by Sandra Heath
The maid went closer and saw the amber pin on the third doll. “It’s meant to be you, Miss Sarah,” she breathed. “But who would do such a thing?”
Sarah looked away from the dolls. “How could she show so terrible a hatred for me, Janie?”
“You mean Miss Melissa, don’t you?” said Martin heavily. “Ah, well, she knew all about such things and no mistake. But see here, there’s no heart on this last doll yet. She wasn’t ready to do her work on you, Miss Sarah. They’re not complete until the heart is pinned on—then they begin to work. Like the one of your father; I reckon he must have a bad leg, eh?”
Sarah nodded.
Janie touched her arm gently. “Did she hate you on account of your cousin? The one called Edward that she was supposed to have married but for you?”
“I believe so, Janie. Indeed it must be so, for I know of no other reason why she should hate me. She must have hated my father because he refused to let Edward marry her.” She turned into Jack’s arms again, hiding her face against his shoulder.
He held her close and she noticed that he had hardly said a word since first seeing the dolls. Martin reached out and pulled the little heart off Sir Peter’s image.
“Reckon your father will notice an easing of his pain from this moment on, Miss Sarah. I’ll take these things with us and burn them on the church steps tonight. That’s the only way I know of destroying such evil work.” He ripped the three dolls down, unpinning the amber brooch and pressing it into Sarah’s hand.
Jack looked through the cave entrance. “Will this storm never end?” he said at last, and the words sounded lame.
Martin smiled at him. “You’re a townsman, sir. Are our country ways a bit strange to you?”
Jack smiled wryly. “There are not many witches in Hyde Park, Martin.”
Janie walked to the entrance and stared out through the storm. As she turned back she saw the rough scratchings on the cave wall. “Look here. Someone has been writing on the wall with a hard stone or something. What does it say, Miss Sarah?”
But it was Jack who read the poorly formed words, crouching down in front of them and rubbing them with his fingers. “It says: Ma bien aimée, ma vie, mon coeur, mon âme, ma parfaite—Mélisa—Le premier Février de l’an 1815. Armand St. Philippe.”
“Which means?” asked Martin quickly on hearing the Frenchman’s name.
Jack touched each word as he translated. “Ma bien aimée —my beloved, ma vie—my life, mon coeur—my heart, mon âme—my soul, ma parfaite—my perfection—Melissa—Armand St. Philippe.”
“And the date,” said Sarah, going to kneel beside him. “The first of February this year.”
He nodded then. “Yes, and the date.”
Martin exhaled slowly. “So he didn’t die in Hob’s Brook after all. He survived the accident.”
Janie shuddered, creeping closer to her lover. “This is a terrible place. Whatever went on in here, do you think?”
Martin smiled. “It’s better you don’t know of such things, my love, much better.”
Sarah was still looking at the writing. “They are strange words for a groom to write of his mistress.”
Jack stood, holding out his hand to her. “But for a disciple to write of a witch? Perhaps not so strange.”
“But why didn’t he come back to Mannerby? That’s what I can’t understand. I know she was meeting him, because I saw her once.”
He looked away from her. “Who knows? Well, at least he’s not here now.” He swept his arm to encompass the dark cave.
Janie’s eyes were huge. “Oh, don’t say things like that sir. Please don’t!”
Martin squeezed her. “There’s nothing to harm you here now, Janie. Come, we’ll sit on this ledge here close to the daylight and wait until the rain stops.”
For a long time the storm continued, but then, at last, it was over. The thunder rumbled only intermittently, becoming fainter as the clouds passed away to the north. The rain gradually slowed until all they could hear was a loud drip drip drip as everything lay drenched. The wind blustered around the rocks high above them, and the rocks muttered among themselves as if resentful of the storm’s passing.
The four came out of the cave which had given them shelter, treading carefully as they climbed down to the valley where the horses still waited, tethered to the reliable gorse bush. The pool winked as the sun broke through the clouds and glanced off the rippling water. Everything was clear, like crystal, freshly washed and perfect.
