Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Then the letter is a lie,” he said.

  “Not—not all of it,” I said, and for all my skill as an actress I couldn’t keep the tremor out of my voice. “I—I did love him. When I was seventeen I—we slept together, and I thought he was the world. When Lord Meredith died and Hugh vanished I—I thought I would never get over my grief.”

  Another clap of thunder shook the earth. The whole house seemed to tremble as though besieged by a battering ram. There was a moment of silence and then a shrieking, splitting explosion of noise in back. Lightning must have struck one of the small trees, I reflected, but it was an idle thought. My whole being was concentrated on my husband, on convincing him of my love.

  “I—I went to London,” I continued. “I began a whole new life. You know about that. You know about Jamie. I never tried to hide our relationship. We had a falling out and I left him and—and Hugh came back into my life. I took a cottage in the country and Hugh came to stay with me and we resumed our affair and I thought—”

  I hesitated, trying to find the proper words. He continued to stare at me with those hard eyes, the eyes of an enemy, and my heart seemed to stop beating. I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t. I loved him with all my heart and soul, and I must convince him of that. The thunder ceased. There was an eerie silence outside, as though the earth were holding its breath, all sound, all motion ceased. It was the calm before the storm.

  “He planned to go to Italy. He wanted to gather evidence to—to prove he was the rightful heir. I tried to dissuade him. I told him it was folly, but he wouldn’t listen, he was obsessed. I told him that if he left it would all be over between us, but that—that didn’t matter to him. He left and it was over, Clinton.”

  “And then you met me again,” he said.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t true. It isn’t. I fell in love with you, Clinton. I thought you were the gentlest, the kindest, the most compassionate man I had ever met—I couldn’t help falling in love with you. I never told you about Hugh because—because there seemed to be no reason for me to tell you.”

  Clinton crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into the corner. He looked away from me, staring at a point in space. The silence outside seemed far more ominous than the thunder had been.

  “You can’t believe what he wrote,” I said, and my voice trembled. “I married you because I loved you. It had nothing to do with Hugh. You must believe me. He—he just wanted to hurt you.”

  Clinton looked at me again. His eyes were expressionless.

  “No,” he said, “he wanted me to call off Burke and give up the fight. He informed me that if I didn’t he would tell Fleet Street all about his passionate affair with the new Lady Meredith.”

  He looked at me for a long moment and then turned around and started toward the back of the house. My heart was breaking. I couldn’t let him go, not like this, not with him thinking … Hesitating just a second to catch my breath, I hurried after him.

  “Clinton—”

  “Leave me alone, Angela. I need to think.”

  He tossed these words over his shoulder without losing stride. I caught up with him and took hold of his arm and he stopped and looked down at me with eyes that were still flat and expressionless.

  “Clinton, we—we can’t leave it like this. Please,” I pleaded. “We must talk. You must let me explain—”

  “We’ll talk later,” he said curtly.

  He pulled his arm free and strode away and I leaned against the wall, tears spilling down my cheeks. Everything grew blurry, and I seemed to be watching my whole world crumbling to pieces. In the distance I heard a loud retort, and it was a moment before I realized it was the sound of a door slamming shut. He had gone outside. In this weather. He had gone outside, and that could only mean he intended to ride Hercules. He always went riding when something was bothering him. He rode with reckless abandon over the fields and … I had to stop him! It was going to storm! Filled with a new panic now, I rushed on down the foyer and through an archway and into the back hall. I heard footsteps clattering behind me. Someone was calling my name. I hurried on, stumbling on a rug, almost falling. Reaching the back door, I hurled it open and cried out sharply as I saw him tearing across the cobbled yard on Hercules. Ian came rushing out of the stables, looking distraught, shouting words that were torn asunder by the wind that rose suddenly, sweeping across the yard with a fierce roar.

  “Clinton!” I called.

