There was more grumbling amongst the small mob gathered, several looking back and forth to one another as if questioning their actions. Seeing an opportunity, Viola continued. “If this was truly the Lord’s work you are doing, what need would you have of lies and subterfuge? Why would you need to destroy the property of an innocent man and increase the difficulty of the lives of your friends and neighbors? Surely God would not require such actions in His name! You’re doing the work of Randall Grantham and he might as well be the devil himself!”
More grumbling and, from the back, two or three of the dozen men drifted away. They slipped off into the shadows, not willing to participate further in a debacle that would surely see them hanged, but not willing to stand up to the angrier men who appeared to be in charge. Perhaps, it was the misery of the rain which cooled their fiery tempers and also tempered some of the drunkenness that appeared to be impacting the judgement of others still. It seemed they were less inclined to follow through on their bloodlust than at the outset of their journey.
“You’ll not talk your way out of this,” Cobb said, reaching for her.
Viola tried to back away, but her slippered feet were mired in mud and he grasped her bound wrists easily. Tugging her forward, he half-dragged her to a large oak tree. “I thought I was to be tried!” Viola protested.
“I’m done talking with witches,” Cobb said, persisting in his subterfuge. “I’ll not listen to any more lies from the likes of you. Get a rope, lads.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Viola whispered. “Whatever Randall promised you, he will not deliver. It is not in his nature to keep his word!”
“Ain’t in mine either… but here’s one promise I mean to keep. You’ll swing before the first light of dawn!” Cobb said and there was a sadistic gleam in his eye.
Viola knew that look. She’d seen it on Percival’s face, on Randall’s. It wasn’t simply the money that motivated him. He took gratification in hurting others, in holding power over them to the point of life and death. “You are well suited to your work, it would seem,” she said flatly.
Cobb smiled then and whispered close to her ear, just loudly enough to be heard over the driving rain, “If it weren’t for this damned rain, I’d burn you instead. I always wondered what it would sound like to hear a woman screaming from within the flames.”
Viola shuddered once more as the farce of her trial began.
Chapter Twenty
Nicholas approached the square dragging the bleeding and protesting Randall Grantham with him. Tarleton was behind him, keeping from view of the others and he was well armed. Having surprise reinforcements was never a bad plan.
“Halt your screeching, Grantham, or so help me, I’ll halt it for you,” Nicholas hissed.
Up ahead, he could see the crowd of men, some with torches. The flickering light caught a flash of white in their midst. Viola’s nightdress. They’d pulled her from the safety of the castle, half-dressed, and dragged her through heaven knew what to take her there at the behest of the worthless coward now wailing at his side. The fury he felt was overwhelming, but it was second to the fear that consumed him—the fear that he was too late, the fear that he would fail her.
As he neared the men, one turned back to look at him. A flash of panic crossed the man’s face but before he could shout a warning, a shot rang out from the trees. Tarleton hadn’t overestimated his deadly aim, it would seem. The man dropped to the ground, a bright red stain spreading across his shoulder.
“Let her go,” Nicholas said, his voice ringing out through the darkness. “If you harm her any further, so help me, not a one of you will walk away from this. By pistol ball or noose, each one of you will pay the price!”
“If it isn’t the good doctor himself… come to the rescue,” Cobb said, turning to face them. He caught sight of Randall, bleeding and sniveling at Nicholas’ feet. The man’s bravado faltered, but he quickly regained his composure. “Beat a confession out of him, did you? Dragged him out here to tell everyone that he paid us to see the witch hanged? Hard to believe a man when he’s held hostage at the feet of one what’s about to do him in!”
Nicholas dragged Randall up to his feet and hurled him forward with enough force that he careened directly into Cobb. “I shot him when he tried to kill me at the inn. Thankfully, I’d already raided Tarley’s stash of weapons and was armed for just such an event… that’s right. Tarley. The very same man whose tavern you’ve frequented for decades. The same man you beat, bound and left for dead in the cellar of that same establishment. You’re as lacking in honor as the man you serve.”
“Can’t afford honor, now can I?” Cobb challenged, twisting Viola’s wrist in attempt to show his power.
The man hadn’t counted on Viola’s history, on just how much she’d already suffered at the hands of ruthless and dishonorable men. She neither cried out nor sank to her knees to beg for mercy. When Cobb turned back to her in shock, Nicholas sprang forward, tackling the larger, beefier man and taking him to the ground. The other men converged as if to stop any escape attempt from Viola, but the sound of hooves, a great number of them, slapping against the wet, muddy earth halted them in their tracks.
As Nicholas struggled to subdue Cobb, locking his arms about the man’s head in an effort to render him unconscious, Graham and a host of his servants—from footmen to stable lads—descended on the square. Mounted, armed with pistols, swords and even a pitchfork, they far outnumbered the pitiful mob Cobb had gathered. Bringing up the rear of the Blakemore cavalry was the local magistrate. Still wearing his dressing gown and a hastily-donned wig that hadn’t been fashionable in half a century, the man was clearly unhappy at having his slumber disturbed.
