"Or bring the ceiling down on us. And there is the question of lighting it."
"It takes only a spark, and fortunately, inhabitants of Norfolk use much flint in the building of their cottages. A challenge, yes. Impossible, no."
"May we try that as a last resort?" I removed my knife from its leather sheath and carefully poked at the stone surrounding a beam.
It was painful work, balancing on my good leg while I worked my already sore arms. Painful, yes, but I had no wish to remain in this cellar forever.
"Over here," Denis said. "The earth is a little softer, and this beam is rotting."
I hobbled over to join him. "Cooper might be up there, with your pistol. And my sword."
"If he is, then we will face him."
Nothing more to be said.
We worked in silence, chipping away at stone that rained in our faces. I understood what Denis was trying to do. Even if we brought down the beam and part of the ceiling, if we could shield ourselves from the falling debris, then we could climb out.
I continued our earlier conversation. "I suppose that, to you, I grew up privileged and protected. The truth is we were quite poor but not allowed to let on. I was protected from everyone but the one supposed to be protecting me."
"Yes, your father," Denis said. "I have heard the tales." No doubt he had.
"A boy's public school can be as mean as the London streets, believe me," I said. "A lad is at the mercy of bullies until he learns to be a bully himself. There is little tolerance for the weak."
"I imagine you held your own," Denis said. "And I know that you are fishing for more information about my childhood, Captain."
I grunted as I worked. "I profess to curiosity."
"Let me see-when I was seven, I lived in Lancashire with a lady who loved gin and young boys, in that order. The least said about that, the better. One night, she drank a few gallons of gin and never woke up. I stole everything I could carry and left on my own, making my way to London. From there my life took the turns I've already mentioned."
"Why on earth did you stay with the woman?" I took a step back as dirt rained into my face. "I did not think you were the sort to put up with much."
"Fortunately, she spent most of her nights stone drunk and asleep. But she fed me and taught me to pick locks. She was friends with a housebreaker who sent me down chimneys to open doors because I was so thin. I grew tired of chewing on soot, so I asked the woman to teach me about the locks. I knew she could pick them, because whenever she took a job as a maid or charwoman in a respectable home-bringing me with her to help her-she came away with bits of their valuables that had been locked away in cabinets."
"And if the discovery that they were missing was connected with her stint, she blamed you," I finished.
"Naturally. The boy from who-knew-where was a more likely suspect than the respectable-looking maid. Beat the boy, cry and return the things, and all was well."
Denis spoke coolly, with his curious detachment, as though these things had happened to someone else. But his tales explained some of his coldness. Every person in his life had used and betrayed him. He'd learned to remain distant, to watch and learn people's weaknesses. He soaked up whatever knowledge he needed from them and walked away.
"Is your curiosity satisfied, Captain?" he asked.
"For now. Except-is James Denis your true name?"
"It suffices for the moment."
I was not certain whether to believe him, or whether I pitied him. The world threw at us what it did, and we chose what to make of it. Denis could have become an enraged and violent man, or drunk himself into nothing. Instead, he'd made himself into this emotionless being who did what he pleased and dispatched those who got in his way.
I'd noticed that he avoided the excesses of other men-never drank much, nor indulged in enormous meals or cheroots or beautiful women. He could have all that now, and yet, he chose an almost Spartan existence, excepting his comfortable house and brilliant artwork. He was no hedonist.
Denis had chosen control. His early life had given him none, and so he'd learned to wrest control from those who'd tried to rule him.
"Few know my sad tale, Captain," Denis said. "I will not threaten you to keep you from telling it, but I will ask you, as a courtesy, to refrain."
"I never repeat confidences," I said. "I will treat this as one."
"Of course you will. Your honor. And you cannot be certain that what I have told you is the truth."
No, I could not. With Denis, nothing was certain.
His tale did explain to me why he had never married, or I thought it did. Falling in love, pledging oneself to another, unto death, was the ultimate giving over of control. I was rushing headlong into it for the second time, and I did not mind at all.
The thought of Donata, dressed in her finery, complete with the odd, feathered headdresses she favored, cigarillo in her gloved hand, made my heart twinge. I would leave this place, travel to her home in Oxfordshire, pluck the cigarillo from her fingers, and show her how much I reveled in the chaos of marriage.
"I find it ironic," I said, "that one of the few people who hasn't betrayed you, is me."
"Yet." We both stepped back as another rain of dirt showered to the floor. "Everyone betrays, in the end. I should have remembered that before I grew sentimental about Cooper."
"I also find it ironic that you shot at him to keep him from killing me."
"Because I still need you, and he was, after all, trying to run off with my paintings. This beam is giving, I think."
Chapter Twenty-One
The beam did more than give. It tumbled down, worn through with salt and damp. Stone, flint, and dirt fell with it. I grabbed Denis and hauled him out of the way, landing with him against the wall as half the floor poured down.
I shielded him, feeling rock batter my back, while I pressed my forehead to the wall so my face would not be cut. Dust filled the air, and we coughed.
With the dust came light, not much, but enough for me to see the pile of rubble that had fallen. I also saw, when he raised his head, the pale smudge of Denis's face, splotched black with blood.
He pushed me away, his arm over his mouth, and shuffled back to the fallen ceiling. The debris made a scattered pile, and the hole above was small. Denis reached up with his knife and broke the stone and floorboards that hemmed it in.
"I'll boost you out first," he said. "You're not steady enough to hold me, but you're big enough to pull me out."
"Are you not worried I'll run and leave you here?" I asked. Not that I'd run far on my weak and aching leg.
"No," he said without inflection. "I've come to know you well, Captain."
He had, damn him. "Better make the hole larger, then," I said. "Or I'll stick like a cork in a bottle."
Denis did not smile. I supposed he reserved his laughter for the pitch dark when no one could see him.
Together we widened the hole, pulling down rock until our fingers bled. Denis put his hands around my right boot and heaved me upward.
I landed facedown, scrabbling on the floor to get purchase. Denis shoved some more, and I crawled out.
The light came from the cottage's back windows, the afternoon bright outside. The wind blew, bringing chill sea air through the broken panes. I heard the water on all sides of the house and knew we were cut off.
But alive. The windmill keeper had food and water, and we could rest inside and either wait for the tide to turn, or take one of his rowboats and make for shore.
I turned around on my stomach and reached down for Denis. He lifted his arms to me, clasping mine, and I started hauling him upward. I'd gotten him halfway through the hole when I heard a step.