by Sandra Heath
Late one night she lay sleepless in her bed, thinking about what her life had become. She was more unhappy now than ever she had been since her mother’s death. Everything had gone wrong, and she had not heard anything from her father, who seemed to have conveniently forgotten all about her. Not even a scribbled line about his search for a governess had arrived to soothe away her fears that he was going to leave her indefinitely in the hands of the Ransomes.
Miserably, she pondered on the invisible armor which seemed to enclose Melissa. The girl had so much she wished to hide and yet there was nothing Sarah could do to pierce that armor. Melissa knew she was safe still from Sarah’s tongue wagging about Edward, and used that knowledge to her own ends.
Sarah turned in the bed, pushing the pillows and tugging the bedclothes closer as the wind wafted its cool breath through the house. The lacy shadows of the ash tree moved over the blue curtains around the bed and she heard the tiny tinkle of the Buddha’s head. On the mantelpiece the glass-covered clock ticked quietly. The ash tree scratched at the window and Sarah’s eyes opened. That was the only chink in Melissa’s armor—the ash tree! Why, at dinner that very evening something had happened which made it clear that the formidable Melissa was indeed vulnerable after all.
Sarah had endeavoured to make conversation, deliberately choosing a time when Paul was present so that Melissa would speak to her.
“I’m so pleased with the beautiful room I occupy,” she had said. “And I cannot imagine why you don’t seize it for yourself, Melissa.”
Not glancing at his silent sister, Paul had grunted, “She will not, because of some childhood notion about the tree.”
Melissa had flushed then. “It is an ash tree, Paul.”
His face was cold. “I’d thought you were over all that superstitious nonsense. You went to London on the strict understanding—”
She had smiled sweetly at him then, leaning across the table to rest her dainty hand over his. “I gave my word, Paul, and I promise you that it’s all finished with. But I still don’t like ash trees, and that’s something I cannot help.”
He returned the smile then, squeezing her hand. “My poor ‘Lissa. And poor Mother too. She died cursing the day she ever brought that old hag Mother Kendal to be your nurse, filling your head with all that nonsense.”
“It wasn’t nonsense!” replied Melissa sharply, snatching her hand away.
“ ‘Lissa, I’m ashamed that a sister of mine can so believe in country tales of magic and witchcraft. I’m having Martin cut back the branches for Miss Stratford. Just as I’ve often said I would do for you, but you would have none of it. No, you needs must have the whole tree cut down! Well, that tree was planted by Mother and it remains where it is!”
Melissa had then glared venomously at Sarah, who had brought up this whole subject in the first place. “And I remain where I am, and Miss Stratford is welcome to Mother’s room—and the ash tree!” So saying, she had got to her feet and left the table, turning in the doorway to tell her brother that she would be going for a ride and would not be back until after supper.
Now, as she lay in her bed, Sarah suddenly realized that Melissa had not yet come back from that ride. The ash tree scraped at the window as if trying to attract her attention. She shivered. In the middle of the dark winter night it was almost possible to believe in its evil, as Melissa so obviously did. She sat up, knowing that sleep would not come for a long while yet. She pulled back the curtains and looked at the tree, remembering the trees at Rook House which Edward had had chopped down; that was all because of Melissa, she realized now.
Everything came back to Melissa, everything nasty and hurtful which had happened to Sarah boiled down to Melissa’s presence ... from the reason for Sir Peter’s search for his daughter, to the wreath at Betty’s funeral. Perhaps even the theft of the amber pin; nothing was beyond Melissa Ransome. Oh, how dearly Sarah would have loved to strike back at the beautiful poisonous girl.
The ash tree tapped and Sarah’s hazel eyes flickered with a gleam of revenge. She slipped from the bed and opened the window. Down from the moor came Melissa on her brown mare, she would be back in her rooms shortly. Sarah reached out and broke off a twig of the ash tree, closing the window quietly and pulling the curtains across. As she did so she wondered why Paul Ransome allowed his sister such unusual freedom—and whatever did Melissa do until all hours, anyway?
