Whispers in the Wind

by Janet Woods

  Her blood ran cold for a moment. Had he found out what she’d done? Was that why she hadn’t seen him for a while? ‘What is it?’ she said, half choking on her dread.

  ‘I was told we created an infant between us. Is it true?’

  The relief was enormous. This she could handle. ‘Who told you?’

  He didn’t answer her question. ‘It’s true, then?’

  She nodded, the anguish of that moment thickening in her throat. She had to tell him about their infant, he deserved that, at least.

  ‘Where is the child? Did you leave him with someone to raise?’

  ‘Would that I could have … He arrived much too soon when he had not the strength to take a breath.’

  ‘I did father the child, didn’t I … you’re certain?’

  ‘Who else would have fathered …’ Her eyes widened. ‘No … no! Edgar Pelham might have been a cheat, a liar, and a bully, but he was not a man … at least, not in that sense of the word.’

  She lifted the locket from under her bodice and placed it in his hands. ‘Open it.’

  Looking mystified, he did as she asked. Facing the miniature of Ryder and kept in place by a smooth oval of glass, a thin swirl of fine, dark hair told its own story.

  Ryder inspected it for a short time, and then he gently pressed the locket back in her palm again, his eyes slightly moist. ‘Am I to take it that you kept me close to your heart for all this time? I’m flattered. Did our son have a name?’

  Bless him for believing her. ‘I called him after you. We … that is, with Sarah’s help I buried him in the place where his little life ended … under a tree in Boston. It was a pretty spot but I hated leaving him there by himself.’

  ‘May he rest there in peace, then.’ Ryder gave a faint smile. ‘Thank you for telling me, I’m sorry, it must have been hard to cope with,’ and he drew her into his arms. For a short time she clung to him, the feeling of grief shared uppermost. His breath brushed gently against the top of her head, their hearts beat as one as they shared a moment of sorrow for the infant they’d never known.

  Adele drew comfort from being in Ryder’s arms, but as well as the comfort there was danger in such sneaking tender awareness. It would encourage her to drop her guard. Ryder would forgive her many things, she knew, but she doubted if he’d want to be associated with a woman who’d committed a horrific crime such as murder.

  ‘I must go home now,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take you.’

  She didn’t argue, and soon, Henry was picking his way through the copse, giving little whickers and grumbles. Ryder’s body was warm as she clung to him. The air was humid and the land basked in a haze of its own making. The horse picked up speed when they reached the road that took them to Brackenhurst.

  The village was deserted, except for the ducks, seated in the shade of the long grass at the edge of the pond. Somewhere a dog gave a muffled bark as it guarded its master’s home. Gypsy answered.

  A cloud of midges danced in a frenzy over the pond, which had a timelessness to it, so it seemed to her that time had gone backwards and everything was as it had always been.

  Ryder swung his leg over Henry’s neck and leaped to the ground, then took her by the waist to bring her down.

  She remembered the crumpled scrap of paper she’d found under his bed and took it from her pocket. ‘I found this.’

  He smoothed it out, smiled, and then kissed her – just a small one on her forehead. ‘Thank you … I thought it was safe in my bedside drawer.’

  ‘Is it precious then?’

  He mounted, and gazed down at her, his nimble fingers busy folding the paper back into its creases without him looking at it, as though he’d done the same thing many times before.

  Her mouth dried when the paper took shape as a boat.

  ‘Yes, it’s precious. It’s a note from a lady telling me she would love me for ever. I received it the day before we were due to wed.’ He kissed the paper boat before sliding it into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Odd how you can look for something and when you think you’ve found it, it still manages to elude you. Love sailed off in a paper boat. The thing is, Del, despite what’s happened I think … know I still love you, and that’s causing me problems.’

  She hadn’t wanted to become a problem to him. If she’d known he was still alive she’d …

  You would what?

  Damn Ryder! And damn that Indian snake for not doing its job properly. She cancelled that thought immediately. How did she know what she’d have done? Mourned for him for ever, she supposed. All the same, she’d never have come back here had she known Ryder was still alive. Why hadn’t he just left her to die in the snow?

