by Anne Stuart
As we rode back slowly from that place of death, we talked exclusively of the weather, the view, and the likelihood of snow. By unspoken mutual consent we didn't speak of the murderous history of Demonwood, or the dark suspicions that still hung over the place. But somehow, beneath our light banter, ran the vision of Connell Fitzgerald and his dark, haunted eyes, and I wondered if I had made a very grave mistake in coming here.
"Then you'll come for tea on Thursday?" Peter demanded as he helped me from the mare. "And you can even bring the little monster—my mother, God help her, has a fondness for the brat."
"If you're sure it's all right," I temporized.
"My mother insists on it. Ever since I arrived home last night I praised you—your wit, your beauty, your . . ."
"You, Mr. Riordan, are full of it!" I interrupted indignantly, my cheeks flaming. I had the feeling he was mocking me, and my anger stirred into flame. "Good day to you, sir!" And I stalked from the stable with Robinson's boldly curious eyes on me.
"And good day to you, fair Mary.Dream of me tonight!"
But I didn't dream of Peter Riordan that night. I dreamt dark, horrifying dreams of Connell Fitzgerald throwing my lovely cousin Maeve down that treacherous gore and then turning to me, his dark handsome face desolate as he reached his strong, merciless hands to throw me down after her.
I awoke in a cold sweat, my covers scattered at my feet, the room like ice with the silvery, shivery moon shining in from all the windows. Wrapping the discarded quilts around me, I padded barefoot across the icy floor to poke some life into the dying embers of the fire. A faint warmth emanated from it, and I tossed the few sticks of wood Mrs. Carpenter had graciously allowed me onto the glowing coals. If the weather continued as it had, and indeed it would assuredly get much worse, I would have to move my bed closer to the fire. The small heat put out by the fireplace at its roaring best barely penetrated the cavernous interiors of my bedchamber, and I had no intention of freezing to death in a millionaire's home.
When my fingers had lost some of their numbness I trudged back to my disordered bed. Climbing up into its massive softness, I was about to drift back into a deep sleep when a curious noise brought me back fully into consciousness. It seemed to come from within the very walls, and it sounded quite horribly like. .like chains clanking.
Now in the daylight I'm as full of common sense as the next person, but alone at night, with the full moon staring down at me and the wind whistling through the haunted forests that surround this cold, empty house, I was perfectly willing to believe in ghosts, witches, and all the hounds of hell. I huddled deeper into the heavy blankets, trying to shut out the hideous noise, and yet listening for it with an awful fascination. Perhaps this is what Daniel heard at night in the room beneath me, this added to his terror of life in general. Quivering with fright, I didn't blame him one bit. All it needed was a few ghastly moans to make the eeriness complete.
As if on cue, a low, hoarse groan issued from directly behind my bed, and I barely contained a shriek. I lay there, waiting for the next sepulchral sound, every muscle tense, every nerve screaming. But no sound came. No more groans, no more clanking chains. Whatever tormented soul haunted Demon- wood, it had finally sought its rest. I would have a great deal harder time seeking mine.
When I awoke next morning the room was ablaze with bright winter sunlight, and for a moment I couldn't believe the eerie events of the night before had actually happened. I was an intelligent, modern young woman—surely I knew better than to believe in such things. Of course, if this had been Ireland it would be a different matter. I had grown up with tales of dark and mysterious doings in that dark and mysterious land, where leprechauns and faeries were only to be expected, as were their darker cousins, the banshees. But such creatures belonged in an old land wracked with superstition, not in this shining new country. Or so I argued with myself, so successfully that I almost believed it.
Young Daniel made no mention of any nocturnal occurrences last night, and I remained silent. The child was nervous enough without my adding to his dark fancies. Indeed, I had been prone to nightmares the last few days. Perhaps it had just been another nightmare, a bit more real than the others, no doubt, but a nightmare nonetheless. Daniel and I both needed bracing up, and that, along with ciphering, grammar, geography, spelling, Latin, and French, would be my main goal.