“What is the meaning of this?” the magistrate thundered. “Who in the village of Blackfield would dare to usurp my authority?”
“It were Timothy Cobb, sir.” The admission came from one, if not remorseful then at least opportunistic, member of the small mob. “He said that Lady Ramsleigh was a witch in league with the devil and that we should see her punished for her crimes. Said she put the evil eye on local farmers to strike their livestock down!”
The magistrate raised one eyebrow high enough that it disappeared into his skewed wig. “Did he now? And were you foolish enough to believe such drivel? Perhaps a jail is too good for you then… surely only Bedlam would suffice for such an imbecile!”
The man blanched and quickly backed away, saying nothing else that might further raise the ire of the magistrate who continued his tirade. “And who is this Timothy Cobb to decide the fate of someone in my domain? And who are the lot of you miscreants to assume to do his bidding? Not only that, to think that you might lay hands upon the person of an aristocrat and mete out justice as if you had the right! I will see you all in the gaol!”
“She did come back from the dead!” The protest came from the back of the small group.
“She most assuredly did not!” the magistrate bellowed. “People do not simply resurrect themselves! Like as not, her death had been feigned by her scoundrel of a late husband! Had the bunch of you a single brain betwixt you, you’d have reached the same conclusion!”
Cobb finally succumbed. The man had a neck like an oak tree and it had taken Nicholas far longer than he liked to admit to subdue him completely. Shoving the man’s prone form aside, he rose to his feet. He was panting from exertion and, perhaps, from the same sort of rush he’d always experienced in battles. It left his pulse racing, blood rushing in his veins.
“We are putting a stop to this nonsense once and for all. There will be no more guesses, no more rumors and no more conjecture! We are going to that blasted churchyard and opening that grave! I’ll not have Lady Ramsleigh looking over her shoulder or being stared at askance by every person she passes. And no one will ever again accuse her of being a resurrected witch!”
There were gasps all around. Even the magistrate appeared to be flummoxed at the suggestion. To exhume a body was no simple thing. Only grav
e robbers and resurrection men did such things. Even then, to do such a thing in the full darkness of night, when superstition would have everyone believe that evil was most rampant and good at its weakest—well, that bordered on madness. But Nicholas was beyond caring.
“Now, Doctor, we’ve no need to be desecrating graves—”
“It’s not a grave, as you just said,” Nicholas insisted. “Or if it is, the late Lord Ramsleigh was guilty of far more than simply being a terrible husband! One way or another, by dawn we will know who or what is buried there.”
Nicholas turned to Viola. Drenched through, mud splattering her face and clothes, she looked slightly worse for wear, but still hearty enough. His heart was in his throat as he considered how very different the outcome could have been. Had he not arrived when he did, had the rain not doused the flames at the mill so others could ride to the rescue—there were a dozen ifs and all of them meant the very same thing. He’d come far too close to losing her to something more permanent and tragic than their own reservations about the future.
Taking her hands in his, feeling just how cold she was, his jaw clenched with renewed anger. “Graham will see you returned to Castle Black and it will be well guarded… you will be safe there. Nothing like this will ever happen again. We will not make the same mistakes again,” he vowed.
She shook her head. “No one could have foreseen such a thing as this. There have been no witch trials in England for a half-century or more! They’ve been outlawed entirely, I think. It’s simply unimaginable.”
“And yet it happened. They would have killed you, murdered you as certainly as I stand here now,” Nicholas said. He paused then, swallowing convulsively as the enormity of that statement sank in for both of them. “I would go with you, but this must be seen through to the end. There needs to be proof that you are not deceased as your late husband and now his presumptive and presumptuous heir would have others believe. It’s the only way to ensure your safety going forward.”
Viola shook her head in protest. “No. I want to stay. If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to go to the churchyard with you. I have a rather vested interest in finding out precisely what was buried there.”
“You’ve had a—”
“I’ve had nothing but shocks since returning to England,” she interrupted. “I’m fine, Nicholas. Really. I can do this. I’m already soaked through! It’s not as if my clothing will get any wetter!”
He didn’t make the mistake of telling her she shouldn’t, or heaven forbid, couldn’t. Nicholas recognized that loving Viola, and he did desperately love her, would mean always allowing her to make her own decisions. She’d earned the right to do so, clearly. Men had been abhorrently disappointing in that regard in her life. He did, however, make a suggestion. “Your clothing was hardly appropriate for entertaining to start with. But you are in a nightrail that has been rendered all but transparent by the rain. And your wrapper only covers so much, my dear. I’m sure someone here would be willing to lend you a greatcoat or cape that would preserve your modesty and provide some warmth… and help to stave off any of my own jealous inclinations when I catch them looking at you.”