  Adele had no choice but to harden her heart. ‘It will do you no good, Ryder. You must forget about me and find someone else.’

  ‘How can I forget you when you walk the same lanes, breathe the same air and live in the beat of my heart? I found you under my bed this day. Tell me it wasn’t my imagination, that I’m not going mad.’

  ‘It wasn’t and you are not.’

  ‘Tell me you don’t love me.’

  ‘I don’t love you.’

  He tossed that remark aside with a grin. ‘You’re lying. I know you do.’

  ‘I love you as a sister would. That’s the way it must be between us.’ She couldn’t tell him she adored every beautiful hair on his head. She turned and fled into the cottage, grateful for its safety.

  ‘You don’t have to lock me out. If I wanted to gain entry I’d tear the door from its hinges,’ he murmured against the panel. ‘Once day I might do that. I’ll carry you off to my lair and eat you.’

  She stifled a giggle, knowing he was capable of doing exactly what he’d said he’d do if she provoked him enough.

  She was relieved when she heard Henry clop off. Ryder had left her feeling warm and relaxed.

  That’s what being in love feels like.

  Hugging the thought to herself she curled up on the old couch, dog and cats making themselves comfortable against her. There was something comforting about stroking a cat and feeling its throaty purr vibrating against her fingertips. She gazed drowsily at the light coming through the window and began to drift. Lord, but what a mess her life had become.

  She hadn’t asked to fall in love, especially not twice as hard and twice as strongly as she had before. There was only one thing she could think of that might eventually resolve matters between them. Hal had said that Ryder wanted a wife and a family. She should leave the district and allow him to fulfil his plans.

  Nearly asleep, she thought she heard the sound of a cart, an everyday sound that was somehow reassuring. The gate creaked. Her aunts were home early.

  The cats stopped purring, raised their heads and stared at the door. A growl rattled in Gypsy’s throat.

  There was a knock and Gypsy threw himself from the couch and became a quivering frenzy of barks and snarls that would have done credit to the fiercest of guard dogs. The cats fled to the top of the stairs, where they arched their bodies and tails and watched, poised for further flight should the need arise.

  Blood pounding against her eardrums Adele followed after the cats and cautiously positioned herself behind the shadow of a curtain on the landing window.

  The ducks quacked and then fell quiet, as though the threat didn’t concern them. The porch roof effectively blocked her vision. The world fell quiet again and waited.

  There was a grunt and a scraping noise, as if somebody had tried the door. Thank goodness she’d locked it. All the same she felt uneasy, and her mind jumped from windows to doors in case she’d left any open when she’d gone tearing off to Madigan House.

  The gate creaked again, and again came the cacophony of animal warning sounds. This time a Hawthorn tree in full bloom blocked her vision and the smell attracted the bees so the air was filled with a low humming sound. Beyond the lower branches a barely discernible figure in black clicked its fingers. She ducked her head to get a better look, but could
only see the man’s back.

  The cart moved off.

  Gypsy stopped his noise and thrust his snout into her hand, cocky that his effort to rout the marauders had succeeded and seeking his reward, the contentment of having his ear fondled.

  ‘I wish I were as brave,’ she told him. ‘As it is I’m becoming frightened of my own shadow. I can’t suspect villainy from every stranger who knocks at the door, can I? Let’s go down. I’ll share my pasty with you, and then we’ll go to the meadow and pick some strawberries so I can make some jam. It would be a shame to waste them.’

  She fetched her pasty from the larder. It was made from leftover pastry, meat and vegetables. There was a pie with vegetables for supper. It sat on the marble shelf waiting to be warmed through, and it looked delicious. She’d made an almond tart and a jug of custard for a pudding.

  She left a note on the kitchen table so her aunts wouldn’t worry about her absence from the cottage if they returned early, and then made sure the larder door was firmly closed against the cats. She locked the back door behind her.

