Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  Oh, God, Caitlin thought, who told him? Who told him I was coming?

  He was tall—like a giant on his proud perch above the sinking roadbed. His shoulders and chest were the imposing breadth of a man used to working long hours at hard labor. His narrow waist and hips were those of a man who refuses to spend his time lolling about a sumptuous table. Unrestrained by either cap or headband, his deep-copper hair was swept to one side by a breeze blowing languidly from the bay. It caught the sun’s light in streaks of dark, smoldering fire. His face was touched by a light tan that darkened his heavy eyebrows and underscored the nightshade of his deep-set eyes. An aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and squared chin cast him as rugged, but also as a member of the gentry who had neither abandoned nor forgotten his origins.

  Caitlin caught her breath despite herself.

  Her unrelenting daydreams had not been exaggerations: her memories had not added to the man’s natural glamour. He was handsome, and she could not deny it. But it was a description he would never apply to himself. He carried himself even now on his stallion in such a way that dared others to label him as anything else but a man who took the world on its own terms, and who laughed when it conflicted with his own. Unlike James Flint, she thought, who adapted himself to get what he wanted.

  Well, Gwen, she said silently, hoping the woman could read her thoughts, I hope you’re satisfied. I trust his appearance has made you happy.

  The coach slowed down even more then, and Caitlin suddenly remembered Oliver sitting below. She looked wide-eyed at Davy, saw his grin, and became alarmed. “What are you doing?” she whispered frantically. “Move on, Davy, move on!” And she had to restrain herself from grabbing hold of the whip and cracking it wildly over the team’s bobbing heads.

  When Davy hesitated, she repeated her command and he obeyed instantly—though his grin was replaced by a disturbed, perplexed frown. Caitlin laid her hands in her lap, clasping them until her fingers ached, swallowing her panic until the coach drew abreast of the stallion, and she turned to stare as boldly as she could.

  Griffin Radnor smiled sadly and raised a hand in greeting.

  She nodded once and looked straight ahead, ignoring whatever signals he might be tempted to send her. Part of her was dismayed that she’d seen him at all; the rest of her mind spun in sullen anger that he’d dare show himself to her on a day like this. As if the three years since she’d last seen him had not passed at all. But that was like him, she thought; exactly like him. He’d taken her in the glen on the day her engagement was announced, and then he had abandoned her. Not a word, not a message, not even a gift for the wedding.

  And now, suddenly, he had shown up without warning, in all likelihood confident she would smile her forgiveness. As if she could forgive his silence, or his consorting with that swinish Morag Burton. My God, he must think her a complete fool! Did he really think she had such a low opinion of herself that she would fulfill his expectations in return for a smile and a wave?

  She seethed, scowling so fiercely that Davy was reluctant to halt the coach when Oliver began pounding on the roof with his walking stick. Nevertheless, he pulled back on the reins and eased the brake forward with his left foot. Caitlin glared at him and pulled away from his extended hand when Oliver demanded she ride the rest of the way home inside. And not once as she made her way from the bench to Oliver did she glance back along the road to see if Griffin was still watching. He could crawl on his hands and knees for all the thought she would waste on him. She suddenly caught herself hoping she’d never see him again.

  How stupid she was! All those fancies she’d had while staying in England, struggling to rid herself of his memory when all she had to do was glimpse at the serene arrogance in his face, the self-assured confidence of his gaze, to understand that she meant no more to him than she meant to… to James Flint.

  She resettled herself with a thump that made Oliver frown, but he said nothing to her, made no sign that he too had seen Griffin waiting by the roadside.

  The passage through the village was made at a solemn, almost stately pace. Word had already spread through the town, and dozens of people had come to their cottage doors, to shop stoops, to the edge of the community green to watch the coaches clatter by and to catch a glimpse of Seacliff’s new owner. There were a few tentative waves with handkerchiefs, and men pulled off their caps and hats in respect, but Caitlin saw little save the blur of ruddy faces.

