The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  I started to follow her, but Roland put a detaining hand on my arm. “Nessie will be there in a little while. You run along."

  The child skipped off, clutching her ribbons, and I eased my arm out from under Roland's hand. I felt a sort of uneasiness. There was so much warmth in his smile, and he was standing so close to me.

  "What is it?” I asked, wanting to get this scene over. Nervousness made my voice crack, and I took a backward step.

  "Vanessa, this is very awkward. You are my brother's wife."

  I did not like the sound of this, but I did not know how to stop him. And, as any woman would, I wanted to know what he meant to say.

  He sighed. “From the first day I met you—when you flew into my arms and kissed me—"

  "I thought you were my husband,” I interjected hastily. “I did not know he had a twin."

  Roland nodded. “And I did not know that you were his new wife. But from the moment our lips met—"

  Heat flooded my body. “Roland, stop! You must not say these things to me."

  He looked hurt, dejected. His dark eyes gleamed with tears. “Vanessa, my dear. You mistake my meaning. I would never—I did not intend to suggest—"

  He looked so crestfallen that I hastened to apologize. “I'm sorry I misunderstood you, Roland, but then, what do you mean?"

  "I only want you to know that I care for you deeply."

  I raised a warning hand, and he hurried to add, “As a brother should. But if you ever need a protector—"

  "Why should I need a protector?” I demanded. This whole conversation was quite unnerving.

  "I do not know.” He sighed. “I am doing this so badly. I only wanted you to know that you have a friend. You can always come to me. Always. No matter what."

  He did not advance any nearer to me, and I pondered his words for a few moments. “I think I understand,” I said then. “Thank you."

  In a way it was comforting to know that I had such a good friend in the household—that someone truly cared for me. Someone besides Richard, of course.

  Roland pressed my hand, but only for an instant. “I shall say no more about this. I just wanted you to know."

  Then he left, and God help me, I could not keep myself from remembering his kiss. But he had not presumed upon that kiss. He was offering me nothing more than his friendship, and as God well knew, I needed that.

  Richard was away most of the day. After Roland left me, I went to the nursery. Sarah and I sorted out her ribbons, putting matching ones in her hair and her doll baby's. The child's joy was heartwarming, but it also saddened me. Why couldn't Richard be more like his twin? Why couldn't he love a child that wasn't his?

  I had no answers to my questions, of course, and that night, after we had gone to bed and I lay snug in the circle of Richard's arm, the questions came back to plague me.

  Sarah was not my child, yet I loved her deeply, and that love was in spite of, not because of, Caroline being her mother. In her entire life Caroline had never done a nice thing, a sisterly thing, for me. Indeed, she had treated me very shabbily, but I did not hold that against a helpless little girl.

  I sighed, hoping Richard would hear and ask me why, but he did not, and soon the sound of his even breathing told me that he slept.

  I eased myself out of his arm and tried to find a comfortable position in the big bed, but no matter how I arranged myself, sleep would not come.

  I counted sheep. I counted horses. Horses were more interesting, but brought me no closer to slumber. Still I lay, staring into the darkness, wide awake as if it had been noon.

  And so I knew I did not dream it. Out of the darkness came the wail of a baby. Terror clutched at me, and I rolled close against Richard's side. He did not stir. The baby's cry had not wakeed him.

  What did it mean? Why was the babe crying when Richard was with me?

  It could not be Penrose playing a trick. I was convinced his apology that afternoon had been genuine.

  It might be Rosamund, though to what purpose I had no idea. She seemed to be drifting farther and farther away from us. She hardly ever spoke to me, and sometimes she did not even know Penrose. Still, it might be her. The workings of her mind were now so strange and convoluted that a sane person could not hope to follow them.

  The babe cried again. I tried not to shudder. Should I wake Richard so that he could hear? So that he could know it was real? But even if I woke him, I had no guarantee he would hear the babe. It might not cry again.

