Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  She bit her lip, dismayed anew at what had happened because of her. “Wait. Please. Lord Ridley…is he…that is, his head…is it a grievous wound?”

  “Mrs. Rutledge doesn’t think so. A deal of blood, of course. ’Tis only natural, in that sort of injury. But she’s putting in a few stitches, and thinks His Lordship will be fine in a day or two.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sinking into her chair. Relief washed over her like a comforting tide. Thanks be to God he wasn’t badly hurt. She bent her head and wept into her hands.

  She went to bed exhausted, thinking she would sink into black oblivion until morning. But when she slept, she dreamed of Grey’s kisses.

  Chapter Twelve

  I want you to know that Margery is quite vexed with you this morning!” Barbara flounced into Allegra’s room, carrying a tray with a cup of milk and a slab of bread. She set it down on Allegra’s chair and smiled condescendingly.

  Allegra fastened her apron over her skirt and sighed. “What have I done to Margery?”

  “Your neckerchief.” Barbara glanced at the white linen square folded across Allegra’s bosom. “I see you have another. It’s just as well. Margery says she can scrub until her hands are raw, but she’ll never get the other one free of His Lordship’s blood. They had to use it to wrap his head.” Her smile deepened into a knowing smirk.

  Allegra sighed again. The breakfast gossips had clearly been busy. “Tell Margery I’ll wash it myself.”

  “It was strange that Lord Ridley was in the box room at that hour. And then to suffer such a wound…If he has told Mr. Briggs what happened, we’ll never know. Mr. Briggs is as shut-up as an oyster.”

  She was grateful for Briggs’s discretion. “So he is.”

  “Well? What happened?” Barbara leaned forward, eyes shining with expectation.

  “If Mr. Briggs says nothing, I suppose we’ll never know.”

  “Oh, come now! Do you take us all for fools? What were you and His Lordship doing in the box room?” The insinuation was sly and ugly.

  She frowned at the girl. “Playing cribbage.”

  “Don’t be high-and-mighty with me!” snapped Barbara. “You’re the one has something to fear. Mrs. Rutledge has been at Mr. Briggs all morning, begging him to get Lord Ridley’s permission to give you the thrashing you deserve. And Verity said…”

  She pressed her hands together to still their sudden trembling. “I really don’t care what Verity said.”

  Barbara shrugged. “Please yourself. I’ll leave your door unlocked. You are to present yourself at His Lordship’s chambers when you finish your breakfast. By the back entrance, Mrs. Rutledge said. You’re not fit to show your face at the front door.” She tossed her head at Allegra and swept from the room.

  Impatient to be done with the whole business, Allegra left her breakfast untouched and went down the stairs to Ridley’s rooms. The few servants she passed on her way stared at her and elbowed one another in the ribs. She felt like a condemned prisoner going to the gallows. Whatever His Lordship had—or hadn’t—told about last night, all of Baniard Hall clearly assumed she was guilty. She gulped and tried to still her racing heart. God only knew what awaited her in Ridley’s rooms!

  She tapped on the door of the dressing room and was admitted after a moment by Mrs. Rutledge. The woman’s tight mouth curled in a smile of victory. “I knew you would stumble at last. Not even a pretty face can make up for a vicious disposition. I’m only surprised that it took His Lordship this long to discover it.” She motioned toward the door of Ridley’s closet. “Come this way.”

  Viscount Ridley sat at an inlaid table in his closet, busily signing papers. As he finished each one, he would reach up and hand it to a waiting Briggs, and then bend again to his writing. He wore no bandage wrapped around his head, but Allegra could see the pale gleam of a small plaster on his skull, and a portion of his unbound hair seemed to have been cut away around the spot. He wore a brocaded morning gown over his shirt and breeches, and his feet were encased in velvet slippers. Jagat Ram stood near the door to Ridley’s bedchamber, holding a tray that bore the remains of his master’s breakfast.

  Allegra was painfully aware that not a one of the three men had bothered to look at her as she came in behind Mrs. Rutledge. She had no friends in this room today.

