The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  This room, however, had been left undisturbed. Caroline's chest of things was still in the armoire, her robe still hanging there.

  Logic, I reminded myself. Use logic. But I had looked everywhere in this room and found—

  Not everywhere! I stopped in mid-stride and hurried to the armoire. My hands trembled as I opened the carved doors. What if the robe was gone? What if someone had taken it? But it was still hanging there.

  I reached out, but something stopped me. I did not want to touch it. Unreasonable fear tried to paralyze me, but I could not call a servant to remove the robe for me. I must take it out and examine it myself. Alone.

  Papa, I thought. What would Papa do? I forced myself to lift it down. The velvet was cold against my fingers, almost slimy. It made me think of death and decay. I shivered. The robe still gave off a faint indication of Caroline's scent, and though I did not really believe in ghosts, I felt her presence in the tower.

  For a moment I tasted panic, remembering my terror at her scent invading my room. I reminded myself that that was all behind me. There had been nothing supernatural about it. It was just a trick of Rosamund's—and she was gone. Gritting my teeth, I carried the robe to the cot.

  If only the room were not so dark. I did not want to take the robe to my chamber, I did not want Richard to see it, and I did not want anything of Caroine's in the room that was now mine.

  Carefully I ran my fingers over the material. It did not seem a likely hiding place for anything so bulky as a diary, but still I persisted. This robe was my last hope. We had not been able to find the secret doorway in the stones of the hall, and even if we had, I could not imagine Caroline using such a hiding place. She would not want anything to do with a place that smelled musty or might get her clothes dirty.

  I examined every inch of that robe from its lacy collar down to the entire round of the hem. There was nothing. Stilt I felt certain that her diary existed.

  I hung the robe back in the armoire. I would dispose of it later. Then I lifted out the little chest and carried it to the writing desk.

  I took out the scent bottle, laid the silver-backed mirror and brush on the table, and again checked the inside of the chest. There was no lining. No false bottom. It was just a small chest used to store things. With an angry exclamation I slammed it down on the desk. The mirror jumped.

  I picked it up. The silver chasing on the back was intricate and detailed. Cupid leaned over Psyche as she slept. Idly I traced the pattern of a leafy vine, its intricate design teasing my fingertips. I bent to look more closely.

  The design was so well done that for a moment I lost myself in the story. Then I sighed again. I must find a way to reach Richard, to make him accept Sarah as his daughter. Otherwise we would never know real happiness. And our new child...

  I picked up the hairbrush. It was quite heavy, with a large handle that fit awkwardly into my palm. How curious. Caroline had always favored small dainty things. Why had she chosen such an outsized brush?

  I examined the back. The same scene decorated it. Cupid and Psyche now seemed stupid as my temper rose. I uttered an oath, and then, hearing myself, I sighed. I had promised myself I would stop cursing. After all, there were the children to consider.

  This was all so aggravating, to feel so certain and not be able to prove anything. I looked down at the brush. In the candlelit dimness the silver chasing twinkled, but I did not see the beauty of the carving or the fine workmanship. I saw Caroline laughing at me. Once more she had bested me. Once more she had taken what I wanted, what should have been mine.

  "No! I won't let you!” Grabbing up the brush, I threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall with a harsh explosive sound and fell to the floor.

  "Well, Vanessa,” I said, feeling more than a little foolish, “that was a childish thing to do."

  I crossed the room to retrieve it. At least no one would know if it was damaged, and there had been no witnesses to my bad temper.

  I bent to pick it up, and it came apart in my hand. My God! The handle was hollow, and sticking part way out of it was a roll of thin paper.

  My fingers trembling, I carried it back to the desk. Carefully I unrolled the paper. There it was—cryptic little notes with initials beside them. I pored over Caroline's fine spidery writing, determined to learn everything I could.

  There was precious little to learn. If the numbers were dates and the initials those of men—my head was swimming. Caroline had known intimately far more men than even I had imagined. She had been with some of them many times, and others only once.

