"WHAT HAPPENED?" GRANDMA Cass' voice was grave, yet soft, as though the shock had settled so far into her bones that it was no longer an alien thing. It had come and she had accepted it because she had had no choice. Tugging her grandson's right arm over her shoulder, the old woman ushered him inside, leaving Aramina at the door in state of terror and confusion. This was not how this was supposed to be. Aramina didn't know what she had expected once she would've opened the door, but it was not this. 

Slamming the door shut as her senses took hold of her gain, Aramina hurried into the sitting room where the old woman now had Philip seated on a sofa, murmuring things Aramina heard but couldn't keep track of. There was an avid declaration of a poultice Grandma Cass could whip up in a minute, a salve she could apply that would do good, a certain position Philip ought to lie in to hinder the rapid blood loss— it all made Aramina's head spin. 

"Oh, Aramina, dear," Grandma Cass called out to her, "Hold this over Philip's wound while I make the poultice, please." 

"Of course," Aramina rushed forwards, wrapping her hands around a thick ward of cotton that was handed quickly to her soaked in a yellow chemical she realized was an antiseptic. Then the old woman disappeared into the kitchen and Aramina gulped. Then silently she sat beside Philip, his eyes fixated on the rug under his feet like he was lost in a trance no one could bring him out of. 

Gently, she reached for his bloodied hand that was clasped tight over the side of his torso, hiding the freshly gushing wound. She felt the moment of skin contact tainted with the wetness of blood, and Philip was torn out of his reverie as he turned his head to look at her. She removed his hand, and he let her, then she rested it away. With a small breath she pressed the soaking ward of cotton against his wound. Philip hissed slightly in response but didn't object. The wound was a gash, something caused by a knife. It didn't look deep enough to cause vital damage, yet it wasn't as light too. 

With her palm firmly pressing down at his side, the cotton a firm cloud underneath her palm, Aramina found the courage to look at Philip. His grey eyes were already fixated on her, that same unreadable expression swimming in them. She felt a sudden annoyance build up in her. She hated that expression, she couldn't decipher it. Was this her fault? Had her uncle somehow caught up to him? If that was what happened, then why wouldn't he look at her with contempt? with frustration, or even hatred? Why this unreadable expression that didn't say one thing entirely and hinted at no other?  

"Did this happen because of me?" She managed, her voice no more than a whisper, yet it still seemed to echo in the tension of the house. 

"No," Philip blinked, as though she had said something entirely unforgivable, "It happened because of Thomas Cranmer." His voice was the same comforting rusty thing she had come to know, but it was now braver. 

Not master. Aramina had never heard Philip call her uncle by his name before. He had forgone the respect he had held for him, and that felt like a breath of fresh air— it felt like Philip was finally on her side, which was ridiculous because why would he rescue her in the first place if he wasn't?

"He sent some men after me," Philip continued, "They know I helped you escape." 

Aramina was angry at herself for feeling terror creep up her spine like that at the words. Hadn't this outcome been obvious from the start? Why hadn't she properly acknowledged it before?  

"Then this is my fault," She fretted, eyes bearing into his. "If your grandmother puts this together, she'll despise me." 

His brows furrowed. "It is not your fault. Why do you think I hadn't known this was coming before I brought you here? I know the risks I took, and I would take them again." His voice lowered at his latter statement, as though it was something he only needed to hear himself say, instead of telling it to someone else. 

"Grandma can not do anything but adore you," He added with a shrug, "She always likes everyone, and now you more than anyone else." 

Aramina's heart surged at his words, but she willed herself to ignore them and focus on rationality, something Philip was disregarding and she had no clue why. 

"But Philip, what do you intend to do?" She asked, her voice a bit hard with accusation. "I can't continue like this now, surely you must know that. Look at you—" She broke off, her heart clenching in on itself as her eyes took in his battered and bruised self again.
"Do not try to convince me that this isn't my fault because you'll only waste your breath. I will not hide when someone else is getting hurt in my stead. It was easier when it was only me—" 

Philip took hold of her elbow, and Aramina realized her frustration had made her stand up. She sat back down, Philip's warm fingers still on the skin at her elbow, but they did little to calm her. The cotton ward was now stuck firmly to his wound of its own accord, blood had seeped through it.

