"She will not talk,” he said, frowning down at us. “She hasn't said a word."
"Of course not,” Rosamund replied calmly. “You have frightened her by your frowning.” She took her son's arm. “Come, Penrose. Vanessa will do better without us."
While I stared in astonishment at such perception on her part, off they went, chatting cozily together.
Roland sent me an encouraging little smile and offered the dowager his arm. “Rosamund is right, Mama. We should go, too."
Richard cast me an exasperated look. “Vanessa, I—” Then, apparently thinking better of saying anything, he turned on his heel and limped out.
"Creighton,” I said, “please go order some hot water for a bath and wait for us in the nursery."
The nurse did not look happy, but she obeyed. “Yes, Your Grace. I'll go now."
Sarah and I were left alone. “Now,” I said, smoothing back her hair, “you must tell Nessie why you ran away."
She sniffled and rubbed her eyes. “Creighton was angry. She screamed at me."
At least the child would talk to me. “What did you do to make her angry?” I asked softly.
She sniffled again. “Nothing, Nessie."
I took the doll baby from its place on the table. “Why did you spoil your pretty doll baby?"
The tears ran down her cheeks, leaving tracks through the grime. “I didn't mean to spoil her,” she sobbed. “I thought it would work."
"Thought what would work?” I asked.
"Creighton told me once about people that color things with berries, Indians, I think."
"Yes. I believe Indians do that."
"I didn't have any berries, so I used apricot jam, but it wouldn't work. It got all sticky."
I thought I was beginning to understand. “You wanted to color your baby's hair?"
Sarah nodded. “Yes. I named her Nessie. She should have hair like yours."
"Oh, Sarah.” For a moment I could not speak another word. The child had given me the greatest compliment of my life. I could not scold her for that.
I remembered then where Richard had found her. “Why did you go to the stable when you ran away?"
"I like the horses. I wanted to find you, but you were riding."
I nodded. “But why did you go into Mercury's stall?"
"He's yours,” she said. “He belongs to you. Like me."
The poor child, so desperate for affection. I hugged her to me again.
She turned her little face up to me. “How will we fix my doll baby?” she asked, as though she'd asked me for help a hundred times in her short life, as though I were her mother.
I smiled and patted her hand. “I think we can wash the jam out, but I don't know if we can change the color of her hair. It is really very pretty. You know, when I was a little girl, I wished for golden curls like yours.” Like Caroline's. But I did not say that.
Sarah frowned. “My hair is like my mama's. I don't want it to be like hers. I don't want to be her little girl. I want to be yours."
"You are mine,” I said. “And you always will be."
She peered at me, her mouth puckering. “What about when that baby comes? Grandmother says when you have a baby of your own, you'll forget all about me."
The dowager again. Could she never control her tongue? “Your grandmother is wrong,” I said firmly. “I would never forget my Sarah. You are my oldest daughter. You will be a big help to me."
She hugged me then, with the familiar stable smell still upon her. “Come,” I said, picking up the doll baby. “It is time for baths. For both of you."
Later that night, in our room, I explained to Richard. “She thought orange jam would color the doll's hair,” I said, wondering how I could tell him the rest without seeming to boast.
Richard frowned. “But why should she want the doll to have orange—” He stopped and stared at me, and then he smiled. “I'll wager that doll is named Nessie."
He took me in his arms and wrapped one of my curls around his finger. “She wants the doll to have hair like yours.” He kissed my forehead. “You have made your second conquest,” he said with a chuckle. “First me, then Sarah. Soon you will have Mama eating out of your hand."
This unlikely prospect sent us laughing into each other's arms. It was good we had that laughter to remember. We were not to have much cause for merriment in the future.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning the rain began—a dismal steady downpour that soon drenched everything. Because of it Richard cancelled our ride. Because of it the arrival of the new gowns was postponed. And because of my disappointment at both, everyone seemed even more peckish than usual, including me.
The dowager commented unfavorably and with icy detail on the way my hair was dressed. Meanwhile, Rosamund would converse with no one but the invisible Jeffrey, and a disconsolate Penrose moped about like a sick dog, breathing heartrending sighs and muttering lines of morbid poetry. All the while, I fretted.
Richard and Roland were the lucky ones, I thought with a tinge of resentment. Rain could not keep them indoors. I even considered going out to ride in the downpour myself, but I'd been fortunate not to take sick after my first drenching on the moor, and even I thought twice about tempting fate again so soon.
So I resigned myself, though not with any great patience, to a day spent indoors. The morning I occupied with various household tasks, which, to my great annoyance, did not go as I wished.
In the early afternoon I amused myself by spending some time with Sarah, but when Creighton put her down for her nap, I found myself again at loose ends. If I went back down to the library, I was bound to run into one of the family, and in my frettish temper I was very likely to say something unkind.
I had determined not to do that, no matter how much I was provoked. Anger would not help anything, and it might well make matters worse. I knew myself—and my temper—and I knew I would be better able to stick to my resolution if I stayed alone.
