Penrose shook his head. “I don't know. But surely death is preferable to some kinds of life. Perhaps a person who ends another's miserable existence is doing that person a favor."
This kind of hypocritical cant didn't suit me at all. It sounded far too much like an excuse for murder. “God gives life,” I said, perhaps more strongly than I should have, “and He takes it away."
Penrose's dark eyes bored into mine. “Why does He give? And why does He take?"
The words of my catechism came into my mind: The proper purpose of man's existence is to glorify God. But I knew instantly that this was not the answer to give a disturbed boy. How could a boy who had never known an earthly father picture a heavenly one? Let alone one who subsisted on glorification.
I sighed. “I'm afraid there are some things beyond our understanding."
Again his glance went to his mother, and his expression grew bitter. “Indeed there are,” he said. “Indeed there are."
He hesitated. He looked at his mother again, then he looked at me. “I am writing a poem,” he said. He lowered his voice. “It's about the haunting babe."
I nodded. Here was my chance to get more information. “Do you know—is there any way to release the babe?"
His eyes gleamed with unholy glee, and I suppressed an urge to shudder. “You believe in it!” he exclaimed. “I knew it."
"I am interested in the story,” I said, trying belatedly for dignity. “That is all it is, you know—a story."
"That's what your sister thought. She would not listen."
I did not want to hear this, but I couldn't stop now. “Listen? Listen to what?"
"The babe's cries are a warning—not to persist in a course of action.” He leered. “It was common knowledge what course of action Caroline was following. She did not heed the warning"—he shrugged—"and Death came for her."
What was he talking about? “But Creighton said nothing of this. She only said—"
He laughed, that awful sinister laugh. “She said if you hear the babe three nights running, Death is coming for you."
I nodded.
"That's true enough. My mother told me the rest of it. She said the babe tried to warn her father. It tried to warn him before he killed my father. But Grandfather didn't listen. And he died."
"But—your grandfather didn't die immediately, did he?"
Penrose shook his head. “No, I remember him—a little—but he did die."
I was growing rather exasperated with this story. After all, we are all mortal and must die eventually.
Still, I felt I must pursue it. “And you say the babe warned Caroline?"
Penrose shrugged. “That's what she told my mother. They were never close, of course.” His eyes shifted to my face. “I'm afraid your sister was a selfish woman. At any rate, she cared only for the company of men."
"A whited sepulchre,” Rosamund announced.
Penrose and I exchanged glances.
"She was,” Rosamund went on. “She was beautiful on the outside, but inside she was full of filth. She stank."
"Mother—"
Rosamund frowned. “It's true. All of it's true. That Jezebel, that—"
"Mama, please—” For the first time I saw Penrose embarrassed.
Rosamund stopped and stared at me. “Who are you?” she asked suddenly.
"I am Vanessa,” I explained. “I am Richard's new wife."
She frowned. “New wife. New wife. Yes, I remember. You ordered me gowns.” She frowned and turned to Penrose. “Where are they? Where are my new gowns?"
"They are coming,” I hastened to reassure her. “Our order was rather large. It included some gowns for Sarah and me."
Rosamund's face softened. “The girl baby. Such a beautiful baby. I wished she were mine."
I glimpsed his pain before Penrose could hide it. No wonder he had said hateful things to Sarah. He wanted all his mother's attention, and considering all he'd been through, that was quite understandable.
"Yes,” Rosamund continued. “Such a lovely girl baby. I had no girls, you see. And that awful woman never went to see her child. She never held it."
Rosamund's great dark eyes grew wide with horror. “She told me more than once. She said she hated that baby. Poor little baby."
Rosamund was right about that, I thought. But she wasn't finished. Her eyes gleamed with zealous fire. “I warned her. I told her babies should be loved—” she patted her son's arm—"but she wouldn't listen.” Rosamund sighed. “I was glad when they told me the horse killed her."