  I started to rush outside. Hands caught me, held me, pulled me back, and I whirled to find Dottie. She was shaking her head, speaking words I couldn’t hear for the pounding of my heart. The wind roared and there was another deafening clap of thunder like a fusillade of cannons and lightning split the purple-gray sky. I tried to pull free. Dottie held me firmly, telling me to be calm, be still, it would be all right, and then I was babbling and trying to explain. I had to go after him! I had to stop him! It was going to storm! Dottie crooned more soothing words I didn’t hear and gently, firmly led me into the nearby back sitting room. She eased me into a chair and poured a glass of brandy and stood over me, forcing me to drink.

  The brandy seemed to set my insides afire and gradually the fire turned into a pleasant warmth and with the warmth hysteria abated and then some semblance of calm returned. I handed Dottie the half-emptied glass and shook my head, indicating I could drink no more, and she set the glass down and looked at me with deeply concerned eyes, her brow creased, and I told her I was all right now. My voice seemed to belong to someone else, a flat, hollow, defeated voice that came from a great distance. My body seemed to belong to someone else, too, numb now, all energy, all life force seeped away. The windows rattled violently and lightning flashed repeatedly as though some maniacal god flicked blinding silver-blue light on and off, on and off, accompanied by rumbling crashes of thunder. Dottie picked up the glass and drank the rest of the brandy herself.

  “I’ve lost him, Dottie,” I said.

  “Nonsense, dear.”

  “Hugh sent him a letter. Clinton believes—”

  “No, dear. Don’t worry yourself about it. It will all work out.”

  “You don’t understand. He—”

  “I heard, Angel. I couldn’t rest with all that bloody thunder. I started downstairs and heard your voices and didn’t want to interrupt. I wasn’t actually eavesdropping, I just couldn’t help hearing—”

  “I’ve lost him,” I repeated.

  “He loves you. He knows that you love him. He’s upset, but he’ll get over it. Don’t fret, my dear.”

  Several long minutes passed as claps of deafening thunder boomed and lightning flashed and, somewhere in the distance, there was a shattering explosion as lightning struck a tree. Clinton was out there, on Hercules, charging over the roads and fields. I gripped the arms of the chair, starting as another explosion sounded nearby. Dottie was wringing her hands, worried sick herself, moving about the room restlessly, pausing now and then to stare out the window with apprehensive eyes. Clinton had been gone perhaps ten minutes when we heard shouting outside, in the stableyard. The back door flew open. Loud footsteps pounded in the hall. There were loud, excited voices yelling words we couldn’t quite make out and then there was a moment of silence and the voices were lowered. I was already on my feet, my face white. Dottie gripped my hand, the color draining from her own cheeks. Both of us seemed paralyzed. Putnam stepped into the sitting room, clearly shaken but somehow maintaining his regal composure.

  “Milady,” he said. “I fear there’s been an accident.”

  “What is it? What’s happened?” My voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “No one is quite certain, Milady. His Lordship’s horse has returned to the stables, dragging the reins, the saddle empty. It—it seems Lord Meredith has had a mishap. I sent four of the men out to search for him—” Even as he spoke we heard the sound of horse hooves pounding on the cobbles. “I also instructed one of the footmen to ride to the village and fetch the doctor in—i
n the event Lord Meredith has sustained some kind of injury.”

  I stared at him, unable to speak, and after a moment Putnam nodded and left the room. Dottie squeezed my hand tightly. Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed with dazzling brilliance and then there was a pause, several moments of silence, and the rain began to fall. It fell strongly, steadily, without any particular violence, splattering noisily on the ground. I pulled my hand loose. I headed blindly for the door. Dottie rushed after me, caught hold of my arm.

  “I must go to him,” I told her, and it was someone else speaking, someone I could barely hear. “I must find him. He’s out there. Clinton is out there. I must mount Cynara and go find him.”

  “No, dear, no. The men will find him. You mustn’t go out in this. Clinton wouldn’t want you to. He—he’s had a fall, that’s all. He’ll probably come hobbling back on his own two feet any minute now.”

  “Dottie—”

  “I’m not going to let you go out there, Angel.”