Viola looked down then at the soaked, white linen that clung to her legs. “Perhaps a borrowed greatcoat would not be amiss,” she agreed.
Graham stepped forward then, doffing his own coat and offering it to Viola. “This should do. Let us get this done, then. No better time to desecrate a possible grave than the dead of night!”
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord,” Tarley said. “If we could not be talking so much about the dead, I’d much appreciate it. I’m as happy to dig as anyone else since I don’t believe we’ll find anything but an empty box. Still, no point in stirring the ire of any ghosts that might be lingering on this side of the veil!”
As they made their way across the muddy lane that served as the village’s main thoroughfare, Ramsleigh in tow and the magistrate accompanying them, it was Viola who provided much needed levity. “I’m more concerned about the ire of the vicar than any that are buried yon.”
“Well said and heartily agreed,” Nicholas smirked. In a quieter tone, one meant for her ears only, he said, “You aren’t hurt? You swear?”
“I’m unharmed,” she offered with a slight turn of her lips. For just the briefest moment, she reached out and touched his arm, squeezing reassuringly. “Shaken, tired, cold, certainly! But I am also bitterly impatient with this entire debacle—I need it to be done, Nicholas. I need it to be finished so that my son and I can have a normal life.”
A normal life. He could offer her love. He could offer her the protection of his name, as it was. But he couldn’t give her normal, not when he was the bastard son of one of the most scandalous libertines the ton had known and when, as a physician, he was viewed as little better than a tradesman. If they married, she would be renowned as having married beneath her. He’d be labeled a fortune hunter if not worse. It was a risk he was willing to take, however.
As if sensing his thoughts, she added, “Or any life, so long as you are part of it.”
Relieved beyond words, he took a torch from one of the remaining members of the small mob and made for the churchyard, the motley group following at his heels. It wasn’t difficult to find the plot for the Grantham family. The headstone on Viola’s grave was the newest. Plain, without any ornamentation, it matched those of Percival Grantham’s first two wives. Even in death, real or feigned, he’d thought little of any of the women in his life. They’d been disposable to him—an expedient means of refilling the family coffers or slaking his lust. Discarded like the scraps of his dinner, he’d tossed them away without fanfare or ceremony in graves that looked as if they’d belonged to paupers.
Tarley appeared ahead of him, having raided the caretaker’s shed. He carried two spades. Passing one to Nicholas, he said, “It’s a tight space here. I figure we ought to take turns until we reach the box.”
Nicholas gripped the spade and, after Viola had stepped back, stabbed it into the sopping wet earth. Several of Graham’s servants had taken custody of Randall Grantham who was watching the scene with a look of fear and horror on his face. It was that more than anything that told Nicholas the grave was not empty at all. Whatever they would find there would see the man hanged or imprisoned. Without a title, he would not have the right to claim privilege of peerage.
Spurred on by the knowledge, Nicholas dug with a vicious energy, one shovelful of wet earth after another piling up behind him. When Nicholas had dug down until his shoulders were aching from the strain, he stepped back and Tarleton took over. At some point, Graham relieved him for the last bit of it. When the tip of the spade struck wood, everyone grew silent and all the chattering of the assembled crowd stopped. Light was just beginning to filter through the trees as the sun began its ascent.
Scraping the rest of the mud back from the heavy, oak coffin, ropes were wrestled beneath it until it could be hoisted up. The lid was pried open and the putrid smell of decay hit him squarely. There was, in fact, a body. Bracing himself for what they would find within, Nicholas gave a curt nod and the loosened lid to the simple coffin was pulled away.
The body was little more than a dried husk, unrecognizable by appearance save for a halo of blonde curls so pale they were almost white. The dress, or what he could see of it, was plain and free of any ornamentation. It was the dress of a maid or farmer’s daughter, perhaps.
“That’s Rose Wilkes,” Tarley said and his voice held a note of such sadness. “She worked up at Ramsgate Hall. When her parents asked after her, they was told she’d run off to London with a soldier. It fair broke their hearts. I reckon this will do it for good. She was a sweet little thing, always with a smile and just as pretty as you please.”
“What do you know about this?” the magistrate demanded of Randall.
“Not a thing. It was my uncle’s secret and he took it to the grave with him, it seems. Unless you mean to dig him up as well,” Randall replied snidely.
“We’ll bury her here. It don’t seem right to move her,” Tarley said. “But we’ll get a different marker put up and let the vicar know so the records can be stricken.”
Graham nodded. “I’ll see to that, Tarleton.” Turning to the gathered men who’d been part of the mob, Graham shouted, “That’ll be a task for the lot of you! Clearly you haven’t enough to keep you occupied.”
Nicholas was helping to lower the body, to return it to its final resting place, when a prickling feeling of unease overtook him. He glanced up to see that the men who’d been guarding Randall had turned their backs on him long enough for him to draw his remaining pistol. “No!” His shout rang out, but it was too late.
The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh Page 20