Perhaps they were talking about recipes for joint pains.
“Bravo, Elsbeth. You play Mozart beautifully.” Dr. Branyon cheered and clapped loudly.
The earl was frankly surprised. Wasn’t it unusual that such a painfully shy girl should play the pianoforte with such passion? Good God, what was Elsbeth? Underneath all that bland exterior was something wild and exciting.
Elsbeth rose from the piano stool and blushed pink with pleasure at the smiling faces. And they were smiling at her. Approving of her. It was true that she had played particularly well, losing herself upon several occasions in the thrilling tempo, the deep resounding chords. But had they really enjoyed it?
It was drawing near to ten o’clock in the evening and Lady Ann was on the point of excusing herself when the earl turned to Arabella and asked politely, “It is now your turn, ma’am. Won’t you play for us?” Arabella laughed until tears were swimming in her eyes. “Were I to play, sir, you would most certainly suffer for your gallantry. You would be praying for cotton to stuff in your ears. You would be praying that I would expire over the keys.”
“Now, Arabella, that is not quite true,” said Arabella’s loving mother, who tried desperately not to be biased. She thought of all the torturous hours she had stood behind Arabella at the pianoforte, loving her even as she had gritted her teeth. But she had tried. But just look at the woeful result she had achieved.
“Oh, Mother, isn’t it time to face up to the truth? Despite Mother’s heroic efforts,” she added over her shoulder to the earl, “I could never even execute a simple scale without falling over my fingers. I couldn’t have recognized the key of a tune if my life had depended on it. Mother, come on, admit it, it is a dark day in her family’s history. I am truly sorry, but there it is.”
“But, Arabella, you do everything so very well,” Elsbeth said, quite shocked that her perfect younger half-sister wasn’t perfect in everything. “No, I can’t believe that you do not play magnificently. You are being modest. Come, show his lordship how talented you are.”
“Dear little goose,” Arabella said fondly to her half-sister, “you have every scrap of talent in the Deverill family. I would much rather listen to you than have everyone howling at me with their hands over their ears.
And trust me on this, Elsbeth, the earl would not hesitate to howl.” Elsbeth said hopefully, “Perhaps you play the harp?”
“Not a chance.”
Lady Ann threw up her hands. “I am undone. All my efforts went to nothing. And the good Lord knows, I did try. Whatever is a mother to do now?”
“You’re to love me and praise me in every other endeavor,” Arabella said, as she rose quickly and hugged her mother. “Even if everyone else disagrees with you, you’re to hold steady. All right, dearest?”
“I will, my love,” Lady Ann said. “No matter how Justin complains about your win over him today in your horse race, I will tell him that you are perfect and there’s an end to it. I will tell him not to whine or cry foul. I will tell him that your playing any instrument at all is a treat for him to enjoy until he cocks up his toes. Is that all right?”
“Tell him all those things, Mama. It is perfect. You are the most perfect of mothers.”
After Lady Ann dispensed tea, Dr. Branyon asked the earl, “How did you find your first night spent at Evesham Abbey?” The earl sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands between his knees. “It is strange that you should ask, sir, for I did spend a somewhat unusual night.”
“You did that on purpose,” Arabella said, wagging a finger at him. “You wanted attention and you got it through a display of drama. It was rather good, I must admit. Look at you, just like an actor, awaiting for his audience to accord him full attention. You have no shame.”
“Behold one of my many talents, ma’am. No, seriously, I am inclined to think that it was all suggestion and my own imagination. In any case, all of you are familiar with that most unusual paneling in my bedchamber—The Dance of Death.”
“Oh, it’s horrible,” Elsbeth said, her teacup clattering onto its saucer.
“I can remember seeing it when I was just a little girl. I believed the Devil was in that panel. He was waving something in his hand. Perhaps the Devil still is there.”
