The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

He raised a brow. “Like what?"

  "Will you tell her not to say horrible things to Penrose? The poor boy has been through enough already."

  Richard frowned. “I can tell her, but that will do little good. You know she pays no mind to me.” He sighed. “I'm afraid, my dear, that you have come to the wrong man. The only one who has any influence with her is Roland."

  He looked about to add something to this, but then he shut his lips firmly.

  Perhaps I should ask Roland to use his influence. Penrose was in such a delicate emotional state. He could easily be tipped in one direction or the other. Toward normalcy or toward—I did not want to think on that.

  Later, back at the house, I turned to Penrose. “I have not had time to play with Sarah lately,” I told him. “Will you go to her and explain?"

  The boy fidgeted and looked ill at ease.

  "What is it?” I asked.

  "Vanessa, I—I have not been kind to Sarah. I have said—bad things about her mother."

  I patted his arm. ‘Tell her that I sent you,” I told him. “Tell her that I said you need a friend."

  Penrose looked bewildered.

  "She will understand,” I assured him. “Oh, and Penrose, she loves stories. But please, don't tell her any about death and dying."

  Penrose nodded. “I will not, Vanessa.” He managed a little smile. “I will only tell her good, happy stories."

  After the boy left the library, Richard raised a questioning eyebrow. “You sent him to Sarah? Why?"

  I smiled at him. “She will be good for him,” I said.

  Richard frowned. “How can you be sure she will even accept him? In the past he has been most unkind to her. Tricks and taunts."

  "Sarah has a forgiving nature,” I said, sure I was right about this thing. “She will see that he is sincere, and she will sense that he is in need of love. As she is."

  Richard seemed disposed to argue this point, but he was prevented by Gerson announcing the first of many callers. Though we had decided not to observe many of the traditional funerary customs, we did mean to receive callers.

  The day wore on. Everyone seemed quite respectful and kind, offering their condolences and saying all the proper things.

  We did not summon Penrose back from the nursery. He was gone for some time, and I nourished a secret hope that he was lost in some childish game with Sarah, that for a moment he was free of his pain and sorrow.

  Toward dinner time the stream of callers slackened and Richard and I were alone. He sighed. “Perhaps that is the end of them."

  I shook my head. “I'm afraid not, Richard. If you recall, Cressadine Varish has not yet made an appearance."

  He sighed again and rubbed wearily at his eyes. “That woman is an abomination. She's made more trouble in this parish than any ten other people."

  I had no disagreement with that, but I've always been of a curious nature. “How do you suppose she got that way?"

  Richard stared at me as though I had suddenly taken ill. “What do you mean?"

  "I mean that she did not come into the world as—as she is now. Therefore something must have happened to make her so."

  Richard frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “There was some talk—long ago. Something about a man. He left her."

  I nodded. “That explains it. The poor woman is missing love."

  Richard smiled. “Nessie, every night when we go to bed, I expect to see your wings unfolding."

  I felt the hot color flooding my cheeks. “Nonsense, Richard. I am far from angelic. I just think there are reasons, however twisted they may be, for the things people do."

  He considered this. “And are you saying that if we knew the reasons we could forgive them?"

  I thought of Caroline. Much as I knew I should, that it was the Christian thing to do, I did not think I could ever truly forgive her for what she had done to her husband and her child. “Perhaps not forgive.” I sighed. “But perhaps understand a little better."

  Richard pondered this. “Perhaps, but—"

  Gerson appeared in the doorway. His usually bland features carried an overlay of distaste. “Miss Cressadine Varish,” he announced.

  Richard uttered a muffled curse. I composed my features to cover my distress. “Thank you, Gerson. Please show Miss Varish in."

  She was wearing the dour black bonnet and an expression to match. I knew Richard was doing his best to be civil; but this was the woman who had spread tales about my supposed infidelity, and it was hard for him to contain his wrath.

  She took a seat and arranged her skirts. “My condolences,” she said.

