Lenora gazed back at him. “Good morning?” she hazarded.
“Is it?”
She glanced toward the window. “The weather continues fine and bodes well for a good harvest.”
He said nothing to this, just gazed at her stonily. How dare she be lolling on cushions while he felt churned up like this? He uncrossed his arms and paced across to the other side of the room, then turned on his heel and stalked back again. “You have news of Berta?” he bit out.
“Oh yes,” she agreed. “She came to me last night and agreed to the move. I feel sadly conflicted about it, but I quite realize it is for the good of all involved. I shall miss her of course.”
She made no mention of missing him, he noticed savagely and glared at her. “Yet you sent no word of this news to the Grange, despite your promise.”
“Well, I was going to ride over this afternoon and deliver Berta with her belongings,” she explained calmly.
Which reminded him of something else. “There will be no more of this riding around the countryside unaccompanied,” he said coldly.
She stole a look at him through her eyelashes. “I was not unaccompanied though,” she pointed out. He checked at that and cleared his throat. Lenora lifted the white cat off her lap and placed her carefully on a cushion. “Does she look fatter to you?” she asked with a trace of anxiety. “I’m hoping it is only too many tidbits and not another litter of kittens on the way.”
He eyed the cat distractedly. Was she fatter? He had no clue. He angled his head to read the discarded list she had been studying with such care. It looked to be a list of jellies and conserves.
Noticing the direction of his gaze, Lenora sighed. “Your grandfather asked me to study the plans for the autumn fruit crop and give the kitchen any suggestions I might have. The trouble is, I have no ideas on the subject for I am sadly ignorant.”
Garman gave himself a mental shake. He was getting distracted. “I didn’t come to talk to you about candied fruits,” he said contemptuously. She bit her lip and he struggled a moment with conflicted feelings himself.
“What did you come for then?” she asked quietly.
“You suggested something the other day,” he said with soft menace. “An alternate means of revenge on… my Twyford relations.”
“Yes? You have discussed it with the Hainfroys?” she asked, holding her breath.
“I have.” He paused. “They’re agreeable, strangely enough.” She looked hugely relieved at this piece of news. He steeled himself. “But if you think this lets you off the hook, wife, you are sadly mistaken.”
She swallowed. “I’m listening.”
“I find I cannot forgive you for going behind my back. A wife’s loyalty should be to her husband.”
“My loyalty is to you,” she insisted. At his disgusted gesture she leant forward. “Garman, it is, I swear it.”
“Your empty words mean nothing to me Lenora, for I judge women as I do men, by their actions,” he said harshly. “And it’s too late to try and get around me now, for I’ve seen what lies beneath your pretty ways and deceitful tongue!”
She winced at his words but if anything, sat up a little straighter. “I am sorry you feel that way,” she said quietly. “But I must act as my conscience prompts me.”
“Well, you can act as you like in future, for I’ve had a bellyful of you. As much of you as I can stand.”
He heard her indrawn breath but paid it no heed. His words were hard and measured and gave no quarter. “If you feel so much concern for my cousins’ fate, then you will not object to taking their place in the grand scheme of things, will you?” You could have heard a pin drop at his words.
Her head snapped up at this. “What do you mean?”
“You can take their place,” he repeated coldly. “In my grand revenge.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Your lack of understanding is not my concern,” he said grimly. “Pack your things. I want you out of here within the hour.”
“Out?” She stared at him. “Husband—?”
“Out. Pack your things up. Now!” His words were angry and loud. He practically shouted them at her.
Lenora sat perfectly still for a moment, then she rose composedly to her feet. “Very well,” she said bracingly. “May I ask where I am to go?” she asked conversationally. “Or is that none of your concern either?” She made her way toward the door, looking back over her shoulder. “I suppose I could return to my father’s house…” she mused, reaching for the door latch.
