by Sandra Heath
Down the slope of the hillside she looked at the dark strip of the woods through which she had ridden on her journey from Rook House. The trees were still bare, but now their grayness was mellowed by the sunshine, and she could imagine the softness of the moss beneath a horse’s hooves. Oh, how she longed for a ride! A tiny speck of chestnut moved along the edge of the wood and she leaned forward. A horseman was there, his face turned toward the village. As she looked he melted into the woods. She was puzzled, for she recognized the bright chestnut horse as the one she had seen the previous evening.
Across the room she could see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were dark-rimmed, tired, and anxious. Her hair was dull and her skin was so pale as to be almost white, which, although it may have been the very height of fashion, did little for Sarah. She needed a touch of color, a sparkle in her eyes and a sheen in her hair. Paul Ransome was right after all; she did look unwell She pulled a face at herself.
“Miss Stratford, may I come in?”
Startled she turned in her chair to see Paul standing in the doorway. She felt foolish, knowing that he had probably witnessed her face-pulling.
“Miss Stratford, I think your anger with my ill manners was justified and I’ve come to offer my apologies, and to make amends, if I may.” His words were not stilted and he looked genuinely sorry.
“I accept your apology, Mr. Ransome.” Try as she would, Sarah could not be gracious.
He sighed. “Then you would not relish the thought of a ride after all? And on such a magnificent day too—still ...” He began to turn away but she almost ran across the room to him, putting her hand on his arm.
He glanced down at her hand and she removed it immediately. She bit her lip. “Mr. Ransome, I would relish a ride. Yes, indeed I would. Let us be honest with each other. You don’t like me, and I do assure you that the feeling is mutual. I can only say again that I don’t deserve your dislike. However, I’m under your roof and must remain here until my father sees fit to send for me. Until then I would wish to live as peacefully as possible. I’d love to go for a ride. Thank you so much for asking me.” She finished this long speech with a rush and watched him anxiously.
He nodded. “Be ready to leave within the hour, Miss Stratford. Melissa will accompany us.” He left the room, closing the door as quietly as he had opened it.
Janie cleared her throat. “Shall I put out your riding things, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Janie. Oh, how good it will be to get out and away from this house with its awful atmosphere.”
The maid looked a little agitated at her words. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you about that, miss, but didn’t know quite what to say. I know that no one likes you or trusts you, and I don’t know why. You’re such a dear lady and have done nothing to deserve their spite. Even Martin acts as if you are bad and he doesn’t like it one bit that I’m your maid, but he won’t tell me why he dislikes you so much because he knows I like you.”
Sarah smiled. “And I like you, Janie, and thank you for your concern and loyalty.”
“It’s not so simple, miss, because their feeling is so powerful. They think you’ve done something awful.”
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. Betty. It must be Betty’s death. And perhaps Ralph’s death too ...
Janie took out the wine red velvet riding habit and laid it on the bed. “Just be careful, Miss Sarah, that’s all, for I don’t like it one little bit.”
“Yes, Janie.” Sarah turned for the maid to unhook her blue woolen gown. “Oh, Janie, I wish to write a letter when I return from this ride. Can you arrange to post it for me ... without Mr. Ransome or his sister knowing? I’d rather they didn’t find out that I’d written to my father.”
“Yes, miss, just you leave it to me.”
A short while later Sarah descended to the drawing room where Paul Ransome was already waiting. “You look most charming, Miss Stratford,” he said politely.
“Thank you, Mr. Ransome,” she replied in equally polite tone.
“Paul? Am I late?” Melissa came hurrying down the stairs in a flurry of emerald green. She glowed, and Sarah felt suddenly dull beside such sparkling vitality. It was with some satisfaction that she noticed a tear at the base of Melissa’s riding skirt; well, at least there was something to mar that dreadfully complete perfection!
Paul put on his top hat. “I thought we would ride to Bencombe.”
Melissa’s face fell. “Oh no, Paul, let’s go somewhere else.”
He smiled. “I’m afraid that I’ve some business there, for I must see James Trefarrin.”
