"My lord?" she said.
"I want to go out visiting. Have Mr. Brooks bring around the carriage."
"Mr. Brooks has left Thornwood Abbey, my lord. Mr. Horn is filling in as coachman until a replacement can be found."
"Why did you not inform me of this sooner?" he snapped. He was on edge, and Mrs. Morgan was taking the brunt of his temper.
She did not seem upset by his harsh manner. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I thought it was beneath your concern. You do employee me to keep your household. I did not think one coachman would matter."
In truth it did not matter, but given his foul mood, everything seemed worse than it ought. "In the future, do not presume to make these sort of decisions without letting me know first. Mr. Brooks has been in my family's employ since I was a boy."
"It was not my decision. He disappeared shortly after you returned home." Any other servant would not have dared risk such a blunt speech with their master, but Mrs. Morgan had long been in his employ, and though he was cross with her at this moment, he trusted her judgment in most cases.
This revelation gave him pause. Another disappearance? This cannot be mere coincidence. It would bear investigation; I should inform Mr. Bellwood. He is much more capable of handling these sorts of matters. As he settled this in his mind, Mr. Griffin arrived. Edward informed him of his intentions to head out and to bring him his coat and hat. Mrs. Morgan slipped out to have Mr. Horn bring the carriage around.
Edward went out into the foyer to wait for both the carriage and Mr. Griffin. As he paced back and forth he could not help but glance up the stairs to where Catherine was sleeping. I should check on her, offer some comfort before I leave. Just then Mr. Griffin arrived. We will talk later, then. Mr. Griffin held up his coat and Edward shrugged it on, then crammed the hat tight on his head and walked out.
Mr. Horn had brought the carriage around. It was gray out, as usual, and the coachman had his coat pulled up, covering his stocky neck. His face was bright red with cold. He jumped down from the coachman seat to let Edward into the carriage. He nodded at the man and bundled inside. Edward gave clipped instructions and they headed out. Edward slumped down in his seat and watched the scenery go by in a rush of gray.
They arrived at their destination in short order. Mr. Horn opened the door, and Edward brushed by him and through the neat garden they had parked beside. The cottage was at the edge of the village. It was a modest-sized home, two stories with a steep pink roof and pale blue siding. The garden was a combination of vegetables, herbs, and flowers. A stone walkway led up to the front steps and veranda, which were both trimmed in white.
The garden smelled of lavender and rosemary. The familiar scent did well to calm his agitation. He knocked on the door and waited a few moments for an answer. His aunt Isobel opened the door, wearing an apron over a frilly pink day dress.
"Edward! What a surprise! I did not expect you." Her heart-shaped face was beaming. Seeing her smiling face was like a balm to his soul in these troubled times. He always ran to Aunt Isobel when there was trouble.
"Aunt, I have told you before it is not becoming of a lady of your status to answer the door." The admonishments came without thought. He often tried to correct his aunt's behavior, to little avail.
She flicked her hand at him. "Henrietta went to the village for a few things." As if it were excuse enough for a lady to answer her own door.
"That's another thing: you should hire a man to help about the house. I could help with the wages if you're having trouble."
Isobel just shook her head as she patted him on the cheek. "Take a seat in the parlor. I'll bring you some tea."
He opened his mouth to protest, but his aunt shot him a look that left no room for argument. He sighed and resigned himself to enduring his aunt's peculiarities. In the parlor, his aunt's dog, Johnathan, was snoozing in a chair beneath the window. He was a gift from her late husband by the same name. He was an old pug, his black, squashed muzzle had gone gray a few years ago, and he spent most of his days sleeping.
"Hello, Jo-jo," Edward said. He never could bring himself to call the dog by his deceased uncle's name. He used an old childhood nickname for the previous Johnathan the dog; there had been several over the years. He scratched the dog behind the ears. The dog raised his head to receive the attention before settling back in. Before long he began snoring, loudly.