“You will do no such thing,” he gritted out. “I told you, you will be taking my cousins’ place.”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “At Twyford Castle?” She looked stunned for a moment. “Well, I suppose there is a certain poetic justice to that.” She pulled a face. “So, I am to be left there now, in a moldering ruin for the rest of my days?” she asked.
He did not answer for a moment. Could not. He imagined her blonde head with the ruins falling down around it, and it crossed his mind for the veriest instant, that he was cutting off his own nose to spite his face. Angrily, he dismissed the notion. “Aye, that’s it,” he said curtly. “You’re so curious about Twyford Castle, you can become intimately acquainted with it.”
“Yes, I see,” she murmured. “Quite neat,” and something else he did not catch for it was under her breath. Almost he asked her to repeat it, but stopped himself. After all, what did it matter? Soon he would be rid of her cursed opinions and irritating words altogether. For some reason, that thought caused him to feel something so akin to pain that it quite took his breath away. “Will you arrange for Berta to be delivered to the Grange as I won’t be here to sort that out now?” she asked with such distant politeness that he could not speak for a moment. “I would like to keep my word in that respect.”
He shrugged. “I will see to that matter. It is no longer your concern,” he heard himself respond.
She had her hand on the door now. Why did he feel like this? So empty, with the bitterest taste in his mouth? His throat and chest still burned with anger, but something held him back from unleashing the scalding tirade upon her that would give it relief. Without looking back, she left the room and he stared a moment at the spot she’d vacated. He realized there could be only one explanation for not bawling and yelling at her as he longed to. He did not want to burn his bridges with her. Which was fucking ridiculous as he was effectively exiling her now. He was walling her up alive in the tomb that was Twyford Castle, the place he hated most in all the world. Why then, was he still holding back his wrath? It made no sense. He was done with her, he swore. Finished.
She had gone against him and now she would have to pay the price. He would have to harden his heart against her, he thought grimly. He was halfway across the room at this point, and almost tripped over his own feet. His heart? Where had that come from? He had no heart. Everyone knew that. Even Lenora. What was it she had said to him on that first night? “I have no doubt you would lead whatever woman you married a dog’s life.”
She had gone into this with her eyes open, for all she had looked so still and stricken when he had ordered her out of his life. The memory of her expression caused a pang. Almost, he’d regretted his words the moment they had left his mouth. Indeed, when she had started up from her seat, he’d been half inclined to push her back down in it and tell her she was going nowhere. He shook his head. When had he ever been anything other than resolute? Their marriage had been a mistake. An act of impulse which he would come to regret. He did already regret, damn it. And he was putting an end to this debacle now.
He would deliver her to Twyford Castle himself. Cast her down at its gate and issue his instructions for his cousins to be delivered up for the parson’s noose within the week. He set his features as he wrenched the door open. There was no going back now.
*
It was dark by the time they reached the castle. Neither he nor Lenora had uttered a word the entire journey. Bo
th were on horseback. She had packed no more than one bag of belongings, for he would not wait and had vowed he would send the rest of her things, including the cats on after her. She held her head as high as a queen, her profile cold and proud. Why he could not stop his willful gaze from seeking her out was beyond him. He was weak where she was concerned, and it was as well he tore her from his flesh now before she became even more embedded. As it was, he suspected the wound would fester for years. Probably his whole damned life.
To his surprise, the approach to the courtyard was lit with torches and several white faces bobbed before them in the dark.
“Milady!” cried one old man running forward. “Gods be praised, you done it! You brought the master in time!”
“Oates, what is it?” Lenora asked, reaching down and clasping the old dotard’s hand.
Tears streamed down his wobbly jowls. “He’s fading fast now, milady and won’t last the night.” He sent a fearful look in Garman’s direction. “The physician says he’s in a delirium, but every now and then it clears, fit to break your heart.”
“Take us to him,” Lenora ordered.
Garman’s head jerked up, but she was already dismounting. He hesitated a moment, unsure whether to spur Bria’ag on now and leave. What decided him was the fact Lenora did not even look at him. She adjusted her hood, smoothed her cloak and strode after the scurrying servant up the stone steps.
