Page 36 of The Art of Theft
Hope flared, a sensation like fire on a winter night. If they could get out of this infernal place, they might reach safety yet. He yanked Mr. Marbleton forward. In reality they were most likely doddering along, but it felt like a sprint.
He almost slammed his shoulder into wrought iron pickets before he realized they’d reached the fence. The burst of nervous energy from earlier still held. He helped shove Mr. Marbleton over the fence and got over himself on his third attempt.
By which time Mr. Marbleton had sat down and was already dozing. His heart sank. “Move, young man. You fall asleep here and you’ll never see Olivia Holmes again.”
Mr. Marbleton mumbled something unintelligible.
He pulled Mr. Marbleton upright yet again. “We have to go. Think of some place warm. Think of being there again.”
It was a whole league to Mouret, an hour on foot under normal circumstances. But they—who didn’t have spare clothes—must walk in the same sodden garments. He didn’t know whether they could make the trip in an hour and a half. Or even two hours.
Within twenty minutes he was as exhausted as he’d ever been. It still rained, and the wind had picked up. Cold cut into his skin like surgical scalpels. His mind was becoming duller, and Mr. Marbleton, whom he half supported, grew heavier with each step.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he repeated mechanically. “Say something. Think of the sun in summer.”
No reply. Mr. Marbleton hadn’t said anything in at least five minutes. He suspected that the young man was asleep on his feet. He should halt and shake him until he was sure the latter was awake, but he was afraid that if he stopped moving forward, even if it was only for a second, they would both collapse in a heap.
Mr. Marbleton croaked something.
He gave Mr. Marbleton more whisky.
“Andal—Andalusia,” said Mr. Marbleton hoarsely. “Warm. Hot.”
Even in his reduced state Lord Ingram recognized that Mr. Marbleton was making a herculean effort. He walked a little faster. His heart, which was beating most sluggishly, sped up some. “Tell me more about Andalusia.”
“I like it.” Mr. Marbleton dropped his head on Lord Ingram’s shoulder. “I love it.”
“You lived there?”
“Years ago.” The answer came after a long pause. “Do you think—do you think that Miss Olivia will like it?”
Lord Ingram realized dimly that he knew a great deal about Miss Olivia via his long correspondence with her younger sister. “Yes, I think so. Miss Olivia enjoys warmth and brightness. She will find Andalusia much to her taste.”
Another long pause. “That’s wonderful. Will you help us forge another letter from my mother one of those days, my lord?”
Ah, so he was already thinking ahead to the future. Despite his numb cheeks, Lord Ingram smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
Mr. Marbleton spoke some more of Andalusia. Their conversation slowed as they plodded on. After some time, even Lord Ingram stopped speaking. It took all his energy to put one foot in front of the other.
He imagined Holmes in her comfortable, four-poster bed at Hôtel Papillon in Paris. He imagined climbing into that bed, holding her tight, her warmth spreading along his skin and into his sinews.
The vision kept him going, dragging Mr. Marbleton along.
When the inn came into view, he was too worn out to feel any proper jubilation. To the contrary, he remembered, with a rattle of dismay, that because the inn’s proprietor bolted the front door at night, he and Mr. Marbleton had climbed out of the window on knotted sheets.
The thought of the sheet rope inundated him with despair. In his current state, he wouldn’t be able to get himself up, let alone Mr. Marbleton.
But when he got close to the inn, the front door creaked open. Mrs. Watson and Miss Olivia stood before it, their anxious faces the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld.
The ladies rushed out and took over supporting Mr. Marbleton. One under each of his arms, they helped him up the stairs. Lord Ingram somehow remembered to bolt the door after himself, before he half-climbed, half-crawled up the steps.
As soon as they were in Mrs. Watson’s room, with the door closed, Mrs. Watson said, “Miss Olivia, I need you to help me take off Mr. Marbleton’s clothes. Every item.”
She glanced at Lord Ingram.
“I can disrobe myself,” he said, when all he wanted was to drop to the floor in a heap and sleep until the end of the world.
Helpfully she provided a dressing robe. He groped his way to behind a screen and stripped. His wet clothes seemed glued to his body, and his hands were about as useful as those of an eighty-year-old arthritic. But he pulled and shoved every last thread of fabric from his body and put on the robe.