  "It was kind of you to call,” I replied.

  But Miss Varish was not interested in lesser game. She fixed her beady black eyes on Richard. “Oh, Your Grace, your poor sister. What a dreadful life she led. Deserted like that. And then losing her mind."

  I saw Richard swallow. I knew my husband, and I knew he was growing angry. Very rapidly.

  "Rosamund's life was pleasant as most,” he replied in a tight voice. “She was loved and cared for. None of us can ask more than that."

  Bravo, Richard. I shot him a smile of congratulation. Miss Varish was not impressed. She renewed the attack. “Still, it must have been a trial. Having a child out of wedlock like that."

  I thought I saw it then. Strange as it seemed, Cressadine Varish envied Rosamund her son. Penrose was visible evidence that Rosamund had been loved. Miss Varish had no such evidence.

  Richard struggled with his temper. I knew the signs, and I grew fearful that I might really see one of those awful rages. But Richard mastered himself enough to turn to me. “You'll have to excuse me, my dear. I've something I must attend to."

  "Of course."

  He nodded to Miss Varish and was gone.

  "Poor man,” she said. “Carrying such burdens."

  I almost agreed with her. Almost. But then, just in time, I realized what she could make of even such agreement. By the time she was through elaborating, my words could have been transformed to something quite different, and damaging.

  Before I could think of what to reply, the door opened. Sarah came in, leading Penrose by the hand. Sarah was wearing a pink dress. I saw Miss Varish's eyes widen at the sight of it. So, I thought, if my refusal to put Sarah back in mourning gave the vicar's sister something to talk about, well and good. Better that she should talk about me than about Penrose and his mother.

  Sarah came straight to me, a smile on her face. “Nessie,” she said. “Penrose knows the most marvelous stories. You must hear them."

  The boy looked a little sheepish, but he did not move away or try to release his hand.

  I smiled at them both. “I'm glad,” I said. “But right now I have a visitor. Why don't you go back to the nursery? Later, I will come up and hear them.” I turned to Penrose. “Thank you for looking after Sarah. Better take her back now."

  "Of course, Vanessa.” His tone was respectful, and his eyes gave me his thanks.

  I swallowed a sigh of relief as the two left the room. Had she questioned him, I might well have lost my temper. Penrose did not need to suffer an inquisition by this hateful woman.

  "Quite a big boy to be telling stories,” she observed sourly.

  I almost lost my temper then. The woman had been doing everything in her power to harm us. I was hard put to remain civil to her. And why should I? “He is helping me,” I said coldly. “The nurse is old."

  There was little use in explaining anything. A woman of Cressadine Varish's nature could not understand what I had hoped to accomplish by sending Penrose to the nursery. She could not understand the finer things of life. The healing power of a child's love would be to her mere fantasy.

  "Yes, indeed.” Though the words were in agreement, her expression plainly said she didn't believe a word I said. Her eyes took in the room, looking, no doubt, for something unusual to report.

  I left her to her looking. Knowing that my temper would soon reach the boiling point, I cast about i
n my mind for some excuse to rid myself of her presence.

  While I was still searching for some reason, any polite reason, to send her on her way, the door opened again, Roland helped the dowager into the room.

  I noted that Miss Varish's eyes lingered on the dowager's gray gown. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Miss Varish's tone was subtly different. Evidently she thought more highly of the dowager than she did of me.

  The dowager did not deign to reply but nodded regally and took a chair near the fire. Roland settled beside her. Why, I thought, why had they decided to come down, just when I did not need their presence, just when it would complicate matters no end?

  "A tragic accident,” Miss Varish commented, her eyes on Roland, her smile obsequious.

  "Yes,” he agreed. “Quite tragic."

  My heart commenced to beat faster, but I reminded myself that Roland could not give away our secret. He did not know it. Only three of us knew that Rosamund had gone to her death willingly. Still, I would have preferred to have Miss Varish away from the castle. Let her harass someone else. It had been a long hard day, and she had made it longer and harder.