  Oliver held her left hand and sat forward to be sure his profile could be seen through the window—sturdy, strong, eyes unblinking and gaze unwavering.

  On the other side of the green and past the last cottage, they approached the gray stone church. Its steeple was a thin spire, and a high iron fence enclosed its graveyard.

  “My dear,” he said to her quietly, “do you wish to …” and he nodded toward a mausoleum in the far corner, elegant in its simplicity. The bronze doors were closed, and the yard was littered with the remains of flowers long since dead and turned brown.

  David Evans had died the night Caitlin danced at Windsor; he had been buried three days later.

  “No,” she said, patting the hand that touched hers. She could feel eyes boring through the coach’s rear wall, could hear whispers rising from the village. “This isn’t … It’s not the time, Oliver.”

  “You will be all right,” he said, mechanically, without emotion. She nodded, knowing she would. Knowing, too, that to stop now, with all the baggage, the coaches, the people in them, would seem to the others to be making a pageant of her bereavement. When she went to her father’s graveside she would go alone.

  She gave a soft, shuddering sigh. Despite all her rationalizations that he’d been dying for a long time, she could not help a stinging at her eyes, a burning in her chest. Her hands chafed each other dryly, and she forced herself to release them to look again out the window, to the gently rising land, to the large farms with their rich pastures and fields, the groves of oak and ash, the boulders larger than many cottages dotting the landscape. Then, before she could stop herself, she leaned her head out the window and saw her ancestral home, stark and warm against the soft, post-storm blue: Seacliff. Waiting for her. Waiting in she knew not what state.

  It stood on a broad stretch of flatland bordered by wind-bent trees and remnants of stone walls. In front was a yard green and recently cut, and sweeping like an emerald river around the mansion to the back where, less than two hundred yards away, it stopped at a three-foot fieldstone wall built by her grandfather. Beyond that could be seen the flat tops of cracked boulders and a few straggly shrubs that marked the hundred-foot drop to Cardigan Bay. It was a vast and turbulent body of water reaching west to St. George’s Channel—the arm of the Irish Sea that spilled into the Atlantic. It was still rough now after the recent storms. The west wind raised whitecaps on the billowing waves, sending sprays up the cliffside almost to the top.

  The carriage pulled over the last step of the rise, and Caitlin pounded her hand suddenly on the ceiling. When Oliver looked up in astonishment, she said nothing, only waited until the vehicle came to a halt. Then she climbed out quickly.

  “I must walk,” she told her husband.

  He nodded once, sharply, and called out to Davy to proceed without delay.

  She stood to one side on the embankment. The second coach swept by, and she could feel Gwen’s questioning look and Bradford’s disapproving glare. Then she was alone, facing what was hers.

  Seacliff had been constructed of stone of various colors. It rose two stories to a slate pitched roof pierced by a dozen chimneys whose broad mouths seemed continually to spout gray and black smoke. All the leaded windows were high and arched, their broad sills cushioned for seating. The double doors of native oak were handsomely carved. The bands of polished iron and knobs of brass were cleaned four times a day. The doors rose twelve feet above the threshold and required two men to open them once the latch had been lifted. At either end, squared towers protruded out to form, from the sun’s
vantage point, a massive I pointing north and south. Their arched windows were narrower and considerably more imposing. In the south tower, quarters were reserved for the staff; the north tower had been rearranged to provide apartments for visitors who intended to stay for more than an evening.

  The ancient structure was massive; it was solid; and despite the stone and slate, Seacliff possessed an aura of comfort and warmth generally reserved for the most luxurious wayside inn. Less a mansion than a home; less a fortress than a dwelling.

  She walked slowly toward it, taking it in slowly as if she’d never seen it before, and as if she knew every stone, every curve, every tiny crack in its walls. And as the sun began its slow descent over the bay, she noted the flames of candles appearing in the windows. She stopped, then, in the center of the road. The wind had chilled, the house’s shadow crept toward her. In the distance the muted thunder of massive waves pummeled the cliffs. She glanced to her left and saw the collection of stables and barns, the farrier’s workshop and the carpentry shed, and the group of small cottages where the married staff lived. The coaches were already at the stables. Davy and a handful of men scurried about them, unharnessing the teams and unloading the trunks.

