by Sandra Heath
THE WHISPERING ROCKS
Sandra Heath
Author’s Note
The Whispering Rocks is a rewritten, much more mysterious version of Mannerby’s Lady. It is still a Regency, but has become a darker tale of witchcraft and jealousy, of misplaced trust and eventual true love. If you enjoy a Gothic romance, then please read on….
Chapter One
As the hunt streamed down the track from Rook House and into the woods which straddled the sloping parkland, Jack Holland reined in, maneuvering his nervous bay carefully into the trees and then turning to stare back along the way. The crisp January air echoed with the yelping of the hounds and with the wavering sound of the hunting horns as Sir Peter Stratford’s guests set off for the first chase of the new year.
No one noticed that Jack had left them, and he paid scant attention to the change of note as the hounds picked up a scent. He was more concerned with the strange behavior of his host’s charming daughter, the beautiful Sarah Jane.
She had dropped back from the hunt only a short while before, drawing up her shambling, lop-eared mare with some difficulty because she was so unused to riding sidesaddle, and now she was staring down a path which wound away through the woods toward a small valley. Indecision clouded her pretty face and she bit her lip, leaning forward to pat the lowered neck of her mount.
Her thick black hair was piled into Grecian curls on the top of which rested a beaver hat, and the rich crimson velvet of her riding habit accentuated the full curves of her body. Jack allowed his gaze to wander appreciatively over her. Heaven alone knew how a boor like Stratford had managed to sire such a beauty. One could not guess by looking at her that she was illegitimate and had until recently known only poverty. She looked every inch the lady; except perhaps—
He smiled a little as he saw how uncomfortable she was on the sidesaddle and how she flinched when her tightly-laced stays dug into her. He raised an eyebrow as he saw how expertly she controlled the mare; perhaps there was more to her than first met the eye. She was obviously an accomplished horsewoman, and suddenly the strange choice of so docile a mount seemed not to proclaim her a timid rider but rather to tell of her wiliness—it was better to be laughed at for riding such a creature than to be ridiculed for falling off a more spirited mount. She shifted awkwardly on the sidesaddle again, glancing after the hunt and then back toward the pathway.
Jack dismounted, for the bay was restless at being kept so quiet. He went to its head and gently rubbed its soft muzzle, his attention still on the girl. What could she be up to? Why did she hover there? Another movement caught his eye as a small red animal slid across the clearing behind him, its brush dragging through the crisp dead leaves. He smiled as the fox made good its escape.
Flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his impeccable dark blue sleeve, he leaned against the trunk of a tree, still staring at Sarah. Everything about the faultless cut of his clothes bore the stamp of Weston of Old Bond Street. The collar of his snow-white shirt rose on either side of his thin, good-looking face, curving outward like wings, and at his throat blossomed a cravat of immense proportion which somehow contrived to look most excellent.
He was a nonpareil, a man of great influence at the court of his close friend the Prince Regent; and the cynical eyebrows of the beau monde would indeed have been raised had they seen him skulking so secretively in the trees spying on Sir Peter Stratford’s intriguing daughter.
Unaware that she was being so closely scrutinized, Sarah took the note out of her reticule and read it yet again, although she knew its contents by heart. A sigh escaped her. What should she do? She knew what she wanted to do, but she knew also in her heart what she ought to do.
Common sense bade her ignore the note and hurry after the hunt, but her own sense of unhappiness and insecurity, her desperate need of a friend prodded her to keep the tryst with Ralph Jameson on the bridge in the woods. Firmly she gathered the reins and urged the mare down the overgrown pathway, and the note fluttered unnoticed to the ground.
Slowly Jack led his horse out of the trees and bent to retrieve the scrap of paper. His gray eyes narrowed as he read. Thoughtfully he pulled his top hat down firmly on his curling copper hair, remounted, and followed Sarah.