  There was silence in the room for some seconds. The dowager stared into the fire, and Roland contemplated the painting above it. I determined to remain silent. Let the dowager and Roland provide some of the conversation.

  The two said nothing. Finally Miss Varish broke the silence. She leaned forward with that particularly avid look of hers and said, “Such a frightful shame. I understand poor Rosamund was very ill."

  Roland's features hardened, and he cast her a stem look. “We are all ill at times. It is a misfortune none of us may escape."

  Miss Varish nodded, her eyes never leaving his face. “Yes, of course. But I do not believe that we are all in the habit of singing songs about the coming of death."

  Roland shrugged and adjusted his cuffs. “I suppose my sister liked the melody."

  Miss Varish looked pained and hesitated. “That is what her son told my brother. But she knew the words. I distinctly heard her sing the words."

  Roland shrugged. ‘That signifies nothing."

  For a minute I thought he had succeeded in subduing her, but she simply could not give up. “Indeed, it—” she began.

  The dowager got to her feet and directed a frosty look at the vicar's sister. “I think you have been here long enough,” she said coldly. “You may leave now."

  For a moment it seemed the words did not reach Miss Varish's mind. I, too, was stunned. In fact, I was left momentarily speechless. The dowager had been quite rude, but I could not deny the fact that I was very glad of it.

  Then the visitor flounced to her feet. “Well, I never have been so insulted!"

  The dowager almost smiled. “Really? I should have thought you'd have heard much worse. But if you wish I can—"

  "No, no!” Miss Varish edged toward the door as though she were escaping a house full of madmen. “Really—” she began.

  Roland got to his feet. “I'll just go to the door with you,” he said, guiding her out. “It was most kind of you to come. You'll forgive Mama, I'm sure. She's a little...” His words faded as they made their way down the hall.

  The dowager turned her frosty stare on me. “I can't imagine why you let her call. A most reprehensible woman,” she observed, stalking out. “Worse even than your sister."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Our life slowly returned to normal, or at least as normal as life at Greyden Castle could be. I did not know what to believe about the things Rosamund had told her son. But the days passed and there was no sign or sound of the haunting babe. No ghosts whispered outside my door. No scent wafted into my room. It certainly looked as though Rosamund had been behind all the things that had happened to me, and yet, somehow, I did not feel relieved, did not feel that the bad times were truly over.

  Perhaps, I told myself, it was because I had no way to confirm Rosamund's claims. Even more so, perhaps it was because Richard seemed so far away from me. I knew that he had undergone a great deal. Losing the wife he loved and then his sister, and in such peculiar and awful circumstances.

  Sometimes he looked at me in such a strange way. At those times I remembered the dowager's violent and acid temperament, I remembered Rosamund's terrible illness, and most of all, I thought of Richard's rages—so vividly reported to me by his twin.

  Could there be a possibility that my husband was suffering from some kind of madness? I pushed the thought aside, but always it came back. I had seen Richard very angry, but never with the kind of rage Roland had spoken of.

  Now Richard was not angry at all. He did not shout or curse. Mostly, he sighed. He seemed enveloped in a terrible cloud of black melancholia, and that cloud darkened my life, too.

  I tried my best to be a good wife to him, and he, in turn, was there with me every night. At least he did not withdraw to his own chamber. That would have been even more difficult to bear.

  His body was there, but much of the time his mind seemed far away. Was he remembering innocent childhood days with Rosamund? Or was he tormenting himself with thoughts of some way he might have saved her, thoughts of what he should have done?

  I knew from experience that nothing could be more futile. How many weary months I had spent wondering what I should have done to make my mama love me, before I finally realized that nothing would make that miracle happen. I wanted to help Richard, but I knew that this was one lesson he would have to learn for himself.

  His refusal to have anything to do with Sarah still troubled me greatly, but sunk as he was in his grief, I judged it wiser not to push the matter. I could not make him see things my way when he was grieving so. I had not given up, I assured myself. There would be time. Plenty of time.

