“But you,” she said to Hester, rising out of her chair to turn a withering look upon her niece, “you have gone too far. I cannot be expected to house a traitor to the family. You may have two weeks to find yourself another post, and do not expect me to do it for you. I have done enough to help you already, and if you have no other relations to beg from, then that is not my fault.”
Hester couldn’t speak for the fear that struck her. She had never wanted to live with her aunt, but with no other home to claim, she had no choice.
Pride kept her from begging to stay. She would find something—anything rather than that. A position as a housekeeper, perhaps.
But no sooner had these thoughts sped through her mind than Isabella cried out, “No! You cannot throw Hester out, Mama. She didn’t mean any harm. She doesn’t want us to be penniless. She just made a mistake. Didn’t you, Hester?”
Hester was touched by her cousin’s defence, even though Bella was the one who was mistaken. She had a generous heart when it did not interfere with her mother’s will, her own limited grasp, or the wishes she had for herself. Still, Hester could not lie to her, if it meant betraying St. Mars.
She moved to take Isabella’s hands in hers. “Thank you, Bella. I hope you know that I love you, and I would never do anything willingly to harm you. But, unfortunately, in this case, I have to tell the truth.
“I know that Mr. Letchworth killed Lord Hawkhurst. If I do not tell Sir Joshua, then I will be letting us take the things that rightfully belong to St. Mars.”
Tears filled her cousin’s eyes. “But Harrowby is the earl now, and he wants to be an earl. And I want to be a countess. How can you be so certain, Hester? You cannot possibly know.”
Hester hesitated. St. Mars had instructed her to pretend no knowledge of Mr. Letchworth’s death, or of his attempt to enter the Abbey. Without that information, how could she say that she was sure?
A sudden commotion came to them through the door, muffled shouts, running feet. A door slammed.
“What on earth is that?” Mrs. Mayfield turned to open the door and vanished through it. In a second, Hester heard her voice calling down the stairs.
Curious, Isabella dropped her cousin’s hands to follow her mother out of the room.
Left all alone, Hester surmised that someone had found Mr. Letchworth’s body. She prayed they had not captured St. Mars, and she was comforted by the recollection that his horse had stood nearby. She remembered how swift Penny was.
Afraid, for him—and for herself, for it appeared she was to be thrown on the mercy of strangers—still she searched the dressing chamber thoroughly for any sign of the letter. She did not think her aunt would have destroyed it. She knew how little use it was as evidence, but she also knew its value. There might come a day when a person more sympathetic to St. Mars’s cause would be in a position to restore him to his rights.
The letter was nowhere to be found. Still, she believed her aunt had kept it. If nothing else, the threat of making it public could give Mrs. Mayfield control over Harrowby. And Hester knew her aunt too well to imagine that she would not have thought of that possibility. She would never burn her advantage over another human being.
Defeated, Hester left the room and all of its secrets behind her to descend the stairs and play the role St. Mars had asked her to play.
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charmed the smallpox, or chased old age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,
Curled or uncurled, since Locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;
What then remains but well our power to use,
And keep good humour still whate’er we lose?
And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.”
CHAPTER 21
Late, on the following night, near midnight, when Hester returned to her room to sleep, she took a moment to pet the greyhound dog that had taken up his abode outside her door. Then she entered, and throwing off her air of composure, she turned to lean her forehead against the solid oak, scarcely aware of the candle in her hand.
It had taken nearly all her strength to pretend ignorance. Unable to say what she knew, she had struggled under the burden of lies, forbidden to divulge Mr. Letchworth’s motive for the murder to help St. Mars.
A gardener had spied the two masked men with their horses, looming over the body. He had not recognized them, nor had he been aware of the lady concealed by one of the men’s bodies. Hester supposed she should be grateful he missed her, but he had spread the word that a villain in a long, blue cloak had murdered a gentleman just outside the Abbey.
A hue and cry had been raised for the highwayman, Blue Satan, whose description Harrowby had recognized instantly. In the shock and bustle of dealing with Mr. Letchworth’s corpse, sending for Sir Joshua, and answering his questions, no one had bothered to ask why Mr. Letchworth had been found outside the door that Lord Hawkhurst’s murderer had used to gain entrance to the Abbey.
