How was Matthew? Dear Lord, let him come through this. Gaps between the wagon’s timbers allowed air to enter, but sounds from outside were muffled. Monks was still shouting. For once, she heard an uncertain note in his bluster. Usually he was imperturbable and confident. Matthew’s sudden attack must have rattled him. Filey made increasingly desperate suggestions about what to do.
“Reckon we should take him to the house.” She didn’t recognize the slow, Somerset-accented voice.
“Aye,” Monks said. “Aye, we’ll take him to the house.” Then more loudly, “Woman! Shift your scrawny arse. Filey, you grab his legs.”
“He’s in a right taking,” Filey said. “I seen nowt like this since he was a lad.”
“Shut your gob, man,” Monks snarled. “What is that halfwit bitch doing? Woman!”
“Eh, you know she hears nowt.”
“Aye, fucking useless cow. Go and fetch the dozy jade.”
Grace held her breath as she waited for Filey to come for his wife. Another pile of washing landed over her and she barely managed to smother a gasp of terror.
What if Filey became suspicious about the size of the load of laundry? What if he decided to check it?
“Monks wants you, Maggie.” Filey spoke slowly so his wife could read his lips.
Grace hadn’t been this close to him since he’d tried to rape her. The memory of Filey’s reeking body pinning her to the ground rose like a miasma and she closed her throat against the urge to gag. If he dangled one of those thick hands over the edge of the wagon, he’d touch her. And Matthew wouldn’t be able to save her this time.
“Aye, I’m a-comin’,” Mrs. Filey said in a curiously flat voice. It was the first time Grace had ever heard her speak. “I got another lot of washing to get oot first.”
“Eh, that’s nowt to worry about. His sodding lordship’s taken a right bad turn. Happen the laundry can bide till next time.”
Grace struggled to stop herself shivering. Every muscle tensed to the edge of pain as she waited for them to go.
Or for Filey to reach down and toss back the sheets.
Filey and his wife moved away after what felt like an eternity. Only when they’d gone did Grace snatch a shallow breath into her air-starved lungs. The sick dizziness receded. Carefully, she rel
axed each cramped muscle.
Could she chance one last look to see if Matthew was all right? No, the risk was too great. Every beat of her heart was a frantic prayer for him to live. To live so she could save him from this hell.
“Should we stay and aid ’ee?” the unknown man, obviously one of the drivers, asked from near the front of the cart. “The nags don’t like to stand so long in the sun.”
“No, there’s nowt more you can do,” Monks said. “Happen we’ll see you next week.”
“Arr, well, I be off then. Is all loaded?”
“Fuck the laundry. His lordship can sleep in dirty sheets for the nonce. Mad bugger won’t notice the difference.”
“He don’t look mad to I,” the voice said. “Though he don’t look blooming ayther.”
“Arr, he b’aint well,” another Somerset voice said very slowly.
“Aye, well, you’re no sawbones, Banks,” Monks snapped. “I’ll take the quack’s word over yourn any day. Now be off. Lord John doesn’t pay you good brass to blather here.”
Grace curled up in taut stillness as she heard the men approach the wagon. Would they check the laundry? She began to wish she’d followed the original plan and sneaked away to find cover in the surrounding area. But it was too late to change her reckless decision.
Her heart skipped a beat as the wagon lurched. Then she realized the cart moved because the two men took their places on the bench. Someone clicked their tongue to the horses and the cart jolted into motion.
She was on her way. Pray God next time she saw this cursed estate, she came to set her lover free.
“I want a piss real bad, nipper. How ’bout ’ee?” The older, more talkative driver spoke in a slurred voice.
Grace, who had fallen into a strange trance under the stifling weight of the laundry, stirred to full alertness. She wasn’t surprised their bladders needed emptying. They’d swigged steadily since leaving the estate hours ago. Even from her hiding place, she could smell the sickly cider fumes in the hot afternoon air. Thank goodness, the horses seemed to know where they went because the drivers became more intoxicated with every mile.