  I bit my bottom lip. Perhaps only certain people could hear it. I had better let Richard sleep. I was safe as long as I was with him, and according to the legend, the babe had to cry three nights in a row before Death would come.

  The silence stretched on and on. I lay in the darkness, wishing I knew what to do to stop this. I could not, as Penrose's poem and the legend said, give up my own life to console the babe.

  Under the covers my hands crept to my belly. Soon, soon, I prayed, a new life would be growing there. A life I hoped would connect Richard and his daughter.

  I meant to include Sarah in everything that had to do with our child. I hoped—and prayed—that when Richard saw her helping me and loving the little one, he would forget his animosity. I expect I hoped, too, that seeing the baby would awaken in him memories of Sarah's babyhood and the love he had felt for her then. Given Richard's adamant stand on the matter, my hopes seemed futile, but they were all I had, and I nursed them carefully.

  Once more the babe cried. My heart turned over. Could it be the servant who had been Caroline's lover, trying to frighten me? But surely by now he realized that I knew nothing, that I was no threat to him.

  If only I had some way to search him out. Did Gerson know who he was? Butlers usually knew everything that went on in a household, and a loyal one would have informed his master. When Caroline met someone regularly, Gerson most probably had known.

  But he had not told Richard. That meant that he did not know or—I almost sat straight up in the bed—could it be Gerson himself who had been Caroline's lover? That would explain a great deal, including the stories that leaked out to Miss Varish.

  My mind whirled madly, but finally, when the babe cried no more and I could come to no conclusions, fatigue overcame me and I slept, curled against Richard's side.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I did not hear the babe again that night—or in the nights that followed. I did all I could to help Penrose with his mother, but it seemed she was getting more and more strange. It was difficult to reach her at all. Most of the time she would talk only to the invisible Jeffrey. The rest of us were not real to her.

  As the full moon approached again, Richard grew silent and moody. I tried to give him an opportunity to talk about Rosamund. I mentioned her often. I spoke of the full moon. I did everything but ask him outright what he meant to do, but he did not respond to me. He remained silent and withdrawn, and I grew more and more worried.

  The night that the moon came full, Rosamund wore the orange silk to dinner. The maids had reported difficulty in getting it away to be cleaned, and that certainly appeared to be the case. The hem was dirty and ripped in several places, and the bodice was spotted with food from earlier meals. I was surprised the dowager had not taken me to task for it. The dress was truly in sad shape.

  But Rosamund did not notice that. She preened herself like a great lady and Richard and Penrose both paid court to her, complimenting her wildly. For a moment she seemed to regard them, then she was gone again, off in that strange world with her Jeffrey, laughing and singing her songs to him.

  When the meal was served, she grew quiet. We were all quiet. Roland was absent, and for once the dowager kept her peace.

  Afterwards, the others retired early to their rooms. Richard and I went silently up the stairs to our chambers. In spite of the quiet evening, my heart was heavy. Richard looked quite upset. Heaving a huge sigh, he took off his coat.

  I could bear it no longer. I had to make him talk to me. “You are
worried about Rosamund,” I said.

  He frowned. “She will be all right. Penrose will stay with her. He shares her apartments."

  His words were comforting, but I knew Richard and could see his concern. I could not let the matter rest. I had to press on. “But you are still worried."

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Vanessa, I said I would not leave you alone. I gave you my word. What more do you want?"

  I went and put my arms around him. If only I could wrap him safe in my love. “I know you promised. But my dear, I cannot stand to see you so concerned."

  He kissed the top of my head. “I appreciate your concern, Vanessa. I know I am being ridiculous, worrying so. It's just that she gets so wild, I never know what she might do."

  "I know, dear."

  He heaved another sigh and began to help me with my hooks. “Don't worry, Nessie. I will not leave you alone tonight."

  "I know.” I was not afraid he would break his word to me. But I was afraid that something would happen to Rosamund, and I knew that if it did, while I was keeping him from her side, in some obscure way I would hold myself responsible. It was not a pleasant prospect. Almost, I wished I could make him go to her.

