“And your brother Crispin came to his untimely end two days later.”
“An accident. He fell from his horse.” Jesus, he was tired.
The doctor drank more wine. “I’d have done the same myself, I suppose, sending you back to school after the accident. Your father did the right thing.”
“Explain.”
Richards sighed and rubbed his hands. His dark eyes lifted to Sebastian. “My lord, your brother Crispin died as a result of the same accident that crippled Miss Willow’s mother and took the lives of her father and brother.”
He could have sworn the air thickened, but Richards seemed unaffected. “And what of Miss Willow?”
“Essentially unscathed.”
Sebastian drew a breath. “An accident nevertheless.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Either it was an accident or it was not.”
“The Willows were on their way to church, Crispin on his way home. One family beginning its day, another man ending his evening. For good or ill, the road was deserted that morning. Your brother was elated, shall we say, and, no doubt, driving too fast for the conditions. Your father was a proud man, my lord. Rightly so. He would not have a word breathed against his heir, and he had the money and influence to see that any who knew kept their knowledge to themselves.”
“Well done.”
Richards shook a finger at him. “The morale, young man, the very fiber of our nation depends upon the infallibility of those who rule. You’ve been in command. Once your authority comes into question, there’s no hope of men following you and that way lies peril. Your father understood that.”
“Did Andrew know?”
“That, I cannot say. I never told him about Crispin, if that’s what you’re asking. Perhaps I ought to have.” He crossed one thin leg over the other. “Your father did what was required of him, never doubt that, my lord.”
“Does Miss Willow know?”
He pulled his chin closer to his neck, shaking his head. “I hardly think so. She was a child at the time. Nine or ten years old. And your brother, though injured, did not linger at the scene. He might have survived his injuries if not for infection.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite. I attended his last hours.”
“Certain the road was deserted.”
“Of all but the Willows and your brother.”
Sebastian stared at the tops of his boots. “To your knowledge, was Miss Willow ever my bother’s mistress?”
Richards breathed deeply, a long nasal inhalation.
Sebastian’s pulse skipped. “If I must, I’ll find a midwife whose discretion may not be as trustworthy as your own and have the matter proved beyond doubt.”
The doctor slumped on his chair, leaning his forearm on the table. “The lives of the Willows and the Alexanders seem destined to intersect in the most unhappy of ways.”
“Speak plainly, doctor.”
“My lord, it has already been my unfortunate task to perform just such an examination of Miss Willow as you have mentioned.”
“And your findings?” Sebastian felt his heart sink when Richards said nothing for the time it took a man to take ten deep breaths. The disappointment surprised him. “Well, then.”
“My lord.” His lifted his hands. “Her injuries were severe.”
“The night my brother and his wife were killed, you mean.”
“Yes, of course. Coma resulting from a bullet wound across her left temple. Broken clavicle, compound, which I set. Her other contusions, though many, were not life threatening.” His mouth twisted. “Fever set in. The wound in her head suppurated. You’re a fighting man, so you must know she is lucky to have survived. I did not believe she would. Loss of memory from the blow to the head, but I’ve seen it before after this sort of insult. I’d be surprised if ever she regains full memory of the night.”
“In your opinion, would she be in any danger if she were to recall?”
Richards looked out the window. “Perhaps it’s best she does not.”
“Why?”
“I cannot predict what would happen. She might well suffer a complete breakdown.”
“She does not strike me as a weak-minded woman. Quite the opposite. Furthermore, I fail to see how the loss of her memory has anything to do with the loss of her virtue.”
“This is most difficult. Most difficult.”
Sebastian felt a hand squeezing his heart. “You examined her the night Andrew was killed.”
“My lord.”
He tilted his head, puzzling out the reason for Richard’s reluctance to speak. “You said she received a blow to the head. Separate from the bullet wound?”
“Ah.” Richards drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “A deep and copiously bleeding wound to the left of the occipital bulge, which I stitched.”
“There was no mention of this at the inquest.”
Richards blanched. “The coroner accepted my findings.”
“A full and complete disclosure will go a long way toward ensuring I make no mention of perjury. Between us, at least, I should like to have the facts of the case as they are in truth.”
“I performed a thorough physical examination of Miss Willow earlier in the day at which time I stitched her head.” Richards lifted a hand, but let it fall to the tabletop. “The back of her head, my lord.”
Sebastian stilled himself, kept his face free of emotion, but his belly tightened with a premonition of what he would hear. “What else?”
“Hysteria brought on by a traumatic assault.” The doctor met his eyes without flinching. “I advised your brother and his wife that she must be watched for signs of violence. I felt she might be a risk to herself.”
“Do you mean a suicide?”
“She was badly, badly used.” Richards grimaced. “Indecently, my lord.”
“That opinion is nowhere in the records.”
Richards gestured.
“You gave false evidence under oath.”
“Discreet.”
“A nice distinction, I should say.” He locked his fists behind his back and stared at Richards. “Upon what ground did you withhold this evidence at the inquiry?”
