Penelope Goes to Portsmouth by M. C. Beaton Page B

it a moment longer and was just about to push him away when his mouth became slack and then slid wetly from her own. He looked at her in a fuddled way and then put a shaky hand to his brow.
    ‘I hope my kiss has not made you faint, sir,’ said Hannah archly.
    He tugged at his cravat. ‘It’s hot in here,’ he said faintly. His dimming eyes looked at the glass and then at Hannah. ‘Why, you bitch,’ he said thickly. His hands reached out for her throat. Hannah darted from her chair and stood with her back to the wall. He heaved himself up and came at her. She darted away to the far side of the room. He stumbled towards her and then with a groan fell headlong on the floor. Soon he was breathing deeply, completely unconscious.
    Hannah found she was trembling. She thought of Sir George Clarence and wished he were there. She felt very weak and womanly.
    ‘Courage,’ she told herself aloud.
    She went to the cellar door, or the door she was sure led to the cellars. Then she realized the folly of not paying attention to which key fitted which lock. She would now have to try them all. But first she went back to the door of the servants’ hall and patiently tried all the keys until she found the right one and locked herself in. Now for that cellar.
    It was a very large keyhole, so she tried all the large keys until at last she found the right one. The door swung open. Hannah picked up a candle and made her way down. The cellar was cool and musty. She walked between the high racks of wine. It was no use calling to Benjamin. He could not hear her or shout a reply.
    After half an hour of diligent searching, she sat wearily down on a wine barrel. There was no sign of the footman.
    She sat and prayed for help. She could not think what else to do.
    Then suddenly a thought came into her head. If Benjamin had still been unconscious when he was brought to the Manor, he would have been dragged to whatever prison they had ready for him.
    She rose and picked up the candle and went back to the foot of the stairs and began to study the floor. And then she saw them – two trails across the dusty floor, looking like the marks made by heels when a body was dragged across the ground.
    She followed the marks, which stopped at a wine barrel set on the floor. She looked around the barrel, but there were no more marks. She raised the lid of the barrel. It was full of wine. Shaking a little with fear, she rolled up her sleeve and plunged an arm down into the wine in case Benjamin had been drowned like the poor Duke of Clarence. She could feel nothing. Perhaps there was something under the barrel. A trapdoor.
    She set down the candle in its flat stick and tried to move the barrel but could not.
    She looked around the cellar until she found a small firkin. Using it as a pail, she began to bail out the wine, spilling it on the cellar floor, working with such haste that her dress became soaked in wine.
    At last, she seized the barrel by the rim and heaved, and with a loud scraping noise she was able to move it to one side.
    And there, below it, was a trapdoor. It was not bolted or padlocked. Hannah opened it. A flight of wooden steps led downward. Again she retrieved the candle and down she went, turning at the bottom of the stairs and holding the candle high.
    Benjamin lay in a corner of a small cell-like dungeon. His face was white and his eyes were closed. His wrists and ankles were bound. There was blood on his forehead and his livery was dusty and torn.
    Hannah crouched down beside him and shook his shoulder gently. To her immeasurable relief, his eyes opened. The look of sheer gratitude and gladness in them brought a lump to Hannah’s throat.
    ‘Now, then, Benjamin,’ she whispered, ‘watch my lips. I have a small pair of nail-scissors in my pocket. If they will not sever your bonds, I shall have to risk returning to the kitchen for a knife.’
    Hannah worked at the thick rope that bound him but the fragile nail-scissors snapped. ‘Wait