The Whispering Rocks

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The Whispering Rocks Page 6

by Sandra Heath


  The Turk moved up the village street, passing the little cottages which huddled together. Paul stopped by the gates of the house and Sarah looked through them, seeing the great age of the walls and the ivy which crept stealthily up them, forcing its roots into cracks. The cobbles of the courtyard glistened with rain, and there was no sign of life anywhere. The only sound was the rhythmic tamping of the rain, and the occasional sound of horses from the stables.

  “Martin! The gates!” Paul shouted impatiently as he waited by the obstinately closed framework of wrought iron.

  From a tiny gatehouse, which merged so well with the walls that she had not noticed it, came a man so large he was built like an ox. He had a mane of carrot-colored hair, and freckles peppered his good-natured face. His leather jerkin strained across his broad shoulders, and he held a sack over his head to fend off the rain. He pressed close to the gates and peered out.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Martin, it’s me, Paul Ransome, and I demand entry to my own house!” Paul’s voice was decidedly tetchy. He was wet, tired, cold, and more than a little shaken by Betty’s death. He was now drawing on the last vestiges of his patience.

  “Master Paul!” Martin was rattling the large bunch of keys at his waist and the old gates groaned as they swung open.

  They closed again behind the Turk and Sarah felt almost trapped as she looked around the courtyard. There was rainwater everywhere, dripping from gutters into butts, pattering into large puddles, and most of all falling wetly from the glossy leaves of the ivy. Two bare trees stood next to the house: one was a lilac, and the other a tall ash tree which stood higher than the rooftops.

  So this was Mannerby.

  Chapter Nine

  The doors of the house were flung open and a girl ran out into the rain. She was incredibly lovely, with almost white hair and vivid green eyes. Her face was perfect, faultless, and the pale pink woolen gown she wore suited her fresh, dainty looks. Hardly giving Sarah a glance, she flung herself joyfully on her brother as he dismounted.

  “At last! You’re back! I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

  He laughed, hugging her. “Keep your distance, ‘Lissa, for I’m both wet and muddy.”

  Melissa looked at Sarah and then quickly away. “Where’s Armand?” she asked Paul, smiling a little. “Surely you haven’t traveled all the way on the Turk?”

  Sarah could not take her eyes from the girl. She was like an exquisite doll. Her hair was pinned slightly, falling naturally into the Grecian curls which Betty had worked so hard to create out of Sarah’s black tresses. Betty. The thought of the poor little maid pricked saltily behind Sarah’s lids and she blinked the tears away. Surely it had not really happened—

  Melissa touched Paul’s hand. “I asked you a question.”

  “There was an accident at Hob’s Brook. Miss Stratford’s maid was killed and the coach and baggage remain firmly the wrong side of the crossing. As to Armand—”

  “Yes?” The dainty voice was slightly sharp as Melissa guessed there was more bad news to come.

  He cupped her chin in his hand gently. “Armand may be dead, ‘Lissa. He was your faithful servant and I know not how to break such tidings kindly. He was carrying the maid across on horseback but the current was too strong. I found the maid’s body but there was no sign of Armand.”

  ‘Then he may not be dead?” Her eyes were large.

  “It’s possible—without tangible proof there’s always hope.” Paul spoke reluctantly, not wanting to raise her hopes.

  Melissa’s lovely green eyes swung to Sarah, but it was to her brother that she spoke. “Then he’ll come back. I know that he will.”

  He said no more on the subject, turning to lift Sarah to the ground. “ ‘Lissa, please take Miss Stratford inside out of the rain.” He gave the Turk’s reins to Martin, who waited nearby.

  Melissa held her hand out to Sarah and smiled, but the smile did not reach those spectacular green eyes. “Please come inside, Miss Stratford.” She spoke politely enough but there was a barrier there, an almost tangible barrier.

