Ram’s smile deepened. “He finds it charming. And your eyes, and your hair. And the shape of your fingers. There is a scar on your right thumb, is there not? He hesitated to ask about it.”
Her face was now on fire. She blushed to think that Grey had examined her with such care. “A burn from a skillet…Why should he…?”
“Who knows? We are strange creatures, all of us. I had despaired of him restoring himself. Putting his mourning aside and embracing life again. But now I am thinking that the kindness of one woman may yet be his salvation.” He picked up the candle and gestured toward the door that led to Ridley’s dressing room. “But it grows late. Come.”
“One more question,” she begged. “The Lady of the Sorrows. Who is she? He called me that once,” she added, in response to Ram’s questioning look.
He frowned. “How very odd.”
“How so?”
“’Tis a painting of a woman. Sir Greyston found it when first we came to Baniard Hall. In the box room in the attic story. Among many others. He took a fancy to her portrait. There was tragedy in her face. And so he called her his Lady of the Sorrows. ‘Ram,’ he would say, ‘there is a creature who has known true suffering.’ In the early days here at the Hall, he would sit and contemplate her for hours, drinking and gazing on the face of this long-dead woman. I think she brought him solace. Perhaps the sadness in her eyes helped him to forget his own wretchedness.”
“Did she look like his wife?”
“No. Not a bit.”
“Like me?”
He motioned to the door of the dressing room, holding his candle high. “Judge for yourself.” He led her through the door and pointed to a painting on the dressing-room wall. She had never been in this room before; she examined the painting with care.
It was the picture of a young woman. In the time of the Tudors, Allegra guessed. She stood formally in her rich garments—a little woman, regal, proud, and distant—one jeweled hand resting on her bosom, the other holding a letter. Her oval face was pale and ghostly with powder, almost white, in the fashion of the time. Her hair was equally pale, a halo of tight blond curls. Her features were regular, neither plain nor beautiful. But her face—indeed, the entire portrait—was dominated by her large, dark eyes. They were soft as they stared out from the canvas, and filled with an inexpressible grief. For a fanciful moment, Allegra wondered if it had been the contents of the letter that had broken the woman’s heart. Written across one corner of the painting were the words: “Ye Ladye Hilda Banyard.”
Allegra suppressed a cry as she read the name. A Baniard! She remembered this painting now. It had hung in the great parlor. She could see no resemblance to herself in the picture. But surely that was Mama’s mouth and chin, the tilt of Lucinda’s head. Perhaps it was that family resemblance that Grey Ridley had seen in her own face, that night of his drunken raving.
Her eyes darted to Ram’s face. Had he seen the resemblance as well? She couldn’t allow it. For her own safety, for the success of her plan against Wickham, she mustn’t be found out. She gave a scornful laugh. “Why should he have called me his Lady of the Sorrows? There’s not one jot of resemblance.”
“Of course not. She is pale, while you are dark.” Ram shrugged. “But if Sir Greyston was in his cups when he said it…An honest mistake.”
She eyed him with suspicion. She wondered if he had guessed the truth. Well, she thought, it was of no consequence. Jagat Ram was far too discreet to unmask her, no matter what he might suspect.
She went through the far door of the dressing room to the passage beyond, climbed the stairs to her room, and fell wearily into bed. It was hours before she slept. And when she did, she dreamed of Grey Ridley weeping over a coffin that held a woman who looked very like the Lady Hilda Banyard.
Chapter Eleven
The full moon was bright and dazzling. It transformed the road into a long, silvery thread that wound its way among the trees, and illuminated the length and breadth of the sky above the crest of Wenlock Edge. The moon was so near, the rolling hills so lofty, that Grey felt as though he were riding on the edge of the world. Surely he had but to stretch forth his hand to touch that shining globe. This was a place of enchantment. Even the darkness of the trees sparkled with fireflies, like diamonds against black velvet.
He slowed his horse and breathed deeply of the soft night air. He was glad now that he’d bought Baniard Hall. The serenity, the isolation of these hills, touched his spirit and warmed his heart. Lately he had even found himself noticing the sounds of birds in the trees, feeling the living caress of summer on his lifeless flesh.
