The Whispering Rocks

by Sandra Heath

  * * *

  The carriage which was to take her on her journey rumbled to the front of the house, stopping beside the moat, the horses stamping and snorting in the crisp winter sunshine. Sarah watched, noticing that storm clouds were once again looming on the horizon. Two horsemen rode slowly up toward the house and she soon recognized one as Paul Ransome.

  It was not long before he was shown into the dining room, where he took a seat and poured himself some black coffee. Edward paused in the act of touching his curls again, his eyes widening as he saw Paul’s reflection in the mirror. He turned swiftly. “Oh, I say, Ransome! What brings you here? Er ... how’s Melissa?”

  Paul seemed surprised. “She’s well enough, thank you.”

  Hermione glared ferociously at her son and he colored, continuing with his breakfast in silence. Sarah watched with interest. What had her cousin said that was so reprehensible? Hermione looked ready to strangle him.

  Sir Peter breezed into the room complete with new ebony cane from Bond Street, smiling benignly at his assembled guests. He was in an excellent mood and inclined to be garrulous, and soon the room was noisy with small talk. Hermione seemed almost relieved at her brother-in-law’s presence and Sarah noticed how quickly Edward finished and took his leave.

  Conversation drifted on, but Sarah suddenly paid attention as she heard Paul speak to her father. “They’ve found Holland, by the way. Or perhaps I should say that he turned up. He walked into Boodles club as large as life—caught them all on the hop.”

  Stratford nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. “I dare say. Well, now we’ll see how much influence he really has! I shall watch events with great interest.”

  Most of the guests murmured agreement, for everyone was curious to know exactly how far Jack could go. Sarah stoically continued with her breakfast, pretending to be unconcerned and unaware of the glances she once more attracted at the mention of Jack. The toast was suddenly like cardboard in her mouth, and the apricot preserve tasteless. Oh, Jack, Jack ... She bowed her head to stare at a slice of toast. She must be honest with herself, she thought, for she was more than halfway to being in love with Jack Holland. And what a hopeless love it must be, for a man like that would never, never do anything but toy with her.

  The breakfast table echoed with derogatory remarks about their recent companion. Not one spoke up in his defense, but she noticed the dry expression on Paul Ransome’s face as he watched them. He said nothing at all, merely sat back to watch. It seemed to amuse him to be a spectator at this particular theater.

  She put down her cup with a crack and all heads swung toward her. She wiped her mouth daintily with a clean napkin and then stood, the butler not reaching her chair in time to prevent her from dragging it backward loudly. She surveyed the sea of faces before her. “Mr. Holland is in trouble because he came to my defense, and it shames me to hear you all talking about him in this way.”

  “Sarah Jane!” Her father spoke sharply, his eyes warning her to be silent.

  “No, Father, I’ll say my piece. It’s not right that—”

  “Sarah! That’s enough!” Sir Peter’s dreadfully quiet voice silenced her abruptly.

  Paul Ransome watched her, and as she walked from the room he was the only one to stand politely.

  Within an hour she was watching the final trunk being strapped to the back of the large traveling coach. Paul was talking to her father, and his companion held the reins of the two horses.

  Suddenly the straps holding the last trunk snapped and it fell to the ground with a crash, startling Paul’s black stallion, which jerked nervously. The man who held it spoke soothingly, and Sarah realized quite suddenly that he was French. He was small and dark-skinned, with a mop of curly brown hair and eyes which were almost unnaturally bright. Golden earrings glinted as he dismounted to steady the worried animal.

  Sarah did not look back at the house as the carriage swayed down the driveway. She snuggled down in the warm blankets which had been spread over her knees, and wriggled her toes against the earthenware bottle of scalding water which rested at her feet. Betty sat opposite, leaning forward sharply as she remembered something.

  “Liza! I forgot to wave to Liza.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll understand how excited you are.”

  Betty looked relieved. “Do you think so? That’s all right then. I’d ‘ate for ‘er to be angry with me.”

