by Jean Rowden
Returning her smile, her husband nodded. ‘She’s been overindulged, but we shan’t be obliged to spend much time in her company.’
Lucille sighed. ‘You’re always so good tempered. To me, garden parties are a trial. The dirt ruins my shoes, and I don’t care to prance about doing country dances.’
‘Poor Lucille. By next season you shall have a ballroom that is the envy of the county, and if you find the local families tiresome, we’ll send to London for better company.’
The event was all Lucille had expected; she found fault with the garden, the heat inside the marquee, the intensity of the sun outside, and almost every person she encountered. Very soon she developed the headache she had considered inventing that morning, and begged her husband to take her into the house, where the light would be less bright.
‘Of course, my dear,’ Lord Pickhurst took her arm as she rose from her seat. ‘That will suit me well. Reverend Stoppen has recently added some new paintings to his collection, and he invited me to inspect them at my leisure.’
With all the guests on the lawns or in the marquee, and the servants tending to their needs, the house was strangely deserted. They saw nobody as they ascended to the third floor, where the gallery filled the west side of the house. Lord Pickhurst instructed his young wife on the merits of half a dozen paintings, and she maintained an air of polite interest, until they came to a semi-circular bay window. A chair was conveniently placed to give Lucille a view of the gardens and with a blind drawn halfway down to shade her from the sun she was content to leave her husband to continue his tour alone.
From this height Lucille found herself looking down on the woodland where she had seen the rider. The trees were sparser near the house, and there was only a narrow belt of them curving around to the north. Even so, it took her several minutes to spot the dark shape that moved a little amongst the greenery. A horse, completely hidden from the revellers in the garden, and almost certainly the one she had seen earlier, was browsing quietly from the tree branch where it was tied.
Lucille was intrigued. She wondered if Miss Stoppen had an unsuitable lover; it seemed likely that some young man had come to the party uninvited. Five minutes elapsed before the horse made a sudden movement; it lifted its head, ears pricked. Lucille looked to see what had caught the animal’s interest. A figure, muffled and cloaked in a way that was totally unsuitable for such a fine warm day, came hurrying from the rear of the house. He was visible only for a moment, but he reappeared between the trees and she saw him unhitch the horse and step into the saddle. For a second he glanced towards the house, his head tilted up so the sun caught it.
Lucille drew in a gasp of astonishment. Unless he had a twin, there could be no mistaking the man she had just seen; it was Mortleigh.
A hand descended on her shoulder, and she jumped violently.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Lord Pickhurst moved around her to sit at her side. ‘What are you finding so fascinating out there? Assignations in the shrubbery perhaps?’ he added playfully.
‘No, nothing like that,’ Lucille said, recalling herself to the part of doting wife with some difficulty. ‘My thoughts were far away.’ In fact they were riding through the belt of woodland. Mortleigh’s betrayal beat in her head like the thud of a drum, and it was all she could do to hide her fury from her husband. Why had he told her such a blatant lie? He’d never intended to return to London. It must have been his intention to pay court to Agatha Stoppen all the time.
‘Your contemplation seems to have made you unhappy,’ Lord Pickhurst commented, and Lucille at once put a hand over her eyes.
‘You are so good at seeing such things, my love,’ she said. ‘I have the most unpleasant headache. Do you think we might go home without giving offence? The pain is making me weary, and the bright sunlight is really more than I can stand.’
All concern, Lord Pickhurst ordered the carriage at once, and they made their farewells with indecent haste. Agatha Stoppens was nowhere to be seen, which seemed to Lucille to be of great significance. She sat in silence all the way back to Knytte, hiding behind closed eyes. In the red darkness she imagined Mortleigh standing on the road before them, and pictured the body he’d taught her to worship being trampled into the mud beneath the hoofs of the horses. Her fury was almost too much to bear.
As soon as they were home Lucille retired to her room, getting rid of her husband by declaring herself in need of sleep above all else. She couldn’t think clearly. Her mind was filled with images of a dozen acts of vengeance, all of them impossible to carry out. Mortleigh was clever, and physically strong. If she hoped to punish him she needed an ally.