  So life went on. I waited, and I prayed. I prayed diligently that Richard and I might be blessed with a child; but I did not let concern with that keep me from mothering the children already entrusted to my care, for Penrose had, indeed, become once more a child. He spent most of his waking hours in the nursery with Sarah. Once he'd stopped tormenting her, the two had become fast friends.

  My intuition had been right. Sarah had taken him to her heart, and her innocence was helping him to heal.

  To my immense relief he had left off writing those dreadful odes to Death. Now he was composing funny verses for Sarah instead. Perhaps they were no better poetry, but they were funny. Every day he seemed more like a boy his rightful age, and best of all, he had learned to laugh.

  I was heartened and pleased at the change in him, and Sarah was a daily pleasure; but still I felt something oppressive hovering over me, disaster waiting to strike. I went about almost cringing, continually expecting the worst. Yet nothing happened.

  I examined all my feelings. I used every avenue of logic to consider what I was thinking and feeling. There seemed no reason for it. Yet still I felt as though I labored under a dark cloud of misfortune. Something dreadful was about to happen. Some part of me knew it and was waiting. Waiting.

  I railed at myself for not being able to overcome such a patently foolish attitude. Anyone could see that things at Greyden Castle were better than they had been for a long time.

  True, the dowager was still rude and unkind—she probably would never change—and Richard was morose and withdrawn. But the children were doing so well. Were they not the hope of the future?

  I pushed my forebodings aside and set my mind once more on ways and means of bringing Sarah and her father together. Where there was a will, there must be a way, and I was determined to find it.

  So it was that I began to visit the North Tower again. It was still a dark and dismal place, with little warmth or light. I did not venture there without candles aplenty. But I liked the privacy of it. Sometimes I would go there and sit in the stillness, just thinking.

  I believed a child was growing within me. I was almost positive this was true, but I did not tell my husband. I did not want to raise Richard's hopes only to dash them again.
In several days, no more than a week, I would know for certain. Then I could tell Richard, could see him smile as he used to.

  Sitting there in the silence of the dark room, I wondered how Caroline had felt when she knew she would have a babe. From what I had heard, the prospect of a child had not been at all pleasing to her.

  I spent some time trying to understand this. It was not that I could not comprehend it, because I thought I did understand Caroline's intense interest in herself and her beauty; but wanting a child as badly as I did, I could not really imagine how anyone could not.

  One afternoon, some weeks after Rosamund's death, I sat at the writing desk in the North Tower. It was time to write another letter to Papa. He would be glad for the good news of the children. And the other, this cloud of apprehension that hung over me—I would not tell him about that.

  I only told him good things. I hinted at the new babe and, following these thoughts, soon found myself dreaming of the future. And of our son. He would look like Richard, of course. Dark hair and dark eyes. I smiled. But then I frowned. He would also look like Roland.

  It was hard for me to consider my feelings for Richard's twin. It was impossible that I should love him. I loved my husband. Nevertheless I felt a certain warmth toward Roland. How could I feel otherwise when he had been so good and kind to me? When he had always looked out for me and volunteered to be my protector?

  I sighed. Life was so complicated. Richard had issued no more ultimatums concerning his twin; but then, these days Richard said little at all, and my attempts to draw him out inevitably met with failure.

  For the hundredth time I considered what I could do to bring Richard and his daughter together, to make us a real family. I was convinced that Richard loved the child. More than once I had seen indications of it in his look, but his stubborn, misguided pride kept him from admitting it.

  I was still certain Sarah was his child. If only I could find that diary. I was sure Caroline had kept one. She had always liked to record her conquests. But where had she put it?

  With an exasperated groan I got to my feet and began to pace the tower. If the diary still existed, it had to be somewhere in this room. Before my arrival Richard had had my chamber completely refurbished and redecorated. There was nothing of Caroline's there, and I was grateful for that.