Lessons that day went better than I would have expected. Mrs. Carpenter had assigned us to a large, airy room on the second floor that overlooked the long drive, and by dragging the scarred table near the fire and wearing several layers of clothing, we managed tolerably well. It was beyond my comprehension why anyone would build a house with such lofty, icy rooms in a climate like this. A proper Vermont house would have low ceilings, small windows, and nice rag rugs on the floor. The Aubusson carpets did not fit the environment, although they provided the only spot of soft, subdued color in the dank, garish house.
Daniel was a fast learner, once his interest was caught, and I assumed he must have inherited his quick brain from his father. Certainly Maeve had never shown any aptitude for book learning. My rusty Latin was put to the test quite thoroughly, and I realized I would have to do extra work as well as Daniel if I expected to keep far ahead of him.
After lunch, I had enough sense not to suggest we take another nature walk. I had no desire to repeat yesterday's fiasco, and Daniel needed an hour or so to himself. The time would come when he wished for my company, I hoped, and I could wait patiently enough until then.
I took a brief stroll around the house, my feet scuffling through the thin layer of snow, my hands tucked warmly inside my fur muff. The chilly air was bracing against my skin, giving me a ruddy glow I knew would be very attractive and I laughed at my own vanity. What did it matter how pretty I looked with only a handful of hostile or indifferent servants and an unhappy nine-year-old boy to appreciate it? Even Peter, attractive and attentive as he was, aroused no strong emotions in my breast. It might be his flippant, flirtatious manner, too easy to be believed, or it may have been the memory of a pair of brooding dark blue eyes that kept me from viewing him as a possible suitor. Considering how eligible a party he was, I was being nine times a fool not to make more of an effort in that direction. But I had always been a fool.
The grounds surrounding Demonwood were not much more appealing than the formal house. Granted that it was the worst time of year to see them, with just a thin, icy covering of snow on the ground and the cold brown earth peeking through in patches, granted the leafless trees and ornamental shrubs looked menacing this time of year. It still seemed all too calculated. I think I preferred the dark, brooding, untamed woods with their hint of menace to the lifeless formal display around me.
"Lovely grounds, ain't they, miss?" Robinson appeared out of nowhere, a leer on his handsome face. I think he knew very well my reaction to the stilted, formal gardens.
"Lovely," I agreed unenthusiastically. "Do you do all this work by yourself, Mr. Robinson?"
"By no means!" He appeared affronted. "In the spring and summer we have three men working here, and we could do with a fourth if Carpenter had his way about it. Takes a lot of work to keep gardens like these in order."
"I'm sure it does," I replied encouragingly. Despite his repulsively familiar manner, he at least seemed to have slipped his surly disdain, and I wished I could make further inroads. Everyone around this place was so damned unfriendly, and I had been longing quite desperately for my bevy of brothers and sisters-in-law and their exuberant offspring.
"Not that you'd be interested," he continued slyly. "But I know something you might find fascinating. You strike me as a very curious young lady."
Not knowing how to reply to what I suspected was a veiled insult, I merely watched him, waiting for him to continue.
"Yes, you seem like a very curious one. Though it's not too safe to be curious, miss. As you'll very likely find out before too long." He wiped his nose on his sleeve and stared at me out of his damp, lus
tful eyes. "Like that boy. Young Daniel. He's already found out more than he ever wanted to know. He's already learned that if you poke around in places where you don't belong you might uncover things best left hidden."
"I'm sure that's true," I said coldly. "However, an inquiring mind is a good thing if used in moderation."
Robinson laughed then, a low, insinuating chuckle, and it was all I could do not to turn and run from his leering presence. "Well, miss, I'll tell you. If you take a horse and follow that path through the woods to your left, you'll find. . ."
"I know exactly what I'll find," I broke in. "I'll find Perry's Ledge where a tragedy occurred a number of years ago. A tragedy that's much better forgotten and not hinted at by everyone."
Robinson did not appear to be affronted by this, merely nodding his head knowingly. "Master Peter must have taken you there. Young Daniel wouldn't, I know that for a fact. But you see, miss, people can't forget about it. Because she can't rest, and neither can her murderer. The memory hangs over this place, and people say sometimes at night you can hear her wailing and moaning."