With some relief they reached the grass and began to walk toward the horses. The grass squelched beneath their feet.
Sarah stared at the pool, unable to set aside her fear and violent dislike and distrust of this place, or the horror of what they had found in the cave. The green lips of the slime which had covered the pool yawned wickedly and the water moved slightly as the air touched it.
Emerald green. Sarah stopped. Emerald green. She closed her eyes which she thought must be playing tricks on her, but no, when she opened them again it was still there. She stared, numb and sickened. Her eyes were telling the truth when they reflected what bobbled there in the water, swaying nauseatingly to the unseen rhythm of the pool.
The emerald green cloth spread outward, ripped and frayed, but still recognizable. The fingers of a hand just pierced the surface of the pool, as if beckoning. White hair moved like fronds of fern. The boulders which Sarah had sent cascading down the hillside must have disturbed the hidden depths of the pool—and Melissa’s body had made a final bid for freedom.
Martin and Janie stood silently, looking at the awful shape in the pool. Jack’s face was white and it was he who turned away first, his stomach heaving.
A splintering, cracking sound split the air as the ash tree finally bowed beneath the weight of the rocks. The branches fell over the water like an immense fan, covering Melissa’s body like a funeral shroud.
High above, the secret whispering of the rocks continued.
Chapter Twenty-one
On the day of Melissa’s funeral the weather matched the occasion. A thick white mist covered the moor and everything was chill and damp. Those who had discovered the truth about Melissa Ransome in Mother Kendal’s cave said nothing except to Paul, and so the evil, unchristian girl was laid to rest finally in the quiet churchyard at Mannerby. Martin had secretly burned the dolls on the church steps, destroying any lingering power.
After the funeral the church bell continued to toll dismally and from the window of the drawing room Sarah could see through the gates to the churchyard. The gravedigger was shoveling the fresh earth into the new grave—not a poor grave this time, like Betty’s, but a place in the Ransome family tomb, which was guarded by a pale marble angel with outstretched wings. The mist closed in, partly obscuring the scene, and Sarah turned from the window, putting down her gloves and looking at Paul’s quiet figure.
He sat close to the fireplace where a fire burned warmly, and he stared at the smoke which curled from the logs. Everything was so cold today—such a change after the warmth and sunshine of only a few days earlier.
Sarah felt she must say something—but what? She walked across the room and put her hand on his shoulder gently. “Do not grieve for her all over again, Paul. She is at peace now.”
“Aye, but the evil she raised in Mannerby will lie on my mind forever. I knew what she had been—at least, I knew some of it—but I so believed that she was reformed.”
“Perhaps it was not entirely her own fault in the beginning. From birth she was in the power of Mother Kendal.”
“But after the old hag died, Melissa continued her work. And the one thing which I abhor and find more repugnant than any is my mother’s death.”
“That was surely Mother Kendal’s work—”
“And Melissa must have known of it. The doll was still there, Sarah, in the cave Melissa was using for her own practices. I shall be haunted forever, wondering if my sister had a hand in my mother’s death.”
“
You cannot blame yourself, Paul, for it was not your fault.”
“Wasn’t it? I was blind, Sarah. I wanted to believe her and so I saw what I wished to see.”
“But your mother’s death occurred before anyone began to suspect Melissa, and so I cannot see that you seek to shoulder this burden of guilt. You couldn’t possibly have known; surely you see that?” She crouched down before him, her hands over his, looking intently into his eyes. It grieved her to see him so quiet and broken. “Please, Paul—”
“She suffered a lot, Sarah. All her life she was terrified of ash trees. Mother Kendal prophesied that she would die by an ash tree, and so Melissa wanted the ash tree in the courtyard removed. And I refused. I could have spared her that—”
“She didn’t seek to spare anyone and so I don’t feel sorry for her.”