"Mama—"
"No, Penrose.” She eyed him sternly. “I was glad. Because she was an evil woman. There was no good in her. No good at all.” She smiled at me. “But don't you worry. She's paying. She's burning."
At that moment Rosamund's private circle of hell seemed quite an appropriate place for Caroline's eternal sojourn. I knew the great God was merciful, though. And I knew it was not up to me to decide.
"Come, Mama,” Penrose cajoled. “Eat your breakfast."
Her attention thus distracted, Rosamund obediently began to eat. Penrose crumbled a roll between his fingers. “No one knows for sure,” he said softly, “but Mama said the story goes that the babe will only be silenced if a woman willingly joins it."
A cold draft seemed to creep under my shawl. “You don't mean—"
"Yes, I do. A woman must deliberately sacrifice her life. And then the babe will be set free."
"But—but that is suicide. It's a mortal sin!"
Penrose shrugged. “No one is going to do such a thing.” He grinned at me. “Besides, as you say, it's only a story."
"Of course.” And the matter was left there, for the time being.
Chapter Fourteen
Several days passed. Richard and I still rode together in the mornings. No mention was made of the night he had left me alone. He behaved as if nothing untoward had happened and so did I. Every evening he followed me up the stairs to my room.
For my part, I was careful not to bring up the subject of Sarah, but in spite of my care—or perhaps because of it—I could feel some constraint between us. It made me uncomfortable, as if I were out of touch with some vital part of myself.
Still, I enjoyed our rides. The stallion began to respond to me, to send me a whuffled greeting when I entered the stable, to shake his mane and show his eagerness for a run. Soon now I would be able to ride alone, to roam the moor in perfect freedom. I would be glad for that, though I would miss my rides with Richard. I knew the work of the estate kept him too busy for our daily rides to continue indefinitely.
Perhaps there would be others to share the moor with on occasion. I doubted that the dowager rode, but perhaps Rosamund went out with Penrose. If she didn't, perhaps we could persuade her to ride again. And surely Roland—
I pushed the memory of his kiss out of my mind. It lingered only because it had been a mistake. My husband's kisses were far sweeter.
So I set myself to enjoy Richard's company. Truth was, I did not know quite how to conduct myself. I am not by nature a person who thinks before she speaks, so, as not to say the wrong thing, I grew rather silent, not saying much at all.
Richard remarked on this one morning as we skirted a bog.
"I hesitate to tell you,” I replied. “I do not want to make you angry with me."
He swung his horse closer to mine. Our knees touched for a moment, and he smiled at me. “Nessie, my dear, tell me. Please."
I took a deep breath. “I do not speak often because I am afraid."
He looked startled. “Of me?"
I shook my head. “Not exactly. Well, it's just—Sarah is so much on my mind that I often wish to speak other. And—"
He sighed. “And you know I do not want to hear."
I contented myself with a little nod, though many words were racing through my mind.
"You are right,” he said. “I do not wish to hear, but neither do I wish you to become silent like this. So say what you please, and I w
ill listen to you."
Still I hesitated. “You will not leave me? As you did the other night?"
"No, Nessie. I won't leave you. The other night—it was not what you said that bothered me. It was the lullabye. I had no idea Sarah would remember it."
My nervousness transmitted itself to the stallion. He pranced about and was hard to control. For a minute I was busy with him and said nothing. But I could not stop them, the words insisted on coming out. “It's the lullabye you sang to her when she was a baby."
"So you know that,” he said. “Go on. What else have you been wanting to say to me?"
"The gowns we ordered from Mrs. Brewster will be delivered soon.” I hurried on before I should lose my nerve. “Rosamund ordered a ball gown of orange silk. We could not dissuade her. And Sarah's—Sarah's gowns are made of the same colors and materials as mine. She begged me, and I told the dressmaker to do it.” I glanced at him and swallowed. “Does that displease you?"
He shook his head. “No. I told you, I bear the child no animosity. I'm glad she's taken to you.” He half-smiled. “You've no more to tell me? That is all?"
