The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

Richard and I were not alone again until we went to bed. “Now,” he said as soon as the door closed behind us, “I want you to tell me everything that happened. From the beginning."

  As I undressed, I once more reported the details of the afternoon's experience.

  When I finished, Richard's eyes held mine. “I don't like it, Vanessa. Is this the only strange thing that has happened to you since you've been here?"

  I did not lie to him. I could not. “No, Richard."

  He did not look surprised. “What else has happened?"

  I hesitated, but I was tired of coping with all this alone. Perhaps Richard could help me get to the bottom of it. Besides, husbands and wives should not keep secrets from each other. “I have heard the crying babe."

  His expression hardened into a fierce frown. “Vanessa."

  I was sorry to upset him, but I knew what I had heard. “I have heard it,” I repeated. “The second night I was here I heard it. And again later."

  He did not look convinced. “Vanessa, the haunting babe is a legend, not a reality."

  I stepped out of my gown and went for my nightdress. “That may well be. But legend or not, I heard a baby crying. I know I cannot prove it, but I also know what I heard."

  I let my chemise fall to the floor and pulled my nightdress over my head. “And both nights there was the scent."

  His eyes grew darker. “What scent?"

  "Caroline's scent. I woke to find my room filled with it."

  He seemed perplexed. “Caroline's scent? Why should anyone want to use that?"

  I climbed into bed and Richard followed me. “I don't know. But I'm afraid that's not all.” I told him about the dead bird and the ghostly figure that had beckoned to me to follow it.

  Richard crushed me to him. “Thank God you were sensible,” he said fiercely. “There are secret passages in the walls. Places you might disappear into and never be found."

  I loosened his grip, struggling to get my breath. “You mean you don't know where they are?"

  "Not all of them. I know where the priest hole is, but very little else."

  I stared at him. “But this castle was built long before the persecution of Catholic priests. Why should it have a priest hole?"

  Richard nodded. “I suspect some of the rooms were originally secret prisons. There were many such places long ago. Troublesome people disappeared and were never seen again."

  Troublesome people. I shivered. Someone obviously found me troublesome. “Richard, who do you think is doing this to me?"

  He shook his head. “Some of it sounds like Penrose's pranks. The dead bird would be a joke to him. But I don't know where he would get Caroline's scent. They were hardly friendly."

  "The armoire!"

  Richard stared at me in puzzlement.

  "The armoire in the North Tower,” I explained. “There was a bottle of her scent in it. Richard, I suspect she met someone in that room, a servant with whom she was—"

  His face hardened and he sighed. “She said she saw ghosts there. She said she didn't intend to go near it again. Ever."

  Much as I loved him, I felt some exasperation. Why did he always want to believe the best of her? And after all she had done to him? “I think that was to keep others away. So she would be undisturbed.” I told him about the witch story she had used to keep me from her trysting place in the woods.

  The pain on his face was terrible to behold. I wished that I knew some way to ease it. But only time—and the good Lord—could do that.

  "There are many male servants here,” he mused aloud. “Any one of them could go to the North Tower without being observed. No one else went near it after Caroline started talking about ghosts."

  I snuggled close in the circle of his arm. In spite of all that had happened to me that day, I was happy. There were no more secrets between us.

  Then I remembered. The knowledge that I had shut out of my mind came back with a rush that left me shaken and sick at heart.

  Richard had had Caroline's scented handkerchief under his pillow. Richard must know where to find her scent.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Another woman might have pulled back in terror or run home to her papa with a head full of suspicion, but I loved my husband passionately. It never entered my mind that I might have cause to fear him. Then I thought only that he still loved Caroline, and such knowledge was bitter as gall to me, who wanted to be the sole object of his affections.

  Yes, that night I still refused to consider the possibility that Richard had anything to do with Caroline's death. It was true that he knew where to find Caroline's scent, but so might many others. It was one of them who was trying to frighten me away, not my husband.

