Page 23 of Weave me a Rope
She did not mention John—obviously fearing the letter might fall into the wrong hands. Wise girl. But it was clear Mr. Milton had accepted his brother, which was a weight off Spen’s mind.
The letter was signed, “With all my love, Cordelia.” Spen wanted to wear it next to his heart, but he allowed common sense to prevail and tucked it away into the pocket he had gouged from his mattress.
Just as well, for the marquess arrived later in the day, and was furious to find him still refusing the marriage. He ordered Spen beaten again and demanded Spen’s one daily meal be halved. If Spen had been carrying the letter, Fielder would have found it when he stripped Spen’s shirt off.
Fielder whispered an apology as he tied Spen for the whipping, and again when releasing him, but the beating wasn’t so bad. Fielder hadn’t laid on with enthusiasm as he had the first time but had not been able to avoid opening some of the healing scabs. All to the good, for the blood satisfied the marquess that Spen had been adequately punished, and he left, warning Spen there would be worse to come if Spen persisted in his defiance.
“I’ll recall that brat from school and beat him in your place,” he threatened.
Spen found it hard to contain his joy at the marquess’s involuntary revelation.He does not know John has been here, let alone that he is gone.
It was Fielder who saw to Spen’s wounds this time, carefully and gently spreading the salve. “His lordship has ordered I amthe only one to see you, my lord,” the man explained. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
“I don’t hold you accountable for the orders you have to follow, Fielder,” Spen assured him. “I hope the housekeeper is not in trouble for nursing me last time.”
Fielder shrugged. “The marquess does not know, my lord. Nobody told him.” Which meant Fielder hadn’t told his master. That was promising.
Spen decided to go fishing. “Has my brother returned to school? Or has he gone back to Rosewood Towers?”
“I don’t know, my lord.” Fielder sounded hesitant, but after a moment, he added, “He is not still here at Deerhaven.”
Spen pushed a little. “My father seems to think he is at school, but it is the summer holidays, is it not?”
Fielder thought about that. “I wouldn’t know, my lord,” he admitted after a while.
Spen waited to see if he had anything more to say and was rewarded when Fielder added. “He left suddenly. The kitchen sent up a dinner and a breakfast before the maid reported they had not been eaten, and the young master’s bed had not been slept in.”
Spen didn’t have to pretend surprise.It took nearly a whole day before anyone noticed John had gone?“What did the marquess say about John’s departure?” Disappearance, Spen had nearly said.
“Not my place to ask,” Fielder grumbled. “Lord Deerhaven has commanded no one speak to him of Lord John.”
Spen wanted to laugh. The marquess’s distaste for any mention of John had given Spen’s brother his freedom. He controlled himself enough to pretend concern. “I hope my brother is all right. Perhaps someone should write to Rosewood Towers to check whether he is there.”
A safe enough suggestion. Spen doubted Fielder would do anything about it. Sure enough, the man said, “Not my place, my lord.”
It had been the longest conversation Spen and Fielder had ever had, and it had broken the ice. After that, they always talked during Fielder’s daily visit. At five in the afternoon by the stable clock, give or take a few minutes, Fielder would turn up with hot water for Spen to wash and Spen’s one daily meal. Bread and water, by the marquess’s command, and not much of that.
Fielder gave the room a cursory clean, gruffly expressing his thanks to Spen for keeping the place tidy. Spen felt a little guilty for accepting praise for hiding the evidence of his attempts to get through the bars and of the largesse delivered every second day by Cordelia’s servants.
After he’d finished, Fielder removed any waste—the tray from the previous night’s meal, last night’s bucket, and the chamber pot. “Sleep well, my lord,” he would say.
“You, too, Fielder,” Spen replied. The poor man was nearly as much a prisoner as Spen, forced to live in the outer room of the tower prison, going nowhere and seeing no one except Spen and whomever the housekeeper sent to fetch and carry.
In fact, thanks to Cordelia’s men, Spen was probably better off than Fielder. His days were long, but Andrew and Charles brought him plenty of food, books to read, drawing and writing materials, a pack of cards, and replacement chisels as he wore the others down chipping away at the stone sill. Bit by bit, he was making a hollow around one of the bars. Eventually, he’d have a hole large enough to slide it beyond the sill and let it drop.
He had not been able to chisel for more than a few minutes at the start. His hands, already red and sore from twisting his rope, blistered and then toughened. His wrists and arms ached. His shoulders, too. But day by day, they strengthened, and he was able to work for longer periods of time.
The biggest impediment to progress was the need to be quiet. He couldn’t afford for Fielder to investigate any suspicious noises. Fortunately, the walls and the door were thick.
The relief baskets also carried letters from Cordelia and sometimes from John, and the men took away any food he hadn’t been able to eat, and also the letters Spen wrote.
Spen would escape as soon as he could, but in the meantime, he was not uncomfortable.
He was not left entirely undisturbed. He had two visits from his father’s steward in the next two weeks and gave the man the same answer he’d given the marquess. He refused his father’s match. He would not change his mind.
The steward asked his questions and went away, leaving Spen to take out the chisel he had hastily hidden and return to his work.
Then came disaster.