I could feel the skin prickle along the back of my neck, and tears of sheer panic start in my eyes. "You're lying," I said hoarsely, all my primitive beliefs coming to the surface. "You're just trying to frighten me. Why should this house be haunted by her? Wasn't it built after she died?"
"She died barely a month after it was finished. Her that had designed every board, every room, every window, and never got to live in it for more than a few weeks. Is it a wonder that she haunts the cursed place?"
With great effort I pulled myself together. "Have you been spreading tales like this to Daniel? If you have, it's no wonder the poor boy's frightened half out of his wits. You should be ashamed of yourself, for spreading such a pack of lies!" My voice grew bold and forceful and my temper rose, but the groom wasn't fooled for a minute.
"But you believe me, miss," he stated flatly. "You don't think it's a pack of lies, nor does anyone else. Murder was done here, murder most foul, and someone's gotten away with it for far too long."
"I've heard quite enough, thank you." I was in a towering white-hot rage by this time. "You'll have to find more fertile ground for your lies and slanders—I won't listen to them. Good day to you."
"So that's the way it is," the young man said maddeningly as I turned to leave.
Reluctantly I turned back, the very curiosity he had discovered in me coming to the fore. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing, miss. I just wondered why a pretty young lady like yourself would be here minding another woman's children instead of having her own. I should have known there'd be a reason behind it."
"What do you mean?" I repeated.
"Why not a thing, Miss Gallager. Mr. Connell is a very handsome man." And with that he turned and left me, before I could voice one of the half-dozen protests that sprang to my lips. I watched his exaggeratedly broad-shouldered, swaggering figure amble off with impotent rage, my fingers clenched inside the warm muff.
"I don't like him," Daniel spoke from behind me, and I jumped, startled.
"How long have you been standing there, young man?" I demanded crossly. "Don't you know you shouldn't eavesdrop?"
Those dark blue eyes in that pinched cold-looking face stared at me blankly. "I wasn't eavesdropping. Robinson knew I was there the whole time."
"I'm sorry, Daniel, I shouldn't have snapped at you. But that man makes me so mad!" I growled.
His brow cleared. "I'm glad you don't like him either. He likes to frighten me at night. He comes up to my room and tells me stories that make me have awful dreams. And then he laughs at me and calls me a sissy."
"Daniel, he's a mean, nasty man, and you mustn't pay any attention to him. If he bothers you again, tell me, and I'll . . . I'll stop him." How, I couldn't imagine, but Daniel seemed satisfied with my promise. I hoped I wouldn't have to break it.
Chapter Seven
Thursday dawned bright and clear, and a little warmer than usual. My feet when they touched the bare floor beside my mammoth bed didn't scream in protest, and the early morning sunlight had warmed the cavernous room to a comparatively tropic extent.
Against my will I was looking forward to our outing this afternoon. I hadn't seen or heard from Peter in three days and despite my summary dismissal of him as possible husband material I had missed him, missed his warm, flattering brown eyes and his soft, lying tongue. There was something sneakingly, surreptitiously threatening about Demonwood, with its servants ranging from dimwitted (like Molly whom I scarcely saw and the harmless and surly Mr. Carpenter) to malevolent, like Adelaide Carpenter and the surly Robinson, the latter perhaps the most frightening of the lot. I wondered how Connell could have hired such a motley crew, and decided we would have to find more ways of escape, Daniel and I, if he was ever to turn into a normal little boy. My questions about neighboring children had drawn blank stares from Molly, the maid of all work and cold denials from the disapproving Mrs. Carpenter. Perhaps Peter's mother would be more forthcoming.
I dressed with extra care after lunch, choosing my sister-in-law Barbara's pink-striped suit with the ruffled overskirt as just the right sort of teatime wear. My thick curling black hair I dressed with severity—by the time we arrived at Stonewalls it would be in its usual disarray. There seemed no way I could control the riotously waving locks, and I had long ago given up trying. I only hoped I wouldn't look too blowsy for the older woman. My pale, fine-boned face with its saucy green eyes and overgenerous mouth was flushed with excitement, and I took the steps down to the main floor two at a time.