  The housekeeper hurried across the carpet to stand before Ridley and shake her head. “Oh, Your Lordship,” she simpered, “you mustn’t tax your brain so soon after your injury. I’m sure ’tis harmful.” She clucked her tongue like a doting nursemaid. “How can I heal you, if you will be wicked and refuse to stay in your bed?”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “You’re such a good nurse that I think I shall heal in remarkable time, despite my folly.” He turned to Briggs. “Have we shown our gratitude yet to Mrs. Rutledge?”

  “I shall see to it this morning, milord.”

  Mrs. Rutledge rubbed her palms together, her eyes shining with greed. “It isn’t necessary, Your Lordship. ’Twas my honor to serve you in your hour of need.”

  “Yes, I quite understand,” he said dryly, handing the last of his papers to Briggs. “Now, I want to speak to this chit alone. You will leave me. All of you.” For the first time, he turned and looked Allegra full in the face. His cold eyes held a challenge. “Ram, leave the gin.” He smiled cruelly when Allegra frowned in dismay at his request.

  “Yes, Sir Greyston.” Jagat Ram put the large flask at Ridley’s elbow, then left the room, followed by Mr. Briggs and Mrs. Rutledge. At the last moment, the housekeeper turned and gave Allegra a smug, triumphant smile.

  Allegra stared down at her shoes, afraid to look at Ridley. She knew that she was quivering inside; she wondered if he was aware of it as well. But whether her trembling came from fear, or the memory of his burning mouth, his arousing hands, she couldn’t tell. Her mind was awhirl with conflicting emotions.

  His silence only added to her distress. She knew he was watching her; she could almost feel the coldness of his glance on her flesh. Perhaps she should blurt out an apology. Surely he must know that—whatever else had happened in the box room—she hadn’t meant to cause him physical harm. She was about to risk speaking up, when his harsh voice cut into her thoughts.

  “Come and stand in front of me. With your head up, if you please. I want to see your eyes.”

  She nodded and moved toward him, lifting her eyes to his face with some reluctance. Though he was seated, and the table was between them, she felt the frightening thrill of his virile, overbearing presence. There was violence locked within him, and she feared it.

  He poured himself a glass of gin and raised it to her in salute. “To your health.”

  She felt a pang of disappointment. Would he debase himself with drink today merely to be revenged on her for last night? The tears sprang to her eyes. “To your health, milord,” she whispered.

  He bared his teeth in an ugly grimace. “I did not give you leave to speak.” He stared at her for a moment, then downed the gin in one gulp. “They say eyes are the mirror of the soul. But yours tell me lies. Last night…No matter.” He shrugged and poured himself another glass of gin. “You should account yourself fortunate that I chose to be merciful this time. I could have had you hanged for a runaway. All I need do is produce your bond papers, and the law would allow me to do anything I wished to you. Do you understand?”

  She lowered her head briefly in acknowledgment of his words. She and Mama had had many grief-filled years to learn and understand the power of a bond servant’s owner.

  He laughed sharply. “Not that I wasn’t tempted by Mrs. Rutledge’s entreaties this morning. That charming woman begged to take a switch to you. I don’t believe in drawing blood with a switch. But a good thick strap…” He paused to see the effect of his words. “Still fearless, I see.”

  She held her chin high. He would never know how much she feared him. At least she still had her pride.

  “Let us speak now of your transgressions, so you know pre
cisely how things stand with you in this household. This is between you and me. I choose to say nothing—not even to Briggs.” His voice was cold and unemotional. It chilled her more than if he had been in a rage.

  “To begin,” he said, “your presence in the box room makes me suspect that you’re a bloody thief.”

  Allegra started to cry out a denial, but he held up a silencing hand. “I cannot prove it,” he went on. “I’ll have the box room locked, in any event. But you’ve earned my distrust on that score alone. And then, of course, there was your attempt to escape. There can be no doubt about that. I’ve already instructed Briggs that there will be no more unescorted trips for you to Ludlow, or anywhere else. And kindly do not frown at me,” he growled, as she drew her brows together in consternation. “You’re lucky I don’t get Andrew to make a leash for you, as he does for his watchdogs. I could call you my very own bitch,” he added with a sneer.