  I forced myself to go slowly. I did not want to miss something of importance. I had been at my task for some time when a noise brought my head erect. Hurriedly I stuffed the papers into the pocket of my gown. Then I sat very still, my hands in my lap, every cell in my body listening, waiting. My eyes were fixed on the door, and I strained to see more than the dimness would allow.

  Though I sat in utter silence for long long minutes, every sense alert for the slightest sound, nothing more happened. I heard no more noises, and not a soul appeared.

  Finally I decided that my imagination had been playing tricks on me. With a sigh I took the papers out of my pocket and spread them out again.

  The record of Caroline's betrayal was a lengthy one. I had almost stopped, sickened as I was by the scope of her treachery, and then I saw it. I bent eagerly over the entry. “Told Richard Sarah not his. Served him right for bringing me here. Will never tell him she really is his. Let him suffer."

  In stunned silence I read it over twice. At last, at long last, I had what I needed to bring Richard and his daughter back together. I could hardly believe it. At last we had a chance to be a complete family.

  It was not good of me, but I also told myself that once Richard knew the extent of Caroline's infidelities, he would be so filled with disgust that he would stop thinking of her with longing.

  My first impulse was to run out, to go to Richard and show him what I had found, but for once common sense moved faster than my feet.

  Suddenly fearful, I clutched the papers to my breast. They were so important. I must keep them safe.

  The voice of logic spoke again. The diary had been safe in its original hiding place for over a year. Why not return it there?

  Carefully I rolled up the sheets and pushed them back in the handle of the brush. A little twist and the brush was whole. No one could ever suspect what treasure it held.

  I replaced the mirror and brush, and the scent bottle, closed the chest and returned it to the armoire. Richard! I must go to him immediately with this wonderful news.

  My heart was singing, and I wanted to shout it from the housetops; but I could not tell anyone else before I told Richard. That would not be right.

  This could be the news that would change his whole life, that would make everything right for us and the children.

  I grabbed my candle and hurried out. It was all I could do to go slowly on the narrow spiral stair. But, I reminded myself, there was the new child to think of. I slowed my steps.

  Reaching the hall, I hurried to my room. As I scrambled into my riding habit, I tried to remember if I had heard where Richard was going, but it didn't really matter. Wherever he was, I would find him and tell him the wonderful news.

  Then I remembered something else. Sarah would be waking from her nap, and I had promised to read to her. Grabbing up my hat, I hurried to the nursery. The dark halls seemed somehow brighter and more cheerful, I laughed aloud. Things were going to be so different.

  I entered the nursery quietly, knowing Sarah would still be sleeping. Penrose and Creighton were sitting side by side before the fire.

  Penrose looked up from a lap full of papers and smiled. “Hello, Vanessa. I am making Sarah a story—about a horse with wings."

  Creighton nodded complacently over her knitting needles. “Tis marvelous the way she takes to him. Warms the heart, it does."

  My own heart skipped a beat, and I almost blurted
out my news; but Richard must hear it first. “I'm going out,” I said hastily. “Tell Sarah I'll see her later."

  Penrose frowned. “She'll be disappointed. So will I."

  I patted his head as I would have Sarah's, thinking that just a few short weeks before I had been suspecting him of the most awful things. “I'll come in later. Before dinner. You can tell me your story then."

  His eyes lit up at that. We must be careful, I thought as I hurried out. In our new-found happiness we must not forget to include Penrose.

  I rushed down the stairs and out the front door, almost colliding with Roland in my haste.

  "Vanessa!” He caught at my waist to steady me. “Where are you off to in such haste?"

  "To find Richard. I've—I've something to tell him."

  Roland smiled. “It must be something wonderful.” He patted my arm. “Have a care, Vanessa. You are precious to us."