Hester had glimpsed an occasional flicker of speculation in the gentlemen’s eyes—Harrowby’s, Sir Joshua’s, and more particularly James Henry’s. Still, no one had voiced his suspicions. Hester’s aunt had made certain that she was given no chance to speak, and since it was presumed she had been inside and seen nothing, no one had asked her for her version of the events.
Hours later, when Sir Joshua had gone, Mrs. Mayfield threatened her again. Mr. Letchworth’s appearance at the Abbey had convinced her of his guilt, Hester believed, but his death had released her from any worry she might have felt for Harrowby. She only wanted to be rid of the one person who might try to convince the magistrate of the truth and all would be perfect in her eyes.
But to all their amazements, Isabella had firmly put her foot down.
“No, Mama,” she had said again, in a defiant tone. “I don’t want you to send Hester away. And you cannot, for I won’t let you. I am the countess and this is my house now, so I can say who stays, not you. Hester can be my waiting woman instead of yours. I want her to be with me, and she will be with me, so that’s that.”
Then, hugging her, Isabella had pleaded with Hester to stay, sensing the struggle she had with her conscience, even if she could not understand her reasons.
Hester had found herself embracing her cousin in tears, the only salve to her conscience being that in remaining, she could continue to search for the letter and provide St. Mars with another ally in his house.
If she ever saw him again, which was not very likely, she told herself, as she pushed her head away from the door. She walked to the small commode that served as her nightstand and set her candle down. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, noting the droop of her shoulders and her down-turned mouth. The only news she had to comfort her was that, so far, Blue Satan had not been found.
She looked down to locate the hooks to her bodice. She had unhooked two, when a deep voice sounded behind her.
“I shouldn’t finish that, if I were you.”
She turned and gasped, “St. Mars!”
He appeared from behind the heavy curtains to her bed, stepping around from the other side to stand just a few feet from her. He stood near the foot of the bed, his black tricorn in his hand, his fair hair tied back with a black ribbon. He wore the blue satin cloak over a billowing white shirt.
On his face was a mixture of amusement and apology.
“I hope you will pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Kean. I did not mean to startle you.”
>
“No! I mean, of course, my lord, you are excused. I am very pleased to see you. But how did you come in here?”
“I have a way, which I will show you. But first, I should like to know what caused you to rest your head against the door? I would have spoken sooner, but I was afraid to disturb you when it seemed you needed a moment to yourself. In any event, I should have said something before you started to undress.”
His gaze dropped to the opening at her breast.
Hester felt herself roasting from her chin down to her toes. She covered the small opening hastily with one hand. With fluttering eyelids and a queer beat in her heart, she said, “It is of no importance, my lord. You spoke in time.”
She ventured to peek at him from beneath her lashes. He seemed unnaturally still as he watched her silently from across the room. They stood that way for a matter of seconds, not speaking, with the bed between them.
St. Mars cleared his throat. “Yes . . . I did.” He retreated to the window seat. Hester watched him move towards it, his cloak swirling about his legs when, with a natural grace, he turned and swept it behind him. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit a while, Mrs. Kean. I shall not stay long, but the ride before me is.”
“You must sit, of course.” When he did, propping one boot up on the bench and hooking an elbow on his knee, she asked, “Are you going away?” She hoped that her tone did not betray her dismay.
“Not tonight. But I may go to France. I should see to the business of my estate. No,” he continued, “tonight, I only have to return to my lodgings at the Fox and Goose. But having ridden half the night already, I find I am a little tired.”
“Why have you ridden half the night, my lord?” She spoke with unconscious sympathy.
He smiled wistfully back at her. “Perhaps for the same reason that you rested your head against the door?”
She sighed and moved to hold on to one of the bed posts. Leaning against it, she said, “That is very likely.”
“Then there is nothing more to say. We did our best, Mrs. Kean. If Letchworth had given himself up—” He did not finish, but looked down at his hands. “I cannot be sorry for having killed him. My father would have done the same for me . . . though sooner perhaps.”
“I quite understand you, my lord, and you must not blame yourself for what has occurred. Either on that day or on the day your father was murdered.”
He gave an unamused laugh. “Mrs. Kean, it is only the knowledge of my blame that makes my current situation tolerable. How else can I justify all I have lost?”
Her heart ached painfully for him. She wished he could spare himself these regrets. She only hoped that time would help him to see more clearly. He must forgive himself or he would never make another push to recover his position.