Marching towards the old stairs some minutes later, too angry to be cautious, she heard sounds from the nursery, but the doors were shut. Nobody saw her as she let herself out into the ruins. She heard the chink of tools. There were men working there, Jonah among them; the slow rhythm of his deep voice was unmistakable. It wasn’t necessary to speak to him, or even to see him. They had long since worked out a system of messages; she had only to work her way to the stone carrel where he habitually left the hat and coat he wore on his way to and from his work. She dropped a glove there, a plain cotton thing, but scented with a perfume he would recognize.
Lucille returned to her room on light feet. In time she would find a way to pay Mortleigh for his betrayal. An assignation with another man was merely the start and Jonah’s adoration would be balm for her wounded pride. The possibility that her faithless lover wouldn’t return to Knytte flickered briefly through her thoughts. She could guess why he’d gone clandestinely to Dunsby Court. Reverend Stoppen was a very wealthy man, and everyone knew he hoped to marry his only daughter into the nobility; a suitor who had no title would be unwelcome. Perhaps, Lucille thought, her fury making her cheeks flame, he planned to carry Agatha off in the middle of the night.
‘Docket, there you are.’ Sir Martin slammed a hand irritably upon his desk. ‘Where have you been? It’s almost time to dress for dinner, and you know how her ladyship hates to be kept waiting.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the young man replied, doing his best to slap the dust from his coat. He’d been riding most of the day, and he was as tired and jaded as his horse. ‘I believe I may have some information regarding Sergeant Beddowes. I fear it’s not good news.’
‘What do you mean? Where is he?’
‘As for that, I still don’t know. The rumour is several days out of date, and it comes from a source that isn’t totally reliable, but it’s the best I could do.’
His employer scowled. ‘And you call this information? Well, spit it out, man.’
‘A derelict answering the sergeant’s description was seen at the King’s Arms, the day after we left him at the cross-roads. Apparently he was accosted by several men known to be involved in smuggling. My informant tells me he left shortly after with a pair of these rum-runners, one of whom was probably Bragg. If it was Beddowes, I’m afraid he may have received some rough handling, my informant said the tramp didn’t go with his captors willingly.’ He hesitated, looking at Sir Martin as if to judge his mood. ‘I was wondering if you would allow me to offer a small reward for information. The brotherhood is loyal in the main, but somebody may be willing to tell us more, given an incentive.’
‘It would be unwise to betray his identity, so how would you explain our interest in a tramp?’
‘I thought we might suggest that he’s a possible witness,’ Docket said. ‘There can’t be a soul in the county who isn’t aware of the jewellery thefts by now, and it’s quite feasible that a travelling man might have seen or heard something useful to our enquiries.’
Sir Martin nodded. ‘Very well, offer five guineas for information leading to his safe delivery, either here or to my office in Hagstock.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more …’
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. A message had come from Dunsby Court, and it was marked MOST URGENT. Sir Mar
tin broke the seal and read quickly, his expression darkening. When he had finished he thrust the paper into Docket’s hands. ‘I want Beddowes found,’ he barked. ‘Go to the printer at once and get some handbills out. Have him work through the night if necessary.’ He strode from the room.
Docket read the message, his eyes widening. ‘Another one,’ he breathed. ‘There’ll be sparks flying if you don’t turn up soon, Sergeant. Mind you, if I was a betting man, I’m not sure I’d risk a guinea on ever seeing hide or hair of you again.’
Phoebe had trouble persuading Rodney to go to bed, and she sat with him for nearly two hours, reading quietly. At last, when her eyes ached with the strain of making out the letters in the flickering candlelight, the boy’s breathing became slow and regular, and with a sigh she straightened her aching limbs and rose, stretching. The boy’s nightmares had diminished a little recently, and Phoebe wondered if she might risk leaving him alone, to spend a night in her own bed.