  Outside, the air was full of thistle seed, as if thousands of tiny angels had been released to test their wings. Goldfinches darted amongst them, flashes of orange, yellow and brown.

  Gypsy yapped somewhere, warning finches and field mice alike of his imminent arrival as well as his whereabouts. The gate was padlocked and she climbed nimbly over its bars and down the other side.

  It was a little early for berry picking, but there were enough ripe ones to make a pie with. As Adele worked, her fingers and mouth stained red. The sun ate two hours from the horizon, polishing the sky to bronze. Her back began to ache but she kept working until the small basket was filled to the brim. Slowly she straightened and stretched her back against her hands.

  It was late afternoon and the shadows lengthened stealthily along the ground. Gypsy came when she called his name, leaping out of the tall meadow grass and disappearing under it again, as though he was on a spring.

  Another movement caught her attention, more subtle. Ryder was leaning on the gate watching them. He blew her a kiss. ‘I’ve come to save you from the curse of the strawberry field.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten enough to bring me out in red lumps. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Your aunts have invited me to stay and eat supper with you and they’re eager to tell you about the fair.’

  She became suddenly aware of herself – aware of her untidy state, of the bonnet with its ribbons undone and her hair, a tangle of curls. When she tried to scrub the berry stains from her mouth with her handkerchief he laughed. ‘You’ll have to wash your face in the stream. Here … pass over your basket while you climb over the gate. You picked quite a few considering it’s so early in the year.’

  ‘It’s been warm. As for climbing over the gate, I’m a woman. I no longer climb over gates. It’s undignified.’

  ‘Then how did you get in when the gate has a padlock, fly?’ The corner of his mouth dimpled. ‘You won’t climb a gate but you hide under the beds of gentlemen instead. A much more dignified pursuit.’

  ‘Oh, you … you are aware of the perfectly innocent circumstances of that event.’

  ‘Ah yes … but you should have considered the consequences.’

  She passed the basket of strawberries through the bars. ‘I gave you no reason to provide me with a consequence. Pray tell me what it is, when it would be your word against mine.’

  He ate a handful of fruit before answering, and then set the basket down. He gave her a teasing look. ‘Come on … climb to the top and give me your hands. In return I won’t tell Luke Ashburn that you’ve stolen the berries from his meadow.’

  ‘But this is my father’s—’ She shrugged. ‘We always used to pick strawberries here, remember?’

  ‘Yes … I remember, and blackberries in the autumn. We always used to eat more than we saved.’

  ‘I will send Mr Ashburn a pot of strawberry conserve for his breakfast toast, if there is any berries left by the time we get home.’

  She gained the topmost of the five wooden bars without mishap, and he reached out for her. Hands spanning her waist he lifted her down, setting her gently on her feet.

  They headed for Duck Pond Cottage. After a while he bore her hand to his mouth and left a kiss in the palm before entwining his fingers through hers.

  The dusk closed around them, a soft, clinging hug of indigo silk. One by one the stars came out and the new moon offered them a slice of a smile. They were at one with the world, she and Ryder – at one with each other, as they had been as children.

  It was a moment of perfect happiness.

  Eleven

  ‘Somebody left our trunks on the doorstep, so they weren’t lost after all,’ Sarah said when Ryder followed Adele into the cottage. ‘I’ve forgotten what was in them after all this time, haven’t you, Adele? We’ve dragged them into the morning room. Aunt Prudence said they would be out of the way there.’ Sarah took her by the hand. ‘Come and look.’

  ‘I’ll take the strawberries to the kitchen and see if your aunts need a hand,’ Ryder said, and headed off.

  Adele thought, so that was what the visitor had been about. He’d been a messenger and had simply delivered the trunks. If she’d left by the front door instead of the back, she would have seen them earlier. Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be towed towards the morning room, where she stared down at two familiar and scruffy wooden trunks.

  A smell of mould rose from them and she felt sick when she saw the name stencilled on the lid. Edgar Pelham – architect. Southampton. The lock had been forced. Not that the trunk had contained much of value, she recalled, unless one counted the remains of a man’s life.

