“I made it perfectly clear that—”
“It’s what you didn’t say that matters,” Louis told her wisely. “He would have to be made of stone to resist you. Mon Dieu! Doesn’t he realize what he has in you? You are recherché. Surely, he could overlook a few faults!”
“I will rewrite the letter,” Angela whispered, very pale and subdued. “I will delete all my unsaid insinuations—”
“No! Send it exactly the way it is—wrinkled, smeared, with all its terrible, wonderful intimations. You will get him back.”
“I don’t want him back.”
“Now you are lying,” Louis said, proffering his handkerchief now that she had stopped crying.
“I am beginning to hate you, Mr. Garamond!”
“Ah! Your spirit is reviving. I think you hate yourself. Why else would you insist on moving into his room when there are dozens of others empty?”
Putting her hands over her face Angela sat very still. This was tomorrow. She had promised herself she would face reality. So she had moved into Scott’s room, had read the poem all the way through; over and over again until she became numb from self-inflicted torture. She had opened her gold locket and put it on the desk in the bedroom so that Scott’s eyes followed her everywhere, and perhaps this had brought on the recurrence of her terrifying, degrading nightmare where she could hate Scott instead of love him. If she could survive this regimen she could face the rest of her life without him.
“I am going to send this letter to your husband as it is,” Louis told her firmly. “You owe it to yourself to see what will happen. Why, milady? Why do you insist on punishing yourself like this?”
“You are doing a very good job at that yourself!”
“I said I was sorry. Why?”
She looked up with wet transparent eyes and said with a bittersweet smile, “It will either kill me or cure me, I don’t really care which.”
It took Louis three days to coax the Duchess of Brightling into forgiving him. He bided his time cajoling her and drawing her out, and above all making her smile. For he was determined to be her friend. She was desperately in need of someone’s protection and he was there to cosset her.
Because of a chance remark of his she had shakily and blindly sought some answers herself and forced Jane to tell her of Keith. Both women had been bundles of exposed snapping nerves when the encounter was over, with Angela dazedly repeating, “I can’t believe I ever did that. I can’t believe I killed your brother.”
Bitterly Jane remonstrated, ”I saw you murder Keith with my own eyes. Ask Owen, ask anyone from the village. Why—why did you have to dredge it all up again? It’s only hurting us both!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let the past be, Angela,” Jane finally said. “It is too unpleasant to exhume. In some ways your amnesia is a blessing. Maybe it is nature’s way of protecting you from what might destroy you. Forget it—forget it! Keith deserved what happened. He drove you to it purposely because he knew he couldn’t live without you.”
Angela smiled tragically with tears standing like diamonds in her eyes. “To die at your lover’s hand instead of your own. What unholy ecstasy!”
Was that her secret wish, her dark desire inadvertently stripped bare beneath the acid of Jane’s disclosures? To think of it was to lose touch with reality. There were the children to live for. They needed her. Jane and Owen were withdrawing from Angela’s realm and Louis Garamond was filling their place.
The very next day Owen called with an extravagant gift that momentarily tore her mind from forbidden longings. He was nervous and too attentive and Angela knew instantly that her last words to Jane had been repeated frantically in his ears. It was difficult to be natural with him, mostly because of the events of the last month. Their relationship would never be the same again.
What a vast relief it was when Louis intervened.
The three of them went to the stable where the new tack was tried on Apollo. It had been specially handmade to exact specifications; maroon leather expertly worked and gold-tooled. The saddle and reins were embossed with a tracery of stylized flowers and birds, intricately entwined with her initials. The stirrups and all metal pieces were gold-plated. The wine color on the white stallion was breathtaking.
“Will you ride now?” inquired Louis at Owen’s departure. “You are always better after a gallop.”
“Later,” said Angela, too wrought up to want anything but solitude.
But later did not come that day.
Instead she had a visitor.
The knock on her door when she had made it clear she did not want to be disturbed was irritating. “Who is it?” she asked shortly, her hands clenching on the arms of the chair where she had been sitting staring vacantly into space for several hours.
There was a brief pause during which she became as tense as an overwound clock.
“Scott.”
No, her whole being silently protested. No! No! No!
Her door wasn’t locked and she flew straight to it but the key was not in it. He had only to turn the knob. She pressed herself against the portal, hands flat, holding it closed. She couldn’t bear to see him only to lose him again.
Louis was right; Scott loved her, he had come as soon as he received the letter. That awful, self-betraying letter. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Angela’s breathing was harsh and ragged in her own ears. Surely he could hear it and feel her agony on the other side of the panel, just inches away.
Taking two deep breaths and swallowing hard she said with a calmness that amazed her, “I don’t want to see you or talk to you. It was all in the letter.”
“Angela, are you all right?”
She felt his hand touch the other side of the door, was enveloped in his concern and anxiety, and wondered if she could answer him and lie. She would never be all right again. Wheeling around with her back to the door Angela managed to keep herself erect with her hand frozen on the doorknob.
“Fine. Go away.”
Her temples throbbed in time with her heart and she was sick with reaction and longing and the desire to open the door and die in his arms. To see his face once more before the coup de grâce.