  The servants waited in the hall to greet their master. The butler, Marks, stepped forward, a genuine smile of pleasure on his old, wrinkled face. As Paul spoke to each one in turn, Sarah could see how well he was liked and respected by all, down to the meanest scullery maid and kitchen boy. Yes, and by the adoring glances of the maids, he was not only liked and respected! He stopped to converse with the butler, listening closely and then giving some orders. Marks nodded, calling two of the maids and sending them scurrying up the dark, narrow staircase to the first floor, calling instructions by the dozen as he went.

  Sarah looked around the entrance hall. How different Mannerby House was from Rook House. Both were old, but Rook House had been gutted inside and rebuilt by the finest architects in a gracious gold and white style which was more fitting to a new house than one so old.

  Mannerby was as it always had been, bringing a breath of medieval times to Regency England. Dark wooden bannisters lined the staircase and oak beams ranged across the low ceilings. Red tiles covered the floors, tiles polished so much that you could see your face in their uneven surface.

  Small tapestries hung on the walls, just as if left there by the original owner of the house, and everywhere there was the subtle gleam of copper and brass. A tall old grandfather clock stood against a wall, ticking the minutes away steadily and slowly, its face having a rather surprised look as if permanently startled by life. Ancient portraits were hanging on every conceivable space, interspersed by brackets which held thick yellow candles.

  Halfway up the stairs, on a small landing, was a narrow window at the side of which was a huge portrait of a woman in Elizabethan dress. A stiff ruff framed the thin, hawk-like face and she stared down her beaky nose at the group in the entrance hall far below her. On a table beneath the portrait stood a large, fat, porcelain Buddha. The Buddha was green, gold, and white and had emerald eyes which glittered as his head moved. From where she stood Sarah could hear the tiny chink, chink of that uncanny wobbling head.

  Paul returned to speak to his sister. “ ‘Lissa, Miss Stratford will be happier in your care than in mine, so please take her to Mother’s rooms. Marks is having them prepared now. Oh, and see that she has some of your clothes, for hers are still the other side of Hob’s Brook.”

  “But, Paul!” Melissa’s voice was urgent, “There’s no need for Marks to prepare Mother’s rooms. I’ve already set aside accommodation for our guest—aired and waiting.”

  He was impatient to be away, his quicksilver mind turning over various other problems which had to be attended to. “ ‘Lissa, Miss Stratford is an honored guest and so Mother’s rooms shall be hers.”

  Sarah felt awkward, and the very last thing she wanted now was for Melissa to be offended. After all, perhaps the girl did not want someone sleeping in her mother’s rooms. “Mr. Ransome, I shall be well satisfied with the accommodation your sister has—”

  “No. You will have Mother’s rooms, and that’s the end of it.” With one hand unfastening his limp cravat he turned away, hurrying up the stairs two at a time and calling the butler. The servants melted away from the hall and Sarah was left alone with the strange Melissa.

  The girl’s warm smile was fading rapidly as her brother turned his back, and she bowed her head coldly to Sarah and, picking up her skirts, swept regally up the stairs.

  Sarah followed, miserably conscious of the poor figure she cut as she walked behind the dazzling girl in pink. She was made even more miserable by Melissa’s obvious dislike of her. But why should Melissa behave like that? She had never known Sarah and could surely have no just reason. The Buddha’s head tinkled melodiously in the draft caused by her passing and Sarah shivered.

  Her skirts clung horribly to her legs and her shoes squelched unpleasantly as she hurried along the dark, beamed passageway. The light figure ahead paused, and to Sarah’s surprise she saw that Melissa was somehow hesitant of going into the roo
m where the maids’ voices could be heard. The girl took a deep breath and then walked in, vanishing momentarily from sight until Sarah too reached the doorway.

  The dull winter afternoon gave the room a chill look, but already a maid was lighting a fire in the hearth and the leaping flames sent out a warm glow. The walls were covered with a silk wallpaper painted with magnificent birds and flowers of Chinese design, and the pageant of delicate colors seemed to move the firelight across their dull blue background. A four-poster bed stood against one wall, a golden bed hung with aquamarine curtains of velvet. Everywhere was the touch of Melissa’s mother, now dead, but obviously when alive a woman of taste and a love of elegance.

