by Ella Edon
Raymonde smiled. “You must have loved her terribly.”
“I did.” He nodded. He smiled, recalling her. She had been gentle, her skin scented with lavender, her face lined and wise. She was more patient and tender than anyone he knew. Whether it was a nightmare or a scraped knee, Lady Edmore had faced all things with gentle understanding and that tired, warm smile.
He realized that this was the first time in more than twenty years that he had consciously called her face to mind. He had buried this grief for so long! He blinked, each contour of her beloved face racking him with tears.
“Sorry,” he said softly, smiling at Lady Raymonde as tears ran down his face. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, surprised, but oddly enough, not ashamed. He dabbed the tears from his cheeks. “It’s silly, isn’t it?”
“It’s never silly to mourn for those you love,” Raymonde said gently. She reached out and touched his hand.
Cutler took her hand, his fingers curling round hers. They were so slim, the nails pink and neatly trimmed.
“You are surprisingly strong, Lady Raymonde,” he said gently. His eyes stared into hers. “You are here, in a house you’ve never been in, with people you’ve never met. And yet you sit there, and you listen to me tell the darkest secrets of my heart. And all you do is wait and watch and let me speak.”
She squeezed his hand. “I know what it is to love. And I know of pain, and how it grows when you keep it inside.”
Cutler nodded. His throat tightened. He had never met somebody who understood so well.
“I think you have pain of your own.”
She nodded. “I will not speak of it,” she said softly. Her eyes held his and her expression was oddly tight.
“I understand,” he said.
They sat quietly for a long moment. Cutler was floating in his thoughts, aware only of the cool weight of her hand in his own. After a long moment, he returned from his memories, becoming aware of the sound of the fire crackling in the grate. Lady Raymonde was still beside him, her hand in his.
“I would do best if I rode out to the cottages today,” he said, taking his hand back. He felt self-conscious and a little worried. He hadn’t meant to burden her with his past. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“I had planned to write letters today,” Raymonde said, turning to face him as he stood up, stretching his legs.
“I will see you at dinner, then?” he asked.
He felt odd, speaking to her like this. It felt as if they had crossed a barrier when he told her his stories. He had never talked so openly with anyone, and nobody in the world knew him as well as she did, now. What was the best way to approach her in this newfound closeness?
“I will look forward to it.”
He held her gaze. He could see care there, but no sorrow, only a gentle warmth. She had stood too, and it was natural – so natural – to lean forward and press his lips to hers.
She pressed her lips to his, eyes shutting slowly. He felt his heart ache and he longed to deepen the kiss, to run his tongue along the line of her lips. He leaned back, face flushed.
“Excuse me, Lady Raymonde,” he said, hurrying from the room, cheeks heating with a blush. “I will see you this evening.”
“Goodbye, Lieutenant.”
It was only as he hurried down the stairs, boots clattering on the wooden steps, that Cutler let himself feel the mix of pain and wonder of that kiss.
Chapter Nineteen
Sharing Words
Raymonde looked out at the garden through the window of the breakfast room. The sky was dark, the rain starting again. She watched the droplets drip off the branches of the pine-tree, her mind lost in the conversation that had just transpired.
The poor man.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. The pain in his eyes, the roughness of his voice as he tried so hard to sound as if he was unaffected by what had happened.
The rain was falling faster now, she noticed. She turned around and her eye caught the clock on the mantelpiece. It was eleven o’ clock. She stood, shaking herself.
Raymonde, you ought to do something.
She felt the same awkwardness that she always felt whenever she had been sitting still. Her nanny had chided her for idleness, Osburne mocking her where the maid had left off reprimanding. Only useless people sat around doing nothing, he had said.
She swallowed hard. She was not thirteen and her maid was no longer at Maverly; Osburne was banished from the country. She could sit here all day in idleness if she wished, watching the rain.
But I want to find out more.
What the Lieutenant had told her disturbed her deeply. His tale of his father’s death seemed wrong. The Lieutenant himself seemed fairly convinced that the death was unnatural – both that of his father and that of Lady Edmore.
She went out into the hallway and heard the sound of feet downstairs. Instinctively, she drew back, feeling the need not to be found here. Mr. Hanford disturbed her too. Somehow, she couldn’t warm to the cold, distant man.
If anybody knows something, it’s him.
She took a left turn to her bedroom and sat down on the bed, composing herself. Outside, she heard footsteps, and taking a breath, she opened her door.
“Miss?”