  She chewed on her lip in dismay. He had always had the power to hurt her with his sharp words, but today was different. There was coldness in his eyes. There was something that went beyond his sarcasm and his often cruel teasing, and his drunken hostility. Today there was outright hatred in his eyes. She wanted to die.

  “If you attempt to escape again,” he continued, “you will be punished. No. Let me amend that. After last night…” he touched the back of his head and winced, “I have a personal score to settle with you. Two, for that matter. I’m minded that you’ve managed to deceive me twice now. Gulled me into believing your sincerity. Or have you forgotten the first day we met? I haven’t. The urchin who sighed so sweetly at my kiss, and then tried to amputate my tongue. If you try to escape again, this is how it will be. I myself will send for a strap, lift your petticoats, and blister your backsides. A stinging burn for a few hours might encourage you to regret your behavior.”

  Allegra gasped at his words and fell back a step. The blood drained from her face at the thought of being humiliated by Ridley, chastised by his very own hand.

  “Ah,” he said in satisfaction, “that frightens you. Good. Let that fear temper your perverse ways. You will continue to bring me my cordial each night. But you will not speak to me, nor linger. I shall have Barbara come and wait on me for the rest of the evening. You might take lessons in civility from her. An agreeable girl, don’t you think?”

  She nodded in misery. It was as though he were saying everything he could to hurt her. She wanted to cry out. To remind him of the dear words he had uttered last night, his tender kisses, his gentleness. Had he forgotten all of it? Had the accident of a blow to the head turned all that sweetness into the venomous hatred he now offered her?

  He poured himself another drink, downed it and poured another. The silence was suddenly charged, different, ominous. “We turn now to the matter of last night,” he said at last. His voice was deep, and tightly controlled. “I seem to have been your dupe for some time. You’re either very skillful, or I’m more of a fool than I thought. Perhaps the gin has begun to corrupt my judgment. But I was mad enough to trust the look in your eyes, to think you returned my passion. ’Tis quite clear to me now that you were only intent on buying your freedom. From the very first. You simply chose to play the reluctant lover, to wait for the advantageous moment. To appeal to my sensibilities, my weakness for you, if you will, in order to negotiate the most favorable terms.”

  He couldn’t believe that! It had been the furthest thought from her mind. Dear God, let him read the truth in her eyes. She shook her head vigorously.

  His mouth curved in a twist of contempt. “Do you try to deny it now because you fear I’ll rescind the conditions? And you’ll have no chance to earn your freedom?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  His amber eyes glowed. “I told you to keep still.” He took another swallow of the gin and turned away, staring at the knives mounted on his wall. “But we were speaking of last night. I would have torn up your contract this morning. Did you know that? You had so bewitched me—with your lying eyes and your trembling lips—that I would have granted you anything.” He sighed and swung around to face her again.

  For the first time, Allegra was aware of how haggard he looked. His eyes were haunted and filled with despair. He reminded her of Papa on the convict ship. A proud man in whom all hope had died.

  “Then you changed your mind,” he said. His voice rasped with bitterness and pain. “Was it too distasteful, at the last, to submit to a coward? Even for your freedom? To give yourself to a craven fool? Did your flesh crawl at the thought of making love with…” he clenched his teeth and pounded his fist softly on the table before him, “with the man who disgraced himself before you in Ludlow?”

  “No!” she burst out, her heart aching. “You cannot believe that! It had naught to do with you. I was not refusing you, I was only…”

  He slapped his palm on the table to silence her. “Hold your tongue,” he roared, “or I’ll send for that strap upon the instant!”

  She bowed her head. It was all clear now. His hatred, his coldness this morning. She had turned him aside last night. And in his tormented world of shame and humiliation, he had seen her rejection as an indictment: he was not manly enough to please her.