“I’m not all that sure about the Devil,” the earl said, “but it’s very strange. I was looking at it closely before I went to bed, trying to determine its theme. I could discover no plausible explanation, and I was still dwelling upon it when I fell asleep.” The earl paused a moment, then looked at Dr. Branyon. “That was my mistake. It was very late, well into the early hours of the morning, when I awoke suddenly, certain that I was not alone. I lit the candle at my bedside and lifted it to look about the room. I could see nothing save that hideous grinning skeleton on the paneling. I was beginning to feel particularly foolish when I heard a strange thudding sound near to the fireplace. I raised the candle but saw nothing. Then I swear I heard a high wailing cry, like that of a newborn infant. Before I could even react, there came, quite close to me, it seemed, another cry. Not a babe’s, but a woman’s cry—piercing and somehow incredibly anguished. Then there was nothing. I am still not certain in my own mind that I did not imagine it. But I will tell you, it was difficult getting back to sleep. When I did, thank God, there were no more dreams or visions or visits, whatever.” The earl looked around, somewhat apologetically, at the sea of startled faces.
Lady Ann said very gently in a soothing mother’s voice, “You did not imagine it, Justin. You have made the acquaintance of Evesham Abbey’s ghosts. What you have described happens on rare occasions, and only in the earl’s bedchamber. The cry of the child. The cry of the mother, so anguished, yet we don’t know anything about her or her babe.”
“You are not trying to stew up another nightmare for me, are you, Ann?
Please, I will admit it. I’m weak. My heart was pounding. I broke out in a sweat. No more, if you please. I wish to hear that it was the boiled cabbage for dinner last night.”
“We didn’t have boiled cabbage last night for dinner. Get hold of yourself, sir, it’s true,” Arabella said, sitting forward in her chair.
“My father heard just what you recounted at least a dozen times. It seems that well over two hundred years ago, before Evesham Abbey came into the Deverill family, a lord named Faber lived here. His reputation was that of a vicious cruel bully. He was also wild and somewhat unstable. The story goes that one stormy night a servant arrived at the cottage of the local midwife and ordered her to accompany him. She was afraid and refused, but he forced her. She was blindfolded and driven many miles. At last the carriage halted. She was dragged up a long flight of steps, through a large hall, up a straight staircase, and led to a bedchamber.” Arabella, no mean actress herself, paused a moment, looking at all the faces and finally continued, her voice lower. “When the servant removed her blindfold, she saw a lady, huge with child, propped up in a great bed. A large, broodingly silent man stood by the fireplace. The lady began to scream, and the midwife forgot her fear and rushed forward to help her.
“After a long and difficult labor, the child was finally born. To the horror of the midwife, the man rushed forward and grabbed the babe and hurled it wailing into a roaring fire. The lady screamed and fell in a faint back on her pillow.
“The servant grabbed the midwife, tied the blindfold back on, and hurried her back to her cottage.” Arabella was nearly panting. She gasped, “Oh goodness, I have gooseflesh on my arms and I have heard the story a good dozen times. But it always terrifies me, always.”
“Good God,” the earl said, just staring at her.
“There is a just ending, though,” Lady Ann said. “It seems that the midwife remembered certain sounds, and even counted the number of stair steps. She was able to lead the magistrate to Evesham Abbey. Though the magistrate could find no conclusive proof of violence, and thus Lord Faber escaped lawful punishment, it did not end. It was reported that late one night, Lord Faber came boundi
ng out of his bedchamber, his face contorted with sheer terror. He raced to the stables and threw himself upon one of his half-wild stallions. No one is certain what happened then, but the next morning Lord Faber was found under his horse, crushed to death, just beyond a small knoll behind the old abbey ruins. To this day, the drop is called Faber’s Jump. I have only screwed up my courage once to visit that spot. I know it’s haunted. There is so much madness there, I swear you can feel it seeping into you.” Elsbeth said, after she’d managed a delicate shudder, “Josette told me about Lord Faber, but I did not believe her. It seems my mother heard the mother and child one time. It is true, Lady Ann?”
“Yes, it is. At least it all happened a very long time ago,” Lady Ann said. “Now, enough fodder for nightmares. Would anyone care for more tea?”
