The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  "Yes,” Sarah said. “She's very pretty."

  Roland smiled. “Like you and your mama."

  Sarah frowned. “My mama—"

  "The doll is going to have some dresses, too,” I interrupted. “We're going to make them."

  I was suddenly embarrassed by what I had told Sarah. I had meant only to ease her pain, but as usual, I had not thought through to the results of my actions, and I had not thought to explain to her that her mother's sickness was not a fit subject for discussion with others.

  Fortunately Roland did not have long to tarry. He set Sarah on her feet. “That will be nice,” he said. “You be a good girl for Vanessa."

  Sarah smiled. “I am a very good girl. Nessie says so."

  Roland seemed startled at this, too. Then he managed another smile and hurried off.

  Sarah came and tugged at my hand. “Let's go back to the nursery,” she said. “I want you to see the bed I made for my baby."

  I did not have an opportunity to see Richard alone until we stood in my bedchamber that night. I really did not like to bring up the subject. I knew it was not one he cared to discuss, but something within me insisted that Sarah was Richard's child, demanded that she be given the love that was her birthright.

  So I said, “Sarah was very pleased with the doll."

  He was removing his jacket, and he turned away to put it on a chair, saying nothing.

  "You should have seen her. She was especially pleased that it came from you."

  He started to say something then, changed his mind, and clamped his mouth shut. I should have taken warning, but I was always foolhardy about what I thought was right. And I was so sure of this.

  "Sarah has some strange ideas,” I continued, “about her birth. It seems she heard the dowager say that Caroline did not want her, that her own mother had turned her back on her."

  A fierce look crossed his face, but his tone was mild as he replied, “I'm afraid it's true. Caroline did not wish to become a mother. It interfered with her good looks and her social life."

  I had no doubts about that. Caroline had never cared for anyone but herself. “But what a thing for the child to hear."

  He frowned. “My mother doesn't mince words. She and Caroline were always on the outs. As you well know, Mother has no regard for me, and she cares little for the child. Except, perhaps, to use her against me."

  I stepped out of my gown. The things he was saying about the dowager, though unpleasant, were probably true, but that did not change matters. Whether he had sired her or not, this child was Richard's responsibility. “Oh, Richard, the poor little thing needs love and affection."

  Richard faced me then and stopped undoing his shirt. “Nessie, you must understand. I wish the child well. Truly I do. Give her all the love you can. God knows she needs it. But do not expect me to act the father to another man's bastard!"

  The harsh word echoed in the room. His expression was so stern that I hesitated, not knowing whether it would be best to fight or retreat, but I have always been a fighter, and the words forced themselves out of me. “The child is a human being,” I cried. “A tiny little girl. How can you be so heartless?"

  I could see he was struggling to control his temper. His face grew even sterner, and his knuckles turned white. “I am not heartless,” he returned, biting off each word. “I am behaving as any man would."

  Perhaps he had some kind of twisted right on his side—I had never understood the workings of the male mind on these matters—but I still thought him heartless. Perhaps that was what goaded me to an action I would always regret.

  "Sarah rocked her baby,” I said. “She sang it a lullabye.” I hummed a few bars of the song.

  Richard stood as though he had been dealt a death blow. He gave me such a stricken look that my mouth went dry and I could not make another sound.

  Then, as I watched, he gathered up his clothes and went off through the connecting door without so much as a word. He closed the door quietly behind him, and I was left, standing there with my chemise half undone, to the realization that in my zeal I had driven my husband from my side. For the first time since we had really become husband and wife, I would have to sleep alone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I finished my undressing, put on my gown, and climbed into bed. It took me a long while to settle down, distraught as I was over Richard leaving me in such a startling fashion. More than once I glanced at the connecting door with longing. Papa had always said I had too much pride, and surely it was holding me back that night.

  I told myself that I did not see how I could be held responsible for Richard's precipitous withdrawal. After all, I was only trying to make things right between us.

