She glanced at the third, covered easel and considered. She would not even be standing here if her curiosity had not got the better of good manners. As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
Reaching out, she lifted the covering cloth.
And dropped it in shock.
The painting was terrible. A man in torment and fear. His mouth was open in a scream, or even an attempt to breathe, but the whole face was contorted. From its position, the man was lying down, and above him was only darkness. And yet the darkness had different shapes and textures, almost like her imaginings when she’d heard the snoring “beast”. Among it were hints of grey and of red, like blood.
The man, who seemed to be illuminated only by his terrified, unworldly eyes, somehow gave the impression of pushing helplessly against the overwhelming weight of the darkness.
Worst of all, she recognized that twisted, tortured countenance.
Roderick Usher.
“What are you doing?” The intense voice spoke close behind her in an almost sepulchral whisper.
Madeleine jumped, gasping, before she managed to spin around and face the man who had painted such madness.
Chapter Four
Roderick Usher stood before her in his shirt sleeves, shivering in the cold, and yet he seemed not to notice. His stormy, dark eyes were angry, accusing, though they held something else that might have been shame or even fear. She could not read it all.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I felt the draught and thought there was a door open. I didn’t see you…”
Realizing she was hemmed in by him and the easels, she took a step back. The candlelight cast dark shadows across his face. His hair was rumpled and wild. As though he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, perhaps, where she’d never even glanced.
His frown deepened. His gaze flickered to the painting she had uncovered and back to her face. “Are you frightened of me?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”
His lips twisted. “Indeed, how could you be afraid of the man who painted such a charming spectacle? You are in no danger from me, Miss Deare. Please, return to your chamber, and lock your door if you feel the need.”
“I don’t,” she said, stung.
This seemed to baffle him. Abruptly, he swung away from her. “You must be freezing,” he muttered and strode to the windows to close them.
“It is you who are shivering,” she countered, although she hugged her thickly lined dressing gown closer around her. It had been bought to combat Russian winters, but she couldn’t recall howling gales within any of the houses she had ever stayed in there.
He closed all three windows, then moved back toward the fireplace. He bent and plucked the dropped cloths from the floor and threw them over each easel.
“It’s you,” she blurted. “In that painting. Why did you paint yourself like that?”
He shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. But it did. She knew from his tense back that he didn’t want to speak of it.
“Everyone’s afraid of something. Aren’t you?”
She considered. “A lot of things, I suppose. War. Pain. Dying. Being scolded or hated.”
He regarded her with interest, as though waiting for her to elaborate. She didn’t.
“And you?” she insisted, nodding toward the painting. “What is it you fear?”
His frown twitched and deepened. “Do you really want to know?”
She nodded. She expected a shamefaced admission of being afraid of the dark. But nothing about Roderick Usher could be anticipated.
“Of being buried alive,” he said.
Her mouth fell open. She even turned back toward the now covered painting to see if it made any sense. He walked past her toward the decanters on the side cabinet.
Watching his back, she said, “That’s a very specific fear. I can’t imagine it’s a likely occurrence.”
“You’d be surprised.” Having sloshed some amber liquid—brandy by the smell—into a glass, he half turned toward her, eyebrows raised. “Glass of brandy?”
“No, thank you,” she said mechanically.
His lips quirked. “You should if you’re not going to bed. You’ll need it.”
“Why?”
He poured a second glass and brought them both toward her. “Because I’m not a very comfortable companion these days.”
She met his gaze, keeping her own expression carefully fearless as she took the proffered glass from him after all. “Why is that?”
He shrugged. “I paint scenes like that. I have been ill and isolated from polite society, so I tend to say things before I think. I’m sure you know it would ruin your reputation to be seen drinking brandy alone with me, particularly at such an hour of the night. I can’t imagine why you’re even considering it. But for some reason, I’m glad you’re here, and I would like you to stay for a little.”
His honesty disarmed her. She even allowed him to clink his glass off hers, and when he indicated a chair, she sat in it, arranging the skirts of her dressing gown decorously about her. But he was right. She should not be here like this. It seemed she was still being wicked.
He set down his glass and picked his coat off the back of the sofa. Shrugging himself into it without making any effort to fasten it, he went and poked the fire, and added a few pieces of wood before pushing the easels aside to let the heat through.
He wasn’t the only one who spoke before thinking. “Does your fear of being buried alive have anything to do with the candles still being lit and the windows wide open and—” At least she broke off before she mentioned the glass ceiling in his bedchamber.
He regarded her with a hint of wariness as he picked up his glass once more and drank. “Yes,” he admitted. “As it happens. Close darkness disturbs me. I like to feel the fresh air around me, however cold it is. That way I know I’m…free.”
“But that must—” Again, she broke off, lifting the brandy to her lips, and letting a fine sliver over her tongue to burn its way down her throat.
Roderick watched her. “Must what?”
She shrugged apologetically. “I was going to say it must make everyday life almost intolerable.”
