The answer to all was yes. The servants were used to seeing her in unusual places. No one would have remarked on it.
But the abductor had been so strong. How could a frail woman have lifted me, who is far from frail, onto a horse? “Do you think Rosamund was posing as a ghost to frighten me?"
Penrose considered. Finally, he sighed again. “Vanessa, I just do not know. Her mind was so different, so strange. Often she said things I could not understand. I knew all the words, but the sentences made no sense.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his eyes. “I suppose she could have done just about anything. She might have feared you would hurt her. She was very fearful sometimes."
"But could she have lifted me?"
Penrose did not ask me the reason for my question. “I heard about the abduction,” he said. “I don't know what Mama could do. The moon seemed to give her great physical strength.” He shuddered. “She talked to the babe before she—she—"
He began to cry again, great wrenching sobs. I put my arm around him. “There now, go ahead."
He did not cry long. “I must stop,” he said. “The men will be returning.” He wiped at his face. “I wanted to tell you before they get back. I wanted you to know. She told the babe she was coming willingly. The curse is broken."
I patted his shoulder. “Your mother was a good woman."
His eyes went wide. “How can you say that? She said she killed Grandfather."
"Penrose, that's what she said. She was ill. God knows that. He knows what she did, and He knows what was in her heart."
His bottom lip quivered. “I should have gone with her. She will be lonely."
"No, Penrose. She will be at peace. And if indeed there was a curse—which I am not entirely ready to concede—then she has lifted it, and the babe's spirit is free."
"Yes.” He brightened a little, then he frowned again. “But after what she did—"
"She's safe now,” I insisted. “Only God may judge her, and He is merciful."
"Even to—"
"Yes,” I said quickly. “Even to her. And Penrose—"
"Yes, Vanessa?"
"I want you to remember that. And to remember that your grandmother is ill. Do not regard whatever she may say to you."
He looked about to cry again, and then he grabbed my hand and clung to it. “Thank you, Vanessa. You have helped me."
And none too soon, I thought, as I heard the front door open. Penrose leaped to his feet, casting aside my shawl. ‘They're back. I must go to her."
"Penrose, perhaps—” But he was already gone, and I hurried out after him.
The men had paused in the great hall, putting their blanket-wrapped burden on a hastily cleared table. Penrose lifted the edge of the blanket. Rosamund's face was peaceful and serene. For some reason the fall had not marked it at all.
I put my arm around the boy. “She is safe now,” I repeated. “Remember that."
He bent and kissed her cold cheek. “Good-bye, Mama.” He turned to me. “She'll wear her yellow gown."
Richard frowned. “Penrose—"
I put a hand on my husband's arm. “Of course, Penrose. I know she'd like that."
The boy's eyes told me I had understood him. In this last thing he wanted to please his mother, and I would see that he could.
Then he turned to Richard. “Did she—was it—” His voice broke and he could not go on.
"It was very quick,” Richard said, his voice husky. “She felt nothing."
Penrose nodded. ‘That's good. She—"
"She should not have stood so near the edge. The stones are slippery.” Richard's voice had changed. It carried a strange tone, almost of warning.
I saw immediately what my husband was about. Oh, why hadn't I thought to warn the boy?
There was a pause, and I thought Penrose would give it all away. Then he said, “Yes, yes. I tried to tell her. But—"
''We'll take her up to her rooms,” Richard said. “We'll send for the vicar in the morning."
Penrose nodded and we watched them go. When we were sure we were alone, he turned to me. “Tell Uncle Richard what I told you,” he whispered. “And tell him I won't let anyone know how Mama died.” He frowned. “Do you think it wrong to deceive the vicar? You know suicides cannot be buried in the churchyard."
We all knew that. So we must keep the suicide note a secret. “Your mother did not know what she was doing,” I replied, putting as much conviction as I could into my voice. “Therefore, she cannot be held responsible."
I led him back to the library where the fire still blazed brightly. “Why don't you wait here?” I asked. “When she's ready, we'll send for you."
Later, when all that we could do for Rosamund had been done, we summoned Penrose to sit with his mother and returned to our rooms.
First Richard burned Penrose's note in the fireplace. Then he ripped at his cravat. “Thank God the boy had sense enough to see what I was about—to say it was an accident—but why did he agree to such a thing in the first place?"
I put down my shawl and turned to face my husband. “He loved his mother."
"Loved her?” Richard's face contorted with anguish. “How was that love?” He tore off his coat and threw it in a chair.
My poor husband was suffering so. “Richard, she wanted to go, and she wanted to make her going worth something.” I told him about the curse.
"There are no ghosts,” he stormed. “She died for nothing."
I put my arms around him. “No, Richard. There was a babe—at least for Rosamund. And it is not what she did that counts as much as her reason for doing it."
He twisted free of my arms and turned away, but I followed him. “Richard, please, you must let her go. She's at peace now."
For a few moments he glared at me. I thought perhaps he would storm out. Then his expression softened. “You really think—"
"I really think God understands it all.” I pulled on my nightdress. “And I know He is merciful."