Isobel came in carrying a tray with a teapot, two cups and saucers, and a plate of pastries. He stood up to help her with her burden. He set it down on the tea cart, shaking his head all the while. He could not understand why she insisted on living in this tiny cottage with one woman who did her cooking, dressing, and cleaning. Isobel had been like a mother to him since his own mother had died when he was young. He would do anything to make her comfortable since she never had children of her own to do so.
She served them tea, adding in just the right amount of sugar and cream without him asking. He took the cup and sipped. The temperature was ideal, not too hot or cold. He admired the flowered furnishings in her parlor. They were light and bright like most of her house. The wood was white and recently painted. In the center of the room was a small table with a vase with yellow flowers.
Isobel sat down across from him on the couch and spread out her skirt. She had shed her apron while preparing the tea, and she looked much more like a lady without it.
"To what do I owe the visit?" she said before taking a sip of her own tea.
Edward set his saucer and tea down on the table. "I realized it has been too long since we visited. Do I need a reason?"
She snorted and crinkled her nose. "Edward, dear, a young gentleman never visits a relative unless there is a reason. Have a pastry and tell me what is on your mind."
Edward selected a pastry from the platter and set it beside his teacup on the saucer. He did not have much of an appetite. "You know me so well, Aunt." He stirred his tea for minute, trying to find the words to explain his predicament. "Catherine collapsed today during her morning exercise."
Isobel gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. "Oh no, what happened?" she said from behind her fingers.
"Rest assured, she is well and relaxing, at the doctor's orders. Dr. Rowan believes she was fatigued and she fainted."
"You doubt the good doctor?"
"I do not doubt Dr. Rowan. He is a good friend and an honest man."
"Then you doubt Lady Thornton?"
"No!"
Isobel smiled and waited for him to correct his statement.
"The gardener found her out by the forest. Do you remember at the dinner party how Colonel Hawthorn brought up those ghastly stories about the Thorn Dwellers?" Edward asked.
"It was quite rude of him, to be certain. What does this have to do with Lady Thornton?"
Edward fidgeted. It was such a strange thing to put in words, but he had no other way to explain it. "I think Catherine has developed some sort of fear of the woods. Normally she stays away, but today she changed her usual route and walked near the woods. It is all superstition, but I think she believes the stories about the Thorn Dwellers."
Isobel laughed; the sound was husky and warm. "I apologize, Edward, it is not my place to judge. To someone who grew up beside that forest, I can attest there is nothing there to fear."
"I agree wholeheartedly. How can I make Catherine see that?"
"I can speak with her, if it would be of assistance?"
He shook his head. "No. I do not want her to think I have betrayed her by speaking with you about it. I will just have to show her there is nothing to be feared. I will show her the good things about Thornwood. We have not gone visiting with the neighbors. Perhaps that would be a good place to start."
"I think that is a wonderful idea, Edward. There are so many beautiful places in Thornwood. I am sure she will come to love it as you and I do, in time."
He took another draught of his tea and nibbled on the pastry. It had a flaky crust with lemon custard filling. These few common ac
ts put him at ease. Once she sees the other side of Thornwood, she will forget all about these fanciful tales. Those Who Dwell in the Thorns are merely myth, and I plan to prove that to her.
Chapter Eleven
The night was alive with scent. It had been too long since he had been released, free to taste the night and howl at the moon. He hungered. He smelled the warm bodies, the furry creatures that scurried in the bushes he wanted to hunt, to tear, to kill. He loped down the road; the moon and stars were his only light. He could smell the humans asleep in their beds. He could hear the night sounds of crickets and owls as they snatched their prey with lightning-quick talons.