“That man! I don’t like him!” Melissa was obviously upset in some way, and Sarah looked at her in surprise.
Paul smiled affectionately at his sister. “I’m sure that James would be heartbroken to see you look like that at the prospect of meeting him, ‘Lissa. Come on, now, for Bencombe is a far ride and perhaps we can eat at James’s excellent hostelry.”
Outside in the courtyard three horses waited. Sarah breathed deeply of the fresh moorland air and smiled at the groom who held her mount, but he would not meet her eyes.
A tiny black-and-white dog with a black patch over one eye hurtled unexpectedly across the courtyard toward Paul, yapping frantically and wagging its stumpy little tail. With a yelp of delight it flung itself upon him, licking his face and almost knocking his hat from his head. Paul was laughing as he held the little creature. “Kitty! You rascal!” He ruffled the floppy ears and rubbed the furry head which butted constantly against his hand.
Martin came hurrying up, panting and dismayed at his dog’s behavior. “I’m sorry, sir. I tried to hold her back.”
“That’s all right, Martin. It’s good to see her out and about again. How are her pups? Do they flourish?”
“Aye, that they do, sir. A fine handful they’ll be soon.”
Sarah was interested. “Has she some puppies then, Martin?”
He glanced at her quickly and then away. “Yes, miss, six of them.”
“May I see them please?”
He was reluctant. “Well, miss ...”
Paul put the excited dog on the cobbles. “Come now, Martin, it’s a small request. Perhaps afterwards you could show Miss Stratford how well Kitty dances a jig.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sarah remembered what Janie had said such a short time before. Martin quite obviously did not like Mr. Ransome’s guest.
They walked across the courtyard toward the gatehouse, and Kitty danced around them on dainty paws. The puppies were small and round, with their eyes still closed, and each one was a black-and-white miniature of its mother. Kitty sat down with them proudly and Sarah laughed. “Look at her. She’s as proud as any fine lady showing off her firstborn.” She stroked the dog and Kitty licked her hand.
“You are fond of dogs?” Paul crouched down beside her, touching the tiny furry bundles in the straw.
“Oh yes, I had one of my own once.” It was long since she had thought of her childhood pet.
Paul looked at her profile and then up at Martin. “Martin, when they’re old enough perhaps you’ll give one to Miss Stratford...”
“They’re all spoken for, sir,” the big man spoke hurriedly.
Paul was surprised. “What, all of them? Who around here wants them?”
“They’re all spoken for,” repeated Martin, staring at the puppies firmly.
He just doesn’t want me to have one, thought Sarah. The puppies were not spoken for, she knew that, and so did Paul, who merely shrugged.
“Well, at least Kitty’s dancing time isn’t spoken for. Come on, Martin, get out your fiddle and let Kitty entertain us.”
Never before had Sarah seen a dog dance a jig, but Kitty did. She tottered around on her hind legs as Martin scraped out a tune on his ancient fiddle. Kitty reveled in all the attention she was getting and danced as finely as any actress on the stage in London. Sarah was captivated as she watched, and her eyes shone. Paul studied her; it was hard to be
lieve that this girl who took such a delight in Kitty’s puppies and in the little dog’s dancing antics could have been capable of such heartless behavior at Rook House....
The foot-tapping music ended with a loud chord and Kitty dropped to all fours, tail still wagging. Paul bent to pat the dog’s head before turning to the two women. “Well, ladies, I think we must go now.”
“Let’s go somewhere other than Bencombe, Paul,” pleaded Melissa for the last time.
“No, ‘Lissa. Bencombe it is,” he said firmly, crossing the courtyard to mount the Turk.
Melissa followed him, her expression apprehensive.
When they rode up from the village and on to the moor itself, Sarah found herself speechless at its magnificence. The rolling, wildly beautiful land stretched ahead for miles, covered with the brown bracken of last year and the new heather leaves of the present year. Silver birch trees dotted the green carpet in every direction, and rocks and boulders were scattered as if by some giant hand. Now and then the land rose steeply to a tor, but high above all others was Sarah’s tor—Hob’s Tor she now knew it to be named, where Hob’s Brook rose.