  Melissa stood by the bed, her whole bearing one of nervousness. Occasionally she licked her lower lip as if it was dry, and her green eyes glanced time and time again at the window. Outside the rain still fell, lashing against the pane. The naked ash tree in the courtyard bowed to and fro outside the window, its branches occasionally bending so near that they scratched at the glass.

  “Draw the curtains, Janie,” said Melissa sharply and the maid, who was folding back the sheets on the bed, hurried to the window. Just for a moment Sarah looked out of the window and saw the tor which had caught her attention before. The curtains shut out the wintry scene and the firelight came into its own. Sarah looked at Melissa again and saw the relief which swept over her as soon as the curtains were drawn.

  Looking at the maid who was kneeling by the fire, Sarah was reminded of Betty. She tried to force away memories, but to no avail; they crowded into her mind, painful with their freshness. She held her breath, walking to the fire and holding out her hands to the warmth. The tears were determined, but she was equally determined. She did not wish to weep in front of strangers, and especially not in front of Melissa who was so distant toward her.

  The silence in the room was oppressive; she must say something to break it. She turned to Melissa. “Miss Ransome, my gown is so wet, perhaps you could find one of yours for me to wear until my own clothing arrives.” She smiled in as friendly a way as she could, but her efforts met with a blank, stony wall of coolness.

  Without even a nod of her head Melissa left the room, her skirts hissing like so many snakes. Sarah sighed and turned back to the fire. The maids and the butler had gone and she was alone. She stared around her at the hangings and ornaments.

  It was a gentle room, the choice of a gentle woman, she decided, and thought for the first time how quickly she could become at ease in surroundings such as these. Everything about the room was in tune with Sarah’s own taste and character. How strange, she thought suddenly, that she, a stranger, could be so at home, when the daughter of the woman whose room it had been was so obviously ill at ease.

  Upon the mantelpiece a small clock ticked quietly in its glass case on which was painted an ornate and incredible dragon. The dragon crept round and round the base of the glass case until its open jaws threatened to devour its own tail. It was a fearsome beast and yet in this room, it was merely decorative. Another Buddha stood on the table by the bed—a small Buddha this time without the shining emerald eyes of the other one, but it too had a head which wobbled when Sarah reached out to touch it.

  She jumped as there came a tap on the door and the maid called Janie returned. Janie was a buxom country girl with wide blue eyes and neatly plaited, straw-colored hair.

  “Please, miss, I’ve been sent to tell you there’s hot water for a bath if you want one.”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  “Very well, miss. I’ll tell the men to bring everything.”

  “Thank you, Janie.”

  The girl dimpled with pleasure that Sarah had remembered her name. “The master said that I was to attend you, miss, if that’s all right. He said that your maid had ... had—”

  Sarah nodded quickly. “Yes, Janie, I’d very much like you to attend me. I’m sure we’ll get on well together.”

  The door closed, but soon the men were carrying a hip-bath into the room and a chain of maids came and went with steaming kettles of hot water. Janie stood importantly supervising it all and then shooed them out, closing the door. She dragged a lacquered blue screen around the bath and then helped Sarah to take off her cold, wet clothes.

  “Oh, miss, what a mess you’re in. I’m sorry your introduction to Mannerby has been so awful.”

  The maid carefully laid the spoiled clothes over the back of a chair, unpinning the little amber brooch on the shoulder of the woolen gown. “What a pretty thing, miss.”

  Sarah nodded, taking it from the maid. “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have to remember her by now.”

  ‘Shall I put it safe, miss?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Here, in this little porcelain dish. That’s where old Mrs. Ransome liked to keep her most precious things.”

  “Thank you, Janie.”

  Sarah sank into the warm, steaming water, closing her eyes with pleasure. How good it felt. She took the soap and cloth which Janie held out to her and washed her arms and legs.

  “Are you courting, Janie?” She tried hard to be friendly because she felt so lonely, and missed Betty’s chatter so very much.

  “Oh yes, miss. I’m Martin’s girl.”

  “Martin? Oh yes, I recall. He’s the one who lives in the gatehouse.”

