The Whispering Rocks

by Sandra Heath

  * * *

  For a long while Sarah did not speak as she looked ahead at Jack’s straight back. She owed him much, for he had not only saved her from Ralph’s advances, but also from Lady Hermione’s spite. Why had he bothered with her? He had hardly spoken to her until this day.

  They reached the edge of the woods and were looking up toward Rook House with its mellow stone walls and square towers. The reeds of the moat swayed, although the water itself was invisible from where they were. The rooks which gave the house its name wheeled above the roofs, excited by the hunt.

  “Mr. Holland.” Her voice was husky with the cold so she cleared her throat and repeated, “Mr. Holland.”

  He turned to look at her. Would nothing dim her beauty? Even the fall into the stream had done little to spoil her loveliness. Her hazel eyes were large as she spoke again. “Mr. Holland, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Sarah, I think I’d so much prefer to hear my first name upon your lips. ‘Mr. Holland’ sounds so stiff and formal. Please call me Jack.”

  Wariness crept into her eyes. After her experience with Ralph she trusted no one.

  He smiled then. “Don’t look like that, for I mean you no harm. It’s just that I abhor being called ‘Mr. Holland’ by one whom I admire and like.”

  “Until this moment you have shown no inclination to either liking or admiring me, Mr. Holland. I’m deeply in your debt and the feeling is very uncomfortable.” There was an edge to her voice.

  “That’s the spirit, Sarah. Trust no one in this life and you’ll do well enough.” His voice bore a wealth of feeling.

  She shivered, her teeth beginning to chatter again. He kicked his heel and the horses moved off toward the house.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah’s maid Betty halted in horror when she saw her mistress’s bedraggled appearance.

  Like a little sparrow she hurried forward. “Oh, miss!” Her London accent was more pronounced than usual as she unhooked and unbuttoned the riding habit which was so utterly spoiled. “Whatever’s ‘appened to you?” She fussed around busily, her little face bothered. She was only Sarah’s age but she bustled around her as if she was a generation older. Even as a mere maid she knew more of the ways of the gentry than did Sarah, and so she felt that she must guide and protect her all she could.

  “I met with an accident, Betty. Mr. Holland rescued me and brought me back safely.”

  The deft fingers paused ominously. “An accident, miss? Mr. ‘Olland?”

  Sarah bit her lip. Perhaps it was best to continue the story invented by Mr. Holland for Lady Hermione’s benefit, but, oh, how good it would be to unburden herself to Betty, whom she liked. “Yes, my horse threw me and I fell into a stream. Then I had to wade through mud to get out.” Well, at least it was half the truth!

  Betty carefully hung the riding habit on a hanger, tutting as she looked at it. Perhaps it could be saved, if care was taken—she would see to it personally. She took her mistress’s turquoise robe and held it before the fire to warm, glancing now and then at the shivering figure in her white stays and undergarments.

  Feeling the constant glances, Sarah raised her eyes. “What is it, Betty? What’s bothering you?”

  The maid stood there awkwardly. “P’raps it’s not my place to say, miss, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it’s Mr. ‘Olland being the one to bring you back.”

  “It’s as well for me that he was there.” Oh, how true that was!

  “Yes, miss.” There was a noticeable lack of conviction in the maid’s voice.

  “What is it about him in particular then? He was the perfect gentleman.”

  “ ‘E’s got a name, miss, an awful name.” Betty’s eyes rolled dramatically.

  “That hardly surprises me. He’s handsome, wealthy, and unmarried. He’s bound to possess a reputation for something or other.” Sarah smiled. “Most probably for women!”

  Betty’s smile was weak. “That’s as may be, miss, but ‘e’s s’posed to be more evil than that.”

  “Evil?”

  “Yes, miss. Things ’ve ‘appened—all sorts of goings-on. There was ‘is wife—”

  “He’s married?” Sarah was startled by this revelation.

  “ ‘E was, miss, but she’s dead now, poor soul. And it’s the way she died! Being left alone in that great big ‘ouse for month after month, and ‘er so ill. It weren’t right. An’ all the time ‘e kept ‘is mistress in a fine ‘ouse in London. Shameful it was, right enough.” Betty finished her speech with flourish.