  I spent a fairly peaceful night with Richard beside me. Several times I awoke with a start, thinking I had heard the haunting babe's cry, but except for Richard's steady breathing, the room was always silent. Each time I uttered a sigh of relief and returned to sleep.

  We woke to a day of sunshine. Richard and I had our ride, and he left to attend to estate business. That afternoon Mrs. Brewster returned, her stout young men bearing our new gowns. They deposited their bundles on the divan and retreated to the kitchen.

  Summoned from the nursery, Sarah bounced in. “They've come,” she cried, skipping to my side. “Oh, which ones are ours?"

  I smiled at her enthusiasm. So did Mrs. Brewster. I could not help hoping that the dressmaker would report to the parish how well the duke's daughter got along with his new wife. We could use something good to counteract the malicious lies the vicar's sister must be circulating.

  Penrose and Rosamund came in, too. In spite of all our efforts to calm her, Rosamund dug through her gowns, shoving them right and left, until she found the orange silk. Then, clutching it to her bosom, she began to dance around the room.

  I exchanged glances with Penrose, but we dared not stop her forcibly. When she was thwarted, she had a terrible strength, and we had learned it was best to let her have her way.

  Sarah, intent on the new gowns, paid her no mind. And Mrs. Brewster focused all her attention on us. Or so it seemed.

  "Which one shall you wear today?” I asked Sarah.

  "Today?” she asked, as though she could hardly believe it.

  "Yes, indeed. Today. We must get all those black things ready to give the poor."

  Sarah glanced at my blue gown. “I want a blue one,” she cried, running to give me a hug. “Oh, Nessie. They are so beautiful."

  Half an hour later, she returned, looking an entirely different child. Her golden curls shimmered, and the new gown brought out the color of her eyes.

  The sight of her set my heart to sinking. The dress made her resemblance to her mother even more marked. How was I to get Richard's love when Sarah was there, a constant reminder of the woman he had loved and lost?

  Sad to say, for a few moments I considered giving up my efforts to bring father and daughter together. If I relegated Sarah to the nursery, Richard would find no fault with me. Indeed, I knew he would be happy with such an arrangement.

  But I could not do it. I knew Sarah needed her father. She needed him, perhaps, even more than I needed him. So I must continue in my efforts to bring the two of them together and pray that my love for him would eventually make him forget Caroline.

  The dressmaker had left us a great bundle of scraps, but Sarah was too full of life to think of sitting still to make doll clothes. She whirled around the room, then stopped to admire herself.

  "Oh, Nessie,” she cried again, just as Roland entered the room.

  "My God!” Roland stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening in surprise.

  Sarah ran and threw herself into his arms. “Isn't it beautiful?” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  "You are beautiful,” he said, lifting her. “You look just like—"

  Something in the child's face stopped him in midsentence.

  "I do look like Nessie,” she cried. “You saw it."

  Roland'
s smile was gentle. “Actually, you look more like your mama."

  Sarah's lip came out in a pout. “I don't want to look like her. I want to look like Nessie."

  Roland's smile included me. He sat down, perching Sarah on his knee. “You cannot do anything about your outsides—how you look,” he told her. “That's one of the things we can't do much about."

  I wondered if he was thinking about being born second, but from what he had said to the dowager, being second did not seem to bother him.

  "But we can do something about our insides,” he went on.

  Sarah looked puzzled. “No one can see my insides."

  Roland's smile grew warmer. “I'm talking about the sort of person you want to be. You can't make yourself look like Nessie, but you can act like her."

  Sarah's pout was disappearing. “But how will anyone know?"

  "They'll know,” Roland assured her, “by the things you do. If you're kind and you think of other people, if you try to help. They'll know you learned these things from Nessie."

  His speech made me a little embarrassed. It was difficult to listen to a recital of my virtues, especially since I so well knew my faults.