His eyes flickered at the hardness in her voice. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “But it was the tree she didn’t think of, the one by the Green Pool. The prophecy came true in the end. She was so happy when she was in London—perhaps if your father had permitted her to marry your confounded cousin none of this would have begun again.”
“Believe that if you will, Paul, but I think Melissa would never have left what she had been taught. She couldn’t help herself. It’s as well that she is gone!” There, it had been said. Sarah took her hands away from his, knowing that her harshness had appalled him.
He sat forward. “Sarah—?”
“I’m sorry to hurt you, Paul, but I cannot bear to see you blaming yourself and grieving for her like this. She was wicked and evil, and she would have turned her powers against you if you crossed her. I despised your sister, and nothing will make me pretend otherwise, not even on the very day she is buried. I am not so false and transparent as to seek to deceive you now.”
He nodded then. “Honesty I respect, Sarah, and if this is to be the day for forthright speaking then I too will say my piece. I despise your fine Mr. Holland. I mistrust him and have little or no respect for him. But setting aside my personal feelings, I cannot understand why he tries to make you so unhappy.”
“Unhappy?”
“Yes, with his protestations of love, with each gesture of gentleness he bestows upon you. Why does he not ask you to marry him? You are both free agents, and yet he doesn’t ask you that final question which would make you beyond a doubt the happiest of women.”
She flushed quickly, for what he said was true. “Perhaps it’s because he knows my father has other plans for my future.”
He laughed disbelievingly. “Jack Holland wouldn’t pause to consider so small a thing. No, he won’t ask you because he can’t be sure you’ll inherit anything yet. That’s why he hasn’t sought your hand, and you, my poor Sarah, must face the fact.”
Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away. “Please don’t let’s quarrel, Paul, for I could not bear it.”
“I’m not quarreling. I just want you to see clearly.”
“I do.” She looked at him then. “I do see, Paul.”
He touched her cheek gently and then dropped his hand as if embarrassed. “No more harsh truths, eh? Except for the one which I must endure shortly when your father’s plans for Mannerby are set finally in motion. Your father is determined to have me out, isn’t he? The male members of your family are a certain curse upon me, Sarah.”
‘‘What do you mean? I know of my father, but Edward too?”
“Yes. I have a very deep score to settle with cousin Edward.”
“But why? His intentions toward Melissa were honorable. He wanted to marry her.”
“Sarah, I’m afraid that Edward was not with Wellington’s army after all. Holland found out that he was dishonorably discharged and has been here in England the whole time. I now believe that he came here, to Dartmoor, to carry on his clandestine affair with Melissa. They kept it all so secret because they knew that the merest hint of it reaching your father would mean Edward losing his inheritance entirely. At least he could still support my sister in a fine fashion if he married you, for the Stratford wealth would more than cover any of their extravagances.”
She sat down in a chair, her hands shaking. “Can you prove that Edward was here?”
“No, but I shall not give up searching for evidence. I will crush your foul cousin if I can.”
She stared at him, at the brown eyes which revealed the depths of his fury and despair, and at the clenched fists which were so tight that his knuckles were white. “Oh Paul, how can you even bear me near you?” she whispered.
He reached over to take her hands then, concerned by her words. “Whyever do you say that?” He searched her pale face.
“Because of my family, because of what they’ve done to you.”
Still holding her hands, he crouched down in front of her, smiling. “My foolish Sarah, please never believe that I resent you. You have been a pillar of strength to me, a friend whose counsel and company I’ve come to rely on. Your family is not you—you stand apart.”
She gripped his hands, glad to see the warmth in his face. “I’m so happy to hear you say that, Paul, for I want there to be friendship between us.”
“As do I, and my regard for you is such that I cannot bear to see you waste yourself on Jack Holland.”
“Paul! Don’t.”
He squeezed her fingers until they hurt, unable to stop himself from pursuing the matter yet again. “Jack Holland would willingly marry Stratford’s heiress, but until you are in that enviable position, he will not even entertain the matter. He’ll make you his mistress, and you don’t deserve such treatment. Prinny’s close friend and confidant needs a wealthy wife in order to maintain his position at court, Sarah, and you may be certain that all the time he courts you, he is searching for a suitable wife elsewhere.” He spoke so vehemently that he did not know how much he was hurting her.
