WebNovels

Chapter 53 - The Shadow In The Woods

The hours crawled by, each minute stretching into an eternity of stifled dread within Sandra's sickroom. The cheerful spring light filtering through the window felt like a mockery. Alexander, blessedly unaware, had been coaxed to sleep by Clara and taken to the nursery. Eleanor sat quietly nearby, ostensibly mending, but her eyes kept flicking to the window facing the dark expanse of the east wood, her needlework forgotten in her lap. The air hummed with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on.

Sandra lay rigid against her pillows, every rustle of leaves outside, every creak of the old house, sending her pulse skittering. She imagined Paul and Davies moving through the inky blackness beneath the ancient oaks, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the oppressive silence broken only by their careful footsteps and the distant hoot of an owl. Her mind conjured images of Silas Crowe – a gnarled, malevolent figure waiting in the shadows of his tumbledown cottage, pipe clenched between yellowed teeth, eyes gleaming with resentment and the promise of violence. The bundle Clara had seen… had it held the saw? Had he watched the scaffolding fall? Had he felt triumph, or merely a bitter satisfaction, as Mrs. Bell screamed?

Eleanor rose silently, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher. Her hand trembled slightly. "They'll be careful," she murmured, more to herself than to Sandra. "Mr. Davies is thorough. Paul… he won't take unnecessary risks." The unspoken *'not with you here, like this'* hung heavy in the air.

Sandra managed a tight nod, her throat too dry to speak. The baby stirred within her, a sharp, insistent kick against her ribs, as if sensing her distress. She pressed a hand to the spot, a silent plea for calm she couldn't feel herself. Placenta previa. The words echoed Dr. Evans's stern warning. Any shock, any surge of adrenaline… *catastrophic*. She closed her eyes, forcing slow, deep breaths, fighting the panic that threatened to engulf her. She had to be still. For the baby. For Paul. But the waiting was a form of torture.

Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed midnight. Its deep, resonant tones seemed to vibrate through the floorboards, marking the witching hour, the time when shadows deepened and hidden things stirred. Sandra's eyes flew open, fixed on the window. The woods were a solid wall of black now, swallowing the moonlight.

Suddenly, a cacophony shattered the night's fragile peace – not from the woods, but from within Blackwood itself. A woman's scream, high-pitched and raw with terror, tore through the corridors, followed by the frantic barking of the estate's mastiff, Brutus, usually a placid guardian. Then came the unmistakable, sickening crash of breaking glass.

Eleanor gasped, dropping the glass of water. It shattered on the floor, water spreading like dark blood. Sandra tried to surge upright, instinct overriding caution. "Alexander!"

"Stay down!" Eleanor commanded, her voice cracking with fear but laced with surprising steel. She flew to the door, locking it with a decisive click before rushing to the window, peering out into the darkness below. "I can't see… the commotion seems to be near the kitchens… the scullery window!"

Another scream echoed, closer this time, filled with pure panic. "Fire! Fire!"

The word sent ice flooding Sandra's veins. *Fire*. Sabotage, distraction, or a direct attack? Had Crowe doubled back? Had he not been at the cottage at all? Or was this another player? Her mind raced, fragmented by terror for her child, her home, Paul out in the woods. The baby kicked violently again, a painful protest against the surge of adrenaline.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway outside – heavy, running footsteps. A man's voice, one of the younger footmen, shouted, "East scullery! Blazing! Fetch water! Bucket line!"

Sandra clutched her belly, the room tilting. *Breathe. Stay calm. For the baby.* But images of the Riverside Mills fire, the screams Paul had described, flooded her mind. Blackwood, her sanctuary, their son's home, ablaze. And Paul… where was Paul? Trapped in the woods while his home burned?

Eleanor was back at the door, ear pressed against the wood, her face pale as parchment. "They're organizing… the fire brigade… the staff…" She turned, her eyes wide with a new horror. "Sandra… the smoke…"

A faint, acrid tang began to seep under the door. Not the comforting scent of the hearth, but the harsh, biting stench of burning wood and fabric. Smoke. It was real.

Panic, cold and absolute, threatened to consume Sandra. She fumbled for the bell pull beside the chaise, yanking it frantically. "Clara! Alexander! Get them out!" she cried, her voice hoarse with terror. The baby felt like a stone, heavy and ominously still. *No, no, no. Move, please move.*

Suddenly, the lock on the door rattled violently. Eleanor jumped back with a cry. A heavy thud shook the wood. "Lady Barton! Eleanor! Open the door!" It was Mr. Davies's voice, strained and urgent.

Eleanor scrambled to unlock it. Davies burst in, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, his face smudged with soot, his eyes wild. The smell of smoke rolled in with him, stronger now.

"The scullery!" he gasped. "A rag bin ignited near the stove flue… spreading fast to the dry larder wood… the maids panicked…" He bent double, coughing. "We're containing it, but the smoke… you must get Lady Barton out! Now! The nursery is cut off by the smoke in the main stairwell!"

"Nursery!" Sandra shrieked, trying to lever herself up. "Alexander! Clara!"

"West servants' stairs!" Davies ordered Eleanor, regaining his composure with visible effort. "Quickly! They're clear for now. Take her! I'll get the children!" He turned and vanished back into the smoke-hazed corridor.

Eleanor didn't hesitate. She moved to Sandra's side. "You have to stand, Sandra. Lean on me. We must go. *Now*."