  Sarah felt somehow that she should defend him. “If his wife was ill then surely she had to remain behind, and, anyway, most men keep mistresses, do they not?”

  “She was ill, nigh to death itself, an’ still ‘e stayed away from ‘er. It was so cruel, an’ ‘er so sweet a lady.”

  Sarah slipped her arms into the warm robe. It was not pleasant to hear such tales of Mr. Holland, for he did not seem a cruel, heartless man and, besides, she had much to thank him for. “Did you know his wife then?”

  “Oh no, miss, my cousin Liza was in service there. She told me all about it when she came ‘ere—a great favorite with Sir Peter is my Liza. Anyway, when I saw Mr. ‘Olland’s name on the guest list I was proper put out. I made up my mind to stay right out of ‘is way; it’s not good even to look at anyone as bad as ‘e is.” Superstition oozed from Betty, for she seemed to think that by staying out of his way she broke some enchantment he had cast over her.

  “You sound like a page from the very latest romantic novel, Betty. Tell me, your cousin Liza, is she—I mean—” Sarah’s voice trailed away on an embarrassed note and she wished that she had not begun the question. Liza was the name of her father’s poor, disregarded mistress, but how could she ask Betty if her cousin was the same Liza?

  Betty colored a little. “Yes, miss. Liza’s Sir Peter’s mistress. Proper furious my mother would be if she knew, ‘cause she’s always looked after ‘er since ‘er own mother died. Still, she’s got pretty clothes now, and lots of other things she wouldn’t ‘ave as a lady’s maid, so I ‘spect she thinks it’s worth it.”

  “My father doesn’t exactly maintain her lavishly, does he?”

  “Well, she don’t ask for anything and so ‘e don’t bother. Why should ‘e if she’s fool enough— Begging your pardon, miss.” Betty feared that she had gone too far.

  “I don’t mind, Betty.” It was true. Any warm feelings she may have had for her father had vanished the day he told her the truth about his entry into her life, that he needed her only to bring Edward to his senses.

  “Liza ‘ad to go to the inquest.” Betty was impressed and spoke almost reverently.

  “Inquest?”

  “Yes, miss, the one they ‘ad ‘cause of the way Mrs. ‘Olland died. They said she’d been poisoned!” This was obviously the maid’s trump card.

  Sarah tried not to show how much this shocked her. She sat down before her dressing table. “Then the blame can hardly be placed at Mr. Holland’s feet, can it? You said yourself that he wouldn’t go near his wife.”

  “That’s what ‘e wanted them all to think, miss, but ‘e got someone else to do ‘is dirty work. That’s what they say anyway.”

  “Oh, that’s enough, Betty. After all he’s my father’s guest and I have no business talking with you like this. I should know better. Now can you take my riding habit to the laundry room and see if you can do anything with it, for I’m bound to need it again in a day or so.”

  Alone, Sarah put down the hairbrush she had been toying with and looked intently at the silverwork. What had really happened to Jack Holland’s wife? Could it be as Betty said? She looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw the blatant desire not to believe the story.

  Outside the hunt was returning and she forgot the mystery of the late Mrs. Holland as she listened to the chatter and noise of her father’s guests. She stood up and went to the window, hearing Hermione’s studied tinkle of
laughter and Edward’s loud guffaw. The hounds were whining and yelping, the horses stamping and snorting, and the thought entered her head that there was a distinct similarity between the voices of the people and the noises of the animals. From the balcony she looked down at the ridiculous figure of her future husband, the Hon. Edward Stratford.

  For the moment he had forgotten about his forthcoming nuptials. His full pink-and-white face was glowing from the exertions of the hunt and his carefully arranged Apollo curls were for once ruffled. The spirited red chestnut he was riding shifted suddenly, kicking out with a sharp hoof.

