr. Sheridan reached to clasp my hand and we hurried away from the cluster of cottages that comprised the Crumble Estate grounds. The sun beaming warm upon my back and the fresh air wafting about us felt more glorious than any tonic or cure any one of the merchants might be peddling at the Fair.
We followed along a pretty stone path that eventually led away from the rear of the Crumble home. However, the moment we entered the leafy cloister formed by the arched treetops, I thought I heard the sound of weeping.
I paused, my head cocked to one side. “Do you not hear it?”
“I hear only the rustle of the wind through the treetops.”
I looked to both the right and the left. “I am certain I hear the sound of . . . weeping.”
“Methinks it is only the wind you hear. Come, before a spectral vision beckons us to another ghostly snare.”
I shook my head as if to clear it, but still could not resist gazing behind us as we hurried into the treed walkway that would eventually take us into the meadow. Gazing one last time over my shoulder, I paused when I spotted her.
Motioning to Mr. Sheridan, I said, “Just there, partially hidden beyond the low stone wall, a girl is seated upon a bench. Her head is lowered as she sobs.”
“Do you wish to inquire if she is well?”
I pondered. “I-I should not wish to intrude; although she is clearly downcast regarding something.” Again I looked that way in time to see a man approaching. When he sat down beside the girl, I said to Mr. Sheridan. “Perhaps she was to rendezvous with her gentleman friend and had given up hope that he would join her.”
“Appears he has now kept the assignation. Shall we walk on?”
I smiled up at him. “Indeed.”
His hand still holding mine, we tramped wordlessly through the ankle-high grass in the meadow, both inhaling deep breaths of the flower-scented air, both enjoying the feeling of freedom one feels when one leaves one’s cares behind. In no hurry to enter Mrs. Crumble’s home, part of me wished we might continue walking on and on and never return. Each time I thought about the demanding woman, a sense of foreboding settled about me. I did so not wish to spend any more time than was necessary in her company, and certainly not to remain for several days in her home, although it appeared we had no choice. There was no other place for us to stay in the village of Middlewych.
At length, we came upon a shady copse of tall white ash trees amid several centuries-old oaks growing up from the banks of a pretty silver pond, which we had not seen until we were very nearly upon it. A sapphire sky spread above us as far as the eye could see, it sprinkled here and there with clumps of soft white clouds. The din of voices and laughter from the Fair had all but faded into the distance. Here, the world was as still and peaceful as if there were no other souls alive within it save Mr. Sheridan and me. And, Little Georgie. Gazing upward, I caught sight of a multitude of starlings and house-sparrows flitting through the treetops. The low warble from the doves mingled with the merry trill of other birds as they serenaded and called to one another.
In silent agreement, Mr. Sheridan and I sat down upon the grassy bank. I reached to untie the ribbons of my bonnet and let it fall down my back, enjoying the cool breeze off the water as it caressed my cheeks and ruffled the curly ends of my hair. Beside me, Mr. Sheridan whipped off his coat and flung it aside. Leaning against the trunk of a tree, he stretched out his long legs in a relaxed pose, one booted foot crossed over the other at his ankles. Lifting his dark head, the gentle breeze off the water cooled his brow. The thick foliage of trees above us became a swaying umbrella shielding us from the scorching rays of the mid-day sun.
Suddenly, a plaintive mew reminded me that we were not alone. I quickly pulled apart the strings of my reticule and was about to dip inside to scoop up my adorable little black and white kitten when up popped his fuzzy head. I laughed, then with no help from me, Georgie scrambled up and out of his makeshift bed, his short legs wobbling a bit when his sweet pink toes touched earth again.
“Are you ready to play now, Little Georgie?”
I plucked a brown-eyed daisy and began to tickle his nose with it. He instantly lurched to swat at the wiggling blossom. As I held it higher and higher, he seemed to take great delight in springing up to bat at the flower. I could not help laughing at his antics. When at last he caught the flower, I watched him waddle away, proudly carrying his prize in his mouth.
