She'd walked out in the confusion as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. The smoke that gushed out from Milady's gun had been prodigious, and one of the men who'd stormed in from the stairs, by accident was all she could assume, had set off another piece with a charge in it that all but deafened everybody, as well as doubling the smoke and bringing down parts of the ceiling. The screaming on the stairs redoubled, more bodies were crammed in, and everyone was shouting, with the master worst in bellowing at his wife, whom Deb saw cowering on her knees with blood flowing from beneath her hands. Blood and bodies, that was her impression, as she glimpsed Dennett still folded like a knife, with his erstwhile patient curtaining his body with her sadly lustrous hair. In the choking mist groups crammed and surged and coughed, and on one surge, almost without thinking how to do it, Deborah slipped out. Almost without thinking, but not quite. Outside the dogs were too excited to be troublesome, and in thirty seconds she was away into the wider grounds. Deb, despite her injured leg, could run. If I had had them both cut off, she told herself through gritted teeth I'd do it still.
It was Elizabeth, a maid she thought she recognised at the Lodge, that she let see her first. She stepped out from behind an outhouse on the home farm, stood there, and Liza screamed and almost dropped a basket.
"Oh hush," said Deb in anguish, and the maid stared at her injured face and caught the next yell in her throat.
"Hide me," said Deb, but Liza walked right up to her and touched her arm, and said she'd be all right. Deborah, losing control, then stood and cried. They were soon surrounded, they were quickly in the kitchen, and to her amazement and alarm, fat Mrs. Houghton washed her face for her, with unaffected tenderness. Deborah cried as if she'd never stop, as if she were a little girl again. She sobbed.
Later, when she'd been fed and given clothes to dress herself more modestly, Mrs. Houghton told her that the master wished to see her in his parlour, and she would take her there. Deborah, whose courage had been sapped by kindness, cried once more, so the housekeeper agreed that she would stay with her for the interview if Sir A allowed it, which he did. There was a fire in the grate, the coal-oil lamps were low and smelling very friendly, and he let her sit so far from him that he could hardly see the bruises on her face. It was a world that she had never known. It made her lonely.
Sir Arthur made it clear right from the outset that kindness and sympathy were the emotions that were ruling him, that he did not feel insulted, spurned, or robbed. She, falteringly, brought up the ass, at which Mistress Houghton and the master made it a jest, as if the subject had been rehearsed. Of all the asses they had on the estate, it seemed, she had chosen the most stubborn, with a marked propensity to bite. They waxed apologetic, hoping it had served the trick and eased her journey, and assuring her that it would have found a good home for itself when it had run away. It had not done, but she did not argue. It had been given to the men who helped her and Cec to London, in payment for their kindness. With similar delicacy, Sir A and Mrs. Houghton never mentioned Cecily. The ass might exist still, so had existed. Cecily was a different case.
He tried to draw her on the life she'd led since going, but here reticence was Deb's choice. It had not been long but it had been a lifetime, and this warm, lovely room and cosy chat beside the hissing logs were an interlude that would end in more unpleasantness, and soon. To her, neither this ageing gentleman nor strait-laced dame seemed really fit to bear tales of lust and prostitution, even to associate the goings-on at Dr. Marigold's with the sort of fine young men they knew. It had been unlooked for, and unpleasant, and at times there had been fun. If she was lucky, Deb thought, she would go back to it, there was plenty that was worse. But she did not want to burden these good sorts with it.
So it was when they got up to today. In her mind the scene was vividly confused, a fine mixture of impressions, so she felt. Most vividly she smelled the gunpowder, and the way it had wiped out the stench of Madam Wimbarton. Then Dennett, bloody on the ground, then the master, mad with rage and panic, roaring at his wife.
"There was a ruff," she said. "Part of the roof fell in, the ceiling. Servants all rushed in the room and ... well, I sneaked off down the stairway, no one saw."
"But what did you there to start with?" asked Sir A. "In the stable, you say? How came you there, and why?"
She'd told him that. She thought she had.
"I told you, sir, beg pardon. That mountebank, quack doctor, Marcus Dennett. He'd come to London where me and Cecily was hid and brought me back. The teeth, sir. Cecily got shot by him."
Mrs. Houghton tutted quietly. Maybe I han't told it, thought Deborah. The loneliness came back, it was strong in her.
"It was for the teeth, that's all. Cec's hadn't took, Milady's gums went off like meat in summer, so he come up for me in London to take mine out instead. Then ... and then the roof came down a bit, and then I run away."
"Poor thing, poor thing," Sir Arthur muttered. "They were going to prise your teeth out, were they? On the spot! Well, it's providence, I suppose. God has His ways."
"Making the roof fall in," put in Mrs. Houghton, at Deb's blank look. This struck Deb as funny, and she noted Mrs. Houghton took some small amusement in it, too. "But you sneaked away, you found your way back here, which is provident, my lass. Provident enough, we hope, to make you feel safe this time. You must not go again."
"No, mistress," Deb said, humbly. "Please you, I am truly grateful for your kindnesses."
"Were you pursued?" Sir A leaned forward keenly to peer at her. "Do you not fear it if you were, because we have a good crew here. But were you followed or sought after, that you know?"
She shook her head, hoping she was right.
"No sign, sir, that I noticed. And I've racked my brains, but not even Dennett knew I ended here the night the young men rescued us. Dennett could find me, I suppose, Dennett could ferret anything. But Dennett's dead, God rot him."
"God rest him," Mrs. Houghton amended, again with humour, surely?
"Yes, the young men," mused Sir A. "Well, Deborah, those young fellows will..."
He tailed off, and Deb saw a look, or signal, pass between the two of them. She made her face most open and aware, but the sentence stayed unfinished. Those young men, it occurred to her, would find her gone if they went looking, ever, back to Dr. Marigold's. Well, Will might. Will had been about to God, she'd been prepared to do the thing with him, she'd been surprised by feeling that she wanted to; some women, if not the maids, said jestingly it could be even sweet. Ah well. If he did come back he'd find her gone and that was that. Nothing more certain than that he'd soon forget her. It simply did not occur to her that she might see him here, although she knew Sam was somehow related to the house. Deborah saw this warm room, this kindness, this promise of release from vicissitude, as a tiny break from her real life and destiny. It would not be long enough to make a lasting change.
Deb was asleep when Bentley and Sam Holt arrived, as were most people in the house. Sir A was in his parlour still, alone, and there was a footman posted to tell him when the men came back from London. Sir A had thought it through most carefully when Deb had left with Mrs. Houghton earlier, and had determined there was no point in telling her of the imminent arrivals. The whole thing was a fever in Will's brain most probably, he'd likely used the girl a time or two and had romantic madnesses on her. Whatever, he and Sam were pledged to try and find his nephew, and would be away from Langham Lodge as soon as they'd turned up, and slept, and ate, and made all ready.