Richard finished undressing and climbed into the big bed beside me. “I am weary, Nessie.” He gathered me in his arms. “So weary. Perhaps Rosie was weary, too."
"Yes,” I said, holding him close. “I'm sure she was. But she is at rest now."
I hesitated. I had just gotten him calmed down. I hated to tell him the rest of what Penrose had related, but Richard was the head of the family. He must be told. “Richard?"
"Yes, Nessie?"
"There is more. I would not bother you with it, but—"
He sighed. “But you must."
"Yes. Rosamund told Penrose that she killed your father."
"What!” He sat up in the bed and stared at me.
I saw that I had best get all of it out at once. There was no use delaying things. “And she told him she had killed Caroline, too."
He stared at me in horror. “Vanessa, my God! How can you say such things about my sister?"
"I did not say them,” I reminded him. “She did. And certainly she should know what she had done."
Richard dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, God, my own sister."
"Then you believe it."
His eyes were clouded with uncertainty. “How can I tell? Did Penrose have any proof?"
"No. Only what she said to him.” I reflected on this. “Tell me, Richard. How did your father die?"
He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “He was ill. He had been for some time. And he got worse and worse. The doctor said it was his heart."
"And..."
He shrugged. “And one night it stopped."
The question had to be asked. “Could Rosamund have caused it?"
He sighed once more. “Perhaps. I do not know. In those days she was more active. She went riding. She went into the village. I suppose she might have found some way. Some poison.” He groaned. “Oh, God, I just don't know."
I put my arm around him and pulled him close. “And Caroline,” I said. “Could Rosamund have done that?"
Hi
s face was growing paler by the minute. “I suppose so. You know how she is—was—when the moon—my God! The moon was full the night Caroline died. I remember. I had just gone to bed—at dawn—when the servants came to say they had found her."
I sighed with relief. “Then Rosamund couldn't have done it. She was with you."
He shook his head. “Not the whole night. She slipped away once. It was almost like a game to her. It took me over an hour to find her,” He dropped his head into his hands. “Poor Rosie. I can't believe she's gone."
"She's at rest now, Richard. We must think of her son. We must make him want to live."
He stared at me. “I don't know, Vanessa. Those odes to Death he's always writing, and the terrible tricks he plays on people—the boy has always been strange. How could he be otherwise, raised in this house?"
"You are quite right,” I agreed. “But in spite of those things he has a lot of goodness in him. It is up to us to bring it out. He is Rosamund's son. We must take care of him. For her sake."
Richard nodded. “Yes, Nessie, I see that."
"Thank goodness you were able to keep him from going over the cliff."
Richard paled. “I was reaching for Rosie. I got Penrose instead."
"You did what you could. You saved one of them."
He nodded. “Yes, yes. But why did he take her there? Why didn't he keep her in her room?"
"Rosamund was a grown woman,” I said. “He is only a boy. He loved her and he wanted to please her."
"But—"
"Richard.” I made my tone firm. “Please, do not ask the boy any questions. You cannot bring your sister back. And Penrose is already miserable. Do not add to his grief."
For a long moment Richard regarded me. Then he sighed again and pulled me close. “As usual, my dear, you are right. Do not worry yourself about it. I promise, I will not add to Penrose's burden."
Chapter Twenty-two
The vicar came next morning. He perched on a chair in the library, looking for all the world as though a loud noise would make him cut and run. I reminded myself that this was not a humorous situation and steadied myself as best I could. Hysteria was hardly called for. Now, above all, I must keep stable and sane.
Penrose, summoned to speak to the vicar, looked ill at ease. I gave him a reassuring smile. We had rehearsed what he had to say, covering every question we thought the vicar might ask him; but there was always the possibility that something would trip him up, and that left us all jumpy and on edge.
My conscience did not bother me over much. True, we were practicing deception. Well, actually, we were lying. We knew Rosamund's plunge over the cliffs had been deliberate. But for her son to see her denied proper burial in hallowed ground—it simply was not fair. I was confident God would understand, even if the vicar would not.
As for deceiving the vicar, well, he was a man who put his living above justice. Or so Roland had told me. So why shouldn't we put mercy above justice? That seemed ultimately fair to me.
It appeared that the vicar had some suspicions. He eyed Penrose severely. “I understand your mother was ill."
Penrose nodded, his expression sober. “At times she was not well."
The vicar frowned. “If she was ill, what was she doing out there—by the break in the wall—in the middle of the night?"
I felt called upon to interject. After all, Penrose was only a boy. His life had been difficult enough. He should not have to face this alone. “It was not the middle of the night, Vicar. Richard and I had not yet retired."
"That's right,” said Richard from his place behind my chair. “It was only just bedtime."
The vicar did not look convinced, but he could hardly contradict both of us, no matter what his suspicions.
"Why were you out there?” He put the question directly to Penrose. And in quite a stern manner.
Penrose held up beautifully. “Mama wished to see the moon on the ocean,” he said. “She was fond of the moon, and she loved the sea. We often took walks after dark."
The vicar stroked his jaw. “And how did she fall from the cliff?"