Everything basked in the sunshine. Dimples in the ground marked the passage of tiny streams, and from overhead came the lonely calls of the curlews. The blue skies were free of all clouds, and there was no wind to chill the air. A hawk hovered momentarily, before plummeting down to the heather to grasp some prey.
Sarah rode on through the morning splendor, oblivious to the awkward sidesaddle. She absorbed the magic of Dartmoor. Ponies grazed on the lower slopes of a hill—splashes of gray, chestnut, and bay against the moor. Further away a small flock of sheep moved slowly along a ridge, surefooted and unconcerned.
Paul looked at Sarah’s rapt face. “You seem lost to the moor.”
“I am. It’s surely the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes, and one which never palls.”
“Were you born here, Mr. Ransome?”
“I was, and have always lived here. Mannerby House has been in my family since it was first built. My mother was a Mannerby; the family name died out with her.” He looked away quickly and she remembered that he no longer owned Mannerby. She wondered, not for the first time, what had forced him to sell the place to her father, whom he clearly did not like.
The small market town of Bencombe nestled in a fold in the moor. In the square was the sign of the Blue Fox, a beautiful Tudor building with tall gables and chimneys, and a half-timbered frontage. It had ancient bow windows with thick, uneven glass panes which obscured the interior of the inn.
Paul led the way into the galleried yard behind and the sound of their horses brought James Trefarrin hurrying out to greet them. One glance at the innkeeper told Sarah that he most certainly was not the small, dark man she had seen with Melissa.
“Mr. Ransome, Mr. Ransome, what an honor it is, an honor indeed.” The man wiped his hands on his impeccable white apron, bowing as he spoke. He was Paul’s age, stocky, with a prematurely balding head, a large paunch and freckles on his red nose.
“Well, James, I trust your hostelry has fare fit for us.” Paul dismounted, giving the Turk’s reins to a groom and holding out his hand to the innkeeper, who seized and shook it gladly.
“My inn can compete with any of your fancy London places—if that thieving vagabond by Hob’s Tor leaves my supply of mutton alone.”
“Vagabond? What’s all this?”
“Oh, some fellow hiding up there. They reckon perhaps in the old cave where— Anyway, no one will go up and look, not to that old place. But if he doesn’t stop soon we’ll have to get together and flush him out somehow—though who would come with me to that cursed place I don’t know. He’s had at least four sheep from my enclosure and the new folk in Mother Kendal’s old cottage have talked of losing eggs from the coops.”
Paul’s smile faded a little. “I’ll warrant if the old witch herself was still alive no one would ever dare steal her eggs.”
“Ah, well, Mother Kendal may be gone but her memory is fearsome enough. Her haunts are still avoided as surely as ever they were.”
“James, she’s dead, and so are most of her cronies, and those that remain have set that aside once and for all. Hob’s Tor holds no terror for me. I’ll help you seek out your thieving vagabond.”
James grinned broadly. “Reckon Old Nick himself would be sent running from you and me, Master Paul.”
“Aye, pitchfork and all!”
Trefarrin looked past Paul to where some ostlers were trying to control a nervous horse which had no intention of standing between the shafts of a cart. “Have a care, you dolts. That’s best Froggie cognac there.”
He grinned at Paul, rubbing his finger against the side of his nose, “The best the Revenue men have missed! And talking of Froggies, I reckon I saw that groom we all thought was drowned in Hob’s Brook. Early one morning a day or so back. I was up because my rheumatism was playing me foolish again. If it wasn’t him then it was someone just like him. Riding south he was, toward Mannerby.”
Sarah glanced quickly at Melissa, but the girl did not move a muscle. Paul merely shrugged. “It seems everyone is seeing Armand at every corner. I fear the poor man is dead. Unless, of course, he’s afraid to return to us in case he is blamed for the maid’s unfortunate death.”
James nodded. “Peculiar lot, the Froggies. Reckon Wellington’ll rub their foreign noses in the mud for old England shortly though, eh?”