  Her voice was firm. I looked at her. She folded me to her and held me for a long time, held me tightly, and then she led me back over to the chair and set me down and sat on the arm of the chair and held her arm around my shoulders and I saw the worry in her eyes and the tears spilling over her lashes. Rain splattered and the fire crackled pleasantly and time passed, each moment agony, and I prayed silently and calm came and with it strength and when I heard the men come in I stood up, composed now, ready to face whatever might be. They brought him into the room, bundled up in a blanket, his pale blond hair plastered wetly over his brow, and I told them to put him on the sofa.

  “We found him on the side of the road, Milady,” Ian said gravely. “A ’uge oak was blockin’ the road, the trunk still smoking. Apparently lightning struck the tree and the tree fell and startled the ’orse and it reared up and threw ’im off. ’E—’e’s been moanin’, but ’e ’asn’t regained consciousness.”

  “Thank you, Ian,” I said. “Please tell Putnam to bring the doctor here as soon as he arrives.”

  Ian nodded and the men left and I was on my knees beside the sofa, smoothing the damp locks from his brow. He moaned and his body twitched and I knew he was in terrible pain. There was no blood, no bruises. The injuries were internal. I reached for his hand, took it, held it tightly, and he moaned again, his eyelids fluttering. His lips parted. His cheeks were flushed. His lashes were all wet and stuck together in short spikes. Dottie handed me a cloth. I wiped his face gently. He opened his eyes. I smiled a tender smile and touched his cheek.

  “An—Angela—” he stammered.

  “I’m here, darling. You—you’ve had a little accident. The doctor will be here in a few minutes. Don’t—don’t try to talk, my darling. Just try to relax.”

  “My—my back—can’t feel—”

  “Hush, my darling. Hush.”

  “Don’t—don’t leave me. Please—don’t—”

  “I’m here. I’ll always be here. I love you, Clinton.”

  “Cold. Can’t—can’t feel anything. H-hold me, Angela.”

  He struggled into a sitting position and I sat down on the sofa and wrapped my arms around him and eased him back, his head resting against my shoulder. He looked up into my eyes and I smiled again and felt him relax, saw him wince. He closed his eyes for a moment and the color fled from his cheeks and he trembled. I held him close and he seemed to sleep and then his eyes flew open and he gazed at me as though through a fog, peering intently, squinting, and then he found me and his lips curved into a weak smile and I held him closer.

  “Love—love you,” he murmured. “My fault—shouldn’t have doubted—forgi-forgive me—”

  “My darling, my darling, it’s all right. The doctor will be here. You’ll be—you’ll be fine.”

  “Love—you,” he repeated, his voice fainter now.

  “And I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

  He nodded and the weak smile reappeared and then his eyes filled with panic and he trembled and his torso jerked and he grew rigid. The rain splattered on the windowpanes and the fire made spluttering noises as a log snapped and began to flake apart. The room was dim and I was vaguely aware of Dottie standing beside the chair but everything was misty. I felt something warm and salty on my lashes. The tears streamed down my cheeks. Clinton relaxed in my arms, resting his damp head against my shoulder. His eyes opened and they were clear and gray and filled with tenderness and then concern when he saw my tears.

  “No-no,” he murmured. He frowned. “Don-don’t cry. You mustn’t cry. I want you to be happy. Prom-promise me you’ll be happy, my darling.”

  I couldn’t speak. I nodded. The smile curved tenderly on his lips, and he looked at me with love and then he frowned and squinted and tried desperately to find me in the fog. His body jerked again and grew rigid in my arms and then he gasped and went limp and I knew that he was gone. I held him close, feeling his weight and his warmth for the final time as tears streamed, blinding me. I gently rocked him as the rain fell and finally there were voices in the hall, and I knew I had to turn loose, give up, with only emptiness ahead. I eased him back onto the cushions and Dottie helped me to my feet. I looked at her for a moment without words and then sobbed wildly and threw myself into her open arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Winter was over and already, in mid-March, the air held a promise of spring. A lovely pale blue sky arched over London, and the trees in the garden in back of the house on Maiden Lane were studded with tiny nubs that would soon burst into delicate light jade leaves. It was not quite ten o’clock. Megan, Charles and I had had breakfast below in the charming yellow breakfast room, and I had come up to dress. Jonathan Burke would be here shortly and we would go together to Justice High Court where, he assured me, I would make my statement and we would be free before noon. I gazed at my reflection with level violet-gray eyes, and I was amazed at the calm and composure of the woman in the glass. The anguish and grief that had tormented me for weeks were nowhere in evidence. The woman in the glass looked cool, self-assured, determined.

