by Eve Silver
“Sir Gabriel.” Her voice came to him now, drawing him from his musings. Her words echoed in the vast empty hallway, crisp and precise. She was slightly breathless, as though she had hurried to catch him.
“Catherine,” he returned her greeting, pausing to look up, finding her at the top of the stairs, framed by the open arch. He wondered if she was debating whether to chastise him for his unseemly forwardness, for she had never invited him to use her given name. In the end, she let it pass. It told him much, that acquiescence. Catherine Weston chose her battles with care, and he suspected she had sought him out to fight one of greater import than his unauthorized use of her given name.
She stood on the top step, unmoving. Her dress was the color of smoke, the color of sadness, of mourning. She ought to have looked plain. Instead, the hint of lavender in the gray made her skin gleam like one of the pearls on the strand she wore about her neck.
Waiting and watching, he held his place as she descended the stairs and approached, grace and beauty, each step measured to the last. Perhaps—no, assuredly—a true gentleman would have gone to her. The thought amused him.
“If you have a moment, I wish to speak with you about Madeline.” She paused, as though waiting for some reaction. He offered none. He merely watched her in silence, letting her have her say.
As always, her composure was impeccable, but some small detail of her appearance was left in disarray. Today, as it had been the very first time he saw her, it was a lock of hair that had come free from her twist, curling over her shoulder and along her breast.
“Your cousin is poorly,” she said, the mistress of understatement. “I wonder what means have been employed in the past to encourage her from her melancholy.”
“Do you?”
A fleeting frown creased her brow. “Do I what?”
“Wonder.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh, once. “Or do you obliquely inquire if I have coaxed her and coddled her in the past? If you have a question, ask it outright, Catherine.”
She sent him a glance that might have held annoyance. Or disdain. He would prefer the former.
“Have you coaxed and coddled her in the past?”
“I have hired staff to do exactly that.”
“Why do you not visit her?” she fired, her expression tranquil once more, her tone sharp as a blade. “Why do you do nothing to help her?”
“I do not visit her because she despises me as I despise her. We mix as well as oil and water.” There. Let her mull on that. “And how do you know what I do and do not do to help her? Or what I have done in the past. You do not know me at all, Catherine.” He took a step closer, letting the subtle rose scent of her wash over him, letting his action say what his words did not. We could remedy that. We could know each other as well as you please.
Only in that moment, with her scent filling him, did he think to regret that his afternoon’s activities had left him smelling of horse, with dust on his boots and a splatter of mud on his sleeve.
She did not step away. Not his Catherine. She would not give an inch. Instead, she tipped her head back to glare at him and said, “I do know you, sir. I know that you have a brilliant mind and a cold heart. You have shown me that much of yourself. You answer questions with questions or with answers so oblique they have no value at all. At times, you offer only silence. What else would you like me to know?”
She was so close, he could see the beat of her pulse just beneath the pale skin of her throat.
Clearly, they applied different definitions and nuances to the concept of knowing.
He bent his head a little. She froze, the rise and fall of her breasts belying the cool gaze she leveled upon him. He affected her. There was no question of it. But she was poised, icy, her demeanor cultivated and planned to project a very specific impression.
“I did not seek you out to speak of nonsense,” she said in her frostiest tone, the sound of her voice only serving to stoke the heat in his loins. “I believe a visit from the doctor is in order. Your cousin has eaten almost nothing in days, and she does not sleep. I fear for her health.” She pressed her lips together, contemplating her next words, perhaps debating whether or not to set them free, and then she finished, “I fear for her sanity.”
“Ah.” And how was he to respond to that? There was nothing to fear. Madeline’s sanity had fled years past. And his own, as well. He imagined that if he said so, Catherine’s ire would be raised. She might turn and walk away. He was not ready to let her go, and so he settled for the less objectionable observation, “Madeline despises Dr. Graves.”
“Then send for someone else.”
“There is no one else capable within a day’s ride, and the afternoon is nigh over, evening drawing near. Unless you would have her seen by Dr. Jayne. He is close by, but he is a drunk. Last year, he performed an amputation. Quite proud he was, bragging that he’d done it in three minutes flat. Unfortunately, he’d cut off the wrong limb.” He let a heartbeat pass for her to digest that, then asked, “Shall I summon him? He could arrive within the hour, unless he is too inebriated to walk.”
She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of anger before she composed her expression into one of calm. “Do not make light of this. She needs help. She needs something to steady her nerves.”
“She has laudanum.”
Catherine shook her head, and the scent of her hair carried to him. A hint of roses. He inhaled, and held it, savoring the moment.
“She has none. I suspect she used what she had some time past. Or perhaps she spilled it. Either way, the bottle is empty.” She met his gaze full on, the light hitting her in such a way that the thick, straight veil of her lashes painted faint shadows on her cheeks. “I dislike laudanum. I believe it is a poison,” she continued. “At the very least, it does as much harm as good, but in this I feel the choice is clear. She is overset. Frantic. I cannot think what else to do for her.”
He heard all she did not say. That Madeline had worsened with his return from London. It was ever so. She did better when he was away. Just as he did better away from her, away from the memories the sight of her stirred and the dark slurry of emotions those memories evoked. He despised those feelings, despised himself for having them.
