Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  “What brings me to Seacliff,” he mused in echo of her startled question. He lifted a faceted crystal glass from the table and held it to the light as if examining the wine within.

  Oliver, who was standing behind his chair, waved her impatiently to her place. “Mr. Flint,” he said heartily, “is, as you know, an employee of mine. In fact… in very fact, he has been watching out for our interests here while we’ve been in England.”

  Caitlin allowed Flint to hold her chair while she sat down. She nodded when he snapped open the linen napkin and laid it with a flourish in her lap. The nearness of him bothered her; it was both annoying and exciting, and the brush of his arm against hers made her hands clench tightly in her lap. She looked steadily at Oliver and said, “It’s very kind of him, I’m sure.”

  Oliver laughed. “Kindness has nothing to do with it, my dear.”

  “He’s being paid, and paid well, for his time.”

  She was unable to conceal a puzzled frown, one that deepened when Flint pulled a chair to the table and took a place to her left.

  “Sir Oliver,” he said, gently chiding, “I do think you might have explained to your lovely wife the circumstance of my employment. She might well take it badly otherwise.”

  Oliver’s smile grew, while Caitlin, confused, nearly scowled. Keeping her gaze on her husband, she could not avoid seeing Flint at the comer of her vision, watching her boldly, as if reminding her that the curves beneath her traveling gown were well known to him—and would be again. She almost blushed.

  “Well, my love,” Oliver said as he scrutinized the display of foods Mrs. Courder had prepared, “during the time we’ve been in England your father—God rest his soul—was in no condition to see to the running of the estate, as you well know. It was my duty as your husband, and as his son-in-law and ranking member of the family, to see that his and my investments were protected while you and I were absent. And to do that, I was fully prepared to call upon the best assistance I could muster.”

  Her right hand crumpled the napkin as she finally blotted out Flint’s stare and fought instead to control her temper.

  “There are men at Seacliff who are quite capable of that, Oliver.”

  “Oh, I agree completely, my dear. I quite agree.”

  “Do you? Then why did you have to bring Mr. Flint here?”

  Oliver’s eyelids fluttered a moment as if in exasperation, but he drew in a calming breath while forking a large portion of cold meat onto his plate. He took a bite and savored it elaborately, sipped his wine and touched his lips with a napkin.

  Caitlin watched the ceremony with a stony stare, swallowing the impulse to scream out his name.

  “If you’ll permit me,” Flint said quickly, his hands cupped about his glass.

  “Please,” Caitlin said, with a shade too much relief. “I wish someone would explain this.”

  “It’s really rather simple,” he said, flashing her a smile so warm that she smiled back. “The men here are capable indeed, and more than that, I assure you, my lady. Your father trained them well, and his father before him. However, Sir Oliver has, as you’re no doubt aware, other interests as well, and this increasing nonsense with the American colonies has taken up a considerable amount of his time.”

  “Doing what?” she demanded.

  “Therefore,” he said, smoothly brushing aside the query, “he needed someone he could trust to travel between Eton and Seacliff, not only to deliver his instructions as to the running of the estate, but also to keep him apprised of potential problems.”

  “Did those problems,” she said, suddenly remembering, “have anything to do with ordering the servants to speak English at the risk of losing their positions?”

  Oliver cleared his throat, but Flint paid him no heed. “That was … unfortunate,” he said. “A misunderstanding on the part of the vicar in translating the message. There was no threat intended.”

  “Caitlin,” Oliver said before she could respond, “whether there was a threat or not is beyond our consideration now. The order stands.”

  “But Oliver—”

  “It stands,” he insisted. “I do not speak enough of the language myself, nor does Mr. Flint. Therefore, to be sure my instructions are obeyed, English will be spoken.”

  “Even by me?” she said, her voice dangerously low.

  He smiled. “My dear, as mistress of the house you may do as you please.”

  At the risk of my extreme displeasure, his tone implied, and Caitlin decided there was no point in continuing the argument; at least, she would not engage her husband in front of his hired man. She sensed the conversation had gone on too long as it was, but she still suspected Oliver of taking advantage of her mourning for reasons she’d not yet determined.

  “You mentioned problems,” she pressed on then. “Were there any?”

  “None that should concern you,” Flint said.