When I came out of the nursery, I was still undecided. Stepping out into the hall, I remembered leaving there that other day, the day I went to the North Tower. My rides with Richard and my preoccupation with Sarah had kept me from returning to the tower room, but I had certainly meant to do so, and today seemed an opportune time.
I picked up a candle and holder from those kept on the table in the hall. With the rain outside there would be no sunlight to come through the tower slits. The room would be dark and gloomy, even worse than the castle halls, but I did not care about that. In my present dark mood, I knew I was better off by myself.
Pausing in the archway, I looked up. The spiral staircase seemed narrower and darker than it had before. Papa had always said I was stubborn. When I'm determined I press on, regardless of any setback. And so up I went. Still, I set each foot down carefully. A fall here could well prove fatal.
. Belatedly I realized that I had told no one of my destination, but I did not want to turn back to look for a servant. I did not intend to stay in the room that long. I wanted only to have a little time to myself—the time I would have had with Richard had we been able to ride.
The door creaked in protest as I pushed it open. In the dim interior I could just make out the shapes of the desk and chair.
With the light of only one candle and no sunlight to brighten it, the room looked quite somber. Dark shadows lurked in every direction, and the armoire became a great threatening beast, but I was beyond being frightened by shadows. Logic, Papa would say. The good Lord gave you a mind. Use it.
So I took my candle and traversed the room. It was quite empty of anything threatening. Just as logic had told me it would be.
I sat down at the desk. In spite of its gloominess, in spite of the fact that it had been Caroline's room, I liked the North Tower. Perhaps I should make it mine. My own private place.
I smiled. The servants would not bother me there. Nor anyone else. Caroline had used this place to meet her lovers. I would use it to be alone. To think.
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First I would refresh my memory of what was in the desk. I opened the drawer and found paper, pen, and ink. When I saw them, my thoughts went immediately to Papa. After my first brief note to say we had arrived in Cornwall safely, I had not written to him again. It was not that I didn't want to, or that I had forgotten about him. How could I forget Papa?
But I had never been good at concealing my feelings from him. I did not want him to feel sorry for me or to think that I had made a mistake in marrying Richard. Whatever our problems might be, I loved my husband dearly, and I wanted Papa to think well of him.
Certainly things at Greyden Castle were far different from what I had expected them to be. The idyllic life I had envisioned had not included Richard's relatives or visits like that I had endured from the vicar and his waspish sister.
That was it! I would write Papa an account of Cressadine Varish's visit, an account slightly altered. I would describe for him Miss Varish's person and character, and report to him her remarks about the stallion. I knew Papa would agree that such a splendid animal should not be put down.
I would not, however, tell him what the vicar had said about complaints to the magistrate. I did not even want to think of that.
I could tell him about Sarah and her doll baby. He would laugh at the apricot jam and be glad to know the child had formed an affection for me. And I could tell him about Rosamund and Penrose, even about the gimlet-eyed dowager's distasteful habit of criticizing everything I wore or did.
But I intended to say nothing about Caroline's death—or anyone's suspicions regarding the cause of it. That was all they were, anyway, suspicions.
With a smile I readied my quill and opened the ink. I knew Papa would be pleased to hear from me.
Sometime later I looked up from my pages and stretched. Keeping a happy tone to my writing was not quite so easy as I had hoped, and I wanted to keep the tone happy. Above all I could not have Papa descending on us in alarm, and he was quite apt to do just that if he suspected something was wrong.
A chuckle tickled my throat. Putting Papa and the dowager in the same castle would make for some extraordinary verbal battles, I had no doubt about that, but much as I would love to see him, I did not want such a thing to happen. Caroline had caused him enough pain. I did not want to cause him more.
I reread my letter, considering each word. It sounded all right. I should be able to—
I thought I heard a creak on the stairs. Could Sarah be sneaking up to surprise me! I waited, but there was no other sound. So I turned, just in time to see the door swinging shut. I leaped to my feet, but I was too late. I was only halfway there when I heard the key turn in the lock.
"Wait!” I cried. “Don't go. I'm in here!"
There was no sound from the other side of the door. I knew I had heard the turning of the key, but still I went to try the doorknob. It was useless. The door was securely locked.
The candle, already quite short, chose that instant to smoke and flutter. The room seemed immeasurably darker, colder. I pulled my shawl closer about me. I must not panic.
Forcing myself to move slowly, I retraced my steps to the desk. Think, I told myself. And so, while my candle shed its slender circle of light around me, I sat and thought.
First, I thought that I was cold and getting colder. Well, I could do something about that. The coverlet was still on the cot. I would wrap myself in it.
Second, I thought of the darkness. When night fell, this room would be in utter blackness. What if I heard the crying babe then? What if the apparition came to taunt me?
My knees had begun to tremble badly. “Do not panic,” I said aloud. “Think. What would Papa do?"
That was easy. Papa would look for a way out, and if there were none—as was surely the case here—he would simply compose himself and wait to be found.
They would find me. I was confident of that. The question was—when? No one knew of my whereabouts, and I would not be missed for some hours. Hours. I shivered. I had no desire to spend long lonely hours in this cold and dreary place, but it appeared I had no choice.