With a heavy frown, he swung down from his saddle and passed his reins to a waiting attendant.
“My lord,” the servant mumbled and turned away before he could correct him.
Taking the steps two at a time, he caught up with them as they ducked into a dimly lit passage. The place was a rabbit warren and appeared almost subterranean in its darkness. There were two more flights of steps before they reached a large bedchamber hung about with faded tapestries and dominated by a large carved wooden bed overhung by a large red canopy. In the midst of it lay a wreck of a man, he dimly recognized as Earl Twyford, though the waxen, hollowed out face was barely recognizable to him.
“The Lady Jehanne does not sit with him?” Lenora asked, approaching the bed.
“Not she,” Oates said bitterly.
Garman’s expression grew yet more guarded as Lenora sat down on some wooden steps attached to the high platform of the bed. He heard her murmur something, but she kept her voice low and sweet so he could not catch it. Earl Twyford’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes fixed on Lenora’s face. He did not speak, though at her prompting, his gaze swept over her shoulder to lie with an arrested expression on Garman. On seeing him, the old man seemed to grow increasingly agitated and Lenora jumped up and hurried over to him.
“Speech is beyond him now,” she said urgently. “Come and take his hand.” Garman stiffened. “You need say no words.” Her hand made a grab for his and he almost jumped out of his skin, realizing she had not voluntarily touched him in days. It must be that which prompted him to let himself be led meek as a lamb to the bedside. Lenora placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down until he sat on the steps, the spot she had just vacated.
Then she lowered her hood and reached for something around her neck. “Put this on,” she whispered. “Just while you hold his hand. You can take it off again directly afterward.” He frowned as she slipped something onto the little finger of his left hand, which felt like a heavily encrusted ring. Then she took his hand and placed it on the blanket next to his Earl Twyford’s.
“There,” she said, and Garman felt the cold and waxy hand twitch and clutch at his. The Earl’s mouth worked but he uttered no sound. He felt the old man groping around his fingers until he found the ring and then he gave a sigh that rattled horribly. Garman watched as the sunken chest rose and fell in painfully shallow breaths, thrice more and then halted forever.
Oates gave a sob and grabbed at one of the curtains. Lenora bowed her head. The Earl of Twyford was dead.
40
Lenora found Magda and Agnes huddled around a small fire in the solar. Both looked white-faced and were showing signs of considerable strain. Magda rose to greet her and drew her close to the fire to sit with them.
“It’s over,” Lenora said in quiet tones as she sank onto the cushioned bench between them. “Your grandfather is dead.”
“You were there at the end?” Magda asked. “I’m glad. He would not let me sit with him, not after this morning.”
“So, your husband is Earl now,” said Agnes blankly.
“I suppose so.”
“Where is our cousin?” frowned Magda. “We were told you both arrived at the eleventh hour.”
“He is gone back,” Lenora said flatly.
Magda looked at her. “He surely has many business matters to wind up,” she said, clearing her throat.
“Doubtless,” Lenora agreed listlessly. “I am to remain here.” Not for the world could she elaborate on her meaning, but she saw the sisters exchange startled looks.
“Mother is gone,” said Agnes, making her sister exclaim.
“What do you mean?”
“I walked in on her packing her trunk. She said she had a widowed cousin she would go to in Ankadine.”
Lenora felt a flicker of interest in the way Agnes had stressed her words. “You do not think she has gone to a cousin?” she asked.
Agnes pulled a face. “Not unless the widowed cousin has a bushy black beard and answers to the name Sir Walter Dalton.”
“Agnes!” Magda exclaimed sounding shocked. “I’m sure Mother would never—”
“Oh, what is the point in being so mealy-mouthed about it, sister?” Agnes said crossly, reaching for her crutch. She swung herself up and looked down at them both. “Mother has fled into the night and we are now all left alone to fend for ourselves. The roof leaks, the chimneys smoke and we have absolutely no means of supporting ourselves—” She broke off with a sob.