* * *
The slow clip-clop of the mare’s hooves sounded loud beneath the overhanging branches. The night’s frost was now melting fast and everything was damp and cold. The wind whispered between the tall trunks with a chill clamminess and Sarah was now almost glad of the stays which so restricted her movements but served to keep her warm.
Dark green ivy leaves glistened and rustled, and scarlet holly berries made bright splashes of color in the grayness of the winter woodland. In the distance she heard the hunt and glanced around as if expecting to be followed, but there was no one there. Had she been missed? No, she doubted it, for the actions of Stratford’s illegitimate daughter would pale to insignificance beside the thrill of a good hunt.
The first tinkling sound of the stream caught her ear as it gurgled and splashed along the floor of the valley. A blackbird was startled and its excited calls of alarm swung round and round the silently dripping trees. She held her breath; it was only a bird—
Away to her right Jack’s bay stallion moved quietly through the woods, but she heard and saw nothing as she rode on. Slumbering willows draped their branches over the stream and she saw the tight buds of pussy willow along the thick margin of bushes at the water’s edge. A water rat plopped heavily into the stream and vanished from sight. Surely the bridge was somewhere near now? Would he be there?
As the thought entered her head she heard a horse whinnying gently in greeting. And then she saw Ralph. The bridge was there, hidden by a confusion of catkins and alders, and leaning against the rustic wooden parapet was a young man of slender build, dressed in an oatmeal coat. A riding crop swung idly to and fro in his gloved hands and he gazed thoughtfully at the rushing stream.
His dark brown hair was arranged neatly in rows of tight curls and an eyeglass dangled round his neck on a golden chain. As she approached he heard and glanced up. Even from that distance she could see the brilliance of his china blue eyes—and the black patch which adorned the corner of his mouth. He smiled and came along the bridge to meet her.
Shyness stole over her then, for she knew that her actions in coming here were questionable and that she hardly knew him; but he did not know about her forthcoming marriage or how desperately unhappy she was. He was her only friend, and she felt so very lonely.
As she saw the warmth in his eyes she was glad she had come. He stretched up and lifted her from the saddle, his hands strong around her waist. How she longed to be enclosed in his arms, safe and protected. She walked quickly on to the bridge, blushing at her own forward thoughts.
She was flustered. “I know that I shouldn’t have come—”
“I’m glad that you did, although it’s surely more than I had any right to hope.” The practiced ease with which he spoke showed, but she wanted only to cling to each word. In a month at Rook House only Ralph had been kind. Only Ralph. She smiled at him with more warmth than was advisable.
He came nearer, his hand resting against her waist as she leaned over the bridge. “My poor little country mouse, are you unhappy?” he asked gently. He was perfumed and his cheeks were slightly rouged, but she did not care; if such was the fashion among the dandies, who was she to comment?
She nodded miserably in answer to his question. How foolish and vain it had been to have so looked forward to the new year of 1815. She had thought that a new period in her life was to begin, a period of luxury and happiness—but instead she was to marry her cousin Edward who hated her and would do all he could to make her life as miserable as
it had been before her arrival at Rook House. Ralph did not know yet.
“Oh, Ralph, everything has gone so sour since last I saw you. I thought when my father came to Longwicke and brought me back to Rook House that he—well, that he had come out of parental love. But he hadn’t. He came for me because my cousin Edward had been seriously courting some girl my father doesn’t approve of. I’m here solely as a wife for Edward. He must marry me or lose the Stratford inheritance.”
Her back was toward Ralph; otherwise she would have seen the change which came over his face. So, she was marked for Edward, was she? His handsome face showed his anger. His plans were thwarted. He had played his cards so well, too, or so he thought, for she would have fallen into his hands like a ripe plum, and with her eventually would have come old Stratford’s fortune.
But if her father’s plan was not to disinherit Edward, merely to foil him, then of what use was his pursuit of the delightful Sarah? His hand lingered against her waist but it was no longer relaxed and confident. His thoughts were in turmoil, his rage overwhelming, and directed now against the girl who thought herself so safe with him.