  Sarah had been thinking this over and now she smiled. “All right,” she said. “I'm going to be like Nessie that way.” She kissed his cheek, then slipped off his knee to tug at his hand. “Come, I want you to see the rest of my dresses."

  Off they went to exclaim over her gowns. I could not help noticing how good Roland was with her. Thank goodness someone had been there to give the child some sorely needed affection. If only Richard would see how much she needed his love. But he would not. He could not.

  The dowager entered just as Sarah and Roland came to her last gown. “Mama,” Roland said, “did you see Sarah's new gowns?"

  "Very pretty,” said the dowager in a voice that would have frightened an ordinary child.

  Sarah only nodded. “Mine are like Nessie's,” she said proudly. “Because I'm her little girl now."

  The dowager scowled. “That is not possible. You will always be your mother's child. Sad as that may seem."

  Roland sent me an embarrassed glance. “Mama, please—"

  But even Roland could not silence the dowager. She stared him down. “That's the truth. Why shouldn't I speak it?"

  "It's not true,” Sarah cried, her little face puckering in distress. “Nessie is my mama now."

  "Vanessa is your aunt.” The dowager wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something distasteful, her favorite expression when she looked at me. “She's also your stepmama. But she will never be your mama."

  "She will! She will!” Sarah burst into tears and ran wailing from the room.

  I got to my feet to follow her, but first I had a few things to say to the dowager. She might pick at me, and I would remain silent; but when she hurt the child ... “I have tried to be civil to you,” I said, “because you are Richard's mother. But this is the outside of enough. How can you be so cruel to your own grandchild?"

  The dowager's lip curled. “Hasn't Richard told you that either? The child isn't his. She's some fly-by-night's bastard."

  Roland was obviously distressed at such plain speaking. “Mama, please. None of this is Vanessa's fault."

  His mother sniffed. “She had no business coming here. Neither did the other one. But this one won't last either."

  I could not take any more of her disdain. With an apologetic look to Roland I left the room.

  Once I would have thrown something, screamed and vented my frustration, but now I went to the nursery. If I was to be Sarah's mother, I must put the child's needs before mine.

  Sarah was seated before the fire, great tears rolling down her cheeks. I took her in my lap. “Sarah, dear, why are you crying so?"

  She buried her face in my neck. “I want—I want to be—your little girl."

  I smoothed her hair, so like Caroline's. “Then there's no need to cry. Because you are my little girl."

  She raised her head and sniffled. “But Grandmother said—"

  I saw immediately what I had to do. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it sooner. “Sarah, remember when we talked about your mama?"

  She nodded.

  "Remember that I told you she was sick?"

  Her eyes met mine, full of trust. “Yes, Nessie, I remember."

  "Well, your grandmother is sick, too. She cannot love anyone either."

  Sarah's forehead wrinkled into a frown.

  "Do you understand?” I asked.

  "I think so. But—"

  "But what, Sarah?"

  "If my mama had that sickness—and Grandmother has it—” Her voice quavered. “What if I get it?"

  She looked so serious that I was hard put not to laugh. But I would not insult her feelings in that way. “No, Sarah,” I said. “You cannot get this sickness. It isn't catching."

  She started to smile, then frowned again. “Nessie, are you sure?"

  I hugged her to me. “I am very sure,” I said. “You and I, we will always love each other."

  She sighed and returned my hug. “And my father. We will always love my father."

  "Yes, dear. We will.” But I could not help wondering—would he ever, really, love us?

  Some time later I left Sarah playing happily with her doll. When I was with her, I could keep my anger in check, but the minute I stepped out into the hall, all my good feelings deserted me. The dowager was mean-spirited and vicious. In comparison, she made Caroline look almost saintly. The thought did not amuse me as it might have once.

  I sighed. The castle and its inhabitants were pressing in on me again. If only Richard were here, we could ride again! I was sorely in need of a good gallop.

  The second the thought crossed my mind I knew I'd have to do it. Surely Richard wouldn't object to my riding alone now. I knew the roads and the moor, and the stallion was used to me.