  “Yes, and he looks after the courtyard and outside of the house, tends to the garden, prunes the trees, and so on.” Janie was obviously very proud of her young man.

  Sarah smiled. “I wish you happiness then, Janie.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and went, pulling the screen around again to keep out the drafts which seemed able to creep in anywhere at will.

  Sarah set down the soap at last and lay back in the bath, soaking deliciously in the water. She heard Janie brushing the clean gown Melissa had at last sent in—and then suddenly the maid was looking round the screen again. “Is this yours, miss? I found it on the floor just by the door.”

  Sarah stared at a heavy signet ring which the maid held in her hand. She took it, turning it over so that it caught the light of the fire. There was something familiar about it.... Her brows drew together, puzzled. Of course! It was the design on the front: a rook with outstretched wings—such as was found all over her father’s house. But what was a woman’s ring with her father’s crest on it doing here at Mannerby? She turned it again and saw that there was an inscription on the inside: My love is as endless as this ring. Edward. 1814.

  Janie suddenly clapped her hands and laughed. “Of course, how silly of me. It’s Miss Melissa’s ring. She brought it back from London last autumn.”

  Sarah gave the ring to the maid. The ring was Melissa’s? Edward had given a ring to Melissa Ransome? Everything began to fall neatly into place as Sarah watched the dancing flames in the fireplace. Melissa was the woman Edward loved, the woman he wished to marry and would have married had it not been for Sarah.

  Her head ached with the effort of coping with this new development. So much had happened already today without still more. What a terrible quirk of fate that she should have been sent here of all places. Was that, then, why Paul Ransome was so cold and distant? No, on second thought, Sarah began to doubt that Paul could know of his sister’s affair with Edward Stratford. For surely he would never have allowed Sarah to come to Mannerby if he had known.

  She stood as Janie brought a warm towel for her. Oh dear, why had her father chosen this of all houses? Practically any other place in England would have been preferable to Mannerby House.

  Chapter Ten

  Melissa’s odd behavior toward Sarah continued. Not once was she openly hostile, choosing to be bright and charming when her brother was near, and then sinking into a sullen, unfriendly silence when he was not. Nothing Sarah said or did could break that silence, and after a week Sarah was feeling inclined not to bother with her. She could so easily have told the girl the truth that she did not want to marry Edward, that indeed she did not even like hi
m, but Melissa’s behavior made such a confidence impossible.

  Sarah was now convinced that Paul Ransome knew nothing of his sister’s love for Edward, and she had no wish to precipitate any crisis by anything she said. Paul was as distant and cool as he had been from the outset, and nothing would have made Sarah go to him with her complaints.

  So Melissa was free to carry on with her subtle goading, safe in the knowledge that her victim’s pride was a sure protection against Paul’s being made aware of what was going on. Sarah was left only to marvel that an exquisite girl like Melissa Ransome could fall in love with a lout like Edward Stratford. Unkindly she decided that it could only be because of the fortune he might one day inherit.

  No letter came from Rook House. And, more important to Sarah, she heard nothing from Jack Holland. Two days after her arrival she wrote a small, sad little note to Liza, telling her of Betty’s death. The letter had been sent as it was, complete with the marks of Sarah’s tears, for she could not think of Betty without weeping. But at least she no longer had to rely on Melissa for her clothes.

  The coach had at last arrived and she had her own wardrobe again. Janie had as little idea of fashion and etiquette as Sarah, and so from the first day Sarah’s hair had merely been brushed loose and then tied back with a ribbon. Gone were the delicate Grecian tresses, which Melissa’s maid managed so well and about which Janie had no idea. Melissa had been slyly delighted with her rival’s appearance, for Sarah no longer looked the belle of Society.

  It crossed Sarah’s mind several times to write to her father, explaining the situation and asking him to take her back; but each time she decided against such a course. Why should she allow Melissa to win, for win she would if she succeeded in sending the enemy scuttling back whence she came.

  Seven days after the accident, Betty was buried. It was a single funeral, for they still searched the length of Hob’s Brook for Armand’s body and for that of his horse. But there was no sign of either.

 

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