  Adele hated the fact that Edgar Pelham had intruded into her life again. Would she never be free of his shackles? She had a strong urge to drag the trunks into the garden and set fire to them. What if he had lived … what if he’d clawed his way on board the ship in the dead of night and crawled into one of the trunks? What if he’d died there … or worse, was still in there, alive, coiled up like a hibernating snake waiting to strike?

  She shook herself for being silly and fanciful. ‘I don’t think there will be much of value in the trunks. We only had an extra skirt and bodice apiece to our name.’ How glorious it was to have a full wardrobe of pretty garments, even if they were a little out of date. Nobody worried much about such things in the country, unless it was for a special occasion.

  Sarah said. ‘He … my father … may have put his trade journal in it.’

  ‘Yes … he may have. It wasn’t in his cabin, but then, neither was my journal.’ Unease dug its fist into her stomach. What if he’d read it? Then she thought, does it matter, if he is dead? After all, he couldn’t tell anyone what was in it.

  She must stop thinking about herself and remember that Sarah was Edgar’s child, even though he’d denied it to the girl on several occasions. Surely Sarah was too similar in looks for Edgar not to have fathered her, and she was bound to be curious about her kin.

  ‘Is there anything in the trunk you wish to keep?’

  Sarah gave her a hug. ‘I know you’re reluctant to deal with this. Even the sight of his name makes you withdraw into yourself. We’ll go through it in the morning when we’re stronger and see if there’s anything of interest.’

  ‘Good. Now, let’s go and light the candles, and provide some company for Lord Madigan.’

  Sarah pulled a twig from Adele’s hair with several leaves attached. ‘Aren’t you going to tidy yourself up first?’

  ‘Lor … Why did he have to stay for dinner when I’m not dressed suitably to entertain an earl.’ She gazed in the mirror, and then placed her hands over her eyes so she didn’t have to look at her windblown hair. ‘Do I look untidy?’

  Sarah grinned. ‘Disgustingly so … but then, so does he.’

  Dropping her hands Adele yelped, ‘I look a fright,’ and she took the stairs two at a time and quickly changed into a gown of a
mber taffeta with a muslin overskirt – one that had been left behind when she’d fled. It had been one of her favourites. Picking up her brush she attacked her hair, wincing every time she encountered a knot. Finally, she got it under control and secured it at the nape of her neck with an arrangement of two silk roses and bronze ribbons. Taking a deep breath she ventured forth.

  Ryder was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs when she went down. ‘You look lovely, my Del.’

  She felt lovely. No … it wasn’t that. She felt loved. In turn that emotion urged her to tell him what he wanted to know. That niggling urge to confess was rapidly becoming a need, and therein laid the danger. Ryder had studied some law and in time could serve as a lay magistrate. No matter that she’d been defending herself, she should have said so in her statement. Should her deed come to light there would be consequences.

  As usual she brushed it to the back of her mind, like dust under a carpet. There it diffused into a murky black stain. Sometimes she buried the terrible deed so deeply that her memory of it changed shape, and she nearly forgot the details altogether – until Edgar Pelham’s name was raised.

  But she would not spoil this day by being melancholy at the end of it.

  Over dinner, Ryder kept them all laughing with greatly exaggerated tales of his exploits in India with Hal Stover, and he persuaded Adele to share some of their earlier childhood memories.

  Her aunts gave commentary on the fair. Prudence said, ‘Mrs Bryson won the women’s shooting match, like she always does. She has a sharp eye.’

  ‘And a tongue to match,’ Patience said, then added with more satisfaction, ‘My cake attracted the best offer for charity.’

  Prudence said smartly, ‘The earl took pity on you and made the largest bid. Isn’t that so, my lord?’

  He laughed. ‘That question could start a war. Actually, I thought Adele had made the cake. What happened to it?’

  ‘I put it on a bench while I packed the picnic box, and Daisy took a slobbering bite from it. She’s partial to sweet things.’