  Edward’s tall hat fell forward over his nose and he was forced to put up his hand quickly to prevent the hat from falling to the ground. As he pushed the hat back into place he further ruined the stiff precision of his Apollo curls. He glanced around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed his appearance, but everyone was still full of the hunt. He sighed visibly; one had to be so careful; not a thing must be out of place, not a crease or ripple where it should not be.

  He winced as his stays pinched his cruelly restricted waist. Why had it to be de rigueur to look like an hourglass? The chestnut stallion was of a mind to be mettlesome again and Edward was forced to forget his appearance and apply himself to the matter of controlling his mount. Poor Edward, thought Sarah dryly; to keep up with the fashion he strove in every way with his looks, but succeeded only in making himself a rather absurd fop.

  She turned from the balcony, closing the window and staring across the gathering of horses and people toward the opposite tower where a pale little face was looking down from a high window. Liza did not stir from her rooms when Sir Peter had guests. The girl felt Sarah’s eyes upon her and quickly stepped back from the window.

  Sarah looked around her rooms, listening to the sounds of Rook House. What would happen to her now? Lady Hermione would not leave this day’s work alone; she would see to it that something was said about Sarah’s presence in the wood with Jack Holland. Well, at least she did not know about Ralph. Sarah crossed her fingers in a gesture every bit as superstitious as anything Betty had done. She must hope that Hermione would tread carefully because of Jack Holland’s importance—that was all she could hope now.

  Chapter Four

  The whole sorry story was common knowledge; at least that part of it which Hermione knew was. Sarah had endured an evening meal which seemed endless and during which she had seen her father gradually become aware of his daughter’s escapades. His gooseberry eyes had hardened with each successive whisper he overheard, for no one bothered to restrain their delight in the scandal. Unfortunately Jack Holland was not there, having left earlier in the afternoon on some business or other, for only his presence would have restrained the clacking tongues.

  Sarah had watched her father drink glass after glass of wine, and felt his anger reaching out silently toward her. So far he had said nothing to her for after the meal he had retired with the gentlemen, and the ladies sat together in the withdrawing room, but she knew that it was only a matter of time before he confronted her.

  She sat obediently in the gold-and-white drawing room watching the ladies who sat around like a group of bright butterflies in their colorful gowns. No one spoke to her but everyone spoke of her. She began to doubt her father’s sanity in wishing so desperately to be accepted by these worthless people. Outside the winter night closed in on the old house and the breeze of the morning had become a howling gale which bent the trees. The rooks huddled together for warmth and shelter, and Sarah almost wished herself up there with them.

  But at least this evening she could have no doubt in her appearance. The pile of Grecian curls had been expertly restored by Betty and were sprinkled with tiny lemon velvet flowers. She felt good in her high-waisted gown of yellow sprigged muslin. Nervously her fingers played with a dainty oriental fan; would this evening never end? Her nose tickled and she opened her reticule quickly to take out her handkerchief.

  Conversation paused expectantly as she sneezed, and then titters of laughter broke out as everyone thought of the drenching she had received that morning when out on her clandestine meeting with Jack Holland. Indeed, everyone had wondered at Holland’s reasons for suddenly accepting an invitation to Rook House. Now they thought they knew those reasons. Hermione’s little eyes glittered. Oh, she had done her subtle poisoning well.

  The door opened and the gentlemen came in. Sarah noticed immediately that her father’s steps were unsteady, and his face wore a thunderous expression. His new walking cane tapped angrily. All through the port and idle male chatter which was meant to relax, he had been assailed by Edward’s moans and groans about Sarah. The amount Stratford had imbibed throughout the evening had rubbed away some of the thin veneer of respectability and politeness which he always endeavored to show to the world, and now his temper had been brought to such a pitch that he lacked any discretion. Ignoring the niceties of behavior and manners, he stopped before Sarah and the abuse poured out in a slurred torrent.

  As she sat there she could only feel immense shame that this drunken boor was her father. On and on he went, while his shallow guests enjoyed every despicable moment of her humiliation. Hermione could not keep her face from beaming and Edward’s delight was scarcely less obvious. Now perhaps his uncle would relent and put aside this upstart wench.