“I had to be sure, Angela. Are you sure?”
It was evening already. The sky shone jade green banded with apricot through the thick panes of glass. Tree shadows were long and tessellated, moving silently on the floor. He would be spending the night. She had to be strong. He needed to be free.
The knob turned under Angela’s fingers and he hesitated. If she wanted to stop him it had to be now. “I’m sure,” she blurted out breathlessly. “Don’t come in. Please Scott, please!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. The words sounded hysterical even to her. There was a gentle pressure on the door and she screamed, “If you come in I will kill myself! I swear I will do it right in front of you!”
The knob was released instantly.
“Angela! Angela!” Scott groaned and his fist thudded against the door making her jump. “Promise me you will do yourself no harm. Promise: Promise! On the lives of our children.”
“If you go away,” she managed to say hoarsely, “if you promise never to see me again—”
“Yes, yes! I swear I will never try to see you again.” Then very softly, “Oh, Angela, what have I done to you?”
“Then you have my word. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye .... Angel,” came his last reply.
The sky fell in on her. She collapsed to her knees with her hands jammed against her mouth, fingers halfway down her throat to choke off her screams. Angel, Angel! He had called her Angel. She knew that if she started screaming she would never stop.
Within the next hour every object that could possibly be considered lethal was quickly removed from the room by Kate and Maggie under Angela’s orders. Scissors, a letter opener, hat pins, the powders that made her sleep; anything made of glass or china that when broken could cut. The shutters were closed over the windows and barred from the outsi
de, the inside shutters closed over the window panes, and the curtains drawn. She didn’t trust herself to keep her promise. Scott stayed at Brightling Castle for two days during which Angela didn’t eat or sleep or allow another person into her locked room. He didn’t try to see her again.
On the third day he left in the morning and in the afternoon Angela emerged. Gaunt, pale, eyes black-shadowed in her drawn face she walked through the house without speaking to anyone, directly to the stable. Apollo was waiting undemanding, safe, beautifully fitted out; and she mounted and rode away from Brightling Castle without a backward glance; astride like a man.
She had won her battles against all odds, surely now she deserved some peace.
The ride was furious and cleansing and she headed for the beach. It was going to rain. Gray boiling clouds streamed with her, swifter than her horse. The spinning landscape kaleidoscoped by tender green, sienna, pale lilac, sky-blue. The speed increased, wonderful and free, and the first light misting of rain sprayed gently against her face.
They played their game, Angela and the stallion; slightly dangerous but that made it exciting. Both of them knew what to expect and her control of the animal was absolute. The grass was wet but they had done this in the rain before, a little more cautious and alert; the timing must be perfect.
Now, her blood was flowing faster and she laughed for the first time in days. Angela always did, that was part of the game. The void approached. Now! She pulled up. The reins snapped in her hands.
In an instantaneous decision she jerked her boots from the stirrups and launched herself into space. Hitting the wet grass she tumbled over and over before skidding to a stop to lie spread-eagled looking at the spinning sky. Then the screams began.
Not even checking to see if she was all right Angela got up and ran to the edge of the cliff falling down on her hands and knees. Apollo screamed and thrashed on the rocks and sand below, broken and bloodstained and in torment.
“No! No! Apollo!”
The screams of the anguished stallion that had been her true friend grew shriller and she had to stop it—but how? Sliding and falling she hurried down the path to the beach grabbing a huge rock as she went. He must be put out of his agony.
All of his legs were broken and his ribs caved in, bones poking hideously through his skin, gushing crimson—but still he tried to get up. Sobbing wildly Angela threw her scarf over his eyes, raised the rock and brought it smashing down on his head. She had to do it twice.
Then she crawled away and was violently sick, and huddled stunned on the wet sand while the waves lapped at her skirt. The rain washed her face clean and when she could begin thinking again, when she was dry inside from crying and soaked through and shivering with convulsive chills, she forced herself to get up. She made herself look at the red and white corpse steaming in the rain; made herself go and examine the brand new reins that Owen had given her three days ago.
It was obvious what had happened. One of the metal rings was not closed all the way and the leather had slowly worked itself through the gap, pulling free under the extreme tension. She couldn’t stay there any longer, for in a moment she would begin to ask herself why and there were only two answers.
The climb back up the cliff path was slower and Angela found herself limping without being aware of a pain anywhere but in her heart. She started the long walk home with the rain beating black strands of hair across her face. And then the questions came.
Could she have saved Apollo if she had remained in the saddle? Or would she too be lying dead on the beach? She knew why it had happened—the reins—but that brought her round to the thing she didn’t want to contemplate. Had it been an accident or was it done deliberately?
The harness maker could have overlooked tightening the ring, but it wasn’t likely. In a lucent flash she knew the truth. Someone was trying to kill her! Angela stopped and put her hands over her eyes. The attempted smothering, the fire, now this. Too many things had happened and two of them pointed the finger unerringly at—Owen! The silver button from his coat, the reins he had given her; the fire could have been an accident but also could easily have been started by him.
She was sick again. Owen, why Owen? He was her friend. Why would he want her dead?
“Oh no!” said Angela, sitting down abruptly on the soggy ground.
