“My wife had a habit of removing them to put on her gloves. I daresay she forgot them before travelling to London. Hardly a reason to confine her to an insane asylum. I have them here.”
Branson produced two rings from his vest, a diamond engagement ring and a plain gold wedding band and set them in front of Dr. Rutledge.
“Now, I am at the limits of my tolerance, sir. You will produce my wife immediately or I shall call the police and use my considerable pull in Parliament to have this institution shut down. If I find any harm has come to Clara, you will answer for it.”
Rutledge raised his hands to pacify Branson. “Sir, kindly restrain your temper. I have no objection to your claim—only a professional obligation to confirm it. If Clara identifies you as her husband, I will feel satisfied that the treatments she has undergone have restored her to reality. If she does not know you, you must agree it would be dangerous to force her into your company.” Dr. Rutledge came around the desk and led Branson to the door. “Shall we let the lady decide?”
He rang Matron to have Clara Hamilton dressed and brought downstairs. “Do not tell her that it is her husband come to bring her home. I want to observe her reaction. Thank you, Mrs. Sutherland.”
§
QUINCE’S BODY was already cold and stiff by the time Piers returned. The statue lay across the man’s chest in a grotesque embrace. The threat was gone—he sensed she was no longer in the house. He could dispose of the corpse without fear.
Piers knew why she had done it. Quince had been saying the most terrible, disparaging things about her and Gracie could never bear an insult, even when she was little girl.
But this was going too far. It had been hard enough explaining matters to Branson when Clara Hamilton was attacked. How in God’s name was Piers supposed to explain this? This was cold-blooded murder!
Calm down. It is impossible for a ghost to murder a man.
Piers seized on the realization with glee. There could be no arrest or charges made against an assailant that was a spirit! The ghost of Windemere Hall as the housemaids used to call her. The story Branson concocted seven years ago made sense now though Piers had objected at the time.
He bent over and grasped the statue. With a great deal of effort he was able to budge it just enough to free Quince’s body. Piers fetched a blanket from the cedar chest in the guest bedroom and wrapped it around the corpse, then hoisted Quince over his shoulder. He’d have to come back to clean up the blood.
Once he had a plan and a task, Piers began to breathe freer and feel easier about the accident. It was just an accident, he thought. No one could have moved that statue in his or her own strength. It was exceedingly heavy! It was a tragic freak accident. Perhaps a mild earthquake had dislodged it. Perhaps Clara Hamilton had tried to move it. Piers had no idea how it came to topple from the pedestal. It was unfortunate that the stable master was unable to get out of the way in time but no one could be held responsible.
Piers giggled.
A tragic freak accident. He would explain it all to Branson when he returned.
§
THE MESSAGE was a strange one even for this place.
“Your cousin, Mr. Branson Hamilton is here to see you, miss.”
Even with Mrs. Sutherland’s assurances, Clara doubted its veracity until she left her room and saw Branson pacing the foyer below.
Clara slowly walked down the stairs, utterly bewildered by his presence. He was the last person she expected to see on this day. It was first of October—the day he was meant to be in London executing his scheme of revenge.
She tugged on her shortened hair nervously. Mercifully, her appearance was not too deranged by her incarceration. Matron had given her a mirrored glass to make herself presentable to receive her visitor. Her reflection had shown a girl who was thin and pale, but reasonably sane.
Her heart lurched when she set eyes on him, but she kept her feelings on a leash and her manner was guarded as it had not been before. Dr. Rutledge seemed to be watching the exchange with keen medical interest. She would not disappoint the staff of Gateshead Asylum by throwing a fit. The experience with the ice bath was enough to cure her of displays of temper.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton. I was informed that my cousin had come to visit. Now that I see you, I understand the joke. It is a cruel one.”
Branson’s eyes were fixed on her face and held a strange look that alerted her to another, greater purpose to this visit. She stared, divining his message—I will get you out.
Dr. Rutledge cocked his head. “Why is that, Clara? Why cruel?”
“Because,” she said hesitantly, “because Mr. Hamilton is not just my c-c-cousin—h-h-he is also my husband.” She was perspiring but the words were there. “It is cruel of him to d-d-deny the relationship.”
“Ah, well!” Rutledge frowned and pulled on his beard. “I must take the blame for that, Mrs. Hamilton. When your husband arrived to take you home, I had to make sure you knew him as such before I could consent to release you into his care.”
“I brought your rings, dearest,” Branson said gruffly. He reached for her left hand and Clara flinched. He met her eyes. “You forgot them again.” He slipped them on her finger and they hung loosely. “You have lost weight. I came as soon as I could. Vicar Wimbley was good enough to offer proof of our marriage in the event of any difficulty.”
Clara nodded, understanding at last that Branson had really come for her. Not a dream—not a hallucination or a wish—her cousin was here in the flesh and he had devised a way to get her out! She only had to play along.
“You mustn’t blame Dr. Rutledge for the confusion, Branson. I was not certain of anything when I arrived. His treatment was most effective in restoring me to my right mind.”
