Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  "Which one?"

  "Both of them," she replied flatly. "I warned Connell Fitzgerald when he married that woman that no good would come of it. I suppose I shouldn't say such a thing—after all, she is your cousin." She leaned over and poured a cup of weak tea into a fine bone china cup. "But one of the privileges of old age is speaking one's mind, and I've been indulging in it frequently of late, haven't I, Peter?"

  "You have indeed, Mother," said her son fondly. "I've learned better than to try and shut you up when you've got an opinion to express. I hope you're not shocked, Mary?"

  "Not in the slightest," I replied firmly. "I . . ." I was about to confess my own dislike of my wayward cousin, when I belatedly became aware of Daniel's solemn little face watching us as he nibbled on a tea cake, his protruding ears moving with each bite. "I scarcely know her," I amended hastily. "This is a lovely house . . . have you lived here long?"

  She cast me a speaking glance from those wise blue eyes, as if to say she was not fooled by my change of subject. But she launched into the tale of the Riordan's tenure in northern Vermont willingly enough, how they had traveled up here with their family friends the Fitzgeralds in the middle part of the century and bought country retreats that bordered on each other. As the years passed the Riordans had lost a bit of their money and sold their land, while Connell's father and then Connell himself had expanded the Fitzgerald holdings of rich timberland. The controversial subject of Maeve Gallager Fitzgerald was temporarily forgotten.

  An agreeable hour passed, and the shadows began to lengthen outside the small-paned windows. With great reluctance I cast about in my mind for proper words to signal our departure, when I saw Mrs.. Riordan give her son a meaningful nod.

  "Well, Daniel, me lad," Peter said with false heartiness, "why don't you come with me and I'll show you our brand new foal? Misty had a baby just a few days ago."

  "I don't like horses," he replied mutinously, which we all knew was a lie.

  "And Mrs. Barton would love to see you. She's been saving some special treats out in the kitchen just for you to take home with you," coaxed Peter with unconvincing warmth.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Daniel, dear," the old lady broke in with her soft, plaintive voice, "would you be an angel and go with Peter? I want to talk with Miss Gallager for a bit . . . about personal matters."

  The poor boy was torn between his dislike of Peter and his obvious adoration of the man's mother. A variety of emotions played across his pale face, but affection for the old woman won out. "All right," he replied grudgingly. "But I'm doing this for you, not him."

  "Daniel!" I said in a warning voice.

  "Excuse me, if I was rude," he muttered, then glared up at his companion. "Let's go," he added in a tone of deep resignation.

  "It's a great shame those two dislike each other so much," she sighed as the door closed behind them.

  "Yes, indeed," I agreed. "I wonder why?"

  Those sharp blue eyes met mine with uncomfortable acuity. "I think you might have a good idea, my dear. Daniel hates Maeve and anyone connected with her. He's quite naughty as far as my poor wayward Peter's concerned, and I'm afraid my son reacts with infantile spite. But it wasn't about Daniel that I wanted to talk with you, Miss Gallager. We have something a little more private to discuss. Which is why I asked Peter to take care of the boy for a while—so that we might talk, woman-to-woman, without interruption from those clumsy men."

  "I'm flattered that you wanted to be talking to me," I replied frankly, "but I can't think what about."

  "Can't you? Well, I'll come straight to the point. My son is very attracted to you."

  "But we scarcely met!"

  "Don't you think there's such a thing as love at first sight? Ah, I can see by your blush that you do. I wonder if I dare to hope that blush was for Peter?" There was just the most delicate trace of inquiry in her soft voice. Numbly I shook my head. "No? Well, that's a pity, but I don't despair. I will be frank with you, Mary. I may call you Mary, mayn't I?"

  "Of course," I murmured, embarrassed by the situation, by the old lady's charming inquisitiveness, by life in general.

  "Well, as I said, I will be frank. My son has involved himself most unfortunately with a . . . a married woman. This sordid affair has been continuing on and off for over a year now. He's tried to break off with the creature, but the sad truth of the matter is that he's simply bewitched by her. And now, suddenly, for the first time in gges he's shown interest in another woman. You, my dear."