  The coach swept out through the stone pillars flanking the end of the driveway. On the top of each rested a carved rook, wings outstretched, beak open. Sarah glanced up and on impulse put her tongue out at the uninterested, unconcerned birds.

  “Miss Sarah!” Betty smothered a giggle.

  Sarah smiled, but the smile faded as she caught the stare of Paul Ransome, who had witnessed the entire incident. She conquered the impulse to put out her tongue at him too—but it was with great effort, a very great effort!

  Chapter Eight

  The storm Sarah had seen approaching was not long in breaking. Only a few hours after the coach had left Rook House the deluge began, and the journey to Dartmoor was accomplished through the worst of England’s weather. The rain streamed down in torrents, pitting the already poor roads and turning some into rivers of mud. The carriage sank axle-deep sometimes, and Sarah and Betty had to stand out in the downpour while the men freed the wheel. Sarah’s morale descended with the rain. Was this a portent of the coming weeks at Mannerby?

  The horses hung their heads low as they plodded along the muddy tracks which were beginning to climb now toward the distant outline of Dartmoor’s peaks and tors. Sir Peter’s coachmen were cold and miserable as they sat in their exposed position, and the Frenchman did not look as if he was enjoying the journey, for he seemed nervous and taut. Only Paul seemed unconcerned by the inclement weather, for his face brightened with each step which took him closer to his home, his beloved village of Mannerby.

  The wind whined through the bare branches of the silver birch trees which lined the roadside and a new coolness crept into the air from the high moorland ahead. Sarah rubbed the misty window of the coach and looked out, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Rivulets of rain ran down past her staring eyes, distorting the countryside, bending and reshaping it until she turned her gaze away. What use was there in looking out? It was like looking upon some landscape from Hell—a Hell flooded instead of burning.

  The coach lurched unexpectedly to a standstill and she gripped a strap quickly to prevent herself from falling from the hard seat. The coachmen’s anxious voices could be heard, and the shadowy shape of Paul’s black horse passed the blurred window.

  “What’s wrong?” he shouted, his horse slithering to a stop on the treacherous surface.

  “It’s that stream ahead, sir. ‘Tis too deep. The coach will either flood or float away. Or turn turtle!” The coachman’s tone was doom-laden.

  “It’s Hob’s Brook. It rises high on the moor and always floods swiftly when there’s rain. Unfortunately there’s no other way to Mannerby. We shall have to cross here.”

  “But, sir, the coach cannot ... and what about the ladies?”

  “I’ll consult them now. Armand, take the reins for a moment.” He dismounted, handing the Turk’s sticky reins to the Frenchman, who looked thoughtfully back at the rushing, angry waters of the normally peaceful brook.

  The door of the coach opened and the rain blustered in. Betty pulled her blanket more tightly around her knees, her teeth chattering. Paul looked in, his top hat glistening and his sandy hair wet and clinging to his face.

  “The stream ahead is in flood and the coach cannot pass. You must make up your minds whether you’ll wait here in the coach until the flood abates or whether you’d prefer to be carried across on horseback. Mannerby is barely two miles over that hill beyond the stream.”

  He pointed with his riding crop and his heavy cloak dripped over the interior of the coach. There was something in his voice which antagonized Sarah. He was so disinterested in which c
ourse they chose, she thought angrily. Perhaps he even hoped they would stay in the coach, for then he would be spared their company a little longer.

  She glowered at him stonily. “If we remain here until the flood abates I’d imagine the daffodils will be in bloom before we reach our destination!”

  His brown eyes flickered. “Then you had best prepare yourselves to be carried across on horseback.”

  “By you, Mr. Ransome?” Her voice was as chilly as the rain.

  “Yes.”

  “But what of the coach horses? Can they not be unharnessed?”

  “Hardly suitable steeds for ladies, Miss Stratford.” He was faintly bored by her questions.

  “Horses are horses, Mr. Ransome, and I consider myself quite capable of riding a coach horse!”

  “The animals pulling this coach are not in the same category as docile gray mares, madam.”

