Constance woke with a start, jerking herself upright in bed. Full morning sunlight bathed the room in a yellow light, filtered through the shifting light of trees. Outside, she could hear birds calling.
She shuddered at the memory of last night. She remembered Whitham's triumphant expression as he took her; his sure thrusts, his muscles, his male organ. Oh god, thought Constance, her face crumpling in tears. Had he really done all that? But she felt the slight ache between her thighs and the tenderness of her breasts, and knew it must be true. She looked down at body as though she could still see the marks his hands had left. A few hot tears splashed onto her breasts. Worst of all, she remembered that she had begged for him in the end. She hung her head, letting the heaving sobs overtake her. How could she have done such a thing? She should have run away when she had the chance. Why didn't she wake up sooner, or run away from him in the carriage? Guild, horrible burning guilt, churned through her body.
She had trusted him, once. Throughout her childhood she had known Whitham as her brother's friend. He was always laughing, hatching a new plot with George. Constance was somewhat in awe of them and their easy friendship, when she was usually left without playmates. It seemed bizarre to admit it now, but she even once harboured the smallest romantic sentiment for Whitham, though she knew that he would never return such feelings. She laughed bitterly. How wrong she had been! In the end, Constance never expected that he would have betrayed her so awfully. In the carriage, even as he tied her to the bed, she never really believed that he could do such a thing to her, that he could rape her
She would have been missed at home by now, she realized. They would have known she was gone as early as when the maid came in to light the fire. Constance imagined the expressions of shock and disbelief on the faces of the staff. Undoubtedly the rumours were already starting to spread. She dreaded what Caroline Everett and her mother would be saying about her, both horrible gossips, who disliked Constance very much for all they pretended to be friendly with her. Would they believe that she hadn't left of her own accord?
That was a sobering thought. She dried her eyes, and breathed deeply. On the dressing table under the window someone had placed a ewer and a basin of water. Constance washed her hands and face. She felt vulnerable in her nakedness. Her nightgown, or what was left of it, was of little use. She wrapped herself in one of the cleaner sheets from the bed, reminding herself that if she wanted to escape she would have to find some better clothes. She caught her reflection in the small looking-glass. Her eyes were red from crying, but shone a brilliant blue underneath. She quickly looked away and began to examine her surroundings.
The room was small, a lesser bedroom of a fine house. There was a single door, which she found was locked when she tried to open it. Against another wall there was a small sort of fireplace, next to a fine writing desk. The fire crackled happily, and Constance was glad for the warmth; it had been a cool summer so far. Undoubtedly the same person who brought in the water had also thought to light the fire. Constance wondered about the maid. Perhaps she would help Constance to escape.
The bed, a beautiful old bed with mahogany posts and rich crimson hangings was the centrepiece of the room. Constance frowned and looked away. She was already far too well acquainted with that particular piece of furniture.
Above the dressing table there was a small window, the only one in the room. This bedroom must have been chosen as her prison for its seclusion to the outside world. Constance tried to open the window, but it was stuck. Two nails had been placed above the lower frame, preventing its being raised. A very large oak tree grew right in front of the window, blocking most of the view. She could only catch a glimpse of the green countryside disappearing into the distance. Even if she could open the window, it was a straight drop down to the garden below.
Constance sighed in frustration, and began pacing the room.
She needed to write to her brother. It was imperative that he know of Whitham's plan for revenge. He would have to send someone to free her, because he couldn't come himself without risking being killed. George had to know that Whitham wanted him dead before he discovered where she was and came himself to rescue her.
Constance quickly crossed the room to the writing desk and opened the top. It was entirely empty; all the contents seemed to have been removed in a hurry. There was not a pen or a scrap of paper to be seen. Whitham must have anticipated her.
"Damn!" she whispered, stomping her foot in aggravation.
Next to the writing desk there was a bookshelf, containing a few dusty volumes and other trinkets. She opened one of the books. As she had hoped, there were a few blank pages at the back. She tore these out and replaced the book on the shelf. Now she only needed a pen and ink. Blood, she thought, might work, but that would certainly not have the effect of calming her brother and assuring him of her safety. There must be something better.
She surveyed the room slowly, her eye happening on anything that could be used to inscribe a message on the torn pages. She was thinking quickly. Even if she actually managed to compose the letter, she would still need to send it. For that she would need money, for the postage and to bribe the maid to take it for her. A couple of half-crowns would cover it, if that, she thought. Her frustration was immense, having always been able to obtain money when she needed it. She regretted every penny she had ever overlooked lying in the gutter, realizing now that it might mean the difference between freedom and captivity.
Absently, she walked over to the fireplace, noting that the flame would need tending or else it would go out. The fire poker had been removed, she observed, but there was still a small pair of tongs. She knelt next to the grate, careful to keep her sheets clear of the flame. The wood was smouldering inside; glowing ash and black charcoal.
Charcoal! She reached inside the fire and pulled out a blackened piece of wood that had been left untouched in the corners. It was warm to the touch, but not hot. She broke it with her fingers. It splintered easily, covering her fingers with a fine black powder.
She nearly laughed with delight. She sat on the floor and printed her message on the torn papers in large block letters like a child.
Dearest George,
Mr. Whitham abducted me in my sleep last night. He is holding me in a room in a house by the sea, I do not know where. I cannot escape, and he says that if you come to rescue me he will kill you. Do not come, but send for help when you can. I am well, and in no immediate danger.
Your loving sister,
Constance
She re-read the letter when she finished, it covered the two sheets of paper. There was not room to write much, but she hoped it conveyed everything she knew. She folded the paper over carefully. She could almost conceal it in the palm of her hand.
Constance tied the package shut with a scrap of ribbon from her old nightgown. On the front she wrote the direction, rubbing the charcoal over the letters repeatedly so that they would remain clear.
She admired the finished letter at arms' length. When her brother received it, he would surely send someone to help. Even allowing for travelling time, Constance was certain that she would be free in a week.
Smiling to herself, she hid the letter under the mattress. Then, eyeing the hangings around the bed, she decided to make herself a travelling dress.
* * *
Whitham looked up impatiently over the paper he was reading. There were sounds coming from upstairs, he was sure of it. There was a certain rhythmic quality to the thumping. Then, it would stop for a moment before continuing again. What could she be doing? It sounded like—he laughed a little to himself—it sounded like
creaking bedsprings
, he thought.
No, he decided, with a shake of his head. No one else knew that she was in the house, except for his trusted housekeeper, whom he had brought with him. And his butler, Richards, of course, but Richards wouldn't dare—no matter how tempting she might be.
And she was tempting, indeed. His cock stirred at the memory of her soft flesh, the way she had rocked her hips in time with his, the look of confusion and wonder on her face when he had finally claimed her virginity. He remembered the way her hair lay spread over the sheets when he left at dawn; copper rivulets gleaming in the new light, shining brightly against her alabaster skin. He should have taken her right there, grabbing fistfuls of her radiant locks, twisting her surprised face to meet his. Her mouth looked to be so soft, and yet he had not tasted it, he recalled. He imagined her lips enclosing around the end of his thick manhood, her tongue swirling around him, taking him deeper and deeper—