  I blushed and backed off a step. I could not help it. Sometimes Roland's closeness made me uncomfortable. Certainly he had not presumed on his feelings for me; but I knew that he had them, and it was disconcerting to know that I was loved by my husband's twin.

  "Yes, yes,” I murmured. “I shall.” I knew he was thinking my behavior quite odd, but I could not stop to explain.

  I turned away, but Roland put a detaining hand on my arm. “I hope Richard is all right. These silent spells—” he sighed deeply—"they are like he used to have, before an awful rage. He was silent for weeks before he pushed me—and before Caroline's death.” Roland paused and removed his hand. “But here, I am keeping you from your ride."

  I nodded and hurried out to the stable, where Toby greeted me cheerfully and saddled the stallion. “His Grace has gone to the village,” he said. “Told me he'd be home afore dinner."

  "Maybe I shall meet him,” I said absently as he tossed me up.

  I pointed the animal toward the village. As always it was wonderful to be on horseback. Eager for a run, the stallion needed a strong hand to hold him back. Instead I gave him his head, and we galloped off down the small road toward the bigger one.

  For some moments I lost myself in the joy of the run; but finally I slowed the stallion to a walk, and then my troubles began. It was as if I had suddenly opened a door in my mind and a host of terrible thoughts rushed out. Thoughts I had refused to consider before now shoved and elbowed around in there like a crowd of demons.

  I uttered an oath. I knew Roland meant well. His concern for me was obvious. But why must he remind me of Richard's rages now—when I had such happy news?

  Even worse, what if Roland were right? What if seeing the list of Caroline's indiscretions brought on another of Richard's rages?

  How had Caroline died? And why? I had never been able to believe that the stallion was responsible for my sister's death, but I had not carried the thought to its logical conclusion. Now I did. If the stallion was not responsible, then some person was behind this, some person who hated Caroline. This same person had tried to hurt me.

  Without thinking I pulled up on the reins, almost startling the great horse into rearing. For the first time I let myself recognize the truth. Someone had really tried to kill me. It was a distressing thought.

  Suddenly, somehow, I knew with certainty that it had not been Rosamund. I should have realized it earlier if I had not been trying to avoid facing the fact. I had not wanted to let myself think it.

  Now the thought had escaped. It was there in the open, and I had to confront it.

  One of my hands went protectively to my belly. Now there was this new life to think of, the new life that would bring us together, make us into a family.

  But—who had wanted Caroline dead?

  One by one I reviewed the members of the family. The dowager had hated my sister, but she could not have lifted me onto the horse. Penrose had believed his mother guilty of Caroline's death. Roland had refused Caroline's advances. And Richard—

  Oh, God! Richard had by far the biggest motive. She had lied and cheated and dragged his name through the mud. She had destroyed his love for Sarah.

  Richard could have killed her. In one of his rages he could have struck her and then covered it up by putting her in Mercury's stall, letting the horse take the blame. Then he had refused to have the horse put down—because, of course, he knew the stallion was innocent.

  The things that had happened to me—being locked in the tower, the hauntings and the abduction, the accident on the moor—they had happened when Richard was not with me.

  Why hadn't I seen it before? Richard could be the one behind everything. He had Caroline's scent. He knew about the secret passageway. He had access to the stable and the tower room.

  Dear God! What was I going to do? Richard, my beloved Richard, might really have murdered my sister. And what did he intend to do to me?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The horse walked on for some minutes while I rode in stunned and horrified silence. I could not believe these awful thoughts were possible. How could I suspect my husband? Yet all the facts pointed to him. Every single thing I considered led back to Richard.

  Finally I grew aware that I was still headed toward the village. I swung the stallion's head around. I could not face Richard while I was in such a condition. I must rid my mind of the terrible things I was thinking.

  The ride back was dreadful. By the time I reached the stable I was near tears. I threw the stallion's reins to Toby and hurried up the walk toward the castle. I must get to my room before—

  But I no sooner got into the great hall than Sarah was there, tugging at my riding habit and crying, “Nessie, Nessie! Guess what?"