  Or perhaps it was the memory of his pain-filled eyes that held me back. At any rate, it was obvious the man wanted to be alone, and I was too kind—or too cowardly—to intrude upon his privacy.

  So I twisted and turned in the bed we had so lately shared—and as I did, I realized that I had not told him about the sickness story I made up to help Sarah or about her wanting gowns the color of mine. Now I did not see how I could tell him. After this, the first mention of Sarah was quite likely to send him off into another stony silence.

  In the short week that had just passed, much had happened. Already I had grown used to the comfort of Richard's body beside me at night. Without him there, the bed seemed huge and empty, but finally I fell into a fitful sleep.

  My slumber was disturbed by a series of strange dreams. In one the whole household had assembled in the great hall. It was even darker and gloomier than usual, but the flickering candles showed a horrible scene. Everyone had surrounded Sarah, and they were calling her distressing names. She was crying and calling for her father, but he stood with his back to her, unhearing and uncaring, and when, in the dream, I approached him, he turned his back on me, too.

  That scene faded and I saw Sarah, seated on the hearth rug, rocking her baby and humming the lullabye. “Don't worry. I will love you,” she whispered to the doll. “Mamas should love their babies."

  Suddenly the dream doll began to wail. Its cries grew louder and louder. Slowly I struggled back to consciousness. I opened my eyes and saw that the candle I'd left burning was just a stub, soon to go out.

  I sighed. The dream had been so real, so vivid, that for a moment I thought I'd heard—

  I stiffened and caught my breath. That was not a dream. That cry was real, as real as my own labored breathing. And it was the cry of a babe.

  The haunting babe! My mouth went dry and my body cold and hot at the same time. Three nights in a row, the legend went, and then Death was supposed to come for the hearer.

  I forced myself to breathe slowly. There was no need for panic. I was safe enough. I had not heard the babe for over a week, not since Richard had taken to sleeping in my bed.

  At that time it did not occur to me to wonder about this strange coincidence. I only wished Richard were with me. The babe's cries were frightening to hear, and yet it seemed in such misery that I almost longed to go comfort it.

  But even a person who often acts before she thinks does not leap from her bed to go seek out a ghost. So I lay there, wondering if Richard could hear the babe crying and wishing I had told him about hearing it before.

  I had some thoughts, too, of bursting through the connecting door and throwing myself into his arms, but if he could not hear the babe, he would not believe me. And, since it had not cried on any of those nights that Richard had been with me, perhaps it did not mean to cry for him. Perhaps its cries were meant only for me.

  If I ran to him, the cries might follow me, and I did not want him to hear them. Not ever.

  Not that I believed the legend, of course—logic said it could not be true—but a week in the castle had made some dents in my common sense approach to things. I knew there was no haunting babe, yet still....

  I lay in my bed, waiting with bated breath for the next cry. I tried to persuade my rigid body to relax. It had b
een a long and tiring day, and I was weary. But, logic or not, I could not seem to dissipate the tension. My body was wound tight as a spring.

  The minutes ticked away, and the room remained silent, the only sound my own breathing. Finally my body began to relax. I would just go to sleep, I told myself. In the morning this would be nothing but a bad dream.

  Perhaps, I thought, clutching at straws, perhaps the babe's cry had been a dream, and waking in the middle of the dream, I had imagined it real.

  Some part of me recognized this for what it was—a patent evasion of the truth—but another part took comfort in it. That was it, I told myself. It was all a bad dream. In the morning I would laugh at it. I turned on my side and willed myself to relax.

  But there was to be little rest for me that night. Soon something else alerted me. I could not say exactly what it was. I sensed a change in the room—something I could not see, but definitely a change. The candle sputtered and would soon go out.

  I leaned over to replace it and then I realized. The air had changed. There was a sweetness.... My heart rose up in my throat. Caroline's scent was filling my room, and I knew I was not imagining it.