  At last Stratford’s rage was spent and he stood there breathing heavily, his pale green eyes bright. She had made a fool of him, she and Jack Holland between them. All the social prestige brought by Holland’s presence at Rook House had surely been undone by this. Stratford wished to be eccentric, wished to have his name talked about, but not in this way! He glared at his daughter. He had rescued her from nothing, from nowhere, offered her wealth, position and security! And how did she repay him? The anger flared again and he struck her across the face.

  Sarah’s head snapped back and her cheek flamed scarlet where his blow had fallen. Even Stratford’s guests were a little taken aback at this; the smiles faded and looks of discomfort replaced them. Several throats were cleared and Hermione glanced around, wondering if her fool of a brother-in-law had gone too far. Sympathy toward Sarah was the last thing Hermione and her son wanted.

  “Have you nothing to say in your defense?” Stratford nervously loosened his cravat as he sensed the change of atmosphere in the room. The wine-laden haze was evaporating and he began to realize the enormity of what he had done.

  Slowly she rose to her feet. “There seems little point when I’m obviously already judged and condemned, Father.” She inclined her head briefly to him and walked from the room, her slippers pattering loudly in the silence.

  Outside her pride deserted her and she gathered her skirts to run in an unbecoming manner up the wide, curving staircase flanked by its silent carved rooks and rows of paintings of thoroughbreds. In the sanctuary of her own room she flung herself on the bed and wept bitterly. Betty came in and saw her, but left her alone to weep away her unhappiness.

  Sarah’s sobs would not subside and eventually she cried herself to sleep, crumpling the muslin gown and ignoring the pins which pressed against her scalp. The little velvet flowers were crushed and spoiled forever.

  * * *

  “Madam. Miss Sarah.” Betty was whispering urgently in her ear and shaking her shoulder.

  Drowsily, Sarah raised her head, her red-rimmed eyes stinging with the salt of her tears. Her head ached and her mouth was dry. In the fireplace a fire still glowed and the room was otherwise in darkness but for the single candle which Betty held close.

  “What is it?”

  Betty looked worried, frightened almost. “You must get up, madam, for there’s someone to see you.”

  “Who?” Sarah’s voice sounded very loud in the silent house and Betty quickly put her finger to her lips and looked over her shoulder as if expecting Old Nick himself to be standing there.

  “It’s Mr. ‘Olland, and ‘e wishes to speak urgently and privately with you. I didn’t know what to do, mi
ss, ‘cause it’s not right for ‘im to come in here, especially after—”

  “Where is he?” Puzzled by all this secrecy, Sarah interrupted the maid. She sat up, rubbing her eyes and straightening her ruffled hair.

  “I’m here.” Jack’s voice broke into the room and she could vaguely make him out in the shadows by the door.

  She took the candle from the maid. “All right, Betty. Wait outside in the other room. It will be safe enough—don’t worry so.” She smiled, but Betty looked unhappy, for if this should be discovered after all the other trouble today ...

  “If you should want me, madam, just call me.” She scuttled past Jack as if frightened of coming within his spell.

  Sarah stood the candle upon a small table by the bed. “Whatever is wrong?” For the first time she saw the paleness of his face and the obvious marks of a struggle which sullied the usual perfection of his clothing and appearance.

  He came nearer. “A great deal, I’m afraid, Sarah, and the consequences of it will fall upon you and there’s nothing I can say or do this time to prevent it.” His voice was tired as he came to sit beside her on the bed. The copper of his hair shone as if polished by the swaying light of the candle.

  At last he looked at her, his face strained. “Ralph Jameson lies dead at my hand.” The words fell like icicles into the quiet.

  She stared at him disbelievingly. “You cannot mean it,” she whispered.

  “Sarah, I didn’t come here to jest with you. This evening I decided to take my meal at the posting-house in the village, having little stomach for your father’s guests. I was dining in a private room when I heard a group of gentlemen enter the adjoining room. It wasn’t long before I recognized Jameson’s voice— he spoke so loudly that I think the whole village must have heard his every word.”