  Megan tapped at the door of the guest room and called my name. I told her to come in. She entered apprehensively, a worried look on her face. She wore a fetching sky blue frock with narrow sapphire blue stripes, a sapphire sash at the waist. I put the brush down, gave my chestnut waves a final pat and stood up, the folds of my black velvet grown rustling softly. I smiled at Megan, and she frowned, still apprehensive.

  “Has Charles gone?” I inquired.

  She nodded. “He had to be at rehearsal early. They’re opening the first of April, you know, and everything’s still in shambles.”

  “And when do you start rehearsing?”

  “Not for another two weeks. Sheridan’s still doing revisions on the third act. I bowled him over when I auditioned, luv—he didn’t think I could handle the part. Everyone in the theater burst into spontaneous applause when I finished reading. Betsy went into raptures. Her brother scowled and reluctantly admitted I was marvelous. It’s my very first lead, luv. I hope I have what it takes to carry it off.”

  “You’ll be superb, darling.”

  “Sheridan and I are sure to fight like cats and dogs, but I intend to give my all, if only to show Charles he’s not the only star in the family. Dottie’s doing the costumes, busy as she is, and I’ll wear a powdered wig and satin gowns that will take your breath away. Angel—”

  Megan hesitated, frowning. We had merely been making small talk, ignoring what was really on our minds. She looked at me, eyes full of concern.

  “I still wish you’d let me go with you, luv,” she said. “You might need someone to—to give you moral support. I just don’t feel right about your going alone, Angel.”

  “I won’t be alone,” I pointed out. “Burke will be with me.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ll be perfectly all right, Megan.”

  I picked up the hat I had selected and put it on. It was of black velvet with a wide, slanti
ng brim, black egret feathers spilling down one side. I had contemplated wearing the delicate black lace veil I had worn to the funeral but had finally decided against it. I wanted those six judges to see my face when I gave my testimony. Adjusting the tilt of the brim, I secured the hat pin and sighed.

  “I just want to get it over with,” I told her. “Burke assures me it will not take long. The judges have already seen the documents and Hugh’s attorneys have already been briefed. It’s a mere formality.”

  I began to pull on a pair of delicate black lace gloves. Megan moved over to the bed and sat down, rumpling the smooth lilac satin counterpane and watching as I stretched the frail lace over my fingers.

  “The carriage I’ve hired will be waiting for me,” I continued, “and I’ll go directly to Greystone Hall.”

  “I don’t like the idea of your being there by yourself.”

  “I shan’t be by myself, darling. The servants will be there. It shouldn’t take me long to—to gather up the rest of my things and say my farewells. I’ll be on my way back before sundown. I should get back here before midnight. There’s no need for you to concern yourself.”

  “Still—”

  “It’s something I have to do, darling,” I said in a quiet voice, “and I have to do it alone. You and Charles and Dottie have been—you’ve been wonderful, but I—I have to stand on my own two feet.”

  “I understand, luv.”

  She got up from the bed and we hugged. Tears glistened in her eyes. She brushed them aside and, hand in hand, we went downstairs to wait for Burke. It was warm in the front drawing room, a small fire burning in the fireplace. The room was pleasant with its beige wallpaper delicately flowered in blue and pale orange, its blue rugs and comfortable chairs and sofa upholstered in brown. We stood near the fireplace, waiting for the sound of a carriage pulling up out in front. Megan took the brass poker and jabbed at the log. Tiny sparks shot up as the log flaked.

  “Are you certain about this, Angel?” she asked.

  I nodded, smoothing one of my gloves.