“Agnes—” Magda started.
“No, don’t!” She flung up her free hand to shield her face. “I’m off to bed. If you leave me for ten minutes, I shall contrive to be asleep by the time you join me.” They watched Agnes hobble from the room with great determination, despite her uneven gait.
“You share a room?” Lenora asked.
“Oh yes. So few of them are habitable. Shall I show you to Mother’s bedchamber?” Magda asked. “It’s actually one of the few decent ones.” Lenora could well believe Lady Jehanne had bagged herself one of the better rooms. She followed Magda across the passageway.
“It is this one, cousin,” Magda said, opening the door. “I assure you it looks a good deal more cheerful by day.” She crossed the room to set a candle on a large studded trunk. “I shall go down and request a fire to be laid, clean bedding and water for you to wash.”
“Thank you, Magda.”
Magda hesitated by the door. “Is all quite lost?” she asked softly, leaning against the door. “If so, I’m sure none of us could blame you—”
“Certainly not,” Lenora replied with a confidence she did not feel. She sent Magda a brave smile. “In seven days’ time. You shall see.”
Magda looked uncertain, but gave an answering smile before departing.
The next few days were not pleasantly employed as Lenora felt herself beholden to take her part in the vigil held over the old Earl as he was laid out. These proceedings were not hurried as though the servants of the Twyford Estate were not large in number, they all wanted their turn to pay their respects.
Two older women washed the body and wound it in a winding sheet as Magda, Agnes, and Lenora took turns to sit in attendance as various visitors trooped in and out. Magda told Lenora that the memorial brass had already been engraved for the chapel some months ago at great expense. “For he would have the family crest enameled with black and red,” she whispered in some disapproval.
Tenants on the estate were not permitted to sit with the corpse, Magda explained evasively.
“Not that they’d want to,” Agnes chimed in darkly and Lenora co
uld only guess that the Earl’s tenants were not fond of him.
He was interred on the third day and their procession to the family chapel was a gloomy one. Lenora and Magda carried funeral wreaths of rosemary for Agnes could not manage a wreath as well as her crutch. If Lenora felt somewhat out of place for only having met Lord Twyford twice before his death, the sisters clearly did not question her right. Both freely addressed her as cousin and seemed to accept her presence as a matter of course.
Oates led the procession, freely weeping as he rang his bell. Monks from the nearby monastery followed with their mumbled prayers, then a gaggle of the strongest servants carrying the shrouded and wrapped body. Magda, Agnes, and Lenora followed the body as expected of womenfolk. Magda’s hand slipped into hers as they stood with bowed heads listening to the abbot speak a simple sermon.
“Grandfather told him ‘make it brief, man,’” Agnes whispered. “He could not abide being dictated to even in death.”
The Earl was placed with ceremony into his casket and the monks sang their dirge. Lenora found herself looking over her shoulder more than once in the forlorn hope that Garman might make an appearance though she knew the odds were slim. She told herself he had been there when it counted and had eased the old man’s passing.
Lenora’s eyes fixed on the memorial brass during the sermon. She found it to be beautiful and privately thought the Earl had been right to insist on the enameling. He was depicted in full armor, laid out with his shield over his breast and every detail of the Twyford crest was striking in its coloring from the black heart to the three drops of scarlet blood it shed. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day in Bonbartle and her throat ached to remember the fortuneteller’s words.
The heavy mood that had descended on them did not lift for the rest of that day, or the next for it rained on and off the whole time. After supper, she found Oates hovering at her elbow.
“Yes, Oates,” she asked, turning to him.
“Your pardon, milady, but a few of us was wondering if you might bring Master Sutton back to the fold as it were. Now that his lordship…” He cleared his throat. “Now that there is no quarrel to prevent it.”
The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2) Page 40