  So he knew about that, did he? She felt the telltale blush begin to creep across her face. “Do not judge my riding capabilities by the tittle-tattle you’ve heard, Mr. Ransome, Tell the men to unharness two coach horses for us.”

  “But, Miss Sarah, I can’t ride!” Betty’s voice was horror-filled.

  The Frenchman maneuvered the two thoroughbreds nearer. “The ladies can ride with us, Monsieur Ransome.” He looked at Sarah.

  Paul nodded. “Miss Stratford shall ride with me.” He glanced with a sugary sweetness at Sarah’s stormy face, thinking that he had put her well and truly in her place.

  The man was insufferable! Sarah’s stubborn heart refused to accept his overbearing attitude. “Mr. Ransome, my mind is made up. I shall cross by myself on one of the coach horses.” Her words were evenly spaced and calm, but inwardly she was seething with anger.

  He gave up and slammed the door.

  “Hateful man,” muttered Sarah, but she was pleased to have needled him sufficiently to make him slam the door in so ungentlemanly a way. Well, her powers of estimation were proving lamentable when it came to seeing who was friend and who was foe. First there had been her father, who was no more filled with paternal love than was a slug.

  Then she had made such a dismal mistake with Ralph Jameson, and finally there was Mr. Paul Ransome, who was not at all as friendly and open as his countenance had at first suggested. He disliked her father and yet showed a falsely amenable face to him; then he professed himself only too willing and pleased to give shelter to her when in fact he was outraged at the very request.

  “Oh, Betty, I begin to shudder at what Miss Melissa Ransome will be like,” she sighed.

  She opened the door and stepped out of the coach—straight into a puddle which lapped eagerly at her skirts and soaked into her crisp white undergarments. Her shoes sucked loudly as she struggled out of the puddle and on to firmer land. Paul’s face bore no expression but she could sense that he thought it served her right for being so obstinate. A coach horse had been unharnessed and the two coachmen exchanged glances as she approached. They were curious to see what happened next.

  The Frenchman leaned down from his mount to touch her arm. “Please, madame! Let me assist you across.”

  She looked up into his intense dark eyes, suddenly disliking him. “No, thank you. I’m well able to take care of myself.” She moved away from him.

  Paul stepped forward and pointed down the track to where the creaming, foaming waters of Hob’s Brook rushed and gurgled across the road. “Are you confident enough for that, Miss Stratford? Set aside all else and speak honestly with me, for I wouldn’t wish any harm to come to you.”

  There was no antagonism in his tone, no hint of mockery, and so she answered with equal civility. “I can manage well enough, Mr. Ransome, believe me. But if Armand would help poor Betty—”

  He nodded at the Frenchman, and then walked with Sarah to the bay horse, trying once more. “I beg of you—”

  “Please, Mr. Ransome! The thought of riding bareback holds no terror for me. Will you help me to mount, please?”

  He lifted her on to the broad back of the horse, pretending not to notice the inelegant and unladylike display of ankles, legs and underskirts which were thus revealed. She settled herself as comfortably as possible, watching Armand reach down to pull Betty up behind him. The Frenchman’s eyes swung to her again, strange in their peculiar brightness.

  She kicked her heels firmly and the horse moved away from Paul, dragging the bridle out of his hands, and then she was riding down the sloping road to the stream. The rushing roar of the swollen waters grew louder as she approached, and she gripped her knees more tightly as the horse stepped reluctantly into the foaming torrent. The force of the water unnerved it and its hooves slithered wildly. She held on for all she was worth, her face buried in the flying mane and her skirts dragging as the icy stream tugged at them.

  Vaguely she heard Paul shouting her name, and then, more distantly, a frightened scream from Betty, but she could do or say nothing. The horse was almost across, its muscles rippling with the effort. And then it was out, galloping along the road beneath the overhanging branches of silver birch, its fear and panic carrying it toward some woods which spread across the road ahead.