  Minutes later I had hurried into my riding clothes and was at the stable. Toby grinned and touched his cap.

  "'Tis a nice day, all right, Yer Grace. Which animal will you be wanting?"

  Mercury chose that moment to whinny and toss his head. Like me he was feeling the need to be free. “I'll take the stallion,” I said. “He's eager to go."

  I was halfway to the main road when I heard someone coming up behind me. “Vanessa, wait."

  Roland's mare soon caught up with us. He frowned. “Must you ride that beast?"

  I patted the stallion's neck. “He's a beautiful animal."

  He made a gesture of dismissal. “Yes, but he killed—"

  I did not want to hear about that. “If Mercury did it, he had good reason."

  His eyes widened. “You mean you think it's all right to kill—"

  "Of course I don't. But if Caroline went into the stall and beat the horse, then it was not his fault."

  "You mean she provoked him.” Roland nodded wisely. “Then you believe the stallion did it."

  I sighed. This subject was not one I cared to pursue, but I felt obligated to defend the stallion. “Actually, I'm not sure I do."

  He frowned. “But if the horse didn't kill her, then who did?"

  "I don't know that. I only know I trust the horse."

  He leaned toward me. His face that was so like Richard's, was serious. “Vanessa, I am worried about you."

  "Me! Why should you worry about me?” The stallion chose that moment to skitter sideways, almost into Roland's mare.

  For a minute our legs brushed, and I almost thought he meant to kiss me, but his mare pranced away and nothing happened. It was probably my imagination, anyway, thinking I'd seen something in his eyes, something that wasn't there at all.

  "Why should you worry about me?” I repeated, mostly because I could think of nothing else to say.

  Roland looked sheepish. “I should not have said anything to you."

  "You have started now,” I replied in exasperation. “You might as well finish."

  Roland sighed. “It's just—Caroli
ne died so strangely. I should not want anything to happen to you."

  The stallion skittered again, but I got him under control. “Nothing is going to happen to me."

  He frowned. “Richard's temper—"

  I stared at him. “Whatever are you talking about? Richard has never even been angry with me."

  Roland looked relieved, but a little unbelieving. “That's good. Perhaps he won't ever be. But his rages—"

  Uneasiness crept into my heart, but I kept my face calm. The stallion, sensing my tension, began to fret even more at the reins. “What rages?” I asked.

  "I told you about the stable loft. About him trying to push me out."

  Why must he remind me of that? “But that was long ago."

  "Of course. Forget I—oh, oh! Here he comes. I'll talk to you later.” He cantered off.

  Minutes later Richard rode up from the other direction. “Another ride today?"

  I nodded. “I had words with your mother. I just had to get away."

  He stared after Roland's retreating figure. “Who was with you?"

  I hesitated for a fraction of a second. I did not know why I should. I did not feel guilty. Certainly I had every right to speak to my husband's brother. “That was Roland. He caught up with me."

  Richard scowled. “You were not riding together?"

  "Only for a little way."

  His scowl grew fiercer. Was I about to see one of those rages?

  "I don't want you to ride with him,” Richard said in a voice of command such as he had never before used to me.

  Still, in spite of Roland's words, I was not afraid of my husband. “But he's your brother."

  "I know that,” he snapped. “And you are my wife. Obey my wishes in this, Vanessa. Roland is not fit company for you."

  My mood had been far from good when I left the castle, and it was definitely not improving. “I fail to see—” I began, but that was all I had time to get out.

  "Vanessa!” Richard thundered. The stallion pranced sideways, and I had to fight hard to control him. “I am telling you. Do not ride with my brother!"

  I wanted to argue the point, but with the stallion carrying on so, my attention was divided. “Very well,” I said, albeit with great reluctance.

  Richard's expression smoothed out. “That's a good wife,” he said and leaned over to kiss me. I swallowed my anger and returned the kiss.