“Upon my longstanding obligations to your family, sir. Upon my duty to see the Alexander name continue in its high regard. I knew her father and considered him my friend.” He stared at his fingers, stretching them out. “I did not see what was to be gained by revealing the girl’s shame.”
Jesus. He squeezed his fisted hands, tucking them tight against the small of his back.
“By the time of the inquest, I was certain there had been no additional consequences. And, to be quite honest, given her fragile mental state at the time I first examined her, I feared for her sanity if she were to recover the extent of what happened to her.” His voice rose. “It’s a mercy, my lord, a mercy, she does not recall. Had I revealed all that I knew, the damage to her reputation and to the reputation of your family would have been irreparable. There was no one to charge with the assault. No witnesses to complement my physical findings and testify to the necessary elements of her ordeal. And, whoever killed your brother and his wife would still be at large.” He lifted his hands and let them drop to the table. “I didn’t see the point.”
“When you examined her before, had she already lost her memory?”
“No.”
“Did she name her attacker?”
This time, the doctor looked ill.
“Who was it?”
“I did not ask.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “For the simple reason, my lord, that it was your brother.”
Chapter Ten
January 19
The air chilled Olivia’s cheeks as she walked the hard-packed path beside the Pennhyll road. Her booted feet crunched through the upper layer of snow to land on the ground beneath, a reassuring pattern timed to her breathing. A yawn pried open her jaws because she’d not slept well once again, what with d
reams of sword-wielding Scotsmen leaping to murder her in her bed and worse, increasingly vivid and frightening versions of her old nightmares. Shadows that turned into men or men who turned into shadows. Vague shapes chasing her with malignant intent. Her anxiety about why she’d heard nothing about teaching at the school at last resurrected by Tiern-Cope himself did not help matters, not when her future depended on the position.
She reached the last curve of the road before the descent to Far Caister. As always, she paused to look at the castle. Pennhyll never failed to stir her. Mist shrouded the hilltop, and snow lay soft on the vales, smoothing the landscape of its definition. She felt she was the only person left in a world so intensely alive she wondered that any heart could hold the beauty. On her right, a few snow-covered oaks deepened to native wood. To her left the grey towers of Pennhyll pierced the sky. From this point on the path, the castle, she fancied, looked as it must have in the Black Earl’s day. None of the additions showed, only ancient walls and crenellated towers, with snow clinging to ledges, chimneys and roof tiles. Indeed, she half-expected to see the Black Earl pacing the ramparts, a notion no doubt brought on by the approach of the St. Agnes’ Eve ball, and Diana’s foolish plans to summon the Black Earl.
A hundred yards to her right, white mist eddied with a rising breeze. She watched with an uneasy amazement as the flurry thickened and coalesced. She heard the faint sound of metal sliding along metal, a jingling as of spurs or bridles. At first indistinct, the shape moved toward her, a density of snow and wind from which a decidedly human figure took form. His head was bent as might a man distraught or perhaps deep in thought. The shirring sound of metal, of chain mail or a sword drawn from its scabbard continued. The precise sound from her dreams.
Heart in her throat and frozen in disbelief, she watched the form take on substance, a hint of color. A man, without doubt a man. Grey breeches, a charcoal greatcoat and no hat. His boots broke through the snow. A greyhound trotted at his side, metal collar jingling. The snow settled groundward, but the wake of his stride flared out his coat. He continued toward her, so rapidly he’d be upon her in seconds. The realization that he was no figment of her imagination leapt into her head, a whip to movement. Tiern-Cope. The last person she wanted to meet. The very last.
She darted off the path and veered onto a rock-strewn incline that, if she didn’t break her neck, and he kept his present course, which she assumed would be toward one of the newer entrances to the castle, would put her safely away from his notice. She lost her footing on the outcropping of frozen slate and barked her shin. Cold air burned her lungs, but from the top she surveyed the plain of stark white that surrounded Pennhyll. A moment or two to let him come to the crest of the path where he would turn toward the castle and leave her free to continue to Far Caister.
But, no. Never was a man born more contrary to her wishes. Of course, he didn’t stay his course. He headed away from Pennhyll, toward Far Caister. How could he have moved so quickly? Unnerving, to say the least. The dog gave a low bark, and she abandoned the idea of a mad sprint back to the path in the hope of staying ahead of him. She had just time to scramble back to the path before he rounded the corner.
Pulling her cloak closed, she feigned surprise. She thought he meant to sweep past her, which would have been at once mortifying and welcome, but at the last he stopped, and with an eerie silence. He nodded, an arrogant nod, full of itself and reeking of pomp and importance. Despite the distance separating them, she saw purple smudges beneath his eyes and above, a blueness that froze.
“I wondered what the devil sort of beast could be that color and prowling so early in the morning. I ought to have known it was you. Bareheaded, which makes you a brazen chit. And if not brazen, then unwise, for the morning sun has yet to melt the ice from the road.”
Occasionally, ignoring rudeness cured it. “Good morning, my lord,” she said. All perfectly pleasant. He had but to step aside, and she could show him her back. He stared. Without moving. “I did not mean to intrude.”
“On Pennhyll?” He did not make room for her, which left her standing on the very edge of the road, uncertain footing, indeed.
