February 1812

The crying had continued for hours, a low, throbbing noise that allowed her no peace and sent her stumbling over the rough ground. As she hurried through the trees, a low branch cut her cheek, drawing blood that trickled to her mouth. Her body felt leaden with fatigue, but she knew she must find the source of the sound. It went everywhere, borne on the wind, perhaps just the wind itself.

Ahead loomed a massive oak, its branches silvered by moonlight, leaves a-glitter with a thousand trembling rain jewels. In its shadow, she glimpsed movement and quickened her pace, then halted, confused. The cry intensified, a high note of mourning terrible to the ears.

Penelope awakened. Lifting her head, she looked through the gap in the bed curtains toward the open window. At her side Sarah still slept in the silence that had settled over the house. She could hear her own breathing, quick and shallow, a pulse beating a tattoo at her neck. Slipping out of bed, she crept to the window.

Air, heavy with rain-damp, stroked her skin. Below was darkness, but the sound had come from there, outside in the garden. She stood peering into shadows that she knew concealed trees and barren flower beds. After a time she turned away to slip into her dressing gown, its warmth welcome on this late winter's morning. She lit a candle and went out the door, closing it behind her.

***

Penelope picked up the skirts of her dressing gown and descended the shallow stairs to the garden. Swiftly, she moved to kneel at the side of a supine form, and with a shaking hand, reached out to touch a shoulder.

"What is it, miss?" George was there, bending over her, his face anxious.

Penelope looked up into his eyes. "A man. He's hurt, I think. Help me to turn him."

Before the footman could comply, the voice of her employer's husband issued from the terrace. "Mrs. Wolfe. May I be of help? Timberlake tells me we have suffered some sort of disturbance."

"Indeed, my lord, for there is someone injured here. Send at once for a surgeon and a constable."

She turned her attention back to the fallen man, and, with George's help, managed to roll him onto his back. In the grayish light she saw he was young and well formed. And as she bent over, she caught the faint gurgling as he gasped for air.

"He's alive," she said triumphantly. "George, go quickly and obtain a blanket, water, and some brandy. George?" She became aware of her companion's rigidity. Biting his lip as if in vain attempt to regain control, the footman stared fixedly ahead, eyes brimming with fear.

"What is it?" Her voice rose in spite of efforts to keep it steady. "There is no time to lose. He will die."

"It's Dick, miss. Don't you recognize him?"

Suddenly, horribly, she did. This was the young man who had pulled out her chair in the breakfast parlor just yesterday morning, the one who had blinked and smiled with his eyes when she thanked him for the fresh coffee.

Penelope stared at George. "You are not surprised to find him here, are you? You knew Dick wasn't in his bed?"

The footman took a shuddering breath. "We share a room, miss. I woke, found him gone, and went to look for him. That's when I heard that ungodly cry that brought Mrs. Sterling and Mr. Timberlake a-running too. But I never thought...what's amiss with him?"

"I don't know." He still wore his silk stockings and black pumps with buckles, but his hair was unpowdered. Then Penelope reached down to run her fingers over the front of his blue and gold livery and felt a dampness. The stain had spread across his chest.

"He bleeds. Go, George," she said through a tight throat. "Get some cloths and inform Lord Ashe of what has happened. Go!"

As the footman backed away, she knelt beside the wounded man, taking his hand. With her other hand she bunched up some of the coat and pressed it against the wound. Her own fingers came back, sticky red. She wiped away the wet and reapplied the pressure.

The early morning birdsong clamored in her ears. Watching the light struggle to pierce the clouds, she thought the new day seemed unnaturally dark and was glad of the candle flickering feebly on the ground next to her. It seemed she waited a long time, dew soaking into the hem of her dressing gown, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Still, it was long enough that she had time to wonder dully where everyone could be.

Penelope could think of nothing to do but pray, bending to murmur exhortations in the man's ear in the faint hope he might somehow respond. His face remained smooth, not so much as a flicker of an eyelid betraying his awareness of her presence, until it seemed he would attempt to speak. The horrid gasping intensified, his lips trembled, and he spoke, his voice, so low, so thready, that if Penelope were not crouched close to his face she should never have heard him. As it was, she could not be certain she had understood him right, and it seemed to her that his face had grown even more alarmingly pale.

"The sun shall be turned into...darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and the terrible day of the Lord come." He could say no more, for blood there was, streaming from his mouth and down his smooth chin to stain the white cravat knotted at his neck.