I wished that were true. “No. There is one thing more."
His smile wavered. “You might as well tell me everything."
"I made up a story for Sarah. To make her feel better about her mother."
His frown was fierce and instantaneous. “What kind of story?"
"I told her that Caroline suffered from a sickness."
His frown changed to bewilderment, but I hurried on. “I told her that this sickness kept Caroline from loving her daughter.” I could not stop now. I must tell him all of it. “I told Sarah it kept her mother from loving anyone."
He considered that for a moment. “Including me,” he said with bitterness. “And how did Sarah respond to this story?"
I determined to talk to him frankly. He was, after all, my husband. I had that right. “She seemed to accept it. You must understand why I did it. She said her mother had told her she was a bad bad girl. I could not let her go on thinking she was bad, thinking that was why her parents did not love her."
I waited, but he was true to his word. He did not show anger and he did not leave me. But he was silent for such a long time that my nervousness began to increase. Finally he said, “You may be more right than you think. At any rate, I see no harm in your story. And perhaps it will do the child some good."
Relief flooded over me. “Oh, Richard, thank you!"
I leaned toward him and our lips met, but only briefly. The stallion was eager to be away. He pranced and fretted beneath me, tossing his mane and dancing about.
"Time for a run,” Richard said. “Follow me."
The sun was high when we returned to Greyden Castle. We left the horses to Toby's expert care and went up the walk, laughing and happy, our arms around each other's waists. But as usual the castle cast a pall over my joyful feelings.
And I was right to feel so, for inside, huddled in a corner of the dark hall, Creighton waited. She held a bundle in her lap, and when she saw me she rose and hobbled forward. “Oh, that wicked child,” she cried. “She's as wicked as her—"
"Creighton,” I interrupted. “What is it? What's wrong?"
She thrust the bundle at me. “Just look!” she cried. “Just look at what she did to her doll baby."
I unwrapped the blanket. The doll baby was intact, but its beautiful golden hair was a sticky mass of what looked and smelled like apricot jam.
Richard's frown grew more fierce by the moment. “You're right,” he told the old nurse. “She's ruined it."
There was no doubt that the doll was a sticky mess, but something told me there was more to it than that. I knew Sarah loved the doll. Why should she try to ruin it? The best way to find out was to ask the child herself. “Where is Sarah?"
Creighton wrung her hands. “I don't know, Your Grace. She's gone."
"Gone!” My heart rose up in my throat. “What do you mean—gone?"
Creighton pressed her hand to her heart. “When I found what she was doing, she ran out. I couldn't catch her. 1 don't know where she went."
Richard moved instantly to action. He motioned to Gerson. “Get the rest of the staff. Have them search the castle."
Gerson looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Ah, Your Grace?"
"Yes?"
"I found the front door ajar. A while back."
My mind went instantly to the most dangerous place—the break in the castle wall. “The cliff! Oh, God, no!” Without waiting for Richard, I whirled and rushed out the door. The walkway stones were slippery and overgrown with moss. Several times I almost fell. Brambles and briars clutched at my skirts, but I pushed through them, my heart pounding. “Sarah!” I called.
"Sarah, where are you?"
I turned the corner and skidded to a halt. There was no sign of the child. The railing was intact, no break in it. But Sarah was so small. She could have slipped under it. I stood there, panting, afraid to go any farther, afraid to look over the edge to where the sea crashed on the rocks below.
A hard hand descended on my shoulder and dragged me back. “Vanessa!” Richard cried. “For God's sake, be careful. You might slip and fall."
"I can't look. Is she—is she down there?"
"Stay here,” Richard commanded, guiding me toward the castle wall. “I'll look."
I leaned there against the stones, breathing heavily. I heard his quick intake of breath. Did he see Sarah? On shaking legs I hurried to his side.
"Oh, no!” There on the slippery wet rocks lay a bundle of black rags. “Sarah!” The wail was torn from my throat, and I surged forward as if I could go to her. I felt Richard's hand on my back. For a minute it seemed to be urging me forward, and then he tangled it in my hair and pulled me back from certain death.