  The still of the woods seemed to calm the terrified creature and at last it stopped. The rain still fell heavily and the trees dripped. Sarah took a long, long breath of relief, secretly pleased that she had not disgraced herself in front of Paul Ransome. The tired horse had stopped by a holly tree which was aflame with berries and Sarah looked at the tree wistfully, memories of her childhood stirring. There had been a holly tree at Longwicke, a tree just like this one, the same height and shape.... She glanced back along the road wondering where the others were. The wind swept through the woods and the moisture from the trees fell loudly to the ground beneath.

  At last she heard someone coming and saw Paul riding the Turk for all he was worth. He reined in, the Turk’s black coat foaming and steaming, and she saw that he no longer wore his cloak. “Are you all right?” He was breathing heavily.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He lowered his gaze uneasily and something told her that all was far from well. “Miss Stratford, I’m afraid that there’s been a dreadful accident.”

  “Accident?” Her hand crept to her throat and she stared at him. What had happened?

  He leaned forward to put his hand over hers. “It’s your maid. I’m afraid that the stream proved too much for Armand’s horse. It lost its footing and he was too late to steady it. They were swept downstream. I followed as best I could, keeping as near as possible, but when I found her she was dead. Drowned.... I couldn’t find any trace of Armand or the horse; they must have been swept a good way downstream.” He looked at her anxiously.

  A whimper escaped her. Betty? No, it could not be true. He was lying! Frantically she kicked the heaving sides of the tired coach horse, driving it back along the track through the downpour. She heard him calling her but she closed her ears to him. She must go to Betty.

  Hob’s Brook filled the air with its rushing and on the far bank stood the coach, a dismal sight in the murky light of the late afternoon. The lamps burned, two small flickering flames to brighten the gloom. The coachmen were sitting inside and hastened to get out when they heard the hoofbeats returning along the track. In despair Sarah stared downstream as the splashing brook forced its way through the bending reeds and fresh green mossy banks. She turned the horse’s head along the near bank, tears running down her cheeks as her gaze searched the far bank. She did not see the Turk come up swiftly behind her, did not see Paul rein in and follow her slowly.

  Then she saw the sad little shape on the moss, carefully placed beneath a gorse bush, covered with Paul’s cloak. The coach horse stopped of its own accord, bending its head to snatch at the springy moorland grass with its yellow teeth. Sarah could only stare across the torrent at that bundle beneath the gorse bush. Oh, Betty, Betty, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. She closed her aching eyes. Her shoulders shook with cold and grief, and her teeth began to chatter
.

  Paul dismounted and lifted her from the coach horse. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “It was all my fault, my fault. If I’d not insisted on crossing she would still be alive.”

  He turned her away from the stream so that he stood between her and the maid’s body. “You mustn’t blame yourself. It was an accident.” He lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind her. The Turk moved lightly away and after a moment the coach horse followed.

  Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder, her thoughts in disorder and her sense of guilt overwhelming. She tried to look back along the stream but Paul’s arm restrained her. “Don’t look. It will do you no good,” he said. She obeyed him, hiding her face against the soaking wet wool of his coat.

  They rode in silence. Vaguely she heard the change in sound as they left the moor and came back onto the track which led to Mannerby.

  “We’re almost there now.” Paul’s voice seemed to come from far away.

  She opened her eyes to look as they rode up the long single street of Mannerby. The village sprawled up the hillside, culminating in the only two buildings of note: the church and the manor house. On the left was the dull gray stonework of the church with its squat tower and tiny churchyard filled with dark green yews which overshadowed the tombs nestling in the grass below.

  Mannerby House stood opposite. It was some five hundred years old, a beautiful, half-timbered building with rambling roofs and redbrick chimneys which had been added in a later century. Behind she could see the large stable block which housed the famous Mannerby stud. A walled courtyard hid the front of the house, and the double ironwork gates were closed.

  Beyond the village were the vast heights of Dartmoor. The land rose dramatically toward those distant tors and craggy peaks which were half hidden in a swirl of mist and cloud as the rain continued to fall. One rock-crowned tor stood out; it was taller and more regular in shape than its fellows, and Sarah found herself looking not at the village and manor house, but at this single melancholy hill.