Branson turned to Rutledge. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said with meaning. “If Mrs. Hamilton’s bags could be brought down, we’ll take our leave. We have a long journey ahead of us to Somerset.”
Rutledge wasted no time in doing as he asked. It was when he was left alone with Clara in the foyer that Branson met his first serious opposition. He had not calculated on the emotions he would endure in seeing her again. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her hands shook as she reached up to smooth her hair. She wore it unbound and had been cut recently. Still, for all that, she looked well. Her eyes were as beautiful as ever.
“You came for me,” Clara murmured. “I didn’t think you would.”
Branson steeled himself. “I can take you as far as London,” he said stiffly. “I keep a carriage there. I shall journey back to Windemere Hall and you may do as you please. I won’t trouble you any longer, Clara.”
“I see.” Her hazel eyes glistened but she did not cry.
She seemed removed from him, as though confinement in the asylum had done more to her than change her hair. It had broken her spirit and interest in life. Branson wanted to hold her, kiss her and bring her back to life, but doing so would only trap her further and drain her of what little life she had left.
“I am sorry you came all this way and put yourself to trouble on my account.” Clara turned away.
“Where are you going?” he asked sharply.
“I would rather stay here, sir. There is nothing for me in London. Thank you all the same.”
“Stop!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I did not come all this way to return to your brother empty-handed. At this very moment, Edgar is making the announcement at the shareholders’ meeting in my absence. He came to me yesterday to arrange for your release in exchange for my proxy. The success of the day hinges on your safe return! I have come at great personal risk—”
“Risk!” Clara’s eyes were alive with fury. She balled her hands into fists. “The risk is that Edgar will rebel and he won’t do your bidding. Your sudden interest in me begins to make sense. I can only imagine the choice you gave Edgar—destroy his father or destroy his sister—it is up to you, dear fellow. You treat your friends well, cousin. You treat your fia
ncées even better. One, you allowed to kill herself. The other, you suffered to be shut up in a madhouse.”
His jaw clenched. He took two swift steps toward her, grasped her arm and pulled her against his chest to shut her up. “I mean to take you London and deliver you to your brother. If you did not run away from me in the first place, none of this would have happened!”
“You gave me little choice, Bran.” Clara gently extricated herself from his hold. Her expression held great grief. “I am sorry but I will not be going anywhere with you. Please inform my brother that I have released you from your promise and you are no longer under any obligation to me. He will understand my meaning. I am glad to have the opportunity to part with you as friends. I wish you well. Good-bye, cousin.”
Obviously, Edgar Hamilton had not taken into account his sister’s significant objection to Branson’s company when he devised this plan. “Wait, please—Clara.” Branson caught her arm. “There is something you need to know. Something I must tell you. I did not come here for Edgar’s sake alone. Will you come now, before we attract further enquiries from the good doctor? It is only a matter of time before he decides to send word to London to confirm my story. Your father will be out of the meeting soon. We need to be well away before then.”
“Nothing you can do to my father will prick his conscience,” she said sadly. “Nothing will move him. He has no feeling for any person’s welfare save his own.”
“That does not make what he is about to endure any less just,” Branson retorted fiercely. “Make no mistake—I regret nothing on that score.”
Her legs seemed to give way and she collapsed against him. Branson noticed for the first time how very weak and pale she was. He lifted her in his arms as easily as he might lift a sack of grain and choking with emotion, he buried his face against her neck.
“Clara, I cannot leave you behind. I beg of you—if you love me, you will let me take you away from this place!”
The orderly arrived with Clara’s belongings in that moment, a small case containing the barest of necessities. Branson motioned to the man to carry it out to his horse while he followed carrying Clara in his arms. She held onto his shoulders, too weak to resist and leaned her cheek against his chest.
Branson exited hurriedly down the steps, cursing his luck that in his haste he did not bring the carriage. Gladiator greeted his mistress with a snort of welcome. The bloody beast hated all human life save Clara Hamilton.
She lifted her head at the sound, newly animated. “Gladiator!” she cried joyfully. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. I have missed you.”
“I wager you have missed the horse more than its rider,” muttered Branson as he lifted her to the saddle. Privately, he was glad for anything that buoyed her spirits.
The orderly fussed with strapping the case over Gladiator’s haunches until Branson took over the task and sent the man away.
Clara rubbed the horse’s sides. “This dear boy has never lied to me or given me cause to doubt myself. Gladiator is a true friend.”
“I have never lied to you, Clara. In fact, I gave you every reason not to trust me. I believe I even insisted upon it.”
“It is true,” she said mechanically. “You did a wonderful job of alienating my affection, of eroding my trust, of making me hate you. It was masterful work of which you should be proud.”
There was no heat in her voice or in her dull eyes that flicked fearfully over the landscape. She looked like a bird, easily startled and poised to take flight. Branson had to leave straight away for she was close to begging to be taken back to her cell. He had seen this stage of collapse before. It unsettled him to see it in his cousin. He was near to losing her to the darkness in her mind if something was not done to reverse it and quickly.