He pulled out a ribbon from his pocket and tied back his hair, then took his cocked hat from its loop on his saddle and placed it firmly on his head. The hour was late, and most of the Hall would be abed by now. But he liked to avoid questioning eyes when he returned from the almshouse in Ludlow. Liked to look like Lord Ridley, not Mr. Morgan. He wrapped his well-cut cloak more closely around his shabby clothes to conceal them. His shirt was becoming quite ragged and threadbare. Impossible to work in. Perhaps he’d ask Ram to get him another from a secondhand shop.
He yawned and shook his head to clear it of its sleepy cobwebs. A few more minutes, and he would be home. The thought of his bed was a comfort.
It had been a difficult day. That poor old woman had died this morning, and he had been helpless to hold back the inevitable, to keep the spark of life from fading in her eyes. He had thrown himself into his work after that—scrubbing, climbing the roof to replace some thatch, hauling the dead stump of a tree from the garden. Good, honest labor. But it had failed to quiet his sense of impotence at the grandam’s death. There had been no satisfaction in any of it.
“There was a time, Grey Ridley,” he said bitterly, “when you could measure yourself by a battle well fought.”
And now? He had crept like a thief into Ludlow this morning, dreading to find anyone who had been at the High Cross yesterday. Who had seen…He groaned aloud. He never should have taken Batterbee’s challenge. He never should have allowed Crompton to force the sword on him. Hadn’t he learned by now how futile it was?
But Batterbee had insulted her. Put his filthy hands on her sweet flesh. What could he do, when she looked at him that way? The last thing he had wanted to see was disgust, disappointment, horror in her dark eyes. He was a man. How could he not defend her, and still keep his honor?
He sighed and stirred in the saddle. His body ached. He should have stayed in Ludlow and found a tavern wench. He needed a woman tonight, to fill the vast caverns of dissatisfaction in his soul. But perhaps he had avoided a tavern because he knew that gin was no salvation for him tonight, either.
He didn’t want any woman. He wanted her. He needed her. That face, those eyes. That graceful body. She had taken his breath away at the pond, standing tall and proud as a queen, clad only in the majesty of her naked perfection. He had yearned to pull the combs from her hair, to run his fingers through those thick curls. To lay her down on the grass and stretch out her hair like a dark halo around her head. To kiss that ruby mouth, that radiant face. He frowned. That face…It always reminded him of something he couldn’t quite remember, something beyond memory. Perhaps he had dreamed her long ago. In a misty daydream.
The frown deepened into an angry scowl. But there was nothing misty about his memory of her insolent tongue! It was as real and as fresh as the water in that pond. Drunk or not, he had heard every saucy word. He wondered now why he’d tolerated such impertinence. And not only insolent. It was absurd, the things she’d said. That he courted her hatred? How vain and presumptuous of the chit, to think that she was the center of his world! What did he give a damn about her hatred—or anyone else’s, for that matter? And as for welcoming it, as some sort of punishment…the girl was mad!
He closed his tired eyes for a moment, allowing his sudden, unexpected anger to cool. Perhaps her sharp words had only been meant as a kind of revenge. To repay his ill usage of her. She’d bee
n deeply mortified and hurt, that day in the stillroom, when Dick had come upon them kissing. Grey sighed. He regretted that unfortunate scene. He’d wanted to drive his friends away, true enough. It was too painful, to see them and remember what he had once been. But he’d meant only for Dick to find him in the stillroom with Allegra, to think that he visited her every day. An intimate rendezvous.
And then he had seen her, the passion of her hatred for Wickham burning in her eyes like a vital flame. It had fired his own blood, reminded him of a time when he had felt life as passionately. And suddenly he had wanted to possess her, to warm his cold heart at that flame. He had forgotten everything but his desperate hunger.
He hadn’t meant for Dick to see what he had seen. He hadn’t meant to shame her. He had wanted to beg her forgiveness, but he’d never seemed to find the right moment. Or perhaps his pride had prevented it.