  She could hear the cry of a disturbed ewe, and the lowing of a cow long past its milking time.

  She walked forward again, slowly, unable to believe her father would no longer stand at the cliffs and rant at the bay— as he was prone to do—or climb with Davy to repair damaged shingles. Everything he had done was now consigned to the past, and she wept silently, knowing she was feeling more sorry for herself and her loss than she was for her father. And that was all right. He would understand because he’d known her so well, and the thought made her smile as she cried, wiping at the tears with both her puffed sleeves.

  Then she stopped a second time and stared at the doors. Something…

  A faint nagging sensation began nibbling at her mind. Something…

  She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them suddenly as if the snap would bring into focus what was bothering her now. But nothing happened. The feeling, she decided, was a product of the mixed emotions that had accompanied her home. And if it was important, it would come to her eventually. Nevertheless she found herself walking off the lane and across the lawn toward the north tower on her right. Her teeth gnawed thoughtfully at the inside of her lower lip. Her left hand reached up absently to rub the side of her neck. In all the haste to uproot herself from Eton, to rush back to Wales, something had been mentioned that gnawed at her now.

  Something about her father. About his dying.

  She had almost reached the comer when she heard someone call her name. A step farther, and she turned around to see Davy running toward her from the stables. He had discarded his wig and replaced it with his ever present blue cap. His long legs seemed rubbery, and the combination of livery and cap was so incongruous she couldn’t help grinning. She started back to meet him just as a movement at the corner of her eyes told her someone had opened one of the front doors.

  “Mistress,” Davy said breathlessly, skidding to a halt on the lane that was inlaid with brick. “Mistress…” and he glanced toward the house.

  Caitlin waited patiently, but his puffing cheeks and that silly cap made her giggle before she could put a hand to her mouth.

  “Mistress,” he said, puzzled and not knowing if he was being made fun of or not.

  “It’s all right,” she said, waving a hand. It must be the homecoming, the funeral and… she smiled again, shaking her head slowly and wishing she could get hold of whatever was bent on keeping her giddy. “What is it, Davy?”

  The door opened farther, and though they heard the hinges creaking neither of them turned.

  “In the stable,” he said, half turning to point. Then he wiped a hand over his face, then through his hair.

  “Davy? I don’t understand. What about the stable?” Concern stiffened her. “Is somebody hurt? Did somebody—”

  “No, no,” he assured her quickly. “Ain’t nothin’ like that, mistress. “I was just in there, doin’ the horses, see, and I look—”

  Footsteps sounded on the path. Both of them spun around. Bradford was moving rigidly toward them, his chin high, his expression that of a man trying to avoid smelling a supremely noxious odor. Caitlin told herself Oliver would have to speak with the man, because an attitude like that was definitely not going to endear him to Seacliff’s less formal staff.

  “M’lady,” he said with a slight bow.

  “What is it, Bradford?”

  With a barely discernible sniff he looked to Davy. “Daniels, Sir Oliver wishes you to wipe down the coaches before you retire for the evening. He does not wish this sea air to ruin the brass.”

  Davy rolled his eyes heavenward. “Lor’, I got brains enough t’ know that.”

  “Just see that it’s done.” And by looking to Caitlin, Bradford dismissed Davy.

  Davy hesitated, and Caitlin understood his reluctance to leave immediately. Not only was there something he wanted to tell her, but he was home now, and by rights his mistress was the only one who could give him commands. Another problem to resolve, she thought wearily.

  “It’s all right, Davy,” she said, smiling and hoping he would see the apology in her eyes. “I’ll speak with you later. I should visit your father, in any case, to see how he’s faring.”

  “Yes’m,” he said, and put a finger to his forehead; he glared once at Bradford’s blind side and rushed off.