  Wait! There was something I could do. “Richard, put your coat back on."

  He frowned. “Nessie! I said I will not leave you, and I meant it."

  "There is no need,” I said, refastening my hooks, “for I shall go with you."

  "Of course!” His face lit up, and he grabbed me and kissed me. “Oh, Nessie. You are such a good wife. Hurry, let's go."

  I reached up on tiptoe to kiss him. “One more hook, Richard."

  The castle halls were cold and gloomy. A few candles were left to burn all night, but the halls seemed even darker than usual.

  We hurried toward the apartments that Penrose shared with his mother, Richard almost at a run and I struggling to keep up with him.

  "Ri—chard!” I panted, a stitch in my side making it difficult for me to breathe. “Please, slow down."

  He shortened his stride, but only a little. I understood his alarm. I was anxious to get there myself, to be assured that his sister was safe.

  The door to Rosamund's rooms stood open. Richard hurried in. He looked in each room, but no one was there. “Gone!” he cried, turning to me. “That fool boy! Why didn't he keep her here?"

  I looked around. Something white lay upon the writing desk. I crossed to it. “Richard, look! It's for you."

  He broke the seal and began to read aloud.

  Dear Uncle Richard,

  Mama has asked me to write this to you. She has heard the haunting babe cry three nights in a row.

  Richard cursed, then hurried on.

  We are going. She wanted to go alone. But I must go with her. I am not afraid to die—

  My heart threatened to choke me. They must not. “Die! Richard, where have they gone?"

  He scanned the letter, then turned to me, his eyes wild. “He doesn't say. My God, Vanessa, is he going to kill her?"

  I tried to think. “No, no. He could not do that. Most likely she will do it herself. But why did she go out—the cliffs! The break in the wall!"

  Richard dropped the letter and hurried out the door. I followed as fast as I could.

  Down the halls we ran. Richard was getting farther and farther ahead of me, but I did not call out to him. He must get there. He must get there before this awful thing was done.

  Just as I reached the top of the stairs, I heard the front door crash open. “Oh, please,” I prayed as I rushed downward. “Let him be in time."

  I hurried out the door—now standing wide—and around the corner to the pathway. It was still overgrown and tangled, but I scrambled through it as fast as I could, fighting the stitch in my side and struggling for breath.

  Ahead of me I could hear the noise of Richard's passage. Then there was an awful shout. “Stop!” he cried. “Rosie, don't!"

  A piercing wail almost drove me to my knees, but gasping for breath I hurried on.

  Finally I came round the corner. Rosamund was nowhere in sight, but Richard and Penrose were struggling in front of the break in the wall. Back and forth they grappled, their faces contorted with their efforts. Glimpsing Penrose's terrified face, I thought for one awful moment that Richard was trying to push the boy over the edge.

  Then I realized Richard was holding him back. The boy was trying to get to the cliff. “Mama!” he wailed. “Let me go!"

  I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. Back and forth they struggled on the edge of that terrible cliff, while the rocks waited below.

  My heart was in my throat, but I dared not get any nearer. Finally, Richard forced Penrose to the ground and held him there. I hurried to his side.

  "Rosie,” he panted. “She went over."

  "My God!” Only then did I see the broken railing. I crept to the wall. Far below, a bright splash of orange spread out across the wet black rocks. Except for the gentle lapping of the waves against the silk nothing moved. No one could have survived a fall like that.

  I went back to Richard, who was still straddling Penrose. “It's no use,” I told my husband. “Rosamund is gone."

  Penrose began to struggle again. “Let me up! Please! I promised to go with her."

  "Penrose, no.” I grasped his flailing hands and held them tight. “You must live."

  His face twisted with his sobs. “How can I live without Mama? She's the only one who loved me."

  "That is not true,” I said severely. “I care about you. So does Richard. Else he would not have saved you."