But she had forgiven him. He was sure of it. That sweet, generous creature. He had read forgiveness in her eyes yesterday, in Ludlow. And last night…
He had only a vague memory of last night. He’d always tried to forget those nights when he couldn’t seem to control the demon in him. When the rage and the grief and the frustration—yes, and the gin—had overwhelmed him. But he remembered last night. Remembered tender kisses, a warm embrace, words that soothed him as much as the unguent she had brought for his scratches.
He smiled at the memory and rummaged in the pocket of his coat, pulling forth a small, carved object. It was a foolish thing, a child’s toy, really, sold for pennies in the poorest quarter of Ludlow. A wooden flower, crudely fashioned and painted in bright colors. Each of the half dozen petals was attached with a strip of leather, like a tiny hinge. And when he folded them back, one by one, the painted face of a cherub was revealed, just in the center of the blossom. He laughed softly. He didn’t know why he’d bought it. Why it had caught his eye. Absurd little thing. But perhaps he’d give it to Allegra.
He reined in his horse with a sudden jerk that made the animal snort in alarm. A child’s toy? What the devil was happening to him? He’d bought a bloody toy for an impertinent servant? A bond servant, no less! She’d surely bewitched him, casting spells as magical as this dark night. With her eyes and her musical voice and her cordials.
God help him, he hadn’t had a moment’s peace since the day she’d come to the Hall. She had stirred up long-forgotten emotions, feelings he thought he’d buried with Ruth. Anger, jealousy. Assaulting him. Knocking at the closed gates of his heart. He had tried to ignore her, he had stopped pursuing her. And still he had seen her face before him, wherever he turned. And still the gnawing emotions had crept back. Longing. Desire.
And so much more. Pain. Oh, yes, pain, though he’d tried to push it away. He’d wept this morning at the old woman’s death. A stranger, scarcely known to him. Yet he had stood in his garden, among his roses, and wept like a child.
He sighed heavily. He wanted peace again. He wanted the numbing indifference that had made his days bearable, swallowed up the empty nights. But now, thanks to the girl, work no longer comforted him. Gin had ceased to protect him against his turbulent emotions. Perhaps he was healing at last. Perhaps those feelings were like the irritating itch that comes with a wound on the mend. A vexatious reminder that he was alive after all.
He looked at the toy in his hand for a moment, then hurled the damned thing into the trees. He gave a cynical laugh. Or perhaps the sorceress was merely driving him mad!
Humphrey was waiting as he rode up to the gates. “Milord,” he grumbled, touching his fingers to his hat. “’Tis very late. Mr. Briggs was concerned.”
He was still feeling an edge of anger because of the girl. “Don’t I pay you enough, Humphrey?” he said with a sneer. “God knows you have little enough to do. No doubt you’ll make up for the hours of sleep you’ve lost tonight by drowsing all morning.” He waved an imperious hand, ignoring Humphrey’s black scowl. “Open the gate, damn it.”
He started up the long, curving drive. It was darker here, hidden from the moon by the overarching trees. He slowed his horse to a gentle pace. He still saw Humphrey’s face, twisted with resentment. What was it the girl had said—that he courted hatred? Ridiculous! Yet why had he spoken so sharply to Humphrey? After all, the man deserved a decent night’s rest like any other creature. He frowned. It was a galling thought—that the girl might have spoken truth—and one he didn’t want to entertain.
He looked up at Baniard Hall as he emerged from the trees. Most of the windows were dark; nearly all the lights came from the wing that held his apartment. There were a few lamps burning in the kitchens, and Briggs seemed to be working late, as usual.
And someone was moving around in the attic story. He could see the flickering light of a candle as it bobbed about, disappearing for a moment and then twinkling once more near the window. Strange. That wasn’t one of the servant’s rooms. That was where the box room was. He was almost sure of it. Who the devil could it be, at this late hour?
Perhaps, before he retired to his rooms, he’d go quietly up to the attic by a back staircase. If it was someone out for no good, he meant to surprise the wretch. His servants stole enough from him by cunning means. He didn’t intend to tolerate an outright thief in his house!
He nodded at the groom who came for his horse, dismounted and strode to the steps of the Hall. The groundkeeper Andrew was waiting, holding his three watchdogs tightly leashed until the master should go in. Much to Grey’s own surprise, he wished his servant a pleasant good night.