  “Caitlin,” Oliver scolded lightly, pulling a shred of meat from between his teeth, “this is all rather silly.”

  “I hardly think so,” she snapped. “After all, we are talking about family property, aren’t we? My family.”

  Oliver’s face darkened, and he laid his hands hard on either side of his plate. “My dear, I consulted your father every step of the way, and whenever he disagreed with my suggestions, I deferred to him at once.”

  “I should hope so,” she muttered.

  “Caitlin!”

  Suddenly, Flint’s hand covered hers, and she was drawn to his compassionate gaze.

  “Sir Oliver,” he said, without taking his eyes from her face, “perhaps this is not a good time to discuss such matters. After all, the homecoming has been less pleasant than it might have been. I can see that Lady Morgan, despite her courage, is rather distressed.” His hand drew away, and she wanted abruptly to snatch it back.

  “Ah, yes,” Oliver said guiltily. “Yes.”

  With the tension thus defused, Caitlin took the opportunity to rise.

  “Oliver, I think I will retire now.”

  She smiled at Flint gratefully, and moved to her husband’s side. He kissed her hand and nodded his understanding.

  “Good night,” she whispered and hurried from the room, taking the near staircase to the gallery and, when she was positive no one was watching, broke into a run down the rear corridor toward her south tower rooms.

  “I’m sorry,” Flint said, not very apologetically. “She would have thrown something if I hadn’t stepped in. I’m sorry, too, she had to find out like this.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Morgan told him. “She’s had rather a bad time of it lately, I suppose. I’m only sorry we had to return so soon, but that fool brought the letters back too quickly. I would rather you’d had more time, as it were.”

  Flint dismissed his statement with a shrug. “It can’t be helped now, can it? What’s done is done. I still see no great obstacles.”

  “Neither do I,” Morgan agreed, attacking his meal and nodding for Flint to take Caitlin’s plate. “But it is a bother.”

  “Maybe,” Flint told him. “Maybe not. We shall see in about a month’s time, won’t we?”

  Several minutes passed in silence. Morgan ate heartily, and Flint refilled his glass twice. Bradford came in once, to light the fire at the hearth and bring, at Flint’s command, a fresh decanter of brandy. None of the other staff came near the dining room, and the only sounds in the room were the muted voice of the sea and the humming of the chilled wind that set the tapestries to fluttering.

  Then Morgan pushed away from the table and stared at Flint, his eyes narrowing and his jaw setting.

  “Have you spoken with Radnor?”

  “I can’t get near the bastard,” Flint said in disgust. “He has these great bloody dogs…”

  “He’ll prove even more difficult if he’s not approached.”

  Flint tossed his napkin down angrily.

  “Approached with what, Major? He’s in no need of money, and he’l
l only laugh at threats. What can we do?”

  “We can keep Caitlin away from him, for one thing.”

  “Easier said than done, Major.”

  Morgan smiled mirthlessly. “But if the Americans keep up, or if the French start again, there’s always the army.”

  “He’ll never stand for that. He’ll run first.”

  The smile became feral. “Then he’ll be an outlaw, won’t he?”

  Flint lifted his glass in a silent toast. “You’re rather amazing. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know,” Morgan told him. “And my friend, don’t you ever forget that.” He rose heavily, his knuckles pressed to the table. “I have never yet failed to get what I wanted. And no man is indispensable to me. No man, James. Not even you.”

  The moon seemed to unroll a silver carpet over the valley, deepening the shadows and transforming the streams into ribbons of metal. The white stallion paused at the bank of one and dipped its head to drink. It was patient, and it switched its dark tail lazily, as if it had all the time in the world.

  Griffin Radnor, however, could not shake the feeling that time was fast running out for him. He’d been bitterly disappointed when Caitlin had not bothered to greet him on the road, and he’d spent the rest of the day trying to convince himself it was because of her husband. She could hardly wave while he was there. But by the time he’d finished his late supper, restlessness had driven him to the stable and to his mount. And before he’d ridden a mile he knew the truth: Caitlin would never come to him of her own free will.

  He was tempted to forget her, as he’d been trying to do for the past three years; but that, too, was a failure. No sooner was the resolution made than her face floated in front of him out of the leaves, the streams, the shadowy patches beneath the boulders, taunting him, promising him more anguish.