He reached the edge of the forest. He smelled them, a pair of rabbits that had come to the lawn to nibble upon the sweet grass out in the open. They were brown with white tails flashing against the dark of the night as they hopped about. One paused and sniffed the air; its long ears swiveled about in agitation. They sensed the threat too late. He launched into the air, pouncing upon the nearer of the two. He pressed it against the ground with his paw, and the rabbit squirmed and screamed. The fear was intoxicating. He bit into its neck, snapping it with one quick jerk of his jaws. The second rabbit had fled, but he paid it no mind as he indulged in his meal. The meat was warm with blood that dribbled down his jowls as he crunched tiny bones between sharp teeth. He groaned with pleasure.
Stop eating, a voice said inside his head.
He raised his muzzle and sniffed the air. He could smell only the scent of pines and the copper tang of blood from his kill. There were humans snoring in the large house behind him. There were fifty of them at least in the massive building. Orange light flickered in a few of the windows on the second floor. He tilted his head, regarding it. His own thoughts were primitive, focused upon animalistic need; the silent voice pricked at his instincts. This was not right.
You must find him, the one who filled the girl's head with lies.
Yes. He remembered his mission now. The hunt would have to wait. He took a final bite of the rabbit and left the remains for the carrion eaters to pick over. He loped over the grassy lawns and slipped past the house without anyone noticing. He ran down the road and stopped near an inn. He had to go slow here. The people here were awake but intoxicated. He could smell the spirits, a sharp scent that muddled the clean scent of flesh and blood.
A pair of drunkards stumbled out of the bar. He rolled his shoulders, preparing to attack if need be. The pair was sharing in a lively debate, their inebriated voices echoing across the silent night. They wobbled down the opposite direction he was heading. He watched them go, longing to chase and hunt. He turned grudgingly, intent once more on his task. He kept to the shadows but came across nothing more than a few night creatures, which gave him a wide berth. At last he reached his destination. A country house covered in the dark of night. The lights were all out but for one window on the second floor. He scented the air. His prey was awake and waiting for him. He ran to gain speed and then lunged into the air with powerful hind legs. He landed on the roof just beneath the second-floor window. He pressed his muzzle against the glass and saw the man in a chair, a book open in front of him.
He took a few steps back and then broke through the window. The breaking glass bit into his skin, and the pain was blinding. He roared. The man had jumped up and was running for a gun mounted above the fireplace. The beast shook off the bits of glass, which rained down on the carpet, and howled. It was a cry of exhalation, and desire.
The man was struggling to pull down the gun and turned his back to the creature for a moment too long. The beast charged the man and latched onto his shoulder. The man fell down and brought the musket with him. He was too close to aim it, and instead he beat the beast with it.
The blows were more nuisance than painful. He bit down on the musket and ripped it from the man's fumbling hands. The musket went flying across the room and landed behind a desk beneath the window. His mouth salivated; the man's fear was a tantalizing perfume, much more satisfying than the hare's. The beating of a human heart filled his ears; it was music to him. The song of his heartbeat and hot blood pumping in and out was driving him mad. His hunt had been interrupted, but now he would feast.
He howled again. The man thrashed about, kicking and hitting the beast. The beast suffered his blows to enjoy the struggle a few more moments before he administered the final kill.
The man collapsed backwards, sprawled on the ground, defenseless and heaving. "I've always been careful; why me? Why now! I want nothing to do with your blasted woods," Col. Hawthorn pleaded.
The beast opened his jaws in a mockery of a smile. The colonel seemed resigned as he closed his eyes. He would have preferred it if he had fought a little more, but meat was meat. He went for the throat and ended the colonel's life in a spray of blood across the fireplace, which filled the room with smoke.
Chapter Twelve
Someone knocked at the door. Catherine jumped at the noise and clutched her blanket closer to her chest. She stared at the door, considering sending whoever it was away. It had been days since she left her room. At some point you are going to have to face Edward, she told herself. He has questions that I should be answering.
"Lady Thornton, I have come to see if you are feeling any better," Dr. Rowan said, though his voice was muffled by the door he was standing behind.