Because he wasn’t her friend. Because he had wanted to be her lover and had almost taken her, hurt and lost and hysterical in the woods, while Jane was giving birth to his premature child. Owen had pleaded with her not to tell Jane and she had refused to answer. He thought Angela would tell her and that’s why he wanted her out of the way.
He had to be mad! If it wasn’t for her quick thinking and unconscious urge for survival it would have happened today. If it wasn’t for Louis Garamond she would have died horribly in the fire. If it wasn’t for Owen’s own incompetence it would have been done the night Gina was born.
But she was still alive and Apollo, her homecoming gift from Scott, was dead. Slowly all the links between them were being severed. The only thing she had left that was theirs was Robert and he would be gone to Scotland soon.
Laughter bubbled uncontrolled from her raw throat. Who was she to defy death? She longed for it. The promise made to Scott would never be broken by her. Owen would do it for her.
She waited impatiently, and nothing else happened. Apollo was passed off as an accident and she had a new horse, a roan gelding, but it wasn’t the same. Owen was biding his time; it must look accidental. Angela trusted herself to open a letter now without the fear of breaking her promise and putting the letter opener through her breast. It was only a matter of time.
The divorce would be final by the end of summer but what did that matter? Scott could be free any day now and she went to her solicitor’s and made a will. When she and the children and Louis were invited on a picnic by Jane and Owen she accepted without hesitation. Pray it wouldn’t happen in front of the children!
During the interval between the invitation and the picnic Angela spent most of her waking moments with Robert and Clare much to Louis’s mystification. When she was gone Scott would care for them and love them, and they would forget her. And even though Clare was not his she knew he would treat the toddler like a daughter, because Clare was hers.
The day finally dawned and Angela hadn’t spent any of the night sleeping. There were too many things to look back upon and regret. How much more cause for remorse would she have had if she could remember beyond the past year? But now she was happy for soon she would be free of a life that was a mere existence, to sleep undisturbed forever by sorrow and pain.
She bathed and had breakfast and gazed at the miniatures in her locket as Maggie laid out her clothes for the day. It was very warm and the maid had chosen a white muslin dress embroidered with daisies. Angela looked at it and shook her head. White would never do. She could still see Apollo brilliant with blood.
“I must have a red dress, Maggie. No other color will do,” Angela said going to the wardrobe and beginning a quick search through dozens of garments.
Fifteen minutes later Maggie produced a simple cotton dress with a smile of triumph. It was a little out of style, extremely plain, rumpled, and bright cherry-red.
“A good pressin’ and it’ll look like new,” the Irish girl promised. “Are ye sure you’ll be wantin’ this on? The other is so pretty and you’ve never even worn it yet. . . .”
“Positive!” Angela declared while the maid made a hasty exit.
A calmness settled on Angela as they made their way to the lake. There were hampers of food, rugs to spread beneath the trees, fishing poles, and tucked beneath Robert’s arm a very battered toy ship. Louis carried Clare, and their golden heads were the same bright color. Angela couldn’t help staring and he, of course, would notice.
“Our coloring is alike,” Louis observed. “You could almost believe she was my daughter.”
“Jane says Clare looks like my mother,” Angela said quietly,
“though I wouldn’t know.”
Robert gazed at her with a solemn intensity that made Angela uneasy. It was almost as if he knew who Clare’s father was. “They sank the Dark Lady,” Robert said abruptly, holding out the toy ship. “This is the only one left. It was Lorna’s but now it’s mine.
“There was blood on the deck and dead men, and sharks ate Angus. Molly went away and never came back. He killed her too.”
“Stop it, Robert!” Louis commanded as the color slowly drained from Angela’s face.
But he continued his tirade, face scarlet with remembered anger. “That Frenchy pirate wanted to kill all of us. He wanted to hurt Lorna but I kicked him and if I had a pistol I would have shot him dead!”
“He is dead now,” Louis told him gently, “and will never hurt anyone again. Yes, Gaston Laporte is most definitely dead.”
Robert stopped and Angela felt as if she were going to be sick. Laporte! Laporte! The name frightened her to death and shudders coursed down her spine in spite of the hot sun. Jane had once said that Clare’s father was a pirate. Gaston Laporte was her daughter’s father.
“How do you know that name?” Angela inquired. “I did not know it myself.”
“Rumors,” Louis said with a shrug. “Isn’t that how I find out everything? I couldn’t allow your son to continue. It was upsetting you both.”
“Thank you,” she said unable to even smile. She was more upset than he would ever know. The day was already a disaster and Angela knew it would only get worse.
But it was a lovely day to die; with a blue silk sky and the chestnut trees in bloom. Honeysuckle drifted sweet upon the breeze and buttercups and moon-daisies etched the grass with color. Swans were on the lake with new offspring and Angela caught her breath because for a moment she thought she had seen two hats floating on the water. Why she had imagined that she couldn’t begin to understand but a sudden longing for Scott melted through her. The feeling was so quick and intense that she closed her eyes with a tremulous sigh of half-remembered passion.
Scott, Scott, she thought, how I love you, my darling husband. But I am no good for you, and we both know it. It will be better this way and you will find someone else.
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