"It was easier when it was only me," She repeated in a broken whisper. "I didn't have to worry about anyone else but myself. Now its worse. This is worse than captivity." 

He looked at her with hurt in his eyes, his expression no longer guarded and unreadable. 

"I have endangered everyone," The realization hit her like pelting snow, "You, your grandmother. And— oh God no." Aramina's hand reached to her chest as her thoughts spiralled out of control. "What if he looks for me at Wycombe again? If he believes I escaped, and you helped me, then he'll go there again. What of Acacia, and Jack?"  

Philip didn't know who the latter of those people were, and a dull ache suddenly found itself in his inside. He hadn't really given much thought to her life outside of all this. She was an heiress, and it seemed stupid that he hadn't ever fully realized it. 

"Thomas Cranmer is not in Portsmouth," Philip managed, "He had never been." 

Aramina stilled. "What?" 

"He had you captured by us— not me, but some other guys. They brought you here and we've all since taken turns to keep guard. We've sent him word meanwhile." 

"So he's not been here all this time?" 

"No," Philip spoke. 

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Aramina felt her voice waver slightly, and she hated herself for it. Philip flinched, his strong gaze faltering. "You didn't think I should know that my uncle has been managing his affairs from outside?" 

"I— I didn't think how it would help," Philip's voice rustled and grasped at words, "I wanted to help and the only way I figured was to get you out of there." 

 Aramina composed herself, willing her anger to rein itself in. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have bothered. If you think this is helping—" She broke off and gestured vaguely at his condition, "And if you think I'll just sit by and watch you get yourself hurt and risk your grandmother too for my sake, than you're horribly mistaken." 

"Aramina, this is nothing," He started, a flash of anger in his features, and she stilled at the sound of her name coming out in his voice. It was otherworldly somehow, but she couldn't dwell on it. 
"One of his men caught me by surprise and it won't happen again. They don't know about this house, about grandma. You think I haven't ensured her safety for the time that I had worked for that bastard? I have always protected her and I will keep doing so because once I promise something like that I don't break it." 

"You haven't promised me anything," Aramina managed in a whisper, "You are bound by nothing to me." 

"That is what you think," Philip glanced at the rug before his eyes returned to her again, "If I haven't vocalized any promise, then I will do so now."

"No," Aramina blurted out. "I don't want any promises." 

"Grandma didn't either," He answered solemnly, "So I don't care if you want it or not." 

Lady Aramina Embry stayed silent then, words not coming to her anymore. She could only observe him, this person who, by some trick of fate shared the same past as her, and probably, an entirely different future. 

"I promise to protect you and make sure no harm comes to you," Philip's tone was firm, his voice calming her. "Because whether you like it or not, you are my responsibility now, and I'm going to right the wrong I have done." 

Aramina shut her eyes, willing her words to settle inside her and make a nest in her heart. She hadn't wanted this promise, but she knew that she needed it. And she would rather have Philip give it to her than anyone else in the world. 

"I have to write to Wycombe," Aramina whispered after a moment, the promise still fluttering around in her heart. "I have to let Jack know I'm alright. Maybe he can come and get me, and you won't have to keep your promise for long." 

Philip broke eye contact, his gaze now falling to the kitchen where he saw his grandmother working anxiously on a poultice that was still in preparation. Aramina thought she saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes again. 

"Maybe," He murmured, no longer having the strength to converse. 

Then as they sat in silence, Grandma Cass wafted into the sitting room, a softly steaming poultice in her hand. Aramina took a side as the old woman fussed over her grandson, holding the poultice up to his wound. The entirety of the day went by in a blur, with Aramina insisting Philip take his room back to rest in. Then she stayed out of his periphery, not willing herself to go near him or talk to him again. She wanted to, for the angels knew he was her sole comfort in this turn her life had taken, but she couldn't make herself to. 

He rested all day, and his meals were served to him in his room by his grandmother. Aramina heard them talk, their voices drifting around the house. Words of adoration, consolations, intertwining in each sentence. They were family, after all. It was Aramina, who was the stranger. Making up her mind, Aramina searched around the house for parchment and ink, and sat down on the sitting room sofa to write a brief letter to her cousin at Wycombe— pinning all her hopes on words and paper. 

'Lord Jack Beresford,

I'm alright. I survived my uncle's scheme, and once I see you again I will tell you all that happened. I'm in Portsmouth, streets away from where I was held. I will attach the address below. Please come for me. I'll be waiting for you. 