“A lady with nerves of iron,” Dr. Branyon said. “I fear all of you will be hearing strange noises tonight, but not I. I will be sleeping soundly, no other thoughts in my brain than the delicious mutton Cook prepared for dinner this evening. Now, I must be on my way.” Lady Ann rose. “Well, I for one intend to do nothing save sleep.” She turned to Elsbeth. “Come, love, you and I will both see Dr. Branyon out, then I will accompany you to your room. You are looking quite fagged.” Arabella watched them bid their good nights and leave. She was suddenly alone with the new earl. She thought to go to bed herself, but knew he would believe her running from him. Well, she wanted to run, but she couldn’t bear to have him believe that she was running, that she was a coward. She eyed him as he rose and strolled to the sideboard. He stretched. He was a big man, well made, lean, really quite nice for a man. He turned, saw her staring at him, grinned briefly, then said in the most serious of voices, “A glass of sherry, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” She tucked her knees up under her and balanced her chin on her hand. She had a very good hold on herself now. “You are certainly calm about all this. Were I you, I would sleep in the stable.” He handed her the glass, grinning down at her. “Believe me, I would gladly ask Dr. Branyon for a sleeping potion if I thought it would not lower me in your estimation. But it would lower me at least a bit, wouldn’t it?”
“My father never asked for a sleeping potion. Perhaps he should have. It quite raises the hair on my neck every time I hear or recount that story.
Now, as for you, that, sir, is quite the stupidest thing I’ve heard you say. Of course I have only known you for two days. Doubtless in the future there will be many more stupid things to come out of your mouth.” So she’d accept it. He felt a spurt of relief, but he said easily enough,
“You call me stupid just because I try to butter you up? Don’t deny it.
Also, I find it invigorating that you speak of the future. Drink your sherry, ma’am, and stop frowning at me. That’s a new frown, one manufactured just because I caught you in the truth.”
“To your continued health, sir,” she said, and tossed down the remainder of her sherry. “Maybe.”
“When will you let me call you Arabella?” She said, “It is far easier to keep you at arm’s length with ma’am. I think arm’s length is a good distance for you. If I could but think of another appellation that would keep you further away from me I surely would use it.”
“But I would prefer being much closer.”
“I don’t think so. You move quickly, sir, too quickly.” Her voice had risen. She felt a spurt of panic, then knew that such a thing as panic was for lesser folk, those who weren’t secure in themselves, those who were weak and feckless.
“I don’t mind if you call me Justin.”
“Sir suits you quite nicely. It grows very late. Good night.”
“We’re back to the beginning again,” he said and managed a credible sigh.
“You’re fleeing me, ma’am. I will think you a coward.” He set down his glass and walked toward her.
She showed no alarm whatsoever. “I don’t believe you’re executing a sound strategy. Come any closer and I will fire off my glass of sherry at you.”
“Are you always so physical, ma’am?”
“Only when necessary,” she said, her chin well up. “Keep your distance and you will remain intact.”
To her, it was a challenge. To her surprise and perhaps a bit of chagrin, the earl backed away. He sat in a spindly chair that groaned under his weight. “So, now you will flee,” he said, his voice all meditative and sad. “Now you will abandon me to my fate in the haunted bedchamber.” Now this wasn’t something she’d expected. He was acting human. It was disconcerting. She said, her voice all grudging, “I suppose I cannot blame you after that terrifying experience. I have always felt uncomfortable in that room. Actually, I avoid it.”
“How relieved I am to hear you say that. Is your bedchamber large enough for the both of us?”
“Oh dear, that really is too much,” Arabella said, and dashed from the room.
“It’s just the beginning, ma’am.” He smiled, a confident smile. She was obstinate and headstrong. She was also an excellent rider, she had a brain in her head, and she could be amusing. Also, she knew how to run Evesham Abbey. She had talent and experience where he had none. Perhaps many men would have condemned her for that, but he found it a vast relief. Suddenly, he did not think that he would wish her to be any other way. He pictured her breasts. His hands curved. He was beginning to think that he had not made such a bad bargain after all. Surely he was a bounder.
