“Mother, I care,” Martha began, and suddenly she could bear it no longer. She saw that face—ravaged, pained—and knew that she would have to either choose her own pain and suffering, or be haunted by that haggard, dying face her whole life. It was not a choice she could make.
Without another word, she turned around and ran out of the room.
“My Lady?” her mother’s maid called, as she ran past her down the stairs. “Is her ladyship unwell?”
“Her ladyship is as she was when you left,” Martha managed, before she ran on down the steps. She grabbed her cloak from beside the door, shrugging it on without heeding that it was her thin, summer one and that it was too cold outside for it. She didn’t care that her shoes were the wrong shoes for rain and that she had no hood. She ran.
“I can’t do this!” she said to herself, as she ran down the path that led to the fields at the bottom of the estate. “I can’t do this.”
She ran without stopping, heading for the gate at the bottom of the garden. She was out in the woods and she ran between the trees, running down the path through the woodlands, not caring where she was going, or why. She simply had to get away from the house.
She ran up the hill, barely stopping for breath, her legs aching and her lungs burning. She felt her feet slip and at the top, she stopped.
She leaned against a tree trunk, and tears ran down her cheeks.
“I can’t,” she sobbed. It was the only word in her mind, the only thing she could think. “I can’t.”
She stood by the tree trunk and sobbed until she could cry no more. Then, as she shivered in the cold, she realized—first of all—that she had left the house with clothing utterly unsuitable for the weather. She felt how cold she was.
“I need to get back.”
She drew her cloak around her shoulders, noticing that her fingers were too stiff to move, the feeling almost gone from them. She also noticed how cold her feet were. They felt like lead weights, her legs too tired to carry her more.
“I need to s…stop somewhere.”
She had walked forward into the woods, and it was difficult to determine how to get back to the path.
What can I do? I need to get warm somehow.
She continued a few paces forward and then reached a low wall, the ruin of some structure that had once stood here. She sat down, taking the weight off her legs. She blew on her fingers. It was so cold. The rain had started again—small droplets sliding down between the trees. It dripped on her hair and on her face and hands, making her colder.
The urgency of the situation struck her forcibly. She would probably not freeze to death—after all, it was not winter yet—but if she stayed out here, soaking wet and chilled to the bone, she could get gravely ill.
She stood and stumbled along what resembled a path between the trees. She was just looking for a place to stop and shelter from the rain when she realized, chilled, that she recognized this place.
It’s the forbidden house.
She felt a shiver down her spine, even as she felt a mix of surprise and relief. She was standing opposite the side gate of the haunted manor, and she could see no other shelter.
I need to go in.
She took a deep breath. Oddly, the thought of going in did not scare her. Her mother was strict about everything, she realized—her domination of herself and Amelia was unreasonable. This was one more thing on her list of ludicrous requirements, and she was going to defy her. She might have made her give up Nicholas—the most important person in her life—but she could not make her stay out here and catch her death of chill.
I’m going in.
It was either that, or risk dying of a fever.
Lifting her skirt a little round her ankles—the muslin was soaked with rain—she headed down the dirt path to the front door
As she stood there, she considered the fact that the manor was very much occupied. She had always known there was an occupant—its haunted status didn’t seem to mean nobody lived there—but she had no idea who he or she was. Nobody ever mentioned the owner of the place.
As she stood by the door, she noticed that there were lights in several of the windows, and through one she could see what looked like a study—walls and ceilings lined with shelves, a desk on one side of the room. She was still standing there when she saw a face.
“Oh!”
Her first impulse was to run. The owner of the house—she thought it must be, for he was dressed as a gentleman in a dark jacket and his hair was well-groomed—would be angry. She wished Nicholas was here—he would know what to do.
Then, as she paused, about to run, he came out of a side door and walked up to her.
“My Lady,” he said, bowing low. “It is raining out here.”
She looked at him and to her astonishment, wanted to giggle at his statement. It was so much an act of pointing out the obvious that it actually amused her.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
He frowned up at her with concern. He was older than her by about twenty years, she guessed—maybe more. He had white hair, and a face that seemed careworn and sorrowful, though it was not in truth that lined. His eyes were hazel brown. They looked caring and not at all scary.
“My Lady,” he said, and bowed. “I am Frederick Arnott, Baron Redfield. I would like to help you if I can?”
Martha felt her heart jump and she knew she was too nervous to accept an invitation into the house, though she knew she ought to if she wanted to have the smallest chance of staying well now.
“My Lord…I should return home. I should attend luncheon.” She stammered out an excuse, knowing that it was ridiculous—she was alone and unchaperoned, but she also had no means of getting home by herself besides to walk.