He mounted Gladiator, settling Clara in the saddle behind him. She wound her arms around his waist, pressing her narrow body against his back. The sensation of having her near again was too welcome to be good for either of them.
Gladiator did not wait for the signal; he trotted away from the red brick asylum with an animal’s instinct for escaping disease.
“I am not proud or glad to have hurt you, Clara,” he said gruffly. “It was necessary to achieve my ends.”
“I have heard all I care to hear about your ends, Bran. There is no need to belabour your victory. You’ve achieved everything you set out to do. You’ve taken Windemere, my virginity, and my father’s business. I only marvel that you surrendered your chance to see my father meet his downfall. Tell me, how does the hunter walk away from landing the killing blow?”
He twisted in the saddle to see her face. “Tell me, how did Arthur react to the accusation of rape?”
She paled and he almost regretted his bitter words. “He denied it. He denied everything even after I told him I was there. I was a witness. He didn’t care about the effect that day had on me or that it caused me to stutter for seven years. He didn’t care about anything except shutting me up in Gateshead.”
“I am sorry.”
“As am I.”
She fell silent after that and Branson smothered his pity to deal with business. His tone was clipped and impersonal when he addressed her. “Edgar will send word as soon as the meeting is concluded. I shall deliver you into his care after that, as per our agreement.”
“I know how you enjoy honouring your agreements. After everything that’s happened, you still don’t trust me or my brother. We have always loved you more than you loved us, Bran. I have not the least doubt that Edgar has done all that you wanted or that he is your ally. He always was; you were just too proud to see it.”
They reached the broad road and Gladiator set off at a fast trot. They spoke little after that.
Chapter Six
THE WIND tugged at her shorn hair and Clara felt her spirits reviving. She began to revel in her freedom and in the pure pleasure of being out-of-doors again. The autumnal chill, the icy wind on her cheeks with Branson as her companion was glorious. The only companion she wanted, Clara thought with joy and sorrow. She had her freedom but Branson did not. Dead or alive, there would always be Grace.
They arrived at the highway marker made of stone that divided the road in three directions. One pointed to London, the other to Somerset and the third directed the traveller to Berkshire.
A field of mown barley cut by a stream and shaded by a brown-leaf oak tree was a short distance away. Branson dismounted and led Gladiator to the stream to rest and take water. Then he helped Clara down, took up the leather satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
Wordlessly, they cut across the furrows to a level spot where Branson spread his cloak and flopped down. Her cousin stretched his long body and folded hands under his head. The sun winked over his golden hair.
He squinted up at her and patted the place beside him. “Sit down. I won’t bite.”
“You’ve promised that before and you bit anyway.” Nevertheless, Clara sat down beside him, tucking her legs under her gown. “How did you manage it? What lie did you tell to convince Dr. Rutledge you were my husband?”
“I produced a written record.” Branson showed her the spine of the registrar’s book tucked in his satchel.
She stared at him in shock. “You forged a wedding ceremony in the parish records?”
“If only it were that easy.” His full mouth twisted wryly. “I confessed everything. Vicar Wimbley knows we were not married in London or anywhere else for that matter. I gave him a version of the truth and he was so impressed by our story of star-crossed love that he wrote the entry in his own hand. It helped that I pressed upon him a generous donation. He expects a wedding to follow. I had to tell him the marriage would take place as soon as I had you safely home.”
“You lied to a man of God,” she said bluntly.
“Your brother wanted you out of Gateshead and I devised a means to get you out. That is all that matters.”
Clara removed the leather-bound volume from the satchel and turned to the la
st page. Their names were there and the date they were supposed to be married. “It looks so ... so real,” she said softly. “Can one acquire a wife so easily?”
“When needs must—yes. Is that so terrible? Everyone already thought we were married and even Wimbley believes us betrothed. It was a lie that could do no harm.”
“You talk as though a woman’s good name is a small thing. It is a small thing to a man but it is all a woman has. You gave your word to the vicar the record of our marriage would be made true. That was inconvenient. I wonder how you mean to dispose of me.”
Clara thumbed through the pages further back to the date Grace Leeds had given as her wedding day.
“What are you doing?” Branson rose up on one elbow and tried to take the book out of her hands.
Clara twisted away, quickly scanning the rows of names until she found it: Branson Reilly. “Here it is. Here you are. Branson Reilly and Grace Leeds.”
“What of it,” he growled. “I told you we were married. Now, hand me the book, Clara.”
She shielded it with her body and peered at him suspiciously. “Why? What have you to hide?” She turned the pages rapidly, skimming down the names on the lookout for just one. Births, deaths, marriages, year after year, but there was no record of the death of Grace Reilly.
“She is not here!” Clara whirled to face Branson. “Your wife, Grace—there is no funeral entry or death notice. Her name is not listed here.”
Branson opened his mouth as if to frame a lie, then closed it and rubbed his hands over his face. “I said I had something to tell you. It might help you to know the truth.”
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