The maid stared at her. “My Lady?”
Raymonde tried not to smile, though her smile would have had a wry quality. The woman’s terror was amusing, given that she herself was afraid. She was alone in a house owned by a man who may have murdered Cutler Wingate’s father. She had far more reason to be afraid than the maid did.
She raised a hand. “I wished to ask you some questions, if I may.”
The woman looked around, as if she thought they might be overheard. Then she nodded. “Yes, My Lady. If you please.”
Raymonde beckoned her into the room. The maid followed her, looking as if she thought she was in acute danger. She stood in the doorway, eyes wide and frightened.
“Is there a reason why you were afraid of the man who was here this morning?” she asked.
The maid gasped and then frowned. “My Lady? Who told you about that?”
Raymonde raised one eyebrow. “I am a guest here. What is told to me is not your business.”
The woman jumped as if she had been struck, but she nodded. “My Lady…yes. I saw Lord Stirling here. He was here but a moment.”
“I asked why you fear him.”
“My Lady, I don’t. That is to say…yes. I do fear him. I don’t know why.”
Raymonde could see the woman was terrified. She was maybe eight years younger than she was herself, her brown eyes guileless and afraid. Raymonde nodded.
“I understand. He seems a frightening man.”
“He… It’s my uncle, sir. He lives at Alford. One of the tenants. He says… He says he’s a bad landlord, My Lady.”
“Alford?” Raymonde frowned at her. She might have been mistaken, but was not Alford the Lieutenant’s land? She was sure he had mentioned something like that.
“Yes, My Lady. There’s a few cottages there – not quite a village, you understand, but more some houses, and some gardens, where people grow things for market… Excuse me, My Lady,” she added, dropping a curtsey.
“I see,” Raymonde nodded. “Lord Stirling is the owner of these lands?”
“Lord Stirling collects the rents, My Lady. Or his steward does. They say he’s cruel, My Lady.”
“I see,” Raymonde said again. She had suspected something untoward afoot here, but the facts that she was finding out were far worse than anything that she had guessed at.
“Sorry, My Lady, if I spoke too plain,” the maid added, staring at Raymonde with a frightened expression. “I just thought that…”
“You answered the questions I asked, and that you did honestly,” Raymonde said, holding her gaze.
“Thank you, My Lady.” The maid took a step through the door, as if she longed to escape. Raymonde nodded.
“You may go.”
Raymonde stayed where she was, thinking about all that she had been told. It seemed beyond belief, but she had to believe it. Lord Stirling – she had a name for that nightmarish man, now – had been using Alford Acres for himself, taking rents due to his nephew. Not only was he apparently following his nephew, but he was also taking his money and inheritance. It was more sinister than she imagined.
“And, if he’s benefitting from the Lieutenant’s absence…” she trailed off. If it benefited him to have Cutler Wingate out of the way, how much more would his death benefit him?
No.
She couldn’t allow herself to think that.
It must be a coincidence that he turned up every time the shootings happened. It couldn’t possibly be that he was really trying to kill his nephew! It was preposterous.
Not if he’s already killed his own brother, it’s not.
If he had killed Cutler’s father, why would he stop there? He had already committed a crime most people wouldn’t dream of.
Nonsense, Raymonde.
She walked to the window, trying to make her thoughts keep a hold on reality. Lord Stirling couldn’t be a murderer twice over! Investigations made at the time of the deaths would have definitely revealed something like that. He couldn’t still own all the possessions he’d gotten by killing his brother; he couldn’t still be free and living in England!
She went to the bell-rope and called for tea. She needed something to clear her head. She couldn’t possibly be right about all this.
When the maid had brought the tea, she took it to the window, sipping it slowly. She stared out at the rain-soaked hills. She had meant to write a letter to Emilia today, to explain her absence. She imagined her cousin and the family trapped in miserable worries. She made up her mind to send a letter post-haste. While she was writing, she could also write down some of her suspicions. At least, if she put them all on paper, the ludicrous nature of her suppositions would become clear.
“Or not,” she said to herself, as she finished her cup of tea and walked briskly up the stairs.
Or not.
She spent the day writing letters and walking in the garden. As night fell, she walked briskly back to the house. She shivered. Anybody could be out here. The hedge seemed full of menace, each bend from here to the house seeming to conceal a thousand intruders.
“Nonsense,” Raymonde told herself firmly.
She walked back to the front of the house. As she did so, she caught sight of a horseman, riding up to the door. It was dark, and she couldn’t see his face. All she could see was that, as he saw her, his pace quickened. He was riding straight up the pathway.