She turned to look at him suddenly. “That’s why I’m so unhappy, Ralph. I— “ Her voice broke off, dying instantly as she saw the twisting muscles of his face. Alarmed she tried to step away, but his fingers tightened on her waist, pinching cruelly.
“You’ve wasted my time, Miss Stratford. You’ve sorely wasted my time!” But still, he thought grudgingly, she was one of the most beautiful and desirable women he had ever seen. His tongue passed over his dry lips as he felt her begin to struggle. He had a mind to taste the charms which were destined for the oafish Edward. Roughly he dragged her into his arms and forced his parted lips down upon her mouth.
Chapter Two
High on the slope beyond the bridge Jack Holland reined in and put his hand to his eyes to shield them from a shaft of sunlight which pierced the web of trees. He stared down the hillside toward the pair on the bridge. Slowly he took off his top hat and ran his fingers through his burnished hair, his fingers pausing in their movement as the frightened struggles of the girl became more obvious. Perhaps Stratford’s daughter was not playing the coquette with Jameson after all. Jack replaced his top hat and reached inside his dark blue coat.
Terror infused Sarah’s struggles now and she beat her fists against Ralph helplessly. Tears almost blinded her and she could not speak, for her voice seemed paralyzed. Her efforts to escape seemed only to spur him on still more.
A shot rang out and a bullet whined against the parapet, striking splinters in all directions. Ralph released her instantly, cursing and staring up toward the solitary figure on the bay. “Holland! I recognize that red-headed devil even from this distance!”
But he spoke to the empty air for she had seized her chance and was running toward her mount, which seemed completely unaffected by the pistol shot. But Ralph’s stallion was gone, its frightened hooves drumming on the mossy ground, its ears flat and its tail flying. It is no easy matter to run for your life on soft ground wearing riding boots, but somehow Ralph accomplished the impossible as he saw Jack begin to descend the slope.
Sarah’s shoes sank into the soft, sucking mud at the water’s edge where the placid mare drank with irritating calm. The mud was slippery and she lost her foothold. With a cry she toppled over into the ice-cold water. The pins which held her hair were dislodged and the black tresses tumbled down over her face. Her silly hat with its ostrich feathers was snatched away and bobbed like a tiny boat upon the stream, vanishing beneath the span of the bridge. Her dismay was complete and she sat in the water, weeping bitterly.
Jack’s horse carried him swiftly to the stream and he was soon reaching out to help her, but she sat there crying. He had no intention of stepping into the water in his excellent boots, and sighed as he wondered how to dispel her tears.
“Miss Stratford, do you intend to remain there all day?” He spoke to no avail, for she continued to sit looking very foolish but unable to help herself.
His sharp gray eyes caught a new movement high on the hill, a figure in a bright purple riding habit and wearing a hat of the same vivid color. Lady Hermione Stratford! What was Edward’s fearsome mother doing here? No doubt looking for the missing heiress, as he himself had been. His thin lips curved into a cold smile and he looked back at Sarah.
“Madam, if you wish to be discovered thus by Lady Hermione, then by all means do so, but I’d advise you to come out now and save appearances all you can.”
His bantering tone penetrated at last. She struggled to her feet, her heart thundering with still more dismay, and her skirts clinging to every curve of her body. Jack stared at her. She thought nothing of his gaze; she could think only of the imminence of Lady Hermione, the one person who had done more than anyone else to make her life at Rook House a misery. She reached out to take Jack’s hand, her teeth chattering and her sobs gradually subsiding.
He removed his coat and placed it around her shivering shoulders, glancing up the hillside to see that Hermione’s mount was coming down toward the bridge. Sarah’s eyes bore a haunted look as she saw the splash of purple moving relentlessly nearer.
This was the end of her then. She would have to return to Longwicke—to the advances of Squire Eldon, who had made no secret of his intentions. There was nowhere else in the world for her to go except whence she had come. She swallowed. The tale of today’s exploits would be the delighted talk of the drawing room this afternoon, and would be whispered about over dinner. She had by her actions made her father look foolish, a laughingstock, and had played straight into the hands of Lady Hermione and cousin Edward.