“No, not now. It used to be worse.”
“Then you have always had this fear?” she asked.
He grimaced as he sat down on the sofa. “Thank you for not saying irrational fear. And no, it is quite…recent. I would rather talk about what you would like to do with your life.”
“That’s a silly question to ask any gently born female. Did something happen in your life to bring on this fear? Was it when you were injured?”
She could see from his sardonic half smile that he wouldn’t answer, that he would instead return to his “silly” question. But then, the smile died and he said abruptly. “Yes. I was injured at Waterloo. I won’t distress you with—”
“The distress isn’t mine, sir. If it won’t hurt you more, I wish you will tell me.”
He stared at her. His glass lifted part way to his lips, then he let it fall again. “I took a ball to the chest, close enough to the heart for me to appear dead when I lost consciousness. I came to in a pile of bodies from which, in my weakened state, it was impossible to extricate myself. I could not even make myself heard. I could barely breathe. It went on a long time. The darkness, the smell, the blood, the utter panic. I’m sorry, I should not have spoken.”
Dear God… The blood drained from her face at this unimaginable horror. But her distress must have been clear, for he made to rise, as though to escape her and his memories, both.
At once, she threw herself across the space between them, catching his hands as she sat beside him to hold him there. “Don’t. Don’t even think it. It was not I who was injured. I’m sorry I made you remember.”
“You didn’t. It’s never exactly far from my mind.” He looked down at her pale, white hands over his long, large ones. “I have won your pity,” he observed.
Deliberately, she left her hands where they wer
e. “What is wrong with pity?”
He shrugged. “Of itself, nothing. It’s just not one of the emotions I ever hoped to inspire in a beautiful young woman.” He raised his eyes to hers. “You are too easy to talk to.”
She found herself answering the half shy, half challenging smile in his eyes. “So are you. As you pointed out at the beginning, I shouldn’t even be here.” She released his hands but didn’t return to her own chair. It would have seemed rude somehow.
Instead, she took a sip of brandy.
He shifted restlessly. “Is that really your only option? Respectable marriage?”
She considered. “I suppose there is unrespectable marriage. Or keeping house for my brother until he marries, when I assume, if I’m tolerated, I will be a glorified nursery-maid.”
“It sounds grim,” he said frankly.
She laughed. “It needn’t be. My spirit is independent, but I’m also a realist. Of all things, I suppose I would like to marry a congenial husband with whom I could go adventuring occasionally.”
His lips curved into an intrigued smile. “Truly? Your husband will be blessed. What sort of adventures do you have in mind? The kind that involve pursuing evil uncles in medieval castles?”
“Be still my heart,” Madeleine said flippantly. “I live in hope. But there are lesser adventures which would also be fun—just visiting other countries, seeing their scenery and art, and how they live.”
“I suspect you have already seen more than most, in the Ottoman Empire and Russia.”
“True, but my father did keep me somewhat sheltered.”
“I imagine your husband might, too.”
“Perhaps not if he were very congenial. In any case, it’s so long since I’ve been home that this journey is an adventure in itself.”
He asked her about her travels since landing in Southampton, and somehow their talk expanded from there into all sorts of other avenues, and the time flew by. Only when the clock in the hall began to chime did she realize how long she had been sitting with him.
“Oh, goodness,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “I must go to sleep, or Daniel will never be able to dig me out of bed in the morning.”
He rose at once. “Thank you for keeping me company.” He held out his hand compellingly, and she placed hers into it just a little shyly. Somehow, they had become friends, and the knowledge made her happy, lifted her heart as nothing had done since her father’s death.
But friends did not lie or keep things from each other.
She drew in her breath. “I have a confession to make. Before I felt the draught, I went exploring your house. I mistook snoring for the snarling of a wild beast, and I’m afraid I stuck my head around an open door without realizing it was your bedchamber.”
He blinked. “Oh dear.”
“I’m sorry,” she said in small voice.
His eyes had grown warm, turbulent, strangely exciting. “How am to deal now with visions of you in my bedchamber?”
Her stomach seemed to dive. She let out a breath of nervous laughter, and to her surprise, he lifted her hand to his lips and briefly kissed it. Her skin sang.
“Good night,” he said firmly, releasing her.
Half frightened, yet thrilled, she walked with him to the spiral staircase. At the doorway, he lit another candle from the lamp and gave it to her without a word.
“Good night,” she managed, flitting through to the stairs.
He didn’t move. The hairs at the back of her neck stood up as she climbed, a sensation that was far from unpleasant. Then, at last, the door closed below and her heart thumped.
She glanced back over her shoulder to see if he was following her.
He wasn’t.
It might have been relief that swamped her, but it felt very like disappointment.
Madeleine woke the following morning only when Sonya shook her and demanded she get up.