“Mustn’t go too far, little one,” I cautioned.
Mr. Sheridan raised up from his resting place to sit with both arms encircling his knees. “You’ve nothing to fear. I do not believe cats like the water.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. “I daresay if Georgie spotted a fish in the stream, he would likely go after it. He is quite a clever little fellow.”
Mr. Sheridan’s lips twitched as he gazed intently at me. After a pause, he said, “I am pleased you agreed to walk with me, Miss Abbott. Being here with you is far more pleasant that picking our way through the noisy throng of villagers.” Continuing to look at me, he murmured, “I recall you had removed your bonnet the first time I saw you on the sandy shore in Margate. On that day, you were laughing at the antics of your orange cat, neither of you aware that you were being watched.”
Smiling, I replied, “I recall the afternoon, as well, sir. I also recall telling you that a true gentleman would have made his presence known.”
A lazy grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. A moment later, one hand reached over to twirl a curling strand of my hair about his finger. “I’ll wager a true gentleman would also not do this.” Lifting the curl, he held it against his cheek. “Your golden hair feels like silk, Miss Abbott.”
Still smiling, I tilted my head ever so slightly towards him. The moment his finger grazed my cheek, my breath lodged in my throat. Then when his hand slowly moved to cup the back of my head and draw me closer and closer to him, suddenly it felt as if all the breath in my body had abandoned me.
His gaze never left mine as he leaned closer, and closer still.
“Would a gentleman . . . do this?” he murmured, a half second before his moist, warm lips touched mine.
Tingles of desire raced through me. “Oh-h, oh, Mr. Sheridan, you . . . you mustn’t.”
The pressure, and the pleasure, of his lips on mine silenced all further protests. As his lips pressed and moved and tasted mine, my arms wound up and around his neck.
I was certain a lady would not do that, but, oh-h, oh, my . . .
He drew me closer and closer still, ‘til I felt as if we were so very near to one another that our bodies had . . . merged. Suddenly, I knew that here, alone on the banks of this gurgling stream with Mr. Sheridan was a very, very dangerous place to be.
It took the final ounce of will within me to drag my lips from his, and even after I had done so, I found I could still scarcely draw breath. Resting my limp head against his strong chest, I became acutely aware of the hard thump-thump-thumping of his heart beneath my ear.
Mr. Sheridan was as breathless as I.
Me-ow!
“Oh-h.” I swallowed hard as Little Georgie’s cries brought my senses around.
He scrambled up and onto my lap, and began to rub his furry head against my hand.
“Do you want me to pet you now?” I breathed.
One of Mr. Sheridan’s arms continued to encircle my body, his hand resting upon the ground behind me. He reached to stroke the kitten in my lap, the action calling forth purrs of pleasure from Little Georgie’s throat.
“I believe you do like my baby, do you not, sir?” I asked softly.
A brooding gaze held mine. “I like you far more, Miss Abbott.”
I did not know what to say. I felt immeasurably drawn to Mr. Sheridan, of course; what young lady would not? Still, the bald truth was, we scarcely knew one another. We had only met a month ago in Margate . . . where he snatched me from harm’s way; then two days ago at Medley Park, he had again risked his very life to rescue me from certain death.
“I-I do not know how to properly thank you for your bravery, sir. You have saved my life . . . not once, but upon two occasions. I shall forever be in your debt.”
Suddenly, we were both startled when the shrill sound of feminine screams reached our ears. Mr. Sheridan lurched to his feet, his dark eyes alert as he gazed in the direction from which the disturbance was coming.
Scooping up Georgie in my arms, I held him close as I too rose and began to brush bits of leaves and debris from my long skirt. The screams and plaintive cries continued. “That does not sound the least bit like play-acting,” I declared.
“No, it does not. Come, Miss Abbott. It is time for us to return to the house.”
The expression on Mr. Sheridan’s face held concern for our safety. From past experience I knew that he was not a man to be easily frightened. Mr. Sheridan could most assuredly take care of himself. And, he would also take care of me.