“Your solitude.”
“Walk wherever you like.”
“Thank you.” The dog stretched its muzzle to her. Without thinking, she crouched to scratch behind its ears.
“Ask permission before you touch my hound.”
She tilted her head toward him. Temper, she counseled. Temper. “I beg your pardon. May I?”
“What else can I say but yes, when the hound, who snarls at every man and beast but me, lays its muzzle on your knee?”
“Try not to blame the dog,” she said. “She’s lovely. Has she a name?”
“Pandelion.”
She could see his boots, muddy and wet from his walk. She crooked her fingers around the back of Pandelion’s ears and crooned, “Pandy. My love.” In the same breath, she said, “Are you walking to Far Caister, too?”
“Do you address me or the dog?”
“Since Pandy does not answer me, you, my lord.”
“I dislike people who pretend they’re something they aren’t.”
“Pray you never meet one here in Cumbria.” Perfectly pleasant. If it killed her, she’d be perfectly pleasant.
“And I despise those who believe I won’t notice the deception.”
With a sigh, she stood. Pandelion kept her head by Olivia’s knee, and she let her fingers dangle to stroke between the grey ears. “I imagine you would.”
His eyes met hers, cold as midwinter. “I have been to Carlisle.”
“Oh.”
“The pawnbroker confirmed what you told me.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at her with an expression she absolutely could not fathom. “I absolve you, for the moment, of any wrongdoing in respect of your belongings.”
“How did they come to be at Pennhyll?” She edged toward the path, but Tiern-Cope refused to yield. “Do excuse me.”
“I have discharged your debt to Mr. Simon Melchior.” His eyes flicked over her.
“That was presumptuous.” And none of his affair, either.
“Nevertheless, it is done.”
“I paid Mr. Melchior six shillings a month on account.” She did not like being beholden to him, not in the least. “I trust you will accept the same from me.”
“Pride is an abiding sin, Miss Willow. It does not flatter you. I did not buy up your vowels to Mr. Melchior in order to dun you for the amount. I told you I have discharged your obligation to him, and so I have done.”
“So you can arrest me for the debt?”
His face registered exactly nothing. “Because it suited me to do so.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be impertinent.” Satisfied with Olivia’s attentions, the dog retreated to lean its head against Tiern-Cope’s thigh. With an absent motion that bespoke fond habit, he stroked the sleek head. “It’s early to be walking out.”
“I’m making away with your silver.”
He moved nearer, the dog coming along. She stood her ground, though the distance between them felt uncomfortably close. “James said you liked morning walks.”
“That’s true.”
“Indeed.” He stared at her, but she refused to let him intimidate her. She was sure he made it a habit to intimidate people whenever possible. But she did back off the path to even less certain footing.
“If you opened up my heart,” she said, “if you looked inside, you would find Cumbria.” She spread her arms, gathering the snow-covered meadow to her in one expansive gesture. “Right now, I am writing this view on my heart.” She could not help a grin. “I am stealing it from you, my lord, and you shall never have it back.” His reaction was impossible to gauge, he might as easily be amused as angry for all she could tell. “In Land’s End I lived near the sea, which I never did before. On my half days, I used to watch the water for hours.”
“Did you write the sea on your heart?”
&n
bsp; She shook her head. “I never felt anything but lonely when I looked at the sea. So cold and bitter, never a moment’s ease or forgiveness.”
“Precisely why I like it.”
“Here the colors are so intense it hurts my heart. In winter, pure white, and come spring, a green so deep it takes your breath. There’s nothing like it anywhere in the world.”
“Land’s End and Cumbria. Is that the extent of your experience of the world?”
“Not much compared to your adventures, I admit.” Nothing in his face changed. Quite likely he didn’t find his life interesting. “But it’s Cumbria that’s inside me, somehow. Not Land’s End. I think if I knew I would never see the mountains of Cumbria I would die inside.”
“God save me from women of overwrought emotion.”
“Overwrought?” She kicked the slush covering the rocks. Her toes were going numb. What did he mean by standing here chatting as if they sat to tea?
“I prefer sensible women.”
“Such as Miss Royce. Yes, I understand.”
“A woman who feels nothing in excess of what is proper.”
“No one really lives without strong emotion, my lord.”
“Twaddle.”
“You’re wrong.”
One dark eyebrow soared toward the sky.
“There’s no sweetness in life without sorrow behind. Such beauty as this—the hills and sharp, clean air in your lungs, the earth beneath your feet—mustn’t be squandered. To see and feel and embrace life you must save moments like these.”
“In the end, your savings avail you nothing. Rich or poor, life is a battle we are all fated to lose, Miss Willow.”
She settled her weight on one hip. “After my father died, I learned that one minute might be happy and the next full of grief.” She took a deep breath. “Right now, for instance. This very moment. All is well and right. I am in good health. I have shoes on my feet and clothes to wear. My meals of late have been certain and regular, and so I am not hungry. There are even a few coins in my pocket. This moment, this very moment and none other, is perfect, and I adore it utterly. To complete excess.”
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