“Don’t say that, please don’t.” Tears sprang to her eyes again, for she had already guessed that what he said was true. Jack loved her, she knew that, but he would not marry her.
Paul released her, seeing how he had crushed her hand. “Forgive me, Sarah.” He went to pour himself some cognac.
She rubbed her sore fingers, blinking back the tears. “He does love me, Paul.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. I can see it in the way he looks at you. All I’m saying is that even if he does worship you, he will still not marry you. Damn it, he can’t afford a foolish marriage. His only hope would be to persuade your father of how much his cause would be furthered by cutting out Edward and settling all on you. That may be his intention; I wouldn’t presume to guess what goes on in Holland’s head.”
She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, how I wish we could prove that Edward had come here, for then there’d surely be no need to persuade my father to disinherit him.”
“Yes, that’s true—and your father would then need little persuasion to agree to a marriage between you and the great, influential Jack Holland. The Stratford name would be made, once and for all.”
She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, thinking. Suddenly she looked up, watching as Paul swirled the cognac in his glass. “But, Paul, we must be addled! James Trefarrin! He saw Melissa and Edward together, at the Blue Fox. He can identify Edward.”
He stopped swirling the glass and his eyes shone. “Of course. What fools we are! Well, the matter will be easy to arrange, for James comes here to dine tomorrow night. I can easily persuade him to come with me to Rook House.”
Jack’s voice came suddenly from the doorway. “And who is to accompany you to Rook House?”
Sarah smiled. “Oh Jack, we have a plan—”
Paul interrupted quickly. “Holland, come and sample this cognac. It’s one of the finest you’ll taste this side of the Channel. Even Prinny will not have a sweeter nectar at Carlton House.” He glanced sharply at Sarah and she was aware of the obvious and deliberate change of subject. But why?
Jack took a fresh glass and then came to stand b
y the fire. “Thank you, I will. Ransome, I had a mind to spare you any onerous tasks with the stud today. I thought I’d lead the string out for you.” He looked through the window toward Hob’s Tor, but it was hidden in the mist.
Paul looked at him in surprise. “That’s uncommon thoughtful of you, Holland.”
“Please don’t look so staggered, Ransome, or I swear you’ll embarrass me. I do have some finer feelings, believe me, and horses need to be exercised whatever happens in the lives of their owners.”
Paul indicated the mist. “I doubt that the visibility is good enough yet. There are countless rabbit holes waiting for the unwary.”
“Nonetheless, I would attempt the task.”
“As Sir Peter’s agent you are undoubtedly at liberty to decide as you wish.”
Jack smiled thinly at him and then glanced at Sarah, his gray eyes sweeping warmly over her. She felt the quickening of her pulse. He had no need to speak; just a glance said everything. Her doubts evaporated. She was his and he would never let her go.
Murmuring his approval of the cognac, Jack put down his glass. “I’ll take myself to the task then, Ransome. Oh, by the way, is that Edward Stratford’s mount in the end stall?”
“Stratford’s?” asked Paul carefully.
“The red horse. Well, if it isn’t Edward’s, it’s uncommon like it.”
“Yes, it is very like Stratford’s nag, I’ll grant you,” said Paul, glancing at Sarah who remained silent. She lowered her eyes unhappily. Why was Paul being so secretive with Jack?
Jack looked from one to the other and then grinned. “Well, whoever the beast belongs to, what the eye doesn’t see, and so on. I have a notion to ride it.”
“By all means, Holland. Take your pick.”
Jack inclined his head, smiled again at Sarah and then was gone.
Immediately she turned to Paul. “Why all the secrecy? Why shouldn’t he know what we suspect and what we plan?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I just think the fewer who know, the better.”
“But Jack would not give us away. Why should he? After all, it’s in his interest to—”