Part XIII: An Encounter

Isolde had volunteered to go into the nearby town of Havershire to pick up fresh food to replenish the lodge’s larders.  As of late, she had felt that she needed to be around the company of a crowd of strangers rather than Mr. Haddock and the thinly-staffed household for a change.  “Werewolf Hunting Lessons” and being one of two sole people, who Mr. Haddock felt comfortable talking freely with were wearing on her.  She had distracted Mr. Haddock with a book and met with Cook to compile a list of needed goods before having the groom hitch up a buggy for her. 

Isolde rode along the snow-peppered road feeling like an upper-class woman.  The air whistled past the rim of her bonnet and simultaneously stung and numb her exposed nose.  She was glad to enjoy the sounds of the countryside rather than being drilled on how to shoot various forms of firearms.  Mr. Haddock was pleased when she was able to accurately hit the target with a pistol, then began to wonder if it might be best if she was trained on how to use a rifle.  Isolde told him he was being irrational, but Mr. Haddock was all seriousness when he plopped a rifle in her arms and told her she’d best pay attention to his instructions so that she could use it within a week’s time.  She wasn’t sure if her plan with the book would work out at first, then came to realize that when it came to Mr. Haddock and books, she shouldn’t have doubted herself.  While others were lost in good books, Mr. Haddock went native.

So far, no one else had been on the road save for herself.  The bay carting her along puffed small clouds of steam as he trotted on.  Isolde had no reason to use the whip—Cricket was a much more docile gelding than the groom made him out to be—so she left the whip on the seat where it had lain.  She mentally added a bag of oats to her shopping list as a treat for the bay.

Isolde jerked the reins hard, forcing the bay to clatter to a halt and toss his head.  Someone was coming down the road on horseback.  She twitched the reins so that the horse moved to the far side of the road to allow for the rider.  A feeling of recognition niggled at the back of her mind.  The horse looked strikingly familiar.  She had only seen another ash-grey horse like that in this area before, and that one belonged to—

              Isolde’s heart clamored up into her throat.  Of all her luck!

She looked around anxiously, feeling like a rabbit in the path of a fox, but there was nowhere for her to turn off the road, no place for her to make a quick escape.  The buggy was too cumbersome for her to turn around—he would have already picked out the horse and driver from the grey background.  If only she had walked to town…

              Sir Drexel stopped his horse in front of Isolde, blocking her path.

“Fancy seeing you here, Miss Marlowe,” he said, doffing his hat with a toothy grin. “Pity we didn’t have a chance to talk the last time.  How is your Mr. Haddock doing?”

              Isolde would have liked to whip out the rifle lying under her seat.  She had to remind herself that it wouldn’t do to go about murdering fiends like a highwayman and leaving their bodies in the middle of the thoroughfare.

              “Oh, he’s in a bad way.  In fact, I don’t believe he’ll be well enough to step outdoors for quite some time,” she said, infusing a sense of despair in her tone.

              Good.  Feed him false information.  There’s certainly no comeuppance coming your way, Sir Drexel!

“Ah.  I see.  Give him my regards.”

              Sir Drexel did an excellent job at masking the glee in his voice, Isolde had to give him that.  She hoped to kill the conversation soon.  He was looking at her in a manner that made her feel like she was sitting on the box with nothing on but her underthings.

“Well it was certainly nice seeing you, Sir Drexel.  If you would let me pass, I would be ever so grateful,” Isolde said as she gestured with the reins.  Sir Drexel’s mount didn’t budge.

“I’m surprised Mr. Haddock didn’t assign you his Butler Watchdog, Miss Marlowe.  You’ve certainly heard of the murders that have been occurring as of late, haven’t you?  I wouldn’t feel safe if I were you,” Sir Drexel remarked, leaning forward in his saddle.  Is he…threatening me?  Isolde waved her hand with a sniff.

“As I recall, those have only taken place at night.  I highly doubt I’ll be attacked in broad daylight.  Whatever pathetic man or monster doing this is far too cowardly to attempt something of that kind at this hour.”

Sir Drexel sat back in his seat, something dark coming over his hooded eyes.

“I think we both know that there’s no need to continue avoiding the truth anymore, Miss Marlowe.  You’ve known for quite some time that Haddock and I are similarly infected.  You aligning yourself with him was to be expected once he no doubt told you about my Other Self.  You’re on the losing side if you believe that your Haddock can stop me from engaging in my hunts.  When he and I next meet, he won’t be walking away from the fight.  That’s why I want to make you an offer.  Tell me what Haddock has planned and I won’t come for you and your family when your precious protector is dead.”

              “You don’t scare me, Sir Drexel.  And I already told you: Mr. Haddock is in no position to—”

Isolde was interrupted by Sir Drexel’s harsh laughter.

              “Please, Miss Marlowe.  I know Haddock hasn’t been confined to a bed for an entire fortnight.  And he isn’t the type to wallow in his injuries without actively thinking up another way to kill me”—he brought his horse right up next to Isolde—“Now please tell me.  I would very much hate to have to disfigure a pretty woman such as yourself to get Haddock’s attention.”

              “If you try anything—!”

“No one will hear you.”