“Your friendship is the one blessing I have to be thankful for. If you ever have need of my help, no matter what it might be, at any time or in any place, you have only to send for me. Will you promise to do that, Mrs. Kean?”
Her agreement would help to salve his conscience, but she would not give it without one condition. “Only if you promise to do the same, my lord.”
His silence told her that she had surprised him. He laughed. “Very well, dear lady. Or, should I say, dear friend?”
“I believe that both are accurate, my lord.” She felt herself blushing. His laughter, which seemed to stem from delight, had the same effect on her as before, as if a softly-burning candle that heated but did not burn had been lit inside her.
“I know they are. And now, my very dear friend, Mrs. Kean,” he said, springing to his feet, as if he had never claimed to be tired, “I shall show you the secret to my miraculous entry.
“Remember,” he said, as she followed him to the wall across from the foot of her bed, “that I once told you that this room is a very handy chamber?”
Hester nodded.
“Well, it truly is. See this piece of carving which resembles the top of a pineapple?”
“I do see it, my lord.”
“If you ever want to escape from this house, you have only to turn it so, and . . .”
Hester was amazed to see the shape of a door appearing in the paneling. It swung away from her, as if on a spring, making only a slight squeak. A small, dark closet stood revealed beyond, and a cool burst of earthy air floated upwards out of the blackness inside.
“It’s a staircase!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “I had no idea that this doorway was here.”
“This is the closet where I found the documents my father hid. I came in this way one night after I escaped from Sir Joshua’s men.”
He stepped into the tiny space and lit a torch. It roared into life, illuminating the narrow staircase with its damp stone walls. She peered down the stairs, as he held the torch out to help her see. But its beam only reached a short way into the dark. The steps appeared to descend into a black, bottomless well.
“At the base of these stairs is a tunnel that goes to an undercroft in the ruins, near where we met.” St. Mars explained why it had been built, and he asked her to show it to Mr. Bramwell, if the King should ever change his current position and decide to persecute the nonjuring priests.
She promised him she would.
“No one else knows of this, except you and Tom. I know you will keep the secret to yourself. I wanted you to be aware of it in case you should ever have need of it.” He showed her how the latch in the closet could be opened, should she ever enter her room from the ruins.
As St. Mars extinguished his torch and stepped back into her bedchamber, Hester assured him of her discretion and thanked him for honouring her with the secret.
“I thought it only fair to tell you about it—” he grinned— “considering this is the passage I will have to use to enter my house. I will not use it often, but I should hate to frighten you when I do.”
The idea that he might pass through her room at who-knew-what hour flustered Hester. “Not at all, my lord. Of course, you must use it as often as you wish.”
Then fearing that he might take her words for an invitation he would not welcome, she added, “I do not suppose that you could give a little knock?”
His eyes danced with laughter. “I shall most certainly knock, and I shall take care not to disturb you at any more awkward moments, Mrs. Kean.”
She could not help laughing back. “You are goodness itself, my lord.”
They stood smiling. Then something sad must have occurred to him, for his look turned wistful. With a wry twist to his lips, he said, “I should be going now. But I meant what I said. If you should ever be in any need, I am your servant.”
“You are kind, my lord.”
“Not at all. It would give me great pleasure to serve you. More than I can ever express.”
Hester curtsied, her eyes lowered so that he would not see how much she wished him to stay. But he raised her up, and taking both her hands in his, kissed them with more earnestness than was courtly, before ducking behind the wall.
Not bothering to light his torch, he called back up to her as he vanished. “Good night, Mrs. Kean.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Hester waited until no more sounds came from below— no footsteps, no falling pieces of earth, no brushes of air that might have been caused by a swirl of his cloak—before closing the secret door and laying her hands on the carving that could open it up again. She made very certain that she remembered which one it was, before turning to seek her bed.
She would see St. Mars again.
For after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.
This book is dedicated to
my mother,
Marguerite Johnston Barnes,
for her lov
ing mentoring and help
and her writer’s genes
and to
my father,
Charles Wynn Barnes,
for his constant encouragement
and for having enough faith in me to offer to back this project.
Copyright © 2001 by Patricia Wynn Ricks
Electronically published in 2000 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.BelgraveHouse.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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