Because after so many years, he still hated her for what she had done.
Catherine shook her head. “Send for whoever set the splints on Peg’s fingers.”
“That would be unwise.”
“Why? You cannot accuse him of incompetence. The splints were perfectly applied.”
“Madeline would not like it.”
“Oh, you are impossible. Why ever not?”
“Because I set the splints on Peg’s fingers. Without a doubt, I am the last person Madeline would wish to attend her.” He shrugged. “Besides, I have no laudanum.”
Nor would he ever. Laudanum. Opium. He would rather suffer the pain of a thousand knives than take something that would steal his rational thoughts.
Her brows lifted and she slanted him a look, as though measuring the truth of his words. “You set Peg’s broken hand? How did you learn to do that?”
I read about it. Any book I could find. It was the only way to hold fast to my sanity. I can set a break and— theoretically—apply any number of poultices. I even know the names of every bone in the body. And I am versed in the best way to rotate crops, and the theoretical process of treating a hatband with mercury. I am a veritable fount of information. But he told her none of that.
Instead, he said, “Madeline will not want to see Dr. Graves. She is terrified of him. With just reason.” Mrs. Bell had last summoned Dr. Graves without Gabriel’s knowledge or presence here at Cairncroft. There had been no one to speak for his cousin, except Madeline herself, and that had been a road to certain disaster. “On his last visit, the good doctor applied his lancets with great zeal and bled her enough to fill three saucers. She was insensate for a day and a night. I almost believed she would not awaken.”
A part of me hoped sh
e would not. How perverse that he both hoped his cousin would wither and die, and felt responsible for keeping her alive and well.
The fact that she had been bled—a knife inserted in her flesh to slit her vein—troubled him. He had a particular abhorrence for that specific treatment, and though he bore her no love, he despised the fact that such quackery had been carried out in his home, on his cousin, without his knowledge or permission. It would not happen again.
Catherine was silent a moment, and then, her words echoing his thoughts, she said, “Then we shall have to make certain he does not do so again.”
“We? Are we a unit, then, Catherine?” Gabriel challenged her for the pure enjoyment of watching flames spark in her night-dark eyes. He lowered his voice. “A team?”
He had meant only to unsettle her with that proposition, but oddly, it appealed. For a solitary creature, he was illogically drawn to the idea of a pairing with Catherine Weston.
* * *
Catherine coaxed a little tea through Madeline’s lips, tipping the silver teaspoon so the milky, warm liquid poured through. Madeline swallowed, staring straight ahead. Some of the tea dribbled down the side of her chin and dripped to the pristine white sheets that were pulled up above her breasts.
Madeline had required Catherine’s full attention all day, for she had been fretful and plaintive. Catherine was loath to leave her unattended, and though she wanted to read the unexpected letter from Mrs. Northrop that the maid, Susan, had brought earlier in the day, she had not had opportunity as yet.
She had had only a moment to hurry to her own chamber, tuck the letter in the front of a book for safekeeping, then return to Madeline’s side. There she had remained all day, save for a quick foray downstairs to waylay St. Aubyn when she had spied him from the window late in the afternoon, riding back from an outing.
Thoughts of that encounter were disturbing in the extreme. There had been desire, blatant lust, in St. Aubyn’s amber gaze, and in response, a disturbing awareness had uncoiled in her belly.
In future, she would be wiser and make a greater effort to avoid him.
Setting aside the tea, she glanced at the window. Dusk was upon them, fingers of red and orange creeping across the sky, heralding the night. She could only hope Dr. Graves would come soon.
“They come through the walls,” Madeline whispered, drawing Catherine’s attention.
“What comes through the walls, dear? The noise of the servants?”
“No.” Madeline turned her face to the side, and Catherine thought that was the end of it, but then she spoke once more, her tone forlorn. “Dark creatures. All manner of horned and hooved things. They crawl through openings in the walls when you are not here. They poke me and prod me. They pinch. You see?” Madeline dragged her arm from beneath the covers and feebly pushed at the sleeve of her nightrail until her forearm was bare. “Do you see?” she asked again.
Catherine stared at the smooth, unmarked skin. There was no bruise, no evidence of a pinch. What to say?
Madeline’s gaze locked on hers and for a moment she did not appear lost in madness. She appeared perfectly coherent and lucid. “They are his minions. His army of demons that crawls about and does his bidding.”
“Whose army?” But Catherine already suspected Madeline’s answer.
“Gabriel’s. He wants to punish me.”
“Punish you for what?” Catherine asked, her tone hushed.
“For what I did to him.” Madeline closed her eyes, and let her head fall back. “For the tales I told.”
A chill raised the fine hairs at Catherine’s nape. As she had done more than once since that day in the garden, Catherine thought of Madeline’s garbled story about a dead girl covered in blood.
“What tales?”
Madeline opened her eyes. “It was my fault they sent him away, but what was I to do? I only told what I saw. The terrible things I saw. He killed them. Those tiny, helpless birds. And then—” She broke off and pressed her lips together, her gaze darting to the door.