After a few moments I crossed to the bed and took up the coverlet. It was blue silk, cold, almost clammy to the touch. I shivered, but I wrapped it around me anyhow. It would help to keep me warm.
Then I turned my mind to the whys and wherefores of my predicament. One thing I knew for certain. It was no apparition that had locked me in the room. Ghosts had no need for such antics; they had fear on their side.
This so-called ghost had not appeared to me or tried to frighten me in that way. Instead it had crept up the tower stairs, softly, carefully. But not softly and carefully enough to avoid that telltale creak. Ghosts did not have the weight to make a stair tread creak. It was definitely a human who was doing these things.
This was another warning. Someone still wanted to frighten me, but I had no idea why. I had harmed no one. I knew nothing.
Now, why had that thought occurred to me? What could I know that would threaten anyone? Caroline. I knew Caroline. Did someone think she had told me something?
The servant! Perhaps it was the servant that Caroline had been meeting before her death. Perhaps he thought I might discover something of his identity. Perhaps he thought there was something in that very room, some clue he had left that would lead us to him.
I should search for it, I thought. But in that instant the candle guttered and went out, leaving me in blackness.
I sat quite still. The sensible thing, I told myself, was to go to the cot, cover myself as best I could, and to wait.
But my limbs did not want to move. The darkness around me seemed a palpable presence, pressing in on me. I began to suffer difficulty in breathing. My heart raced. Like a living thing the darkness tried to smother me. Panic began to descend on me, but just before I lost control, I called Papa's image into my mind.
I straightened my shoulders and spoke sternly to myself, just as Papa would have. “There will be no more panic, Vanessa. You are in no real danger."
I did not quite believe that. In spite of my determination to be sensible, I knew quite well that I had heard a baby cry, I had seen a ghostly figure. These things were not products of an inflamed imagination. They were quite real events. Certainly most people would have found them threatening.
I forced myself to my feet, pointing myself toward where I thought the cot lay. Each step into that impenetrable blackness left me weak and trembling. It was ridiculous, I told myself, to feel as though some abyss might suddenly open before me. The tower floor was made of solid stone, as were its walls. The door was locked. If someone opened it, I would hear the turning of the key.
I managed to move myself across the floor until my probing foot touched the cot. With a sigh of relief I wrapped the coverlet around me and lay down to wait.
Time passed slowly, so slowly. In the darkness I tried to estimate what time of day it was. What was Richard doing? Had he come home yet? Had he looked for me? Would he go to the nursery? Or would he attend to other business and not know I was missing until it was time for the evening meal?
In spite of the coverlet I grew colder and colder. Several times I contemplated rising and making the circuit of the wall, just to get my blood going a little, but it was so dark I could not bring myself to move.
During those long lonely hours I thought of Papa. I pictured his dear familiar face and remembered things he had said to me, things we had done together. I thought of Sarah and how far she and I had come in caring for each other. I even thought of Roland and the stolen kiss.
But mostly I thought of Richard and my love for him. How glad I would be to see him. I thought of him taking me in his arms and holding me close. Then this nightmare would be over. But why didn't he come?
Eventually I lost all sense of time. It seemed days rather than hours that I had been a prisoner in this darkness. Several times I started up, thinking there was someone at the door, but there was no one. And so, when finally the key turned in the lock, I thou
ght I had imagined it, and I did not move.
Suddenly the room was flooded with light. I sat up, clutching the coverlet, trying to see. “Who—who is it?” I cried.
"Vanessa!” Richard took me in his arms. Behind him I saw Gerson, holding aloft a lighted candelabra. “What happened?” Richard asked. “What are you doing here?"
I shivered against my husband's chest, hardly daring to believe he was there at last, at last I was found. “It was raining and we missed our ride. I thought I would explore. So I came here."
"But how did you get locked in?"
"I was writing a letter to Papa. It's over there on the desk. I heard a creak on the stairs. Then the door swung shut and someone locked it."
Richard frowned. “It doesn't make any sense. Who would do this to you?"
With Gerson standing right there I did not care to expound on Caroline's amorous meetings with the servants. “I do not know,” I said, then sighed. “Richard, what time is it?"
He frowned. “It's going on bedtime. I didn't return till late afternoon. We didn't know you were missing until you didn't come to dinner."
"Dinner.” For the first time I considered my stomach and realized its empty condition.
Richard leaped to his feet. “You must be starving. I know I am—now. Actually, no one has eaten. We've all been busy looking for you."
"Then we shall all eat together,” I said, getting to my feet and returning the coverlet to the cot. “And Gerson, I want this room well stocked with candles."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Richard frowned, but he did not forbid me the use of the room. “And have the lock removed from the door,” he added. “I do not want anyone locked in here again."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Richard—” I began, but he silenced me with a quick kiss.
"Come,” he said. “It's dinner time."
The meal was delicious, and for once the conversation was pleasant. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior, and though no one referred to my ordeal, I thought it must be the reason for such unusual kindness.
The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle Page 15