And if I stay out much longer in the rain I will be very ill.
She was already exhausted, and held onto the doorframe for support as he frowned up at her.
“My Lady, I understand the delicacy of your state, and if it would make you feel safer, I will fetch my housemaid to attend you. But please, I must beg of you to come inside and sit by the fire. I cannot leave you out here alone.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She waited on the doorstep, feeling her mind drift hazily in and out of consciousness. She wondered why she was fussing about propriety when she might die on the doorstep.
When the maid arrived, she allowed her to help her into the house.
She walked across the checkerboard entrance tiles and to the left, to a drawing room. It had elaborate wooden furniture in it that struck Martha as being a tad old-fashioned. What held all of her attention, however, was the fire roaring in the grate. The warmth was delicious to her.
She thanked the maid for bringing her in, and the woman disappeared, leaving Martha sitting somewhat dubiously by the fire. She should run away, she knew. Yet she couldn’t leave, not when her fingers were finally thawing out and the delicious warmth was making her shiver.
“Here, My Lady. Some tea and cakes,” a voice said from behind her. The maid had returned, a tray in her hands. She was not alone, either, Martha realized, when she heard another voice in the doorway.
“My Lady, you must allow me to escort you back to your home,” the Baron said.
“N…no,” Martha stammered, instantly afraid. “Better if I wait here until the rains abate and then walk back. It isn’t far,” she said quickly. “Only a mile or two away.”
Lord Redfield grinned at her. Or, his eyes seemed to smile, though his mouth remained level. “My Lady, I assure you I would do you no harm.”
Martha swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes,” she said. She wasn’t sure what else she could say.
He turned away and walked to the door and Martha felt her fear lift. As soon as he was gone, she went to the table and poured herself a cup of tea. She was a little scared it might be poisoned, but told herself that was ridiculous. He was reclusive, that was all—not wicked or criminal.
Not necessarily.
She took a mou
thful of the tea. It tasted rich and sweet and not in the least poisoned. She started to think about the encounter. He was a stern, quiet person, but something about his eyes seemed friendly to her. She couldn’t help but like him, despite his forbidding appearance.
She wished she could tell Nicholas about it, but the thought of him made her heart sore and she pushed it aside stoically.
The tea warmed her, and she risked trying a mouthful of the cake, which took the edge off her hunger. She realized it was past lunchtime and her sister was probably worried for her. A glance out of the window showed her it had stopped raining. It was her chance to go away from here.
She stood up and went to the door. When she got there, Lord Redfield looked up at her.
“My Lady…please, if you must walk—and I do understand you must—please, at least, take this? It’s an oilskin cloak. It will keep you safe from the worst weather.”
Martha took the cloak. She felt the dense, heavy fabric and she looked across at the man, feeling a strange sense of warmth for him. He was watching her, hazel eyes solemn. She nodded to him.
“I thank you. It will be very helpful. I will see to it that my maid returns it to you.”
He looked up at her almost sorrowfully. “There’s no need…you may keep it, if you wish.”
She smiled at him and wondered why she felt a stab of something in her heart. There was something so pained about his face, so long-suffering. She looked away.
Again, she thought of Nicholas, and wondered what he would say about this.
“Thank you, but I must insist on returning it,” she said. His eyes met hers again as she went to the door and she wondered again why she felt an inclination to want to reach out to him in some way. He seemed like someone in a great deal of pain.
“Of course, My Lady,” he said. “I wish you a safe journey back to your lodging.”
“Thank you, My Lord. She cast a last glance over her shoulder at his sorrowful, careworn face. She went out through the door, tugged the oilskin cloak around herself and headed out into the cold again.
This time, since she knew where she was, it was not too difficult to find the path that led back to her home. She reached the side gate and slipped through, relieved it was still unlocked. Bundling the cloak in the concealment of the hedge, she went up the path towards the house.
It would be too difficult to explain where I obtained it.
She felt the need to keep the exchange a secret, at least for the moment.
She walked into the house, planning what to do next. She still had no idea what might get her out of her predicament, but having been kindly treated by a stranger made her feel a tiny flicker of hope.
Her own life and dreams were not so worthless, after all. Maybe it would not be too bad to try and find a way to save them.
Chapter 28
Nicholas heard footsteps in the hallway and stood up from where he sat at his desk. He had been writing, and he hastily slid the quill into the inkwell, glancing down at his hands to check for ink stains. He had been thinking all morning, and the more he thought about it, the more he considered that something awful was happening.
I cannot believe this physician has any grounds for saying a person might die of this sort of shock.