  "That's . . . that's very flattering," I fumbled.

  "It's more than flattering, it's a miracle!" she breathed. "But he needs encouragement—he mustn't fall back in that harlot's clutches!"

  Things were moving too fast for me. "I'm sure he'll grow out of it, Mrs. Riordan," I said soothingly. "He must have been getting over it already when he came up here—otherwise, why would he choose to bury himself in northern Vermont, away from his . . . his mistress."

  "You don't really understand yet, do you? For the past year and a half Peter has been carrying on an affair with his best friend's wife!"

  "Maeve?" Although I'd somehow half-expected it, the words still came as a shock to me. How any woman could prefer Peter's bland and superficial charm to the fire and ice of Connell Fitzgerald's magnetic presence eluded me completely.

  "Maeve Gallager Fitzgerald," she verified with sour satisfaction. "I've been hoping and praying that she would let him go before Connell found out—that she'd tire of him before we had another . . . another tragedy."

  An ominous chill settled over my body. "What do you mean by that?" I had to ask.

  Those wise blue eyes, no longer as kind as they had first seemed, met mine. "One wife of Connell's has met with a cruel, violent end at the hands of a murderer. They say once you've killed, the second one is far easier."

  "No," I breathed in horror. The very idea repelled me. For obvious reasons—reasons I did not care to examine too closely, even by myself, the idea of Connell as a cold-blooded murderer was completely unacceptable to me.

  "We have to prevent such a thing from happening again," Mrs. Riordan was saying, oblivious to the torments I was going through. "And you're the only one who can help."

  "I . . . I can't marry your son to save him from another woman!" I cried desperately.

  "I'm not expecting you to. I just want you to encourage him a bit. Flatter him, accept his attentions. After a while he should appreciate the difference between a sweet young thing like yourself and the jaded tastes of that . . . that courtesan. And if, after a few months, you find that you return Peter's affection, then, so much the better. From the moment you walked into the room I decided I wanted you for my daughter-in-law, despite your background." She dismissed my working-class Irish heritage with a small shrug.

  All my rebellious nature rose up at this cavalier disposition of my future. Beneath Mrs. Riordan's soft and gentle appearance obviously lurked a will of iron. "And if I don't come to care for him? Not in that way?" I argued.

  "Well, then, his heart might be broken, just a bit," she shrugged her shoulders in a delicate French gesture. "But that, to my mind, is better than being disgraced. Or murdered." Her voice was cold and flat, and I wished I could shut out that soft, nagging tone with its nasal, well bred accent, so far removed from Con's softly lilting voice, shut out the horrid ideas that were seeping into my mind against my will. "Mary, will you help me?"

  "I . . . I don't know. I can't promise."

  She watched me measuringly for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. "I don't need your promise, Mary Gallager. You've a good, generous heart. You'll see your duty, and you'll do it. You wouldn't condemn my son to the bitter and sordid life he's been leading of late."

  "All finished gossiping, Mother?" Peter poked his handsome golden head through the door. "Young Daniel's out in the carriage already—he's had enough of my company for the day."

  "We're through, darling," his mother beamed, untouched by her knowledge of his w
eaknesses. "You may escort Mary back to Demonwood if you wish. We'll hold supper for you."

  "Thank you for a lovely tea." I rose and took her hand. She grasped mine firmly, as if shaking on a bargain, and it was all I could do not to snatch my hand back.

  "Come again, Mary. Come soon, and come often." She pulled me down with surprising force and pressed her dried wrinkled lips against my cheek.

  "I've never seen Mother so taken with anyone," Peter breathed in my ear as he bundled me into the carriage. "What magic did you use to charm her?"

  "Nothing," I replied glumly.

  "Is something wrong? You were looking rather shaken when I came to fetch you. I hope she didn't disturb you in any way?"

  I pulled myself together. "No, not at all. Your mother's a lovely woman, Peter. I'm so glad you took me to meet her." This was not entirely truthful but I was nothing if not tactful.

  He leaned back against the velvet cushions, a smug expression on his boyish face. "I thought you'd like her. She's a marvel, isn't she?"