His arms wrapped me close against him. “Vanessa! Stop it! You must stop it."
"Sarah! Oh, Sarah. She's dead. And it's our fault."
He held me in a fierce embrace. “No, Nessie. Listen. That's not the child. That's not Sarah."
Still in his arms, I wept bitterly. “It is. It is. I know it is."
"Look again,” he said. “There's no sign of her hair. It's so bright. You know it would show against the black rocks."
He was right! I looked again and saw. The rags were only that—rags that had been washed ashore, perhaps from some passing ship. As we watched, the water pulled them apart, and one by one, they floated off.
"Oh, God, thank you,” I cried. “But Richard, where is she? We must find her.” I still leaned against him, my limbs trembling from the fright I'd had.
Richard swung me up into his arms. “We'll go back to the castle,” he said. “Maybe they've found her already."
"Yes,” I said, clinging to him, clinging to hope. “They will have found her by now. She must be safe."
Sarah had not been found. The whole family had assembled in the great hall. I was aware of them only in a general way. My attention was all on the butler. “We've searched everywhere,” Gerson said, “but there's no sign of her anywhere in the castle."
I am not usually given to hysterics, but the events of the past weeks had left my nerves on edge, and the need to cry overcame me. I buried my face in my husband's waistcoat and sobbed like a heartbroken child.
Richard put me down on a divan. “Attend to my wife,” he told Creighton. “I have an idea."
I tried to go after him, but my limbs simply would not carry me. And, though I knew it helped nothing, I could not keep myself from weeping.
"There, there, Your Grace. He'll find her.” Creighton patted my hand awkwardly, obviously unsure what to do next.
I closed my eyes and struggled with the sobs. Papa would frown and call this female carrying on. He would tell me to stop it instantly, and if he were here, I would stop it.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my hair. I opened my eyes to find Rosamund stroking it as she might a child's. “It'll be all right,” she soothed. “Rich
ard will find her. Richard is good."
Richard is not good, I thought. How can he be good when he does not love his daughter? But I did not say anything, and to my surprise, I found myself comforted by Rosamund's presence.
"You'll see,” she said. “He'll find her.” She smiled at her son. “Penrose used to run away. Richard always found him."
Penrose looked a trifle annoyed at having his youthful pranks detailed. I managed to stop sobbing long enough to say, “Yes, I know, Rosamund, I know children often run away. But she is so little. And why, why did she do this to her doll?"
Rosamund eyed the doll now resting on a table. “Why?” she asked. Evidently she had no answers either, for she said no more.
Bringing my sobs further under control, I sipped the hot tea Gerson brought me. I was feeling foolish for having acted in such a vaporish fashion, especially in front of the frosty-faced dowager and Roland. I did not care so much about the dowager—she would dislike me no matter how I behaved—but Roland was my friend. I did not want him to think me a silly female.
I should have approached this with logic, as Papa would have. Logic was the way to figure things out.
I turned to Penrose. “When you ran away, where did you go?"
"Sometimes I went to the North Tower."
I started to my feet, but Gerson shook his head. “It's been searched, Your Grace. The child is not there."
"And sometimes I went to the oaks."
I shuddered. Surely those twisted shapes would frighten Sarah. “I don't think she'd go there."
"And sometimes I went—"
The front door opened. I leaped to my feet. “Richard! Oh, thank God! You've found her!"
In his arms he held a pale, big-eyed Sarah, her face smudged with dirt, pieces of straw still clinging to her dark dress.
I rushed to them, to touch her, to make sure she was really there. “Where did you find her?"
"In the stable,” he said grimly. “Hiding in the corner of the stallion's stall."
"The stallion—” I remembered the others and broke off. “Bring her over here. Please."
I settled on the divan again, and he put the child in my lap. She smelled of the stable, but I did not mind. As ever it was a good smell, and now doubly comforting.
The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle Page 14