Immediately, last night’s bizarre events flooded back, filling her with a heady mixture of excitement, embarrassment, and happiness. And disappointment because she was about to leave this place before she could know him better. In the cold light of day, she recognized that friendship between herself and Roderick Usher could not easily prosper. It was hardly proper for them to exchange letters.
And yet, the gladness of last night’s conversation remained like a warm glow about her heart.
She sat up, yawning, and rubbing her eyes.
“Did you not sleep well?” Sonya asked.
In truth, when she’d finally climbed into bed, she tossed and turned. Her mind had been full of Roderick, of his odd charm and his terrible experience. Surely such an ordeal would overset anyone’s mind, even that of a hardened soldier used to the horrors of war, one who had been injured before and returned to his duty without a qualm. This was different. It left him…vulnerable.
And yet he was still a strong man.
“My mind would not be still,” she told Sonya, “though I was comfortable enough. Is Daniel desperate to be gone?”
Sonya walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Through the window was only swirling greyness. Mist.
“I suspect he is,” Sonya said. “But I think he might be thwarted. Apparently, the mist stretches far beyond the loch and the coast. Even the roads east to Edinburgh are shrouded. It would be a long, slow journey.”
Madeleine’s heart beat with hope. “Then we are staying put?”
“Until the afternoon at least.”
Madeleine grinned with delight and leapt out of bed, no longer sleepy in the least.
She dressed with care, in her most becoming day gown, before accompanying Sonya downstairs to a breakfast parlor at the back of the hall. To her disappointment, Roderick was not there.
“Rode off to see how far the mist stretches,” Mr. James Usher told them from behind his newspaper.
“Is that quite safe?” Madeleine asked.
“Oh, yes, he knows the country well enough.”
“We thought we might walk in the grounds after breakfast,” Madeleine said while her brother cast her a look of disbelief.
“Feel free, my dear, feel free,” James said genially. He peered over the top of his paper. “But don’t go in the direction of the loch. You’ll walk straight in before you realize.”
Sonya came with her under protest, but to Madeleine, the mist provided a delightfully eerie setting for Usher House.
“I believe I could paint a decent watercolor of this view,” she told Sonya as they stood at the top of the overgrown drive watching the foggy tendrils float over the dark stone.
“Why don’t you? You will have to pass the time somehow. Though if you wish to sit here in the cold for hours on end while you work, you will do so alone.”
“Oh, I think I could do this from memory,” Madeleine assured her. “Go in if you’re cold, Sonya. I’ll just walk around a little more.”
“Well, remember what Mr. Usher said, and stay away from the loch.”
It was difficult to find a direction that did not lead at once either to the loch or to the woods, where Madeleine didn’t really relish getting lost in the mist. By chance, she found a path leading uphill and followed it for a little to enjoy the view of the house from above, hazily rising from the shrouding mist. She was about to return when one last glance up the hill revealed the hint of another building only a few yards ahead. So, she followed the path onward until a churchyard was revealed, gravestones, both flat and vertical, surrounding a small, ancient church.
Intrigued, she wandered up to it. The latch on the wooden door lifted easily, though it creaked satisfyingly as she pushed it open to reveal the stark, stone interior. Three wooden pews on either side of a narrow aisle, a low pulpit, and plain windows. It was a simple, unadorned church of Scottish austerity. Or simple poverty.
Either way, it seemed wrong to let in the mist, so she closed the door again and turned, just as a figure loomed up out of the fog. Sheer alarm made her step back.
“Miss Deare?�
�� a voice said in surprise. “It’s just me, Graham, Major Usher’s man. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Of course! This mist seems to muffle everything. Is this the Usher family chapel?”
“Sort of. It’s the village church, too, but the Ushers have been associated with the place for centuries. They’re all buried here.”
“In the churchyard?”
“Mostly in the family vault beneath.”
“There’s a family vault?” she asked, intrigued.
“I go down periodically, keep an eye on it. The major likes to keep fresh flowers there.”
“May I see?” she asked.
He shrugged and turned along the side of the church. “It’s already open. I only came up when I heard the door open. I thought it was himself.”
There was a lantern at the top of a flight of stone steps. Without another word, Graham took her hand and guided her downward. The mist was beginning to swirl in, too.
There wasn’t much to see: a marble table topped with a vase of lilies and daffodils and marble panels around the walls carved with names. Graham handed her the lantern and let her wander. There were a lot of names, names that meant little to her but went back a long way.
“No wonder the house, the land, and the village all bear the same name,” she remarked, coming to the panel not yet filled. The last name was Robert Usher 1784 – 1816. “How did he die?”
“Robert? He drowned. In the loch.”
“How tragic!”
“It was. In many ways.”
She glanced at him. In the dim lantern light, his face was stern as well as rueful. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he was a tragic loss. He died too young. But his death tied the major to this place.”
“Is that not a good thing?”
Graham shrugged. “He thinks it is. He thinks he’ll heal here.” He cast her a quick, sideways glance. “You know he was wounded?”
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 27