  The boy clung to my hands. “She was so miserable,” he cried. “She wanted to go, and I could not let her go alone."

  "I know. But Penrose, if she were well, she would want you to live. To be happy. To have the life that was denied her."

  He stared at me. I couldn't tell if I was reaching him at all, but Richard could not keep him pinned there indefinitely. “If Richard lets you up, will you promise not to..."

  He considered this for a moment, and I thought he might refuse. Then he sighed. “Yes, Vanessa. I promise."

  I looked to Richard. In his eyes was misery to equal the boy's. “I wasn't in time,” he said. “I grabbed, but I missed her."

  I longed to help them, to ease their pain, but there was no help for this. All I could say was “Let us go back inside."

  Richard frowned. “I cannot leave her—"

  "Of course not. But you will need help."

  "Yes, of course.” Richard got to his feet and helped the boy up.

  "Come,'” I said, herding them away from the cliff's edge. “Back inside."

  * * * *

  We went into the library. Richard stirred up the fire and sent Gerson for men and ropes to bring up Rosamund's body. I persuaded Penrose to sit down on the divan. When the men left, he wanted to go, too, but Richard insisted that he stay with me.

  "You've already made your farewells,” I pointed out after they had gone. “And now your mama's spirit is free."

  Penrose shivered. I took off my shawl and put it around his quaking shoulders. Then I sat down next to him.

  He stared at me, his eyes wide with horror. “She said—oh, Vanessa, it was terrible. Mama said she killed Grandfather. And your sister. She said everything that went wrong at Greyden was her fault."

  I thought of Rosamund telling me her father was burning in hell. And Caroline there too. Why had Rosamund so suddenly decided to take her own life? Had she become sane long enough to realize what she had done?

  "Did she say that she made the crying babe's noises?” I asked.

  Penrose looked startled. “No, no. That is, I don't think so. She—she believed that her death would free the babe—like the legend said—because she went willingly. She said that in helping it, she would expiate her sins."

  He buried his face in his hands. “Why didn't he let me go with her? My life has no purpose now. I know nothing but suffering and death."

&nbs
p; This time I put my arms around him. Penrose sobbed on my shoulder like the little boy he had never had a chance to be.

  "I know this does not seem possible now,” I told him, “but the misery will pass. And you have one great consolation."

  He raised his head. “I have?"

  "Yes, indeed. You have known your mother's love. Many of us are not that fortunate."

  "We are not?” His eyes met mine. “Vanessa, what do you mean?"

  I made a quick decision. It was not a subject I cared to discuss, even to think about, but if it would help the boy...

  "Yes,” I said. “I know whereof I speak. My mama did not love me."

  He looked unbelieving.

  "It's true,” I said. “Caroline was her eldest, a copy of her own exquisite blond beauty.” I sighed. “I was a gangly awkward carrot top. Mama had no time for me. I could never please her."

  Penrose took my hand. “Oh, Vanessa, I am sorry. I did not know."

  I shrugged. “It's all right. I had my papa's love, and it was good."

  We sat in silence for a few moments while I considered the things Penrose had told me. Finally, I said, “Penrose, how could your mother have killed her father?"

  He sighed and wiped at his eyes. “I do not know. I used to think that she only imagined she did it. That because she wished him dead she thought herself responsible. But when your sister was found like that—"

  He swallowed. “And Mama said—she said she was glad. And then tonight—tonight she said she killed that wicked woman.” His eyes were apologetic. “That's what she always called Caroline."

  The name-calling meant nothing to me. Certainly if anyone deserved such an adjective it was Caroline. Was it possible that Rosamund had killed her? “But how? How did she do it?"

  "I don't know.” Penrose sniffled. “She said she was sorry—for all the pain and grief she caused you. She said to tell you."

  My heart almost turned over. Could Rosamund have been responsible for everything that had happened to me? Could she have brought the scent into my room, and acted the ghost, and cut the girth?