Street 22, R1150, Belson square. 

Your cousin,
Aramina.' 

༺♥༻

Lord Oscar Seymour paced about in the east drawing room of Berkshire Abbey in Portsmouth. His steps were rapid, impatient, and an overcast of violent emotions had rendered him unable to function. In his right hand he clutched tight Miss Jessie Churchill's letter, as though if he let the paper go somehow all that she wrote would come crashing to tragic consequences he would be unable to stop. 

"Damn it," He murmured under his breath, his jaw so tight it ached. The information accumulated in his head like sand, making his head weigh and rubbing against muscle painfully. Lady Aramina Embry had exchanged hands like she was a gambling win, and Cranmer had been in Southampton all this time. They had been chasing the wrong person in the right place. And most infuriating of all, somehow, was the fact that Cranmer had the audacity to approach Miss Churchill. 

I've put her life on the line, he thought, his heart a fist that had clenched so tight it threatened to explode inside him. If she gets hurt, it's on me. 

Oscar didn't know what to do— he knew he had to dig this Philip out from whichever rock the bastard was hiding in, but he didn't know what he would tell Jack, and.. Diana. Her anxiety for Jessie would take over her countenance completely. She would be furious at him for putting the rector's daughter in such a position. Jack would be devastated at Lady Aramina's current predicament, he would be driven and with anger. 

Then there was the matter of Miss Churchill. She was headed to Bakewell with Cranmer hot on her heels. An overwhelming urge to tear Thomas Cranmer's face apart if lay a hand on the rector's daughter overtook him, and Oscar had to grip the wall to ground himself. But what was he to do? Someone had to keep searching for Lady Embry and this Philip, while someone else had to make sure no harm came to Jessie Churchill. Someone had to stay in Portsmouth and someone else had to head to Bakewell immediately. 

But who? Oscar knew he had to pick one route and Jack to pick the other, there was no other way to counter this situation. But should Oscar stay for Lady Embry or should he leave for Jessie Churchill? He promised Jack his help, but was making sure the rector's daughter remained unharmed, helping Jack? Would that help Lady Aramina Embry? He didn't know the answer to either of his questions. But he knew he would not leave Jessie Churchill to fend for herself when it was because of him she was in this predicament in the first place. 

"What is it?" Lady Diana Buxton's voice broke through Oscar's tension, making way for herself effortlessly. It was an ability he had known for her to always possess. To somehow coexist in someone's mind along with everything and anything else they were thinking of, which answered for why his cousin's presence was always so impossible to ignore. 

She had floated into the empty drawing room, as though she had sensed Oscar's tension radiating off of the walls of Berkshire like a ghostly echo. 

"What does the letter say?" She inquired. 

Oscar rubbed his temples. "It's nothing—" He broke off, debating on whether to tell her or not. 

"I doubt that," She spoke firmly, crossing her arms across her chest as she took a seat on the sofa. "Speak. Is it from Jessie? Is it bad news?" 

Fuck it, Oscar thought in frustration. He would gain nothing by hiding information from Diana, and he needed another mind than his tripping one to rely on for his next coarse of action. 

"It is from Miss Churchill," He started, the rest of the words coming out after another with as much speed as he could manage, "Cranmer was in Southampton. He has never been here all this time. One of his men captured Lady Embry from him and he thinks she escaped. He saw Miss Churchill at Wycombe and believes her his niece and intends to recapture her at her aunt's estate in Bakewell." 

Slowly, Lady Diana's Buxton's firm expression distilled from her face as her arms unravelled from across her chest and held the sofa seat beside her for support. 

"Who has Lady Embry now?" She managed, her eyes bearing into Oscar's. 

"Some bastard called Philip," Oscar let out, his hands running through his hair. 

"And Cranmer's after Jessie?" 

"It would appear so." He glared at the ground, an ache starting in his neck— born of tension and his own conscience. "She's off to Rosenfield Abbey in Bakewell with Lady Embry's aunt. 

A brief silence arose then, and Oscar hoped with all his might for a clear perspective that only his cousin might be able to provide, for his own head was a mess of emotions and violent urges he could place. 