  "She is that," I agreed wryly, thinking back to the promise she had all but wrung from me. A promise I had refused to give, but was already, instinctively fulfilling. But how could any woman resist such a handsome cavalier? Only a foolish girl half in love with a shadow.

  "Do you have to come home with us?" Daniel demanded in a petulant voice from his seat in the corner of the carriage.

  "Daniel, I won't have you being rude," I warned him in a deceptively mild tone of voice.

  "Sorry," he muttered gracelessly, his luminous blue eyes flashing his dislike. "But I still don't see why he has to come home with us. We see enough of him when my parents are home."

  "Daniel, Mr. Riordan is a friend of your father's. And a friend of mine, for that matter," I said sternly.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Little monster," Peter muttered tactfully. "Will you go riding with me tomorrow? Without your charming chaperone?"

  "My chaperone, as you call him, happens to be the reason I'm here."

  "But you don't have to stay with him twenty-foui hours a day, do you? What about three-thirty?"

  "Not tomorrow. We've taken too much time off from our studies already." Score one for me against the autocratic old lady.

  "Then what about Saturday? Surely you aren't expected to work on the weekends too? Connell wouldn't be such a slave driver."

  "Perhaps. We'll have to see how much we accomplish tomorrow." The moment the words were out of my mouth I realized what a mistake they had been. From the gleam in Daniel's eyes I knew that if he had anything to say about it we wouldn't accomplish a thing until Peter Riordan was out of reach. "On second thought," I said abruptly, and the boy's face fell, "I believe I will ride with you on Saturday. The outing should do me good."

  "Bless you, lovely lady. I knew you couldn't be so cruel to a poor, heartsick young man," Peter declaimed. "You won't regret your generosity."

  "I will if you don't stop all these blandishments," I said sternly. "You've a bit too much of the Irish in you at times, my boy. And Daniel will accompany us. You two should learn to get along."

  Chapter Eight

  I sat curled up on top of my bed that night, my room unusually warm. There was a deceptive softening in the air outside, and for once my cavernous quarters no longer resembled an ice house. I hunched cross- legged over my writing tablet, struggling with a letter to my family in Cambridge. Not that I usually had trouble with words. Both on paper and vocally I had never been reticent, nor terribly selective, for that matter. If I gave Seamus and Patrick and the others even an inkling of the undercurrents that beset this strange household I would be out of here by the scruff of my neck in the time it took for the letter to be delivered and read. And I didn't want to leave Demonwood, haunted and unappealing as it was.

  For one thing, I had grown fond of young Daniel. He was so alone, so shut away from everyone and everything. I wanted to bring him out in the open, to set his child's heart free. But that would take time and care and a firm hand. Lillian had failed by giving in to his fears and demands. I would help him face his terrors, both of the night and the day, and present him to his . . . to his parents a whole, normal young boy.

  Ah, curse you, Mary Margaret Gallager, you were going to say "present him to his father," I admonished myself sternly. It's his father's eyes you want to see filled with gratitude—you don't give a tinker's damn what Maeve thinks of you. She's never liked you before and it's doubtful she'll start now. It's Connell's admiration you want, you wicked, sinful girl.

  Wearily I thought back to Father McShane's warnings. I had always been willful, too eager to look before I leapt, too foolhardy to really consider all sides of the situation before making a decision. And it usually was the wrong one. Yet I never learned. I knew at the time I shouldn't have come to this house. But I had closed my ears to my conscience, shut my mind to the warnings of my soul and come here.

  I stretched out across the bed and shrugged. What's done is done, I told myself sternly. Regrets won't do you a bit of good, me girl. Deliciously I wiggled my toes. If I had my choice of one thing in this world, one outrageous thing that I could change, it would be that I could go barefoot whenever I pleased.

  I hated shoes, always had, always would. They made me feel I was being smothered. I stared down at my toes admiringly, and wiggled them again. Such a delicious, free feeling. Some day I would run through grass barefoot, and feel the tiny strands tickle my feet. After a lifetime of city living such an event had never come close to fruition, but if I stayed on at Demonwood I would have more than enough chances. Or if I stayed at Stonewalls.