The difference between Demonwood and Stonewalls was the difference between night and day, between happiness and despair, between guilt and security. Or so it seemed to me that day. It was a smaller house in comparison to the Fitzgerald grandeur, but with an easygoing elegance that seemed even more costly than the ostentatious wealth of our house. We were met at the front door by Peter, dressed in a coat of Irish tweed that my brothers would have given an arm for, and his welcoming smile was all I could have asked for. He even included Daniel in the warmth of his greeting, but my silent charge was unmoved. Perhaps he knew full well Peter's distaste for him, and returned the feeling in full. I really couldn't tell.
"Oh, lovely lady, I have counted the days until you came," Peter said, bringing my rough, hard-working hand to his lips and kissing it with as much elegance as if it had been the hand of a countess. "And you grow more dazzling everyday—surely Vermont air must agree with you. I can't wait to have my mother meet you."
"I don't believe a word you say, Peter Riordan. The words come a little too easily," I said suspiciously, tossing my head back, not unmoved by the pressure of his warm, firm lips.
He laughed merrily. "You distrust my gift of gab, as they call it? No, I've always had a way with words, but you, dear lady, raise me to new and glorious heights."
"Why are you talking so funny?" Daniel inquired coldly.
Peter cast a look of acute dislike toward the boy. "I'm flirting, young Daniel. But with more seriousness than I've ever had in my long, misspent life."
"You talk the same way to my mother," he observed with a deliberate lack of tact. "Were you flirting with her?"
Peter's face turned a mottled red, and the look he bent at my charge was almost murderous. Before he could say any of the harsh things that were springing to his lips I interrupted smoothly. "Isn't this a charming house! So much cozier and nicer than Demonwood, I think. Has your family always lived here?"
Both gentlemen cast me a look of melting gratitude, and Daniel moved from the shelter of my skirt now that the crisis was temporarily past.
"Since the middle of the century," Peter replied proudly, leading us down the warm, paneled hallway to the back of the house. "My mother would love to tell you the history of the place—just give her half a chance." He opened the door into a cozy little drawing room. "Mother, they're here."
As we moved ahead of him into the room I hear
d Daniel give a little squeal of pain, and I suspected that Peter had succumbed to temptation and given the child a good pinch. Not that Daniel hadn't deserved it, but I wondered why Peter should dislike him so. And vice versa. Unless it were the embarrassing truth that Daniel had blurted out, either consciously or unconsciously. Peter Riordan was obviously the type to flirt with almost any woman, be she young or old, ugly or attractive, married or single. And I didn't for one moment believe he was serious about any one of them, including my humble self.
"My dear, I'm so glad to meet you at last," a soft voice murmured from the depths of a chintz-covered sofa. "Peter's told me so much about you."
She was exactly as I had imagined her. Frail, old in that lovely way a few select women can manage to grow old, her white hair piled high upon a still aristocratic head, her face with just a faint tracing of crepey wrinkles. But the blue eyes were just as sparkling and lively as they must have been in her youth, and the faint flush on her cheeks suggested a youthful confusion and shyness. In her prime she must have been the equal of my cousin Maeve and more.
"Come sit down beside me, Miss Gallager, and tell me all about yourself." She patted the sofa beside her frail, delicate form and gingerly I did as I was bid. I am a fair bit above average height and definitely on the strapping side, and Mrs. Riordan's diminutive stature made me feel like a hulking farm girl fresh from County Cork.
"Tell me," she continued, "how do you like Demon- wood?"
"It's . . . it's very grand, isn't it?" I said with what I hoped was noncommittal praise.
Her faded blue eyes met mine, not for one moment fooled by my attempt at tact. "It's a monstrosity, you mean. We all think so. Everyone, that is, except Maeve and her familiar."
"Her familiar?" I echoed, bewildered.
"The pleasant Mrs. Carpenter," the old lady clarified. "That woman makes my skin crawl."