Sarah’s feet pattered across the room and very, very quietly she opened the door, holding her breath as it squeaked a little, but in her adjoining room Janie slept on undisturbed. Sarah flew along the passage to Melissa’s room, knowing that her maid was asleep too, for she heard the girl snoring as she passed her door.
Sarah laid the twig of ash upon Melissa’s pillow and smiled to herself. Well, Miss Melissa Ransome, let’s see how you like it! The main door was opening, and Sarah fled back to her own room, scrambling into her bed and pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.
Melissa’s footsteps passed the door and went on to her own room. Sarah held her breath, and her excitement was rewarded by the sound of Melissa’s scream. There was quite an uproar then, and Sarah lay like a mouse listening to the sounds as Paul Ransome ran to see what his sister was screaming about. His obvious annoyance and irritation was ample reward to the black-haired girl in the bed with its blue hangings. Let that be a lesson to you, Melissa! Tit for tat. Spite for spite.
It was not long before Sarah fell asleep, and she slept well, pleased to have at last struck back, even in so small a way. Outside the ash tree murmured in the wind.
After her small victory, life settled back into its former leisurely, tedious rut. Sarah was forced to admit that her triumph had been isolated, for she could not continue night after night to lay ash twigs in Melissa’s room; and so Melissa was soon supreme once more. She rode for many carefree hours on the moor, night and day, even in the pouring rain, coming back with rosy cheeks and shining eyes. Sarah felt more and more that Mannerby House was a prison—and Paul Ransome the jailer.
Towards the end of February, some six weeks or so after Sarah had come to Dartmoor, she noticed that there was a subtle change in Melissa. The girl’s rides had become more frequent and her manner decidedly secretive. She smiled to herself like a cat with a mouse to toy with, and occasionally Sarah felt that the smile was directed toward her, that she was the mouse.
At supper one wet evening Paul had striven for once to be attentive to his companions, and Sarah had been pleasantly surprised at his warmth and humor. He could, she thought, be quite charming if he tried.
Melissa sipped her wine and ate daintily, listening as her brother talked of London and of the Duke of Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. She evinced great interest when he spoke of Prinny, or of the beau monde, of Hyde Park, of Brighton and the new pavilion the Regent was building there. But apart from topics like these, she paid scant attention to his voice, glancing instead at Sarah, who was listening to him closely. After all, Sarah thought, I am going to be part of this world he is describing and anything I can learn will help me. Melissa was looking again and Sarah became conscious of those green eyes. She is, she thought bleakly, enjoying life at my expense. I don’t know how, but she is....
Paul nodded at Marks, who spooned some trifle into a silver dish before him. “Melissa, have you given thought to a new groom?”
She shook her head. “He may come back yet. Armand, I mean.”
Sarah saw a sweet chance to make Melissa feel uncomfortable for a change. “Oh, is he not back, then?”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “You know that he isn’t, Miss Stratford.”
“I thought I saw him. The day after the funeral I saw Melissa with a man on the moor and I was sure the man was Armand. But then perhaps I was mistaken. Who were you with, Melissa?” Innocently, Sarah smiled at the angry girl.
Paul looked sharply at his sister. “You were alone on the moor with a man, ‘Lissa?”
The green eyes rested malevolently on Sarah for a
moment and then Melissa smiled at her brother. “Miss Stratford is of course mistaken.”
“You were not with anyone?”
“Oh, as to that she is correct—in a manner of speaking. But it was most certainly not Armand. What reason could I have for meeting my own groom on the moor? And why, too, would he not return to Mannerby—if he was alive?”
Sarah smiled with equal honey sweetness. “Why indeed?” she murmured.
But Paul was not concerned with Armand now. He thought only that his sister might have behaved indiscreetly. “Who was he then?”
“Your friend James Trefarrin. I was riding back to Mannerby on the Bencombe road when I happened to encounter him. I remember it well. It was, as Miss Stratford said, the day after the funeral.”
Paul was smiling again and Sarah was amazed at his apparent willingness to believe without question everything Melissa said to him. Perhaps it had been this James Trefarrin, but he and Melissa had certainly not been on the road; they had been among the silver birches, hidden and secret.