  I composed myself as best I could and tried to answer her. “Yes, dear? What is it?"

  "Uncle Roland has promised me a present. A big, big present.” She clapped her hands. “Do you think it's a pony?"

  My head was whirling, but I tried to remain calm, to think of the child. “I don't think so, dear."

  Sarah looked disappointed, but I could not comfort her then. It was all I could do to keep from screaming my misery aloud. “Please, dear, go back to the nursery now. You will get your present."

  Sarah nodded. “Yes, I know I will. But first I have to find Penrose. I want him to be there when I get it.” And off she went.

  I turned toward the stairs. Roland came toward me out of the gloom. When he saw me, his face twisted into a frown. “Vanessa! My dear, you look absolutely horrible.” Gently he pulled my arm through his. “Come, let's go into the library. You must sit down."

  I let him lead me in and set me before the fire. I felt so strange, so unlike myself. Roland rang for tea and poured me a cup himself. He pressed it into my hands and watched while I sipped.

  "Now, Vanessa, tell me. Whatever is wrong? A while ago you left here in such good spirits. And now you look as though you've seen a ghost."

  I would ask Roland, I thought, my numbed brain trying to function. He knew his brother. Roland would tell me this dreadful thing could not be true.

  "It's—Richard. I'm afraid—afraid that—” It was so hard to say the words. “It seems that—he could have killed Caroline."

  Roland did not seem surprised. “I suppose he could have,” he agreed. “But then everyone seems to feel she deserved it."

  Horror washed over me. “But—"

  Roland sighed. “Come, come, Vanessa. I do not believe it was premeditated. Probably it happened accidentally. I'm sure Richard would never hurt you.” Roland stared at me, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Richard is not a murderer. But why were you rushing off to look for him?"

  I wanted to continue the discussion of Caroline's death, but I was afraid. Roland, too, thought Richard might have done it. Because of my fear I looked for something else to talk about. “I found a piece of Caroline's diary. It says—” I stopped suddenly, aware that I had said too much. This news should be told to Richard first.

  Roland looked startled. Then he frowned, his dark brows coming together. “You will want to
destroy it, of course."

  "Oh, no!"

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?"

  "It—it contains proof that Sarah is really Richard's child.” I could not help it. I had to tell someone, and he had been so helpful, so kind to me.

  Roland shook his head. “I don't see how that could be. Caroline told anyone and everyone that he wasn't the child's father."

  Poor Richard, I thought. How he had suffered because of my sister. Still he loved her. And perhaps had killed her. The thought almost took my breath away. “It's true,” I said. “It's there in black and white. In her own handwriting."

  Roland looked perturbed. “Could—could I see it? Perhaps then I can tell—"

  "Tell what?"

  He patted my arm. “How Richard may react to its contents."

  I nodded. That made sense. I did not want to send Richard into one of his rages. Had he been in a rage when he ... “Yes. Will you help me then? Help me decide how to tell him?"

  Roland smiled. “Of course, my dear. But let's go before he comes in."

  Minutes later we were standing in the tower room. Roland held both candles while I opened the armoire. “She hid the papers in the handle of her hairbrush,” I explained, pulling out the chest.

  I crossed to the desk, and Roland followed, putting the candles down there. I took out the silver hairbrush. “You just turn the handle,” I told him. “Like this."

  From beside me Roland let out a great sigh. “May I see them?"

  "Of course.” I turned and held the pages out to him. “You'll need to get close—"

  To my surprise, he almost tore the papers from my outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he said, his voice strangely husky. “Now I have everything I need."

  Suddenly fearful, I looked up at him. Dear Lord! This man who stared back at me with frozen eyes and an evil smile could not be the Roland I knew. “Roland, what is it? I do not understand,” I said.

  He laughed. It was a sound of such complete evil that I swear the babe within me leaped with fear. My legs almost refused to hold me erect, and I struggled to keep my senses.