  Should I run and get Richard? But to what avail? He could not force the scent to leave, and it would bring back to him memories of Caroline, memories I did not want him to dwell on.

  The sweet scent grew stronger. I was sure I had never heard of a ghost that wore scent, but Caroline had always had her way in life. Perhaps even in death....

  I was being ridiculous and I knew it. Caroline was not haunting me. This scent thing was a trick to frighten me off, but it would not be successful because I did not intend to be frightened. I might be a little queasy in the stomach, only it was not from fear but from inhaling the overpowering sweetness of the scent.

  The babe's cries came again, and I could swear they were closer. Imagination, I told myself sternly. Sheer imagination.

  But soon I could not deny the fact. The cries were coming closer and closer. I could hear no other sounds, but that meant little. My ears were attuned to only one thing, the cries of the haunting babe.

  How, I wondered, did one release a ghost from its painful existence? There must be some way to do that.

  Even Creighton had known very little about the ghost, only the bare bones of the story. I shivered at the aptness of the words.

  The cries continued to grow nearer, thin plaintive cries, the cries of a child who desperately needed its mother.

  Then the cries stopped. I shivered and waited. From outside my door came a voice. It was not Caroline's, and yet—"Van-ness-sa,” it whispered. “Go home. Richard is mine."

  He is not yours, I cried silently. He is mine. My fear began to turn to anger. Good righteous anger. Whoever was behind this hoax was not thinking straight. Why should Caroline have anything to do with the haunting babe? Caroline hated babies, and everyone knew it.

  Perhaps, I thought, I could catch the person who was doing this. I was tired of having my sleep disturbed and my mind thrown into chaos. Since with me the thought is often immediate mother of the deed, I no sooner thought about this than I decided to do it.

  Carefully I put back the covers and crept out of the bed. The stones were cold, as usual, but I had no time to look for slippers. I was determined to catch the trickster.

  I crossed the floor and put my hand on the doorknob. There I hesitated. Should I go back for a candle? What if Caroline's ghost was really out there in the hall? Did I want to confront the spectre of my dead sister?

  Or conversely, what if the haunting babe was out there, a floating luminescent bundle, wailing in the darkness?

  The doorknob was cold, too, and my fingertips turned to ice. I was frightened—there was no doubt of that—but I was also angry. And when I am angry good sense can go begging.

  So I turned the doorknob. As smoothly and carefully as I could, I turned that knob and eased open the door.

  The hall outside my room was empty and very dark. No Caroline. No haunting babe. Not even, as far as I could see, a dead bird. On an impulse I stepped out into the hall. That was when I saw it.

  Halfway down the hall a ghostly figure flitted. It was too far away for me to see it clearly. The hall was very dark, lit only by a few guttering candles in the candelabra halfway along it. But the apparition—or whatever it was—appeared to have the shape of a person and was of a greenish-white hue.

  "Van-ness-sa,” it whispered and motioned to me with a ghostly appendage.

  Forgetting that I wore only my flannel nightdress, I stepped out after it. I was too angry to be properly afraid. I meant to put an end to this charade so we could live our lives in peace.

  The figure did not float in the air, rather its whiteness reached to the floor. But it moved very swiftly. Though I tried my best, I could not catch up to it.

  Then it paused. My straining eyes could make out no doorway where it stood, but the hall was very dark. The figure beckoned to me once more, and then it vanished, as suddenly as if it had been a candle flame snuffed out. Or as if it had stepped right through the wall.

  I stood there, shivering from cold and fear, and tried to decide what I should do. My anger was rapidly deserting me, and I was growing colder and more uncomfortable by the minute.

  I like to think it was the cold that decided me, not the fear, or perhaps for once good sense came to my aid, but at any rate, I refused the spectre's invitation. Instead of following it, I turned and retraced my steps to my bedchamber. I was not dressed for chasing ghosts.

  I scurried inside without a backward look and pulled the heavy door shut behind me. Doors, of course, are no protection against ghosts, but I steadfastly refused to believe that Caroline was haunting me. There was some completely logical explanation for everything that had happened to me.