  He looked across the valley to Seacliff, and slapped his thigh.

  Ten times the fool he might well be, but he would prowl the fields and the groves until he saw her alone. Sooner or later she would have to leave that place, and when she did he would be there. Waiting. Demanding to know why she’d never written, why she’d never answered any of his letters.

  And if she turned him away, then he would be done with her. He was not a man to crawl after a woman like a beaten, sniveling beast. He would be done with her, and live the rest of his life as if she did not exist.

  The first room of Caitlin’s apartment extended the width of the south tower, but was only fifteen feet deep. It was a cluttered, comfortable, draped and curtained room where she spent most of her quiet time when she was not walking the bluffs. Beyond that was a vanity and wardrobe room where the walls, when not covered with gay fringed hangings, were lined by tall clothing chests in which her dresses and gowns hung in colorful profusion. There were not so many of them now, most of them remaining in Eton, but she had brought enough to give her a sense of permanence nevertheless.

  The last and largest room contained a massive four-poster bed set on a stone and ebony platform, a circle of chairs around the hearth, a scrolled secretary for writing, an armchair for reading, and at the back a ceiling-high window opening onto a balcony. The balcony overlooked the bay. She stood on it, brushing the tears from her cheeks. Though she couldn’t see the water she could feel the waves rising toward her. In the distance she could hear the rise and fall of a coast schooner’s horn.

  England. Oh, Lord, how she missed it tonight! Caitlin, a voice scolded silently.

  But it was true. From the moment she’d entered Wales she’d been aware of forces buffeting her about, confusing her much more than could be blamed on simple bereavement. Oliver’s highhandedness, Flint’s sudden appearance, the villagers backing away from the coach as it passed. It didn’t make sense. Nothing added up.

  She left the balcony and undressed, shivering and hugging herself against the cold. Then, for a moment, she felt James’s arms around her, his lips on her lips, and suddenly, fiercely, she willed him into the room with her. He would explain; she knew he would. She’d seen the looks he’d passed her at dinner, felt the touch of his hand; she’d wronged him by thinking he’d used her. She had wronged him indeed. Damn, she thought; if only she were in England with the time to sort things out…

  She kicked at her dress and petticoats, which were piled at her feet, and kicked again. Then a third and fourth time until she started laughing and dropped onto the mahogany chest at the foot of her bed. Fool, she told herself. All this worry, yet she was forgetting the most important thing: she was not in exile, she was in her country and Oliver was just going to have to learn that as well.

  A knock at the outer door sounded, and Gwen entered timidly.

  Caitlin rose and walked toward her, taking a fur-trimmed robe from its wall peg to cover herself. She held out her arms, and they embraced, sobbing, as the loss they’d suffered came home in full measure. And when it was done she took Gwen’s hands and squeezed them tightly.

  “Gwen,” she said quietly, “as long as I’m here you know you’ve nothing to fear for your homes or positions. And I’ve seen the papers, my father’s will, and there’s no doubt that Seacliff is mine.” She lifted a quick hand to silence the maid’s objection. “I know what Sir Oliver says, but there are things Stanbrooke the solicitor calls holes, through which the clever Welsh can make sure matters do not change simply because London wills it. This place is mine, Gwen, all of it. And you be sure the others know it, too.”

  Despite Gwen’s smile, Caitlin could see the doubts glow in her eyes, but there was nothing more to say. She had her misgivings but it wasn’t the time to air them. Instead, she exchanged one last embrace before Gwen left, stared blindly at the door, and returned to the bed where she slipped beneath the embroidered quilt. Dancing shadows on the ceiling weighted her eyelids and deepened her breathing.

  Yours, she thought. Remember that. Seacliff is yours. Don’t let them take it away.

  But the last image she saw was of James Flint, smiling seductively at her. And she couldn’t remember if she followed his beckoning.

  12

  The mausoleum had been constructed of soft gray marble streaked by soft white. The bronze doors were taller than a man and unadorned. They were solid and heavy yet hinged in such a way that when the bolt was thrown aside they could be parted with little effort. Above the structure spread an ancient birch whose crown had been shaped in its earlier years to shade the marble and resist the strong winds that blew in from the west