Annie was shirking her duties as nursery maid again; many of the more mundane evening tasks rightly belonged to her, but with a mistress who cared nothing for the children and even less for their governess, there was nobody to whom Phoebe could report her insolence, apart from the housekeeper. She suspected if she did so the servants would close ranks against her, and make life even more intolerable.
She knelt to sweep the grate. The girl had sulked when ordered to bring up coal, retorting that it was too early to have a fire. True, autumn had barely begun, but Rodney found firelight a comfort, so she’d told the girl to light it and stop grumbling, which was probably why she’d neglected her other tasks.
Those who lived below stairs saw the post of governess as a position of privilege, but there were times when Phoebe wished she was a humble maid, for at least then she might have company in the servants’ hall. With the fire raked to a dull safe glow she tidied the room and went to close the curtains, another of Annie’s jobs.
No lights shone from the house, although it was only a little after ten. A sliver of moon illuminated the gardens, and Phoebe stopped to look out at their ethereal beauty. It was early for the household to have retired to bed, but she had gathered from Annie, before the girl was overtaken by her sullen fit, that Lady Pickhurst had returned from the garden party feeling unwell. With the lady of the house not joining his lordship for dinner, and no other company, the meal would have been short, and everyone released from their duties sooner than was usual.
The loveliness before her eyes seeped into Phoebe’s spirit and calmed her; she was fortunate to be able to enjoy such a sight, and there was no point worrying about what might happen in the future. She had reasons enough to be content; Rodney was an apt pupil and they both enjoyed their lessons, while Eliza was a permanently cheerful child. Tending the children was a pleasure, and she could be satisfied with that for the moment. A breeze had sprung up and the tops of the trees were moving against the moon. An owl called, before flitting across the lawn like a ghost, flying from its home in the ruins and heading for the rough grass in the park.
Half smiling, Phoebe began to turn away, her thoughts on sleep, but a sense of some movement among the shrubs at the far side of the lawn made her pause. The branches of a bush were moving where no wind stirred. Phoebe bit her lip, worry flooding back and all her good intentions forgotten in an instant. This had happened before, and she thought she knew who lurked there, where they had no business to be.
Sure enough, the figure of a large man appeared, walking half bent as if that would make him less visible. She saw him for only a second, but there could be no mistake; it was Jonah.
She saw him again, as he crossed an open space and ducked swiftly into the shadow cast by the summerhouse. He didn’t reappear. Phoebe, her hand to her mouth, sank onto a chair. She’d hoped the liaison was over. Suppose she wasn’t the only person standing looking out at the moonlit garden?
Sitting in the dark, watching the moon-shadows moving inch by inch across the lawn, Phoebe listened for the slight creak of floorboards. She dreaded to hear the familiar scratch at the door and the mocking laugh which so disturbed Rodney’s sleep; it would certainly start his nightmares again. Going out for her clandestine assignations, the woman who made those sounds must have heard him cry out; it seemed she delighted in frightening the boy.
Phoebe was suddenly angry. To Lady Pickhurst, rich, beautiful and spoilt, the children meant nothing, and nor did Jonah Jackman. He was merely a diversion, a plaything to be tossed aside when she tired of him. He would be badly hurt, but if the affair was discovered he would suffer a great deal worse than a broken heart.
The footsteps came, soft and swift, just audible in the silence of the night. This time there was no scratch at the door, but a line of light moved across the gap at the bottom, before fading away. Phoebe dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands; if only there was something she could do, some way to cure Jonah of his infatuation. She knew what Lady Pickhurst’s true character was, the whole household was aware of her selfishness, the streak of idle malice that made her so hated by those who had to serve her.
With sudden decision, Phoebe rose. She hadn’t prepared herself for bed and was still fully dressed. She fetched her dark brown coat and put it on. Opening the door an inch, she peered out and saw a wavering light shining from the stair. With exaggerated care, she stepped out, closed the door behind her, and set off to follow it.
Chapter Ten
Phoebe felt her way cautiously along the corridor and down the stairs, inching each foot forward carefully for fear of falling. A sound told her that Lady Pickhurst, if that was whom she was following, had opened the ancient door. When it closed total blackness descended. It had been foolish to come without a candle, but she’d only thought about remaining unseen.