Sarah poked at her trifle thoughtfully, ignoring the drift of conversation as Paul left the topic of his sister and the man on the moor. The jelly wobbled and a whirl of cream slid down it slowly. Sarah glanced at Melissa from beneath lowered lashes. She felt almost convinced that it had been Armand—simply because Melissa said it was not.
“Yes, how Holland extricated himself from that particular situation I’ll never know.” Paul’s voice intruded sharply and Sarah forgot Melissa immediately.
“Holland?”
His brown eyes were patient. “Yes, haven’t you been listening? I was saying that he was released some time ago. I heard only this morning. All charges were dropped and he is a free man, riding high in the Prince Regent’s favor again.”
Sarah’s spoon dropped and confusion took her. Jack free? Melissa’s little pink tongue licked the jelly from her spoon neatly and her eyes were wide and so innocent, as if she had never heard of Jack Holland or of his connection with Sarah.
Paul leaned back in his chair. “With it all blowing over so excellently I have no doubt your father will want you home again, Miss Stratford.” He spoke indifferently but Sarah could still feel that he held her responsible for everything that had happened at Rook House.
“I was innocent, you know!” she said suddenly, hardly realizing that the angry words were coming.
He blinked with surprise. “I—”
“You have said nothing, Mr. Ransome, but still I realize full well where you place the blame for Ralph Jameson’s death.”
“Miss Stratford!” He glanced at Melissa. “ ‘Lissa, will you leave us please?”
Without a word Melissa stood and left the room, closing the door behind her. They could hear her humming as she walked toward the stairs. Paul looked at Sarah’s fiery face. “Miss Stratford, my opinion could hardly matter less. I said only that I presumed your father would send for you now.”
“Yes, that’s all you said, Mr. Ransome, but I’m no fool. You knew Ralph and you naturally feel yourself in a position of loyalty to him. I wish only to tell you that your loyalty is misplaced.”
He pursed his lips and looked at her steadily. “Very well, Miss Stratford, you leave me no choice. I do blame you, fairly and squarely, for what happened to Ralph. Your little act has not fooled me for one moment. Ralph sent a letter here telling of the grand progress he was making with Stratford’s daughter, and of the forward manner in which you behaved with him. What you told Jack Holland I don’t know, but I do know that Ralph’s story of what happened in the woods was the true one and that he died unjustly! Now will you put an end to this air of injured innocence, for I swear it makes me wish to puke!”
Sarah could only stare openmouthed at him, but at last she managed to find her voice. “He was lying in that letter. I don’t know why, but he was. I did nothing, I tell you, nothing!”
He flung down his napkin and stood. “Madam, that’s all I’d expect you to say!”
Her anger flared to match his. “And how can you behave so righteously, Mr. Ransome? If you believe all this of me, what on earth possessed you to agree to my coming here? You’re a man of as little honor as you credit to me!”
The door slammed behind him.
Sarah’s whole body was shaking and she took a deep breath to try to calm herself. She must write to her father—she must. She could not bear this any longer. The door opened stealthily and Melissa came in. Sarah glanced up quickly as she saw the splash of emerald green of the girl’s riding habit. Melissa looked very lovely, and very menacing, as she stood there, her green eyes gloating malignantly.
The two women eyed each other in silence, and after a moment Melissa turned to go, her scarf billowing behind her. She had said nothing, given no reason for coming back to the dining room, but Sarah knew it had been only to look at her vanquished foe. There came the sound of hooves as Melissa rode out of the courtyard and through the gates.
Sarah slowly left the dining room and climbed the dark stairs. On the landing the Elizabethan lady looked down her nose at the sad little figure. The Buddha shook his head sorrowfully as the wind drew its breath. Outside it had begun to rain again and Sarah stood by the window and gazed out. The glass misted as the rain dashed against it.
Hoofbeats sounded again and she looked out. Was Melissa coming back already? She strained her eyes against the semi-darkness and the weather.