Catherine stared at her, appalled. “Tell me about the birds, Madeline,” she prodded gently, choosing the least probing question to open her inquiry.
But Madeline fell silent then, her breathing rapid and shallow. Catherine lifted the teacup and spoon.
“No more,” Madeline murmured, turning her face away from Catherine’s attempts to coax the tepid liquid past her lips. “I am so tired. Only let me sleep a little.”
“I shall close the drape.”
“No. I can sleep better in the light. I told you, at night or in the gloom they come, crawling from the shadows and I am too afraid to even close my eyes. I only lie here and wait for them to become brave enough to take me. They will feed upon me. Gnaw at my bones.”
Recognizing the futility of any attempt to convince Madeline that nothing crawled through the walls, Catherine drew near and vowed instead, “I shall not let them. I shall stay right there”—she gestured at a chair beside the window—“and guard you as you sleep.”
“Will you?” Madeline asked, her eyes widening, hope sparking. “Will you keep me safe?”
The question twisted in Catherine’s heart like a dull blade. She could keep no one safe. She had not even kept herself safe. She had failed to keep—
No. She would not let those thoughts surface to destroy her.
“Of course I shall keep you safe,” she lied. She was very good at it now. Lying.
Funny, as a child, she had held assiduously to the truth. The one constant in her life. Her honesty. Now she did not even have that.
A soft knock sounded at the door and Catherine crossed to open it.
“I brought the broth, miss, just as you asked,” the maid said. “Where would you like it?”
Catherine glanced back over her shoulder. Madeline did not stir. “Set it on the table, please.”
The maid did as she was bidden, then left, closing the door softly behind her.
Madeline’s chest rose and fell in shallow, huffing breaths. If she was not yet fully asleep, she was on her way to it. Catherine let her be, knowing that Madeline would not be convinced to taste the broth even if she tried to rouse her. And by the time she awoke, the broth would be cold. She would use that as her reason not to eat it. If Catherine summoned a maid to bring a fresh, hot bowl later, Madeline would claim it was too late in the day, or too early, that she was either too tired or too anxious. She was ever ready with an array of excuses.
Her friend’s despair gnawed at Catherine, for Madeline had done so well during St. Aubyn’s absence. His return had brought this heavy melancholy that did not dissipate, and Catherine was almost tempted to suggest to him that he travel to London once more and leave them in peace.
His mere presence unsettled her almost as much as it did Madeline, but in a far different way. How horrific was it that she had come to anticipate the moments of conversation she had with him? To savor the glances she stole. To drink in the play of light across his features that painted his dark brown lashes gold, and accented the hollows of his cheeks and the clean line of his jaw. To watch his lips form words. To wonder what his mouth would feel like, moving on her own.
What did that say about her nature? She did not want to think on it too carefully.
Leaning her shoulder against the window frame, she folded her arms and stared out, the last of the day giving way to the darkening night, the outline of the moon and the first evening stars winking to life.
What tales had Madeline told, and what tragic consequences had resulted in the burden of guilt she carried?
Catherine wanted to shake her friend awake and demand answers, but she would never do such an unkind thing. She must wait on Madeline’s whim for explanations. Impatience would not serve her in this, but she found she could not squelch it. It seemed that when it came to Gabriel St. Aubyn, she was parched for information and insights.
A short time later, a closed carriage rolled slowly up the drive, the cool moonlight illuminating its progress,
dancing off the shiny black surface. The doctor had come. She was glad of it.
She watched the carriage for a moment more and then her gaze drifted to the dark line of the woods. Perhaps conjured by her mood and expectations, a man stepped from the woods. No, not stepped. Glided. As though he slid on ice or floated on air. His tall frame was clothed in dark garb, a long coat or a cloak that billowed as the breeze lifted the hem, his head covered by a low crowned hat. He was shadow on shadow, barely there.
Catherine blinked and blinked again, certain that she had summoned a specter simply because she expected one. Her time at Cairncroft Abbey and Madeline’s half-formed tales had made her overly imaginative. How many times now had she seen this wraith that lurked at the edge of the wood, then took on the guise of Gabriel St. Aubyn?
In her absurd fancy, she was akin to Madeline with her talk of demons and monsters that crawled out of the walls. Only Catherine’s monsters crawled out of the woods.
Then the man removed his hat and turned his face toward her. He was far away. Far enough that she could be certain only of the color of his hair—blond—and the fact that it was either cut short or tied back. From this distance she could not tell with any degree of confidence.
Was it St. Aubyn? Did this game of peek-a-boo in the forest have some purpose?
The carriage rolled closer, distracting her and blocking her view, and after it passed the point where the man had stood, she saw he was there no longer.
Perhaps he never had been.
In that moment, she wondered if Mrs. Bell’s whispered warnings had borne fruit, if she was now subject to the same malady that afflicted Madeline, or simply newly prone to illogical imaginings.
At length, the coach rocked to a stop and an older man climbed down, illuminated by the spill of light from the lantern on the side of his conveyance. He was rail thin and very tall, dressed all in black, his pate bald and bare to the elements. She wondered that he did not wear a hat.