It took a minute to reach the door, and another to summon up the courage to open it. The wind had strengthened and it was difficult to keep the heavy oak door open while she slipped through; Phoebe almost had it snatched from her fingers as she eased it shut behind her. A glimmer of moonlight lit her way across the old refectory, but the place was cold and full of shadows, while the wind whistled eerily through gaps in the stonework.
Phoebe almost turned to flee. The thought of Jonah stopped her; she wouldn’t see him dismissed and disgraced, not if there was any way to prevent it. She ran across the room to escape into the cloisters. Here a light showed dully from within one of the carrels. Shivering with fear and with her heart pounding, she pressed her back to the cold stone wall. There was nothing to hear but the moaning of the wind, nothing to see except the dim steady glow. It took a long time to persuade herself to go on, and when she did she found only a lantern, left unattended on a stone shelf. The mistress of Knytte had gone on, relying on the moon to show her the way.
Gathering her courage, Phoebe ran on silent feet through the ruins, where imagination suggested a dozen kinds of evil lurking unseen among the deep pools of darkness. The night crowded closer, feeding the ancient terror that lies hidden in every human heart. Reaching the archway which led into the garden she stopped, leaning gratefully against the old stones; this was a familiar spot, a refuge from her earlier panic. It took only a moment to regain her breath and her composure. When there was a lull in the moaning of the wind she could hear the hushed sounds of the creatures that took over the garden by night, and once, pitched low, there was the murmur of human voices.
Crouching low to avoid being seen, Phoebe made her way slowly towards the summer house.
‘You speak of love, yet you refuse me the one small thing I ask of you.’ Lady Pickhurst’s voice came to her, quite clear in the silence. It was filled with an overwhelming sadness. If Phoebe hadn’t known her, hadn’t seen how deceitful the woman could be, she might have believed the emotion to be real.
‘You know I’d give my life for you,’ Jonah protested. ‘I love you, with all my heart.’
‘Then hold me,’ the woman murmured. ‘Show me this love and help me bear this awful burde
n my life has become.’
Jonah made a sound that was barely human, between a groan and a sigh. ‘You make me a sinner in the eyes of God and man. This is so wrong, yet I can’t help myself …’
Phoebe turned and stumbled back the way she’d come, too overcome with what she’d heard to fear the darkness awaiting her in the ruins. How could Jonah be so foolish? If they were discovered he would lose everything, all for the sake of an hour in that wicked woman’s arms.
When she reached the lighted lantern Phoebe paused. At the very least, she would let them know their rendezvous had been discovered. Poor Jonah was blinded by love, but Phoebe didn’t believe Lady Pickhurst would jeopardize her position in society, perhaps her very life, for any man, let alone a poor stonemason.
She picked up the lamp and took it with her, back towards the old refectory. Turning the wick down until the flame died, she placed the lantern on the floor in the brightest of the moonlight, where anyone coming that way couldn’t help but see it.
Phoebe opened the door and stepped through, but as she turned to close it the rising wind caught the heavy oak planks. The door crashed back into its frame, the noise so loud it hurt her ears. Stunned, she stood in total darkness as the sound echoed around her. It must have awakened half the household. Frantically she groped for the wall; there should be no obstacles to impede her, apart from the doorway of the old library. Here she almost fell, but then her hand smacked into the door and she recovered her balance, to run blindly on in the dark. At the foot of the stairs she stumbled again, landing on her knees.
Sobs rising in her throat, Phoebe scurried up to the first floor. She was at the top of the stairs and halfway to the nursery when she heard a door open. A light appeared from below and a querulous voice called out, it sounded like Mr Henson, the butler.
‘Who’s there?’
Phoebe ran on, grasping the handle of the nursery door, unbuttoning her dress with urgent fingers as she went through. Only seconds later she was back, wearing a nightgown and with a candlestick in her hand, as if she had come directly from her bed.