"Then you go to Bakewell," Diana got up, her voice rising and threatening to break. Her cousin could see the anxiety swimming in her eyes, and he was grateful she was keeping it at bay for him if no one else. "You go after Jessie and make sure that scoundrel doesn't hurt her." 

"What of Jack?" Oscar asked the questions brimming in his mind, "What of Lady Embry? I promised Jack I would not leave him alone amidst all this." 

"Can't you see?" Diana pressed, venturing close to him and touching his elbow to ground him. "Cranmer believes this Philip helped Lady Embry escape. This Philip can't be dangerous. If Thomas Cranmer had thought so, his first instinct wouldn't have been to race to Wycombe. He would have searched for Philip in Portsmouth— or some other hiding place criminals tend to habit with their captives. It is clear that Cranmer believed Philip would've returned Lady Embry to where she belongs, which is why he sought her at Wycombe." 

"But it is not Lady Embry that he found at Wycombe," Oscar blinked, confused as he tried to grasp his cousin's rail of thought. 

"He doesn't know that," Diana continued her voice lowering, "I believe this Philip is not someone harmful. You forget cousin, the city is in the midst of a strike. Getting in and out is terribly difficult for the lower classes at present. Perhaps this Philip is keeping Lady Embry somewhere safe for the meanwhile." 

"That is a far cry," Oscar considered. Diana's point of view made sense, but he couldn't get himself to trust on it entirely, he wondered why it was so easy for her to do so. 

"It is, I'll admit," Diana spun on her heels. "But it makes sense. The real threat is headed to Bakewell after my dear friend. It is not here."

"So what? I just leave this undertaking, and abandon Jack?" He asked incredulous, though he was sure that that was the path— he was so sure of it. 

"You are not abandoning him," Diana insisted. "We are here for Lord Beresford now. Edward and I will aid him. You got him this far, didn't you? Now you will go to Jessie, Oscar, because if something happens to her in Bakewell where she has no one to rely upon, I will never forgive you." 

Her words cut at him, bleeding ribbons engraved deep in the skin of his conscience. She had never said a thing like that before to him. They had never found themselves in midst of such a conversation. But it was happening, the moment was real and unrelenting, and the gravity of it shook him to his core. 

"I will explain everything to my husband and Lord Beresford," Diana continued after a pause, "I will also ask him to write to his mother in Bakewell and inform her of your arrival. You are his friend and Lady Embry's friend as well, so I see no issue your presence there might incur. I will have a sledge arranged for you— but with the complications of the strike, it being Christmas time, and the weather, it will take you at least two days till you get to Bakewell."

Diana walked over to a desk and pulled open a drawer where Oscar could glimpse a few business cards stacked in the corner. His cousin rummaged through them and pulled out a card. 

"Here," She brought it over to Oscar and handed it to him. "You can spend a night at this inn. It is a good establishment run by a friend of Edward's, and it will give me chance to write to you should anything occur. When you leave there without a correspondence from me, just ask Mr Carlisle to forward any letters with your name to Rosenfield Abbey in Bakewell." 

"No," Oscar blurted out, "I'm not stopping anywhere. There's no time for unnecessary delays." 

"Oscar," Diana let out, quickly getting impatient with her cousin's unreasonable antics, "If you arrive at Rosenfield sleep deprived and hallucinating, you are no help to Jessie at all. You need your strength and your clear sanity, so you're going to do this the right way." 

"And if Cranmer manages to get there before me? What then? Who's to stop him while I nap away at this— this inn?" He waved the business card in frustration. 

"Why would he be in a hurry?" Diana countered, "He believes Lord Beresford is here searching for him. There's no one to stop his plans in Bakewell. He will take his time, because he has no need to hurry. He also probably thinks he scared Jessie. He must've threatened her with The Lady Beresford as well— so he of course, believes a lady afraid for her life and for those around her won't say anything to anyone." 

Oscar scoffed. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?" 

"I'm glad you have me to put things into perspective, then," Diana declared. 

And then, with words of encouragement, the return of a panting footman with the summons of an urgently arranged sledge, Lord Oscar Seymour departed from Berkshire Abbey, beginning his journey to Bakewell to make sure he was there to protect Miss Jessie Churchill, something he never had imagined himself doing. Inwardly, he sent a quiet apology to Lady Embry and pinned his belief into the solid fact that Jack would find her and bring her back.