  The thought had crossed my mind once or twice, I must admit. Michael Flynn was charming and dull and no doubt very worthy, and I would be near my family. Whether or not that was a good thing would have to be proven. Peter Riordan was rich and handsome and very entertaining—I could do far worse than marry him. I had his mother's blessing before I had known him a week. Perhaps it was fated. I wiggled my toes again.

  Pauline had given me a few clinical details about marital duties. The mechanics of it I understood all too well, and the idea seemed faintly distasteful to me. The thought of Peter's strong, healthy body possessing mine filled me with a feeling akin to dismay.

  The room was growing steadily colder, and, tiring of my ruminations and struggles with my missive, I tossed the paper to one side, blew out the lamp, and crawled beneath the warm, heavy covers of my bed.

  Now, of course, my thoughts continued, quite against my will, if it was Connell Fitzgerald's body covering mine . . .

  It was almost with relief that I was distracted from that wholly disturbing thought by the first groan. And I was no longer warm and toasty in the great big bed —my skin had turned to ice.

  But worse was to come. The chains began clanking again, a musical accompaniment to the moans and groans of the poor creature in torment. And then a new sound pierced my consciousness. A horrid, muffled sound. Like someone dragging something across the bare floor. Something like a body.

  Being a good girl I immediately took refuge in prayer. I had finished three hail marys and two Lord's prayers (chanted in a loud, impassioned monotone) when the noise finally ceased. The clanking, shuffling creature moved away into the night, leaving its poor victim scared witless, too frightened to even relight the lamp beside her bed as a safeguard against further night terrors.

  * * *

  "You look tired, Mary," Daniel observed over breakfast. We were in the austere formal dining room as usual, seated half a mile away from each Other across the shining oak table with the too-ornate legs. Snow was falling lightly outside the windows, covering the gardens with a flattering blanket of white.

  "I didn't sleep well," I replied thoughtlessly. Immediately he pounced.

  "Did something keep you awake last night?" he demanded. "Did you hear anything, anything out of the ordinary?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  His deep blue eyes grew large and solemn. "It's haunted up th
ere. Robinson says so. You can hear the ghost of Kathleen Fitzgerald wandering around, weeping."

  "Nonsense," I said stoutly, conveniently forgetting my state of abysmal panic the night before. "There's no such thing as ghosts." I took a gulp of hot, steaming coffee sweetened with maple syrup. "The little folk, maybe, but no ghosts."

  "You'll learn," the child said darkly, barely nibbling at the delicious sweet roll. Mrs. Carpenter, despite her sour temperament, was an inspired cook when she cared to be.

  The door to the kitchen swung open just then, and Mrs. Carpenter herself, every square inch of her form radiating contempt and disapproval for us lowly creatures, edged her way into the room on her tiny, mincing feet. She cast her usual scathing glance at poor Daniel, and what little appetite he had vanished altogether. He quickly excused himself and slipped from the table, leaving me to face the woman alone.

  "I've heard from Mrs. Fitzgerald," she announced in her prim little voice. "It appears I was mistaken in putting you in the old studio. I hadn't realized you were a connection of the mistress." Her tone said "poor relation" in suitable disparaging accents. "She insists you have one of the better bedrooms on the third floor."

  Immediately all my suspicions were aroused, and I met her cold gray eyes with a limpid gaze. "I wouldn't think of moving, Mrs. Carpenterl I love my room—so far above everything and with such a heavenly view. I couldn't put you to the bother of moving me after all this time. The attic will be just fine for the likes of me."

  "Mrs. Fitzgerald wishes you to move downstairs."

  I could be equally stubborn. "But I don't wish to move," I replied sweetly. "Don't worry yourself about such a little matter, Mrs. Carpenter. When Cousin Maeve returns we can discuss it. I'm sure she'll understand my feelings."

  The housekeeper opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again with a tiny snap. "As you wish, miss," she replied after a moment, and left the room abruptly. Leaving me to sit there and wonder what in the world had prompted me to hold onto my haunted room.