A solitary horseman was riding past the house on his way to the moor. A shaft of light from Martin’s gatehouse momentarily rested on the bright chestnut flank of his horse. The man was hunched against the weather, his top hat pulled down over his face. He was very fashionable, that much Sarah could see, with his high, high collar. His voluminous cravat billowed in the wind. She watched until he was out of sight and then walked on to her room.
She sat by her dressing table quietly while Janie untied her ribbon and began to brush her hair. She thought of Jack and forgot all about the letter she wished to write.
He was free. Would she ever see him again? Would he maybe come to see her? Would he even want to know her after all that had happened?
She closed her eyes as the brush worked gently and soothingly. His kiss seemed to burn on her lips even now. Oh Jack, don’t forget me, don’t forget me….
Chapter Thirteen
The following day dawned bright and clear. The moor was golden on this first day of March, and from Sarah’s window everything looked warm and spring-like. The ash tree spread its branches like bars across the window, but since Martin had trimmed it early that morning it could no longer touch the glass. The tor shimmered in the distance, swaying in the haze. As Sarah prepared to go down to breakfast she felt her imprisonment acutely and resentment waxed strongly in her heart.
“There, miss, you look very nice. Blue suits you so.” Janie smiled at her in the mirror, putting the finishing touches to the bow which held Sarah’s thick black hair back.
“And who is there to notice how I look, Janie? Mr. Ransome? I think not. He wouldn’t notice if I sat down to breakfast in my undergown.”
“Miss Sarah!” Janie was horrified that her mistress could even think such a dreadful thing.
Sarah’s expression was wry. “Indeed, when I think of it, I imagine he would be completely unsurprised by my doing such a thing, for so low is his opinion of me that he doubtless thinks I make a habit of such behavior!”
She picked up her reticule and went to the door. As she opened it Paul and Melissa were walking along the passage, and they stopped. Melissa smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Sarah. I trust that the storm did not keep you awake last night.” Even the sweetness in her voice sounded so utterly believable.
Sarah returned the smile woodenly. “I slept well, thank you.”
Paul glanced at her. What ailed the woman? She looked peaky. Or was she still sulking because of what he had said the night before? “Are you all right, Miss Stratford?” he inquired.
“I’m well enough, Mr. Ransome,”
“You look pale ... er, unwell.”
Melissa’s laugh tinkled out. “Oh, tush, Paul, did you not know that to look pale and unwell is the look this Season? Shame on you for being so ungallant.” Her wide green eyes looked spitefully at Sarah’s unfashionably tied hair and then she patted her own cascade of white Grecian curls.
Paul grunted. “ ‘Lissa, I trust that this Season’s languid look applies only to those of a healthy disposition. Miss Stratford looks unwell to me, and it’s not ungallant to ask.” He looked anew at Sarah. “I’d rather you gave me a truthful answer, Miss Stratford.”
She looked rebellious. She did feel unwell—who would not, being cooped up in this odious house with only his odious self and his equally odious sister for companions! “I feel suffocated for lack of good fresh air, Mr. Ransome. I’d ask you to permit me a measure of freedom—such as you permit your sister.”
“I cannot allow you to ride alone whenever and wherever you please, Miss Stratford. You must see that.”
“I’m afraid that I do not, Mr. Ransome. If Melissa needs no supervision then I fail to see why I do.” She was desperate to be free of Mannerby House, and free of Paul Ransome.
“Miss Stratford, my sister is here of her own volition. This is her home. You, on the other hand, have been sent here under circumstances which give me cause to severely curtail your freedom while under my protection.”
Flame red scorched across her pale face at these words. What a toad the man was! “Mr. Ransome, for once I find myself in agreement with your sister. You are ungallant!” Shaking with emotion, she shut the door in his face and turned to look at Janie who had overheard everything.
She went to the chair by the window, sitting down with so dark a face that Janie remained silent. Sarah opened the window. Outside, the village street rang with noise and bustle as the people went about their business. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys and there was a delicious smell of fresh baked bread. Sarah’s stomach reminded her sharply that she had not eaten—nor would she now after her display of temper!