The earl drummed long fingers impatiently on the most recent pages of the estate account book. Damn, he was not used to the endless rows of numbers to be tallied and retallied, all the details of what to do with this or that investment, or the juggling of rents of his tenants to secure the best income. He would just as soon that all the numbers would magically disappear and stay gone, just as had the ghost of Evesham Abbey a week ago after scaring him spitless that first night.
He sat back in his chair and dropped his pen on the open page. He had passed his adult years soldiering—a leader of men, not these damned numbers that seemed to dance from one column to another. Ah, Ciudad Rodrigo—there was a battle, and a decisive one. Yet, he thought, picking up the pen and tapping it on the open page, Napoleon still held Europe fast in his Corsican hands. England was suffering from the French blockade, and if rumor had it correctly, Napoleon was now casting greedy eyes to the east, to Russia.
And here he was, far from the thick of things, saddled with a damned title and a huge estate. With a frustrated grunt the earl shook his head and returned his concentration to the page of entries. What he needed was Arabella. The one afternoon she had spent with him explaining such things as rents, market prices, crops, and the like, she had spoken concisely and knowledgeably, and he had achieved at least some rudimentary insights. Blackwater, his agent, had been far less helpful. The studious little man seemed to have difficulty in focusing his fading wits on the new century.
Arabella. During the past week, she had been practically as nonexistent as his ghostly visitors. He guessed that she was breakfasting very early in her room, to avoid him. She rode out alone on Lucifer, and on many days did not return until the sun was fading behind Charles II’s cedar in the front lawn.
Wisely, he left her alone. At least he thought he was acting wisely. On many occasions it was Arabella who maneuvered circumstances so as not to be alone with him. He would have felt totally at sea had he not several times felt her gray eyes upon him while he was speaking with someone else.
He started at a distant clap of thunder. Finally a diversion from his wretched task. He rose and walked to the windows. Dark, mottled rain clouds hung low and threateningly to the east. He hoped Arabella—rather, ma’am—wouldn’t be caught in the rain.
Layers of chill, heavy air swirled about Arabella. The storm was closing fast. Yet she did not move from her perch atop the highest outjutting gray stone in the old abbey ruins. How strange it was that her father had always hated the ruins. Even as a child, he had forbidden her to go near them. This was the only instance
she could ever remember defying him.
She’d loved the ruins all her life. She smoothed her fingers over the stone, remembering childhood adventures in the ruins.
She was no longer a child, and the ruins were just ruins. She sighed as a raindrop landed on her cheek and dripped off her chin. What was she to do? Of course she knew there was really no choice, but she wanted a choice, a real choice that wouldn’t leave her feeling resentful and bitter.
She thought of Justin, picturing him in her mind. Her twin, she thought, except for that dimple in his chin. He had backed away, leaving her to herself, and she liked him for that. Actually, she liked him for a lot of things—his strength, his humor, his honor. She even liked him when he acted like an ass. She even liked him when he was mocking her or laughing at her or treating her like she was a twit. As husbands went, surely he wouldn’t be so bad. He would be a handful, but having lived with herself for eighteen years, she knew all about handfuls. She smiled this time and a fat raindrop fell right into her mouth. She laughed then, rising reluctantly. She looked toward Evesham Abbey, blurred now through the gathering darkness. It seemed unlikely that Lady Ann and Elsbeth would venture from Talgarth Hall with the storm brewing up so quickly. She had watched them climb into the Strafford carriage several hours before with only John Coachman in attendance. She wondered why the earl had not accompanied them. She was glad that he hadn’t. She was glad she would have him to herself. She shook out her skirts and began to run toward the abbey. She had made her choice. She would marry him.
The earl stood, hands on his hips, under the protection of the columned entrance. “Lady Arabella did not take Lucifer?” he asked James, the head groom. Heavy rain fell in sheets in front of them, and a chill wind billowed the sleeves of the earl’s white shirt.
“No, my lord.”
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