“I’ll see you Monday morning, then,” the curate called out.
“Monday?” He swung back. “I—can we not do it now?”
The clergyman smiled wider, showing large, uneven teeth. “The Sabbath approaches, my son. There will be no weddings until Monday.”
“But…”
“Bring with you two witnesses and a pistol—the latter will make it go faster.” He winked at Robert. “I have five other weddings Monday, so come early or expect to wait. Good evening.” He disappeared, shutting the door behind him, leaving Robert standing openmouthed.
Where was he going to get a pistol? And, even more difficult, whatever would he do with Amy until Monday? He cursed himself, loudly, for acting without planning first, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Surely cursing in a house of the Lord was much worse than cursing elsewhere.
He bolted for the door.
His heart was pounding so hard that it took him a few moments to notice the hackney’s door was wide open and he could hear someone running down the street.
Amy had escaped.
FORTY-FOUR
AMY RAN AS fast as she could, clutching the blanket in front where her hands were tied together. It flapped behind her, floating in the draft, not providing any warmth to speak of. But she held on to it for dear life, knowing it could save her from freezing to death later on, if she couldn’t find shelter.
With every jarring step, pain burst in her throbbing head. Racing along the scum-lined street, she stumbled over rocks and debris. A sharp sliver sliced into one bare foot, but she scarcely noticed. As she turned onto Whitechapel she developed a stitch in her side, but she scarcely noticed that, either. She was too preoccupied with the pounding feet she heard approaching—feet that were bound to be Robert’s, since she’d seen no other soul in the gray, foggy night.
She ducked into a narrow space between two buildings and hunched over there, trying with little success to maneuver the blanket around her shivering shoulders. The nightgown she’d borrowed from Kendra was all but useless against the winter cold.
Robert ran past, panting heavily, a dark shadow against the fog. She held her breath and flattened herself against one of the walls, trying to make herself invisible.
As his echoing footsteps faded away, Amy released her breath. The stench of rotting refuse made her want to gag. Still, she forced herself to stay motionless, pressed against the rough, cold stone wall for what seemed like hours, though she knew it was only minutes.
As the chill seeped into her body, penetrating to her very bones, she listened. She heard a baby crying, a couple’s raised, angry voices, her own heart thudding in her chest.
The footsteps didn’t return.
Minutes ticked by. She grew colder still; she would have to find shelter soon. Barefoot, clad in only a thin white nightgown and blanket, gagged and with her wrists bound, she imagined herself to be quite a sight. Regardless, someone would doubtless help her, take her in for the night, if only she could get to their front door. The arguing couple was her best bet—at least she knew they were home and awake.
Not an attractive alternative, but she was in no position to be choosy.
She waited a few more agonizing minutes, while her heart slowed to its normal rhythm, her breathing became more regular, and her shivering escalated to new heights. Finally convinced she had escaped successfully, she decided to venture forth.
Her deep, fortifying breath created a cloud in the frigid air. She peeled herself away from the wall and limped to the edge of the buildings. Her eyes now adjusted to the unlit London streets, she stuck her head out and looked both ways, seeing nothing that alarmed her, although she couldn’t see far through the fog.
She thought the bickering couple lived across the narrow street, down Whitechapel to the right. The hazy yellow of a lit window in approximately the right place confirmed her guess.
Steeling herself to leave her cramped, freezing cold haven of safety, she counted. One, two, three…now.
She bolted across the street, angling toward the comforting light of the window. Suddenly, a rickety noise sliced through the blanket of fog as a coach came barreling around the corner. Releasing a whimper of fright that was muffled by the gag in her mouth, she dropped her blanket in the middle of the street and, reaching the other side, took a sharp left, running the opposite direction of the coach’s travel.
It was no use. Before the hackney even screeched to a halt, Robert jumped off and gained on her immediately.
A fierce tug on the back of her nightgown brought her stumbling to her knees. She broke her fall with her elbows and bound fists. Numb with cold and shock, she scarcely registered the new scrapes. An instant later, Robert threw himself on top of her, forcing her facedown into the dirt and knocking the wind out of her lungs.
“Curses and furies!” he hollered. “Did you think you could actually escape me?”
Even had she not been gagged and breathless, she wouldn’t have answered him.
Darkness had closed in again.
MORNING SUN fought to illuminate the room through a small dirt-streaked window. Blinking in the dimness, Amy struggled toward consciousness. Although she was alone and ungagged, her hands were still bound together. She was lying in a bed. Beneath a dirty, threadbare blanket, her feet were tied to the bedposts.
She lay still, taking stock of herself. Her head ached, her knees and elbows burned, her body felt stiff and sore, bruised all over. She needed a chamber pot, but that would have to wait.
Diminished but still whole, she was determined to fight Robert to her last breath.
Her scraped elbows were roughly crusted over with new scabs that cracked and opened when she moved. She licked her dry lips, tasting coppery blood
