Maureen pushed wide the draperies of Curtis’s vacant bedchamber and watched as the only two men she trusted were driven to the train station in the downpour.
“Keep them safe, and hurry them back, Lord,” she whispered as she stripped the sheets from the bed, collected soiled bath linens, and handed them off to the young maid in the hallway. Here I am, prayin’ again. As though You listen to me. She shook her head. But she hesitated, duster in hand. Are You there?
To stall for time apart from Belgadt and his staff, Maureen swept the floor and beat the carpets, oiled and rubbed the mahogany found in the furniture and woodwork, polished the lamp brass and andirons, scrubbed the washbowl, and trimmed the lamps—all she could imagine to ready the room for Curtis’s return. Oh, that they could have taken me with them!
With Drake Meitland’s phone call, Curtis had given up the search for documents; it was too risky to remain. The most they’d dared hope was to leave the house and bring in authorities that very day to release the women being held, exposing Belgadt and his operation through the passageway that Maureen had discovered the night she followed Harder into the study. Such an arrest would not penetrate the web of the organization, nor would it enable them to trace the whereabouts of women already trafficked. Indeed, it put them all at risk for Belgadt’s retaliation. But it would at least free the group of women being held at the moment. Maureen had prayed that Eliza and Alice were among them, alive and well.
But Victor Belgadt had foiled even that plan. Maureen and Joshua had been packed and waiting by the door when, at the last moment, Belgadt had insisted Curtis leave Maureen as collateral.
“Collateral?” Curtis had played the unbelieving and indignant guest. “You jest.”
“I never jest.” And Belgadt had clearly meant it, revolver in hand. “Until you return with Meitland and our new shipment is secured.” He’d motioned the underbutler to return Maureen’s luggage to her room.
She’d seen the protective rise in Joshua’s chest and known he was about to protest. But realizing that all their lives and the lives of the women beyond the bookcase were at stake, she trusted them to return for her and stepped quickly forward. “I’ll make certain your room is ready for your return, sir.”
She’d turned before another word could be spoken and climbed the stairs to Curtis’s room, taking refuge in her duties.
If I’d not stayed, all would have fallen apart in the moment, and Mr. Belgadt would have surely moved the women before we could return—might do so yet.
If they bring the police to release the women today as planned, I’ll be rescued. But if Curtis truly goes to Washington in an attempt to keep Drake Meitland out of the way longer, I may have another day to wait—and search. But how or where? The moment Drake telephones, the moment he cries foul . . . the women in the tunnel will be moved. We’ll all be exposed. Curtis and Joshua will be tracked down. She dared not guess their end or her own, though frightening images stole through her brain.
She drew a deep breath, pushing the air down into her belly, held it for a count of five, then allowed it to escape her lips in a slow and steady stream—a strategy she repeated throughout the morning in an effort to maintain her sanity.
If they don’t return with the police by midafternoon, I’ll know their plans have changed. I’ll play this out as long as I can.
By two o’clock Maureen had made her decision. If I must stay the night, I’ll risk searchin’ for the safe. There must be one on that far wall. Mr. Belgadt’s eyes shot there as he was tryin’ to decide what to do—just before the phone call. We all saw.
But what if I find it? How will I get ledgers out of the house and safely away in this weather?
As windswept torrents of rain continued to pour and beat against the house deep into the afternoon, Maureen’s brain whirred. By the time she served Mr. Belgadt’s late afternoon drink, her head ached with an intensity she’d never known. Every muscle in her neck and back and shoulders screamed.
“You seem troubled, Mary,” Belgadt crooned sympathetically.
“It’s nothin’, sir. Just a headache.” She gave a feeble smile.
“Pity,” he soothed, rising from his chair.
She stepped back, but her reticence did not deter him.
He motioned for her to sit down.
“I’d best help Mrs. Beaton with dinner, sir.”
But he placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her firmly into the nearest chair. “No, Mary. Not tonight. Nancy can give her all the help she needs. I won’t hear of you working when you’re not feeling well.” He began to massage her shoulders, her neck, her temples. “We must make certain you’re in fine condition for your employer’s return.” He ran his hands down her arms and up again. “Mustn’t we?”
Maureen heard the simpering smile, the knowledge of power in his voice. Her stomach turned.
His hands finally rested on her shoulders, a brace surrounding the base of her neck. “Feeling better, Mary?”
“Yes, sir.” She swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady, willing her skin not to crawl into a shiver, praying her wig did not slip.
“Perhaps you’d like to go to bed early tonight. Too much tension isn’t good for a woman.”
Her heart flipped into her stomach. She felt the panic rise as bile in her throat. “I’m afraid I’m not well and ever so likely to be sick, sir.” She coughed loudly, then bolted from the chair, gagging, apron to her mouth, not waiting for his response.
It was not hard to plead a sick stomach and pounding headache when Nancy came to her locked door. “Tell Mrs. Beaton I’m sorry; I’m ill and cannot serve tonight. I’ve gone to bed.” At least it is my bed, and I’m alone. But when Nancy’s footsteps had faded down the hallway, she rose, trembling, and checked the lock again.