She relaxed her grip on the blanket and let it slide down into her lap. There was no getting around this visit, no matter how much she would like to.
"Come in, Dr. Rowan," she said.
The door creaked open. The doctor filled the doorway. He was dressed for a social call, with coat and cravat. His vest was gray and smartly pressed, though it was stretched tight over his gut, which hung over the waistband of his pants. Catherine peered behind the doctor, half expecting Edward to try to rush in after him. A pang of regret rippled through her upon seeing the doctor alone. What did I expect when I keep pushing him away?
"I am alone," the doctor said, perhaps reading the distress on her face.
Catherine settled back against the pillows and turned her head to the window.
"How are you feeling today, Lady Thornton?" Dr. Rowan asked.
Catherine looked at her hands folded on the coverlet in front of her. She felt weak. Her limbs seemed too heavy and her legs might as well have been useless bits of twine. She felt it impolite to say this and said instead, "Fine, thank you, Doctor." This is the answer she gave him every time he visited.
He frowned at her. The wrinkles on his forehead rolled over his thin red eyebrows and made his balding head look like a mountain-scape. "Your husband has been asking after you; perhaps today you will let him in?"
"No!" Catherine shouted.
The doctor took her outburst with good grace. He knows I am mad, and he fears upsetting me. That is why he has been gentle thus far, but how much longer can I count on his goodwill?
"I am sorry I shouted," Catherine whispered. "You have not told Lord Thornton about my condition, have you?"
"No, I have not. He believes you are suffering from a severe case of fatigue."
He turned away from her, fiddled with his bag for a moment, and pulled out his stethoscope. Catherine sat up straighter in the bed, preparing to be examined. She braced herself for the cold touch of the metal stethoscope against her skin by gripping her covers in her fist. Though he insisted he warmed it, the device always felt as if it were cold enough to burn her skin. It was wrong of her to do so, but she suspected it was his way of punishing her for her silence. He stood behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder but did not apply the stethoscope.
"Dr. Rowan?" Catherine said. "Is anything the matter?"
He inhaled and she could sense he was preparing to tell her something she did not want to hear. "I think it's time you told Edward about your... attacks."
"I cannot." She twisted around to face the doctor. His expression was full of pity. Does he not realize that if I tell Edward the truth, he will set me aside for M
iss Ashton? She is most likely waiting for such an occasion to take my position. She was embarrassed by her own thoughts. However, these ideas had been haunting her during her convalescence.
"I know it is difficult to admit..." He cleared his throat. "However, Lord Thornton is a reasonable man and he does love you. I think he will understand."
Catherine bit her lip to stop herself from shouting another emphatic no. "I will consider it," she said from behind pressed lips.
The doctor gave her a smile, seemingly convinced. He continued his examination. As usual he found no sign of illness or any way to explain her sudden lethargy.
"Just rest, Lady Thornton," he said in parting.
Catherine was glad to see him go. Though he was a kind man, his prying had grown tiresome. She had always been a private person. It was shameful enough to have her peculiarity exposed to one person, but the very thought of confessing her condition to Edward sent her into a panic. If she was being honest with herself, part of her hesitance stemmed from Mr. Thorn. His words circled through her thoughts whenever she considered telling Edward the truth. There are strange things that you pretend not to see even when they're staring you in the face. You know it's true, and it's time you admit it aloud.
She thought of the phenomena she had witnessed since she arrived at Thornwood, the neighbors' rumors and whispers about Those Who Dwell in the Thorns. Could it be that all those things were real? She had begun to doubt everything she believed. Her entire life she had been told the things she saw could not possibly be real, but what if they were?
Catherine closed her eyes. These kinds of thoughts only led down dangerous roads. As soon as she was feeling better, she would present herself to Edward and pretend none of this had ever happened. If Edward and the others could sweep whatever was inconvenient under the rug, then so could she. I managed to avoid these fits for six years, I can do it again. I have been under too much stress lately, is all.
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