              Isolde didn’t actually think Sir Drexel would do anything drastic.  She was proven wrong when he reached across from his mount, latched a powerful hand on her arm, and began to manfully drag her out of the buggy, hauling her closer to his wild, leering face.  Isolde couldn’t resist if she wanted to: Sir Drexel had the advantage in strength.  She was hanging in between space when she remembered the horsewhip.  Her hand frantically searched the seat until her fingers closed around the whip handle.  She jerked it forward and snapped it across Sir Drexel’s face.  Hot blood spattered on her cheek and a sharp movement from Sir Drexel caused his nails to rake her arms and tear her sleeve as she felt his grip release its hold on her.  She fell onto the muddy road in between the buggy and Sir Drexel’s horse, which began to fidget as its rider snarled in pain.  Droplets of blood fell on her hands and dripped down the rim of her bonnet.  Isolde crawled under the buggy to the other side and clambered back onto the box through some manic form of acrobatics, and giving the reins a hard snap, Cricket took off at a run.  Isolde didn’t look behind her to see what had happened to Sir Drexel, or whether he had decided to pursue.  Somehow, she figured he wouldn’t be coming after her.

              The wind bit at her face like so many small insects and her arm throbbed.  Her vision blurred as a pent-up volley of stressed, terrified tears streamed down her cheeks.  Isolde didn’t try to force them down.  It had been far too long since she’d allowed herself to have a good cry.  She just really wished that she would meet no one else on the road.  A sobbing woman with spatters of blood covering her clothes and driving at full speed would raise too many questions.

                                                                                      *

Surfacing from the book that Miss Marlowe had given him, Haddock saw what had caused him to put his story on hold.  Clouds were blotting out the sun, which had begun to dip below the horizon, making it harder for him to read.  He got up from his seat, taking care to not make the movement too fast so that it would stress his stitches.  Miss Marlowe should have returned by now.  Wasted a good day for instructions in riflery too.  Taking up his cane, Haddock shuffled out of the room to see where she had gone off to.  He asked around and found out that Miss Marlowe had gone to town to fetch more food for the pantry.  He was a bit annoyed that she hadn’t told him, but then again, if she had he would have insisted on riding along with her.  Just in case.  He poked his head into every room in the lodge, rapping on Miss Marlowe’s door for a solid ten minutes before letting himself inside and finding that room just as empty as the others before it.  Haddock’s search took him outside and to the stables.  He supposed that he could wait there for Miss Marlowe to return.

The groom was patting down Cricket.  The horse was slick with sweat, his massive sides heaving as foam flecked from his mouth.  She was back then.  Haddock wondered why Miss Marlowe would drive the beast so hard.  Maybe she was eager for some thrills, not that she would be lacking any anytime soon.  When he asked the groom if he had seen her, the man said that she had walked through the other side of the stables in the direction of the main house.  Haddock followed the man’s directions, boots crackling on dried hay and cobblestones as the fading light of the day turned the shadows to a murky indigo.  He casually peeked into each stall, not really expecting to find any occupants inside.  There were only three horses on the grounds—the stables would be filled if he had actually brought a hunting party with him.  He smirked as the image of a hunting party being sent out to shoot a certain sandy-coated wolf crossed his mind.  If this plan of Miss Marlowe’s and his didn’t work, then he might consider such a scheme…

Peering into the last stall, Haddock found Miss Marlowe sitting in a corner, knees drawn up and hands covering her face.

              “Miss Marlowe…?”

Upon entering the stall, he saw and smelled fresh blood on her dress. 

              “Isolde!”

Dropping his cane, Haddock forgot all about keeping his stitches intact and bolted towards her.  He knelt down in front of the woman.  Her shoulders were shaking as small, wet sobs met Haddock’s ears.  Her left sleeve was dangling off her shoulder, ripped out of the seams.  He hesitantly touched her knee.

              “Miss Marlowe, what happened?  Are you hurt?”

She shook her head into her knees, smudging tears over her dress even more.  She sucked in air through her mouth, fast at first then slower, calming herself before she raised her head to meet Haddock’s eyes.  Hers’ were red and puffy.

              “Drexel,” she said, lips trembling as she tried to hold her composure.  Haddock’s eyes traveled to the torn sleeve, and he saw that there were claw marks that had begun to congeal under the ripped fabric.  Miss Marlowe sniffed.  Clearly Sir Drexel had given her a horrible scare.  Haddock suspected that he had done something more, and the blood boiled beneath his skin.

              “Did he do anything to you, Miss Marlowe?”

She gestured at the sleeve.

              “That’s it.”

Relief flooded Haddock, and the ire ebbed a bit.  Miss Marlowe coughed and buried her face in her hands as another bout of tears took hold.  Haddock watched, then did something very uncharacteristic of him.  He wrapped his arms around Miss Marlowe and hugged her close to him.  He didn’t say a word, just held her while she had her cry.  When the flow of tears dried up, the sun had already set, leaving Haddock and Miss Marlowe in a dark stall that was quickly becoming cold.  Haddock gently pulled Miss Marlowe away from himself so that he could try to see her face.

              What he wanted to say was, “We’ll get him.  Don’t worry.”  What came out instead was: “I’m sorry.  I should have been there.”

              He saw her smile despite the darkness.

“I-It’s not your fault.  I was the one who distracted you with a book and ran off.”

              “The next time you go, I’m coming with you.  Sir Drexel wouldn’t try anything if he sees me—”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Sir Drexel for a while.”

“What do you mean?” Haddock asked.  His first assumption was that she had shot him.

              “I horsewhipped him in the face.”

Miss Marlowe’s words took a while to seep in.  Well, that would explain the blood…

              “You…horsewhipped him—”

“—In the face, yes.  He’ll want to wait until that heals up before being seen out in public again,” Miss Marlowe said matter-of-factly. “We should probably be getting inside now.  Your stables are very nice, but I much prefer a warm fire and a cushioned seat to a drafty bed of straw.”

              Her composure had returned, without the faintest hint of her breakdown other than the slight sniffle in her voice.

              “Lead the way,” Haddock said.