The world narrowed to pain, terror, and the desperate need to reach her child. Sandra gritted her teeth, ignoring the screaming protest from her muscles, the sharp, sickening pull deep in her abdomen as Eleanor helped her swing her legs off the chaise. Her feet touched the floor. She swayed, dizziness washing over her, the smoke stinging her eyes and throat. *Alexander. Move.*

Leaning heavily on Eleanor, every step was agony, every breath a struggle against the thickening smoke and her own crippling fear. They staggered into the corridor. The air was hazy, grey tendrils snaking along the ceiling. Shouts, the clang of buckets, the ominous crackle of flames echoed from deeper within the house, mingling with Brutus's frantic barking. Eleanor guided her towards a narrow, paneled door at the end of the hall – the entrance to the hidden servants' staircase.

Just as Eleanor wrenched the door open, a figure materialized from the swirling smoke near the main staircase. Not Davies. Not a footman. A man, hunched and reeking of cheap tobacco, his face obscured by a grimy scarf pulled up over his nose and mouth. Silas Crowe. His eyes, small and piggish above the fabric, glinted with malice in the dim, smoke-choked light. He held a heavy iron poker, snatched from a nearby stand, raised like a club.

Eleanor screamed, trying to push Sandra behind her, back towards the locked sitting room door. Crowe lunged, not at Eleanor, but straight at Sandra, a guttural snarl escaping him. "Barton bitch! This is for my land!"

Time seemed to slow. Sandra saw the poker descending, felt Eleanor's desperate tug, smelled the overwhelming stench of smoke and Crowe's foul tobacco. Instinctively, she twisted, trying to shield her belly, bracing for the blow that would end everything.

A roar, primal and terrifying, shook the very walls. Not Brutus this time. A blur of motion exploded from the top of the main staircase. Paul. He vaulted the remaining steps, landing in a crouch between Crowe and the women with the lethal grace of a panther. His face, illuminated by the flickering glow of the distant fire and the smoky hallway lamp, was a mask of feral rage. He held a heavy, gnarled walking stick – likely snatched from a stand downstairs – like a broadsword.

Crowe's eyes widened in shock. He faltered, the poker wavering. He hadn't expected the Beast to be home.

"You touch her," Paul growled, the sound vibrating with barely contained fury, "and I will tear you apart with my bare hands." He took a step forward, his presence radiating a violence so intense it seemed to push the smoke back. "Drop it. *Now*."

Crowe bared his teeth, spittle flying behind the scarf. "You took everything! My home! My life!" He feinted with the poker, a clumsy, panicked swipe.

Paul moved like lightning. The walking stick came down not on Crowe's head, but with brutal precision on his wrist. A sickening crack echoed through the corridor, followed by Crowe's agonized shriek. The poker clattered to the floor. Crowe clutched his shattered wrist, howling, collapsing to his knees.

Paul didn't pause. He kicked the poker far down the hall, then grabbed Crowe by the front of his filthy coat, hauling the whimpering man upright with terrifying strength. "You set that fire? You cut that hook?" he snarled, his face inches from Crowe's terror-stricken eyes.

"Y-yes! Yes! Deserved it! All of you!" Crowe spat, pain and defiance warring in his voice.

Paul's fist drew back. Sandra saw the murderous intent in his eyes, the culmination of weeks of fear, the terror of nearly losing her and their child, the violation of their home. "Paul! No!" she cried out, the effort sending a fresh wave of pain through her. "He's not worth it! The baby!"

Paul froze. The raw fury in his eyes warred with the desperate plea in hers, with the image of the child they protected. His fist trembled, inches from Crowe's face. He looked from the broken, hate-filled man to Sandra, pale and trembling, supported by Eleanor, her hand pressed protectively over her belly.

Davies and two soot-stained footmen burst from the smoke near the kitchen corridor, weapons in hand. They skidded to a halt, taking in the scene: Crowe broken and sobbing at Paul's feet, Sandra and Eleanor by the stairwell door.

"Secure him," Paul ordered Davies, his voice rough but controlled, shoving Crowe towards the men. His gaze never left Sandra. "The fire?"

"Contained, my lord!" Davies gasped, grabbing Crowe's uninjured arm roughly. "Scullery and larder damaged, but the main house is safe. The children?"

"Safe!" Clara's voice came from the top of the servants' stairs behind Eleanor. She stood there, Alexander clutched tightly in her arms, the little boy wide-eyed but unharmed, sucking his thumb. "We heard the commotion… we came down the back stairs when we smelled smoke…"

Sandra's legs gave way. Relief, delayed shock, and the agonizing pull in her abdomen overwhelmed her. She sagged against Eleanor, a low moan escaping her lips. Paul was at her side in an instant, sweeping her into his arms before she could hit the floor, ignoring her weak protest.

"Get the doctor!" Paul roared, his voice cracking. "NOW!" He cradled Sandra close, his face etched with terror far greater than any he'd shown facing Crowe. "Hold on, my love. Hold on. I've got you." He carried her swiftly back towards her sitting room, away from the smoke, the chaos, the broken enemy. The immediate threat was neutralized, but the battle for the life within her had just reached its critical point. The scent of fire and cheap tobacco lingered, a brutal reminder of the shadow that had slipped through their defenses, leaving behind ruin and the terrifying fragility of their hard-won peace.

More Chapters