  He emptied the bottle of gin and swore softly. “Will there ever be enough drink in this world?” he muttered. “Ah, well. To business.” The cold, cynical voice had returned. He had closed the door on his pain. “Strange as it may seem, I still find you desirable. I wish to satisfy my lust. You wish to have your liberty. Very well. But, henceforth, if you choose to barter for your freedom, you will come to me. I will expect to be pleasured as though you were a Shoreditch whore. There will be no more soft wooing from me. You may boast, in years to come, that you bought your freedom with your body. But not that you made a fool of me to do so! Do you understand?” He leaned back in his chair and glowered at her. “I give you leave to speak now.”

  She was desperate to give him comfort. “I never meant to hurt you, milord,” she whispered. “My refusal last night…” She brushed at the tears that had begun to fall. “It had nothing to do with you. I had no right…I could not…” Oh, God, how could she make him understand?

  He curled his lip in disgust. “Spare me your tears. They’re as dishonest as the softness I read in your eyes.”

  It was useless. She bobbed a curtsy. “By your leave, milord,” she murmured, and stumbled from the room.

  She climbed the stairs to her room, threw herself onto her bed and wept until she was spent. Her family, Grey. They were snatching at her from all sides, tearing her apart. Rending her into little pieces. Her heart, her duty, her obligations. Her desires. She wondered if this is how it would have felt—all this wrenching pain—if the dogs had reached her last night.

  A year. It was too long to wait. A year of seeing him, watching him, aching to be his comfort. A year of sweet distractions, of tangling her life with his, while the memory of her family faded and her vow became a broken promise. She had already spent too much time at Baniard Hall, selfishly thinking of her own needs and desires. She could feel the edge of her sharp vengeance blunting, like an old knife rusting in the backwater of a turbulent stream. She feared that she would lose her resolve to kill the Wickhams long before the year was done.

  She had to leave. If she stayed, she would forget why God had left her on this earth. If she stayed, she would betray her family’s memory. If she stayed, Grey and his unhappiness would engulf her, fill her with longings for a future that could never be. Not while a single Wickham lived.

  If she stayed, she would have to face the truth. She had fallen in love with him.

  The sky was clear. No clouds covered the waning moon. Allegra peered out from her small dormer window and nodded in satisfaction. It would be bright enough to see the road, but not so bright that she couldn’t melt into the shadows if she were followed. She wrapped her spare shift and a second pair of stockings into her neckerchief, added her comb, and tied the bundle firmly. She would put o
n her straw hat later. As for Papa’s bloodstained handkerchief…She sighed and fingered the yellowed square. She would carry it on her person, in her bosom. The trip to London would be chancy and possibly dangerous, with the risk of highwaymen. She couldn’t hazard losing the only memento she had.

  She set the bundle onto her chair and reviewed her plans. All was in readiness. She lifted the cover of a large crock and sniffed the chunks of raw meat within. Faugh! If she’d had to delay another day, the other maids would surely have smelled the rank odor coming from her room.

  It had taken her three or four trips to the kitchen, in as many days, to spirit away the meat from under the cook’s nose. And another two days in the stillroom to extract the white juice from several heads of lettuce, then wait impatiently for the juice to dry into brown cakes. She had crumbled the cakes into bits, and mixed them in with the meat. The dogs would be asleep in no time. The dried juice was a potent narcotic; Allegra had even heard stories of surgeons using it to produce sleep before an amputation.

  Humphrey had gone to spend the night with his woman. She’d heard Andrew whispering it to Verity. It would be simple enough to throw back the bolt on the gate and vanish into the night.

  She counted out her coins once more. A fair amount; Ridley had been generous in the two months she’d been here. There was enough to pay for the mail coach from Ludlow to London, and even provide for stops at inns along the way. London in three days. And then Wickham.

  She frowned. But how was she to live in London? She remembered Lady Dorothy’s invitation. She might pay a call on that good gentlewoman. But she’d still need money. If she could hire a solicitor to search for Wickham, it would make her task simpler. But where was she to get money, even if she chose to steal it? Mr. Briggs and Mrs. Rutledge kept their accounts safely locked away. As for Ridley—she had no idea where he kept his purse.