Edward would make his protests loudly, and with justification, and her father would almost certainly be forced to pay attention. Unexpectedly she smiled, wiping her face with a muddy hand which left a streak across her white cheek. Well, she certainly was a poor judge of character, for she could hardly have been more wrong about Ralph Jameson.
Lady Hermione drew her mount to a standstill, her little eyes fixed on Sarah’s odd appearance. This was all very interesting. How wise she had been to come looking for Stratford’s brat. And here she was—with Jack Holland, of all men! What had been going on? She noticed the resignation on Sarah’s face, making her look like a whipped dog. It seemed too good to be true. Hermione leaned forward.
“Whatever has happened, Mr. Holland?”
“Miss Stratford had rather a nasty fall from her horse. It was fortunate that I saw her and hurried to help.”
Sarah blinked, her lips parting. He was not going to tell anything! Her dull eyes brightened and hope struggled back into her. She loathed the prospect of marriage with her cousin Edward, but she was frightened by the thought of returning to her previous life. She wished desperately that she had never come to meet Ralph, and now it seemed that Mr. Holland was giving her a second chance. Jack felt her back straighten a little and saw her raise her head. A little of her former self reemerged and he liked what he saw.
Hermione, meanwhile, was gaping at the gray mare. A fall? From that? One might as well tumble off a sofa! She sniffed, her mouth sliding sideways disbelievingly. There must be more to it.
Jack maneuvered Sarah toward the mare. “Pray continue with your plans, Lady Hermione. I’ll accompany Miss Stratford back to the house.”
He spoke politely, but Hermione realized she was being dismissed. Her eyes hardened. She had never liked him, for she had never been able to get the better of him. He rode so high in the land, had so much influence at court and was so close to the Regent. He was accepted by all the best clubs and his yellow phaeton was one of the finest sights in Hyde Park.
He was everywhere, did everything, and knew everyone who was anyone. He had vanquished Edward at the gaming tables, and had beaten him too in a horse race of some importance the previous season—and what was more he chose to remind everyone of the fact by bringing that cursed bay stallion with him to Rook House.
And w
hy, after all this time, had he suddenly decided to accept an invitation here? Bitterly, Hermione thought of her brother-in-law’s delight at discovering that the great Jack Holland was at long last honoring Rook House with his presence. She cursed the all-consuming ambition of Stratford to be one of the inner circle of gentlemen surrounding the Prince Regent.
Stratford was one of the richest men in England, so why had there to be a need to bother with people like Holland? Hermione felt as if her mouth was filled with vinegar as she stared at Jack. Only his influence at court gave him any consequence, she thought furiously, for he was a man of little true breeding. Her blue blood was all she had left to flaunt before him, and she did so, often. But now she decided prudently to leave, because for her purposes it was better that Sarah should return to the house with Holland, alone, and in such a state of disarray!
Hermione turned her horse and smiled unpleasantly; very well, she would go back to join the hunt—and spread the tale of what she had come upon in the woods. The smile became feline. Aye, she would spread the scandal thickly, with perhaps the merest soupçon of a raised eyebrow. All was fair in love and war, and Hermione considered herself most definitely at war with Sarah—and with Jack Holland.
Jack recognized the expression on her face. Ah well, there was little he could do to prevent what she now intended, but he would do all in his power to keep the real truth from the sour old harridan and her avaricious son. He lifted Sarah on to the broad back of her mare and then mounted himself, leading both horses slowly away from the bridge.
Hermione watched until they were out of sight before riding back to join her companions who still hunted noisily over the surrounding countryside. In her mind she turned over what she had seen, drawing from it every tiny vestige of scandal, and choosing carefully what she would say. She must take care with this, for Stratford was perverse enough to take his daughter’s side, especially if Holland’s name was mentioned. And that would never do. Deep in her schemings, Hermione rode back up the slope.