Straight at her.
Under normal circumstances, she would have turned and faced him; addressed him. Today, all she wanted was to get away.
She ran up the steps.
The man dismounted and walked briskly to the door.
“My Lady?” he said, gripping her hand.
She tore her fingers from his grasp, her other hand fastening on the door-handle. She stared up and gave a little exclamation. “You!”
“My Lady,” the Lieutenant bowed low. “I am so sorry. Why are you so distressed?”
“Distressed because… well, you just gave me the most terrible fright!” she snapped. She turned around, hauling the door open. It was only as he took the handle from her, standing forlornly on the doorstep, that she relented.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She felt her heart twist. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, too,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just thought, when I saw you riding there, that it was your uncle. Lord Stirling.”
“You know my uncle’s name?” he asked. His expression was wary.
“It’s not a public secret,” she said, trying not to raise her voice, the shock still running in her veins. “In fact, you might have told me yourself what his name was. Please, Lieutenant. I have been forced from my home; faced gunshots and danger and I know not what else. All I know is what you have told me, and I deserve more facts, Lieutenant. If I am going to be here alone in a dangerous situation, knowledge will help me.”
His face fell and he didn’t look up. “You are right. I am sorry.”
“I understand why you couldn’t tell me,” she said softly. “I just don’t like to feel that I am being treated like a fool.”
To her surprise, he nodded. “I never meant to treat you that way. I am fully aware you are no fool.”
Raymonde inclined her head. “I thank you. Now, we should go inside. You must be hungry.”
“I am.” To her surprise, he grinned. “I could eat two dinners and still have room for seconds.”
She smiled. “I will inform the cook that it’s past time to serve dinner, then.”
They walked together to the dining room. The lamps and the fire were both lit, and it seemed as if the first course was already set out. Two dishes stood under silver lids, a tray of bread in the center of the table. The room was cozy and simple; two long windows well-covered by pale drapes, the fire crackling in the grate.
“Thank you,” she said, seating herself at the long, slim table as the Lieutenant drew out a chair.
“Glad to be of service.”
She crossed her legs under the red skirt of her dress; she was pleased she had dressed in her best gown. It was not every day she dined alone with Cutler. It surprised her how the thought brought a flush to her cheeks.
Cutler sat down beside her at the head of the table. She felt her heart sink a little when she heard the door open, and the sound of footsteps. Did their moment alone have to be so soon interrupted?
“Sir?” somebody said from behind her chair.
“Thank you, Lewis, but we will dine alone tonight.” The Lieutenant’s voice was coolly dismissive; something she had never heard him be before.
“Yes, sir.”
Somebody wheeled a trolley into the room, leaving it in a corner. Then the same footsteps echoed away.
“I thought it would be best.”
The Lieutenant’s voice sounded oddly tense, as if he was shy.
That must be my imagination. Why would he be?
She had more to be shy about than he did.
“I thank you,” Raymonde said. She cleared her throat. Somebody had poured her a glass of cordial and she sipped it gratefully.
“My Lady,” Cutler said, wetting dry lips. “I have done you a disservice. You should not have had to come here without any knowledge of myself, or my family. For that, I apologize.”
“You did not mean for it to happen like this,” Raymonde said lightly. Her expression was carefully neutral, but inside, her heart was thumping. He was really very close – close enough for her to sense the warmth of his leg against hers under the table. She tried to focus on what he was saying and doing, not on the nervous thoughts that flooded through her mind.
“You have found out more than a little about my home, I think.” He said it as a statement, not a question, but his eyes – where they held hers – were wary.
“I asked a few questions. I felt the need to find out something. If you are in danger, I must know of it. Also, if I am in danger, then I would like to know from where and whom it comes.”
“I understand,” Cutler said levelly.
“You told me much of your past,” she said gently. “And for that, I am grateful. I wish I could have understood this from the beginning.”
“I have very little practice, telling my story,” he said softly. “Before you, I never did.”
Raymonde felt her cheeks flush with warmth. She had not thought that he would tell only her. Of all the possibilities, the last one she had ever considered was that he had told her so little because he was too shy.
“I see,” she said softly. “With that, I have some sympathy.” She sniffed dryly. She had never told a soul of her struggles, of her brother’s cruelty. The closest she had come to it was Hest
ony, Emilia’s cousin. And then she had only told her because of the danger Osburne posed to her personally.