Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR part 1

Circumnavigating their fortuitously discovered hidden passageway, the party stopped seldom enough to wonder on what diverse elaborations spiders may weave for their intended suppers.

Charity, having been given the opportunity to quickly divest herself amidst the darkling shadows of the vermilion evening attire was soon clothed in a hacking jacket and matching skirt - all designed in grey velvet. As though by unseen helpers, she took a candlestick from Molly's hands and forced their rate of exit higher than normal prudence would generally have indicated. 

Molly, forgetful in her rush, had recouped her own travelling bag before finally flushing their secret doorway closed. It was now being held in the capable hands of her brother. With Charity in front, seemingly esoterically-tutored in her treadings, the order ranked behind her was Molly, then John Fibbins, with the group rounded up by His Lordship, Lord Seyton Clover. 

It was evident that the passage-way had been kept cloistered and under conditions sub-rosa for some many years, yet the air which filled the narrow, winding and gloomy place was fresh enough.

After a fifteen minute transit, the party stopped to catch their breath. Lord Seyton Clover would have taken Charity in his arms and lavished upon her the comfort of his own relief at finding her in one piece, if not ‘intact’. She, for her part, would have none of it. She seemed charged with a strange and compelling magnetism, an aura of command which demanded both admiration and attention.

Kissing him pre-emptively, her eyes glazed with a seer’s sightings, she motioned her companions to resume their treading over the rough passage of their travailings. Once, she turned and spoke, in a low, level tone: “Have heart, for we shall not be much longer in this grotesque parody of an Arcadian pathway!” 

How she had come to this conclusion, none of the party knew; but such was the extreme of fate-spill which they had all recently been enmeshed in, they did not doubt that she spoke the truth. A small chink of greyish-white light began to trickle in a shallow line across the horizon of their directed feet. “See! See! We are coming to the light, just as I was told we should!” 

Charity’s voice was low but eloquent with her excitement: “Soon we shall be away from this ...this...place!” 

Sure enough, even as the words were flying batlike over her thrusting shoulder, they reached a door cut into the rock. All around the edges, light was streaming, forming a natural frame. “There should be somewhere a handle methinks...” Charity beckoned Lord Seyton Clover beside her,”Your Lordship, Seyton,” she allowed a nuance of tenderness to creep into her tones, “Please be so kind as to hold this light whilst I twist this, as I know how to.” 

He, for his part, looked startled at this apparent knowledge which she possessed, for surely she would not, during her time of certain captivity, been allowed such shuttered and privileged information: it might have tempted her to escape sooner! 

He was befuddled at the mercurial confusion his mind was cartwheeling with. Charity manipulated the stiff wheel. It moved a fraction then seized up. Holding her breath, she repeated her previous ministrations. There was an ominously loud report as the tumblers within the device found their true flushings. 

Cautiously, she began pulling the door too, for it was grooved to swing backwards and into the tunnel which they were in the process of quitting.

“Please, Charity. Let me be the first. That way, if there is any danger, I am more than adequately armed to give us at least a fighting chance!” 

She had no wish to argue with the obvious logic of this statement and, stepping decorously aside, watched bright-eyed as His Lordship took the initiative - and mayhap - the offensive. He was mystified as to what building they might have found their way into, for a building it was. Low, long and musky with decades of disuse, but a standing edifice nonetheless. Molly and John Fibbins, anxious not to be outdone and to be out of the dim sheets of the interior which they were still encased in, moved stealthily and noiselessly forward. 

If the couple, latterly removed from the density of the tunnel were optimistic of greeting strident daylight, then how disappointed they would have become. For though it was day it was apparent that the temperaments of Nature were in accord with the unnatural events of the preceding night and the enflamed dawn. 

Grey, smoke-white vapours shifted about the interior of the structure, like disincarnated beings; wraiths devoid of their natural habitat. The dryness of pre-dawn was succeeded by cloud pillows of fine, cloying rain which spilled in billowing drifts outside the place. Lord Seyton Clover, staring hard about himself and catching sight of a whorled cluster of blueblack blooms spilling in on thin tendrils from the external walls, had more than an inkling where they had reached.

It was none other than the interior of the pavilion he had noticed on his first, subversive visit to the estate. Charity seemed garbed now in the fragilely-tinted suiting, to be all but as a piece companioned to the mists and veils which were slowly eddying about the space. Even the lightness of her footsteps as she moved stealthily to a window; there, to place her ungloved hand upon the cold stone, she seemed to be executed with an otherworldly grace. As though she had been drawn from some ethers which are common only to the rarest of dreams. 

Her hair, uncovered, was paler than washed gold, with a haze defining the outlines like the moon’s, seen on cloud-filled, starscarce nights. Lord Seyton Clover caught his breath, for there was something uncanny, so soul-shakingly spook-ridden about this place and seeming to emanate from the young woman whom he loved so ardently. He was, in a word, frightened.

As though sensing his uneasy state of mind, Charity withdrew from her position beside the unglazed window and, smiling, walked towards him. In that strange light and with those movements, he could have sworn that her sapphire blue eyes seemed the colour of icen ponds, the darkened lashes throwing up the strangely unnatural light brilliance of her paled irises.

She smiled and came towards him and with the act of smiling, her face seemed to be transfused with natural colour, so once more he looked upon his charge - his protégée - nay, his prodigy and his love - Miss Charity Cottrell.

A different shade of expression hued her cheeks. Reaching up towards her jacket, she lowered her eyes and with nervous fingers, tried in vain to pull the too-tight edges of the jacket together.