Allegra tiptoed softly into the box room, raising her candle aloft. This was folly. She should be in her bed by now, instead of prowling the ghost-ridden rooms of Baniard Hall. But there was no rest for her tonight. Not yet.
As she had gone about her work all day in the stillroom, her brain had teemed with the sad details of Ram’s narrative. She had found herself grieving for Grey Ridley, brushing away tears of pity that sprang to her eyes each time she thought of his torment.
But by evening, she had become obsessed with something else: the Lady of the Sorrows, and Ram’s story of its discovery. Among the paintings in the box room, he had said. She’d always assumed that Wickham had sold or destroyed most of the Baniard treasures when he’d redecorated the Hall. The thought that they might still be here had chafed her for hours, until she knew she couldn’t sleep unless she satisfied her curiosity.
There was little danger of her being found in this place. Most of the servants were already asleep, except for those few who waited on Lord Ridley’s return. He had gone to Ludlow at dawn this morning, Ram said. She was pleased at the news. She prayed that he would find solace in the almshouse, forget his humiliations with Batterbee, his dreadful drunken fit last night. He was particularly late this evening, she noted, which boded well for his serenity tonight.
She had another reason for being glad about his absence all day. The Hall had buzzed with malicious gossip since breakfast. Curse Humphrey and his tale-bearing paramour! He had sat over his breakfast ale and crowed his delight as he recounted the story of Ridley’s craven behavior in Ludlow.
“The milk-livered coward,” he had sneered. “I’ll never lift my hat to him again.”
Andrew had smugly announced that His Lordship had gone off early today; he himself had seen him creeping out of the Hall with his cloak wrapped about him. “No doubt to get himself primed to the muzzle with gin,” he’d added with a snicker.
And Margery, the whining little laundry maid, had found the courage to giggle and swear she’d make a mouth to the cowardly rogue the next time he criticized her.
Allegra had scolded them all for their cruelty and mockery, wanting nothing so much as to box a few ears. How could they talk so? To find sport in the miseries of that poor man!
She sighed in unhappy recollection and moved into the large box room. It was less dusty up here than she would have supposed, after all these years. But perhaps Mrs. Rutledge dispatched a maid to this room from time to time
for fear Lord Ridley, having once discovered the place, would return again.
The room was a jumble. Stacks of paintings leaned against the walls, furniture was piled helter-skelter, rolled-up carpets and little tables filled every spare corner. A fat upholstered settee squatted in the center of the room, partially covered with a linen cloth; it crowded up against a large japanned sideboard. A footstool, embroidered with prancing dogs, sat on a high-backed chair of faded red damask.
She moved about the crowded room—touching, searching, remembering. That had been Papa’s chair. Mama’s scrutoire, where she sat and wrote her letters. Allegra even remembered when Lucinda had embroidered the dogs, beaming in satisfaction at her first grown-up needlework.
She set down her candle on a folded gaming table and looked through the paintings, smiling as she came across old favorites. There was Grandfather, young and handsome in his starched lace collar and plumes, holding the sword King Charles had given him after the battle of Edgehill. There was the picture of Valiant, Papa’s favorite horse, that had hung in the dining parlor. There was a long-forgotten Baniard cousin.
They were all familiar, yet all so impersonal. Like old, dear friends, separated by time and distance, that one remembered with fondness. Unexpectedly come upon—only to discover that one no longer cared.
She bowed her head, overwhelmed by an empty sadness. It was too long ago. That family, that little girl, Anne Allegra, no longer existed. The memories were as faded as the upholstery on Papa’s chair. Only her hatred of Wickham was sharp and fresh. And the sight of Mama’s drawn face in that last year in Carolina before she died. Allegra sighed, turned toward the door and reached for her candle.
The little chair rested against the wall, just to one side of the door. It was half the size of an adult’s chair, a tiny thing, clearly meant for a child. The seat was upholstered in gold damask, and the back and arms and graceful legs were fashioned of dark polished oak. There were shells carved into the arms and the turn of the legs. In the fiddle-shaped back was the largest shell of all—a fluid scallop, surrounded by spiral waves and bearing in its center an elaborately carved letter. The letter A.
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