Sarah reached down to the groom who was waiting to help her dismount. As she stood on the newly washed cobbles of the yard she looked at Melissa again. The girl was staring at James Trefarrin, her face filled with ill-concealed malice mixed with a hint of fear.
Chapter Fourteen
The innkeeper seemed anxious to speak to Paul. “Mr. Ransome, before you partake of a meal, could I maybe have a word with you in private? It’s rather important.” He glanced surreptitiously at Melissa, who was still watching him.
Paul nodded. “Yes, of course, James. I came here to speak with you anyway. Melissa, if you and Miss Stratford will go on into the parlor.”
He went off with Trefarrin, who began at once to speak in a low, hurried voice.
Sarah followed Melissa into the inn and soon the two women were sitting by a log fire sipping steaming mugs of mulled ale. Sarah did not like the taste, but the warmth was good. The flames leapt in the fireplace, sending sparks and smoke spiraling upwards. Copper pots and pans littered the stone grate, winking and reflecting the glow of the fire. A maid in a pale gray dress and white mobcap bustled around the cozy parlor, dusting and polishing the high-backed settles. In a far corner two men were deep in conversation over their ale, laughing occasionally and glancing surreptitiously at the two women who sat unattended.
The calm was disturbed suddenly and unexpectedly by Paul’s furious voice in the passageway outside. Anger quivered in every muffled word and Sarah stared at the door, waiting. Melissa straightened slowly, sitting on the very edge of her seat. The door burst open and Paul stood there, his riding jacket buttoned and his hat firmly on his head. He was pulling his gloves on roughly and a shocked fury emanated from him. He gazed reproachfully at his sister for a moment before his anger reasserted itself.
Sarah stood, her heart beating swiftly. What had happened? She saw James Trefarrin’s anxious face behind Paul’s shoulder, his watery eyes fixed on Melissa.
“Melissa, Miss Stratford, we return to Mannerby immediately!” Paul’s eyes were diamond bright.
“But why?” Sarah had to ask, for her curiosity was great.
“My reasons shall be explained quickly enough. Now please be so good as to do as you’re told.”
Sarah began to walk toward the door, tying her bonnet beneath her chin once more, but Melissa remained where she was, as if made of stone.
Paul’s temper burst. “Melissa, get yourself up and obey me, now! You especially are in no position to defy me!”
Amazed, Sarah paused, for sh
e had never before heard him raise his voice to his sister. Melissa got to her feet then and Sarah could see the naked fear on her lovely face. As she walked past Trefarrin her eyes were evil and he stepped aside quickly as if to avoid all contact with her.
“Miss Stratford?” Paul spoke as patiently as he could, but patience ran perilously low in him now.
In the yard the grooms were standing ready with the horses. Sarah was lifted lightly into the saddle and turned to watch as Melissa mounted too. Paul paused for a last word with James Trefarrin, who was wringing his hands. “I’m sorry, sir, but I felt you had to know what was going on.”
“Yes, yes, you were right to tell me, James.” Paul was abrupt but his words seemed to satisfy the anxious innkeeper, whose relief was obvious. He mopped his brow with a large red handkerchief.
The ride back to Mannerby was swift and silent. Melissa was tense, her face white and her lips pale, and she looked increasingly apprehensive as each mile passed. Sarah urged her mount along as best she could, finding the headlong pace difficult with the dreadful sidesaddle to contend with. She put all her concentration into remaining seated, and into ignoring the rumbling of her stomach which had now gone without both breakfast and lunch. Her body ached, she was tired, and she was bewildered. What on earth had the innkeeper revealed? It seemed to have been something concerning Melissa, that much was certain.
Already the short winter afternoon was drawing in and the sun had taken on a reddish hue so that the rocks on top of the tor seemed alight. Sarah saw with relief that Mannerby was in sight, for they were at last riding down the long incline toward the village. The villagers looked up in surprise as they saw the hurried return of the gentry from the big house. Martin had been painting the gates and he put down his brush, rubbing his hands on his leather apron. His keys jangled as he opened the gates.