Penrose hesitated, and my heart fluttered up into my throat. I tried to think of some way to help him, but Richard's hand descending on my shoulder kept me silent. Much as I wanted to help, I knew Penrose must do this alone. If we interfered too often, the vicar would only grow more suspicious.
"I am not exactly sure,” Penrose said finally. “She was admiring the view. I thought I heard an owl in the trees and turned to look for it.” He swallowed. “There was a scream. When I turned back, Mama was gone. She'd slipped over the edge."
The vicar cleared his throat. “And you believe that was an accident?"
Penrose managed to look startled. “Of course. Mama was enjoying the view. She had put on her favorite gown so we could walk in the moonlight."
The vicar pondered this for some minutes while tension built in the room. Penrose endeavored to look at ease, but I knew he was not. My stomach housed a full-blown riot. Richard's hand trembled where it rested on my shoulder. It was not just for Penrose's sake that we told these lies. Richard must see his sister laid to a proper rest, and I must do all I could to help him. I could not believe that was really wrong.
Finally the vicar spoke again. “It has come to my attention—I understand your mother often sang songs about death."
Cressadine Varish, I thought with disgust. She had been blabbing about what she'd seen and heard here. Surely that woman deserved a choice place in hell. Judge not, I reminded myself, trying to be Christian but not really succeeding.
Fortunately Penrose did not try to lie. He simply nodded. “Mama liked one song. I believe it was the melody that drew her to it. I don't know if she really minded the words.” He hummed a few bars, and I realized that without the words the song was indeed rather pretty.
Richard was beginning to fidget. I sensed his growing distress. He came around to stand beside my chair. “I do not see where this questioning is leading,” he said, his face stern. “We have called you here to make arrangements for Rosamund's burial. I fail to see what her favorite songs have to do with that."
The vicar did not appear offended. Indeed, he seemed to wilt a little, as though he had just remembered to whom he owed his living. “Of course, Your Grace. I was just trying to do my duty."
Richard nodded, his face growing sterner. “I understand that, Vicar. So are we. We want to see my sister properly buried."
The vicar got to his feet. “Of course. I have no more questions, Your Grace,” he said. “All seems as it should be."
We waited till we heard the door close behind him before we actually relaxed. Then Penrose turned to his uncle. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “I will never forget that you helped me through this."
The day of the funeral dawned cold and wet. To my surprise the dowager announced that she was planning to attend. Richard said nothing, but I couldn't help wondering what he was thinking. For myself, I could have wished the dowager absent, even though I knew it would cause talk. Her acid tongue always made me uncomfortable and now doubly so. What if she said something to Penrose? Something hurtful?
The boy had suffered enough. His illegitimacy and his mother's illness were neither one his fault. He had been victimized as much as she.
We stood around the open grave in the drizzling rain. Richard and I kept Penrose between us, hoping to shield him from some of the stares and whispers, hoping to help him through this ordeal.
Roland and the dowager stood near us. Thank goodness they had come in a different carriage. Roland seemed preoccupied and distant, his face set. No doubt he was having hard work mastering his grief. A man, of course, did not show his sorrow in public.
The dowager looked no different than usual. I did not believe she had shed a single tear for her daughter, but I was surprised to find that she had not worn black, but a gown and bonnet of her usual gray. Not even in death could she show poor Rosamund any love.
The people of t
he village had come, whether out of respect for Rosamund or because Richard was their duke we had no way of knowing. At least they were there, and Penrose could take comfort in the ordinariness of the ceremony.
The vicar's words carried the usual comforting message about another, better, life to come. Once Penrose moved, as though the words were too much for him; but Richard put a hand on his arm, and he remained there between us.
The villagers all looked respectfully sad, but just as the vicar reached “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,” I looked up to find Cressadine Varish staring at us across the grave. Under her sober black bonnet those avid eyes were searching, seeking out weakness.
I had no doubt that she was already rehearsing the story she would tell about us. How, I asked myself, and why, did the good Lord permit such a creature on his earth? Then I remembered the deception we had practiced and the fact that my own slate was none too clean, and I forbore to judge.
When the first shovel of dirt hit the casket, Penrose gave a low moan. Richard and I moved at the same time, and as our arms went around Penrose, they touched each other. Over the boy's head, Richard sent me a tiny smile. I let my eyes give my reply. With Cressadine Varish watching, a small smile could rapidly become the height of disrespectful levity.
After the ceremony was finished, we stood with Penrose while the villagers came, one by one, to pay their respects. And then, finally, we were alone.
"A minute,” Penrose said. “Just a minute. And then I'll be ready."
Richard looked about to object, but I took him by the arm and led him back to the carriage. “He wants to say his good-byes,” I told my husband.
Richard nodded. “Did you see my mother? Not even wearing mourning. That will mean more talk. Always, always, there is talk."
I put my arm around him. “Perhaps this will be the end of it. If Rosamund really—if she was the one—"
Richard sighed. “I don't know what to believe any more. “To think that
Rosie—"
"Things will get better,” I said. If only I could tell him now about the child. But it was too soon. Our child was still just a hope in my heart.
"Richard, can you do something about your mother?"
The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle Page 22