He didn’t want to believe the physician was lying, but at the same time, the only other possibility was that he had made a mistake. He frowned.
“Maybe Uncle will know of the man.”
He stood and headed up to his uncle’s office.
When he got there, his uncle was seated behind his desk, a plate of cake at his left-hand side, a cup of tea at the top edge of the book he was studying. He always sat like that and the familiarity soothed Nicholas somewhat.
“Uncle?” he said, tapping lightly on the doorframe as he approached. His uncle looked up, frown instantly replaced with a grin.
“Nephew! Come in! This is a surprise. Sit down, sit down. These books can wait. Ellery? More tea for my nephew, if you please!” he called.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Nicholas nodded. He waited for the butler to leave before he turned to look at his uncle with a frown. “I have an awkward question to ask you, Uncle.”
“Capital!” his uncle grinned. “Ask away, Nephew. Anything that distracts me from these wretched ledgers is as welcome as Springtime in April.”
Nicholas grinned. “Uncle…it’s about the local physician. What do you know of him?”
“Which one?” his uncle asked, scratching one ear. “There are three. Mr. Hudson, Mr. Pearson and…um, Lessing, I think. Why do you ask? I always go to Pearson if I need anything.”
“Mr. Lessing,” Nicholas confirmed. “What do you know of him?”
“Um, nothing,” his uncle said, head on one side. “Which is odd, isn’t it? Oh! Thank you. Put it there, if you please. And cake? Nephew, do you want some cake?” he asked, as Ellery put the tea down on the table by Nicholas’ hand.
“No, thank you,” he nodded. He waited for Ellery to go before he turned to his uncle again. “You say you have heard nothing of him.”
“No,” his uncle agreed. “Which is odd, since I’ve lived in these parts as long as anyone, and I’ve not spoken to someone who goes to him. Makes me wonder if the fellow’s really good.” He sniffed. “But then, maybe there’s a reason other than a lack of skill. I don’t like to speculate on a fellow I’ve never met.”
“Of course, of course,” Nicholas nodded. He paused as his uncle took a big sip of his tea. He lifted his own cup to his lips, but he felt too agitated to drink anything. He found it interesting that his uncle knew nothing of this particular man.
Did Lady Weston have a reason for selecting him?
He frowned.
“What is it, Nephew?” his uncle asked, looking up as he set his tea to one side. “Have you heard something bad of this fellow?”
“Not really,” Nicholas said, and decided to ask another question. “Uncle, is it possible to die of shock?”
“I suppose so,” his uncle replied, brow wrinkling. “But, well, I would imagine an acute shock, like finding a bear in one’s library, might do it,” he chuckled. “I can’t imagine anything less would do so. I’m no physician, mind you. And I suppose if one had a weakness of the heart, a fit of apoplexy could result from shock. Not that I’m an expert…I only hear the odd thing or two from the Royal Society, and then mostly because people insist on telling me. Not because I seek the information for myself.”
Nicholas nodded. “I would imagine the same.”
“If there’s anything I can be of assistance with? I can send for Mr. Pearson, and we could ask him? He’s bound to know about this kind of matter.” His uncle frowned.
Nicholas shook his head. He thought it would be best not to get the physician involved. The less people who knew what he was starting to suspect, the better. And the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the illness might be an act altogether.
It did seem a very fortuitous matter for Lady Weston, to suddenly fall ill and be able to terrify Martha with thoughts of her death.
And if the physician was corrupt, it was just possible that she could perpetuate this lie for her convenience.
“Uncle…” he cleared his throat. “Do you think it’s possible the physician, Mr. Lessing, is not a reputable sort??”
“I don’t know, Nephew,” his uncle said, and reached for his napkin as he set aside his cake fork. “But I am sure you have a reason for thinking so.”
Nicholas nodded and pushed back his chair. He had an idea. It was four o’ clock already, and he was almost running out of time. He had to leave now if he wanted to be able to put his plans into action.
“Excuse me, Uncle,” Nicholas said. “I’ll be back by dinner.”
“Of course, of course,” his uncle nodded, and reached across the table for a ledger. “I’ll see you later, Nephew.”
Nicholas grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs.
He waited impatiently for the stable hand t
o saddle his horse, and then rode swiftly down the forest track to Weston Manor. He dismounted at the side entrance and ran up the path, heedless of who saw him. He needed to speak with Penitence, urgently.
“Good afternoon. Is Miss Penitence here?” he asked a maid who was hanging up washing. The woman gasped in shock, and he held up a hand, aware that he’d scared her. “Sorry. But I must relay a message to her at once, if you please.”
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 21