  “Bradford,” she said sternly, “I think you’ll find it easier if you remember where you are now. This is not England, and this is not Eton. You’ve been here often enough to know the household isn’t run like Sir Oliver’s.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” he answered tonelessly.

  “And you have something for me?”

  Bradford kept his gaze carefully focused on the valley spread behind her. “Sir Oliver wishes to see you at once, in the drawing room, if you will. The staff is assembled and waiting to greet you.”

  She looked back toward the north tower. Nothing, however, of her previous uneasiness returned, and she could not recall what specifically had drawn her to the corner. Then she blinked as she realized the butler was speaking to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with the trace of a stiff smile.

  “I said, m’lady, that I’d taken the liberty of placing the visitors in their apartments in the tower. I understand they will join you for dinner.”

  “Visitors?” She frowned. “What visitors?”

  “I believe Sir Oliver wishes to tell you himself.”

  Her right hand bunched into a helpless fist, buried in the folds of her skirt. “For heaven’s sake, Bradford,” she said impatiently, “stop playing these silly games, will you? You act as though…” She stopped when his pale eyes hardened and his jaw stiffened. Oh, God, she thought, you’ve done it again. “All right,” she said, resigned, though not apologetic. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “With respect, m’lady, Sir Oliver asked that I escort you in at once.”

  She clamped her lips together before she went too far and provoked Bradford into speaking to her husband. As it was, the old servant would take out what he obviously thought was an insult on Gwen and the others. She would have to think of some way to make it up to them. Meanwhile, Oliver apparently had a surprise up his well-tailored sleeve, and she had no choice but to follow his lead until he decided to spring it on her. As she followed Bradford into the house, however, she hoped there would be some way she could convey to Oliver her displeasure. The timing, if nothing else, was not exactly opportune.

  And she wondered, too, what it was Davy had thought so important.

  Puzzles and puzzles. And suddenly she was too weary to think. Her loss had acted as a numbing agent on her mind, and it might very well be that none of this was worth thinking about at all. She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.

  Bradford, who had reached the doorway, turned to look at her
questioningly. She managed a weak smile and lifted a hand to indicate she was coming. She only hoped that the sound of her husband’s grumbling voice drifting out toward her did not mean another conflict lay ahead, or another jolt to her already weary system.

  “All right,” she muttered when Bradford beckoned stiffly. “All right, all right.”

  10

  The central hallway ran directly to the rear of the mansion and soared to the rafters above. The corridor was lined with elaborately designed standards hanging from brass pikes fifteen feet above the polished wooden flooring. Hanging below them were exquisitely colorful tapestries, most of them woven by village women depicting heroic Welshmen embattled by lions, fierce Norsemen, and fantastic beasts that had, in their own terrible way, a fascinating beauty. Hard against the left and right walls were staircases leading to the gallery above, off of which extended corridors leading to the family’s living quarters. There was wood everywhere, replacing the cold stone of the original structure wherever possible and bringing a warmth that was more than mere illusion.

  Caitlin paused for a moment, then turned to her left and stepped into a large room filled with armchairs and round tables. They were centered on the rear wall by an enormous fieldstone fireplace. Its hearthside had served for generations as the place for conversation, board and card games, and David Evans’s most ardent passion— reading. This explained the shelves lining the walls between family portraits and tapestries, jammed with bound folios, books, ledgers, journals, and every writing implement imaginable.

  Oliver stood on the raised brick hearth, his back to a low fire. Before him were arrayed a series of high-backed scrolled chairs and a low, thickly upholstered couch upon which sat Gwen and Mary. From the Seacliff household were Elaine Courder and her sister, Alice, neither of whose duties had ever been explicitly defined. Thus, at any given moment either one could be found fussing in the bedchambers with linens and dustbroom, or fussing in the living quarters with rags and polishing oil. They were gray-haired and stout, a decade apart in age and yet looked as much alike as any set of twins. When they heard Caitlin’s entrance they rose as one, their red, chapped hands twisting at their aprons, eyes puffed and complexions pallid.