  Jumping into bed, I began to chafe my frozen feet. If Caroline were a ghost, I asked myself, pursuing the logical idea, how would she behave? Would she give me teasing glimpses and whispered warnings?

  Not likely. In life Caroline had been brutally frank. She had always felt her beauty granted her that privilege, and she exercised it to the fullest. That day she found me among her scent bottles, she had not suggested or urged; she had commanded. And with great and immediate force.

  A ghostly Caroline, I reasoned, would be no different from a living one. Had she had the power to haunt me, she would appear before me in a blazing white fury and give her commands, fully expecting them to be obeyed.

  My feet were warmer now and my mind clearer. I lay back under the covers and continued to think. Someone wanted me to be frightened—that much was plain—but I still could not understand why anyone should want to drive me off.

  My husband loved me, his brother was my friend, Penrose and his mother had seemed to be growing reconciled to our marriage, and even the dowager had become almost bearable.

  Why now? I asked myself. Why, when things had begun to look better, did this whatever-it-was have to come after me? And why did it do so only when I was alone? Did he or she know that? Or was it merely chance? There were too many questions and no answers.

  I did sleep, finally, but my slumber was not restful, and by morning I felt even more exhausted. Richard was already gone when I went down to breakfast. Perhaps that was just as well. I was in a waspish mood and inclined to snap at the least annoyance.

  Consequently, I gave myself a good talking to, and that, along with my breakfast and a strong cup of tea, settled me down. Soon I began to feel more like myself. After all, the disturbances of last night had done no real harm. I could easily survive an occasional restless night.

  So, when Penrose came in, leading his mother, I resolved not to mention anything about ghosts and the like. “Good morning,” I said to Rosamund.

  She looked startled, but with a glance at Penrose she replied, “Good morning."

  Penrose smiled sweetly at his mother, and then he looked at me. “Good morning, Vanessa. Did you sleep well?"

  In spite of my
resolution, I almost lost my feeble hold on my temper. How dare he taunt me so? But his smile seemed genuine, so I swallowed hard and said, “Yes, thank you."

  Penrose nodded. “I was up long reading the latest books from London. Have you read the new poet?"

  The boy's somber clothes suddenly made more sense to me. “You mean Lord Byron?"

  Penrose smiled, pleased that I knew the poet he meant. “Yes, isn't he magnificent? So free."

  Privately I thought Byron too inclined to morbidity, and Papa had contended that the man simply never grew up, but I did not say these things. Certainly Penrose had reason enough to be morbid. How could a boy in such a situation be anything else? So I nodded. “I have read some of his works."

  Penrose's face took on a glow.

  "'Childe Harold’ is just wonderful."

  For a moment he looked the boy he really was—young and full of life, longing for adventure. I wanted to reach out to him as I had to Sarah, but I knew better. Young men could not be treated like little girls. Not with impunity.

  "What is your favorite?” I asked, wanting to prolong this good moment with him.

  "'Cain,'” he said. “Cain has everyone against him. Including God.” He sighed. “Yes, Byron is very good, but he has not written enough about death.” He smiled at me, his eyes strangely bright. “Death, you know, is the ultimate adventure. If you go to meet it properly."

  "Properly?” I echoed, trying to get my bearings in this strange discussion.

  "Yes. With spirit and fire."

  I felt a wave of relief. “You mean in battle?"

  "Perhaps.” His glance went to his mother, who was smiling with animation into the emptiness on her other side. “Some of us are weak,” he continued, “and some of us are strong."

  I did not like the tone of this. A boy who takes a brother-killer like Cain for a hero might—

  Oh, my God! My heart seemed to lodge in my throat. Richard! Richard had almost been another Cain. Thank goodness that had not happened.

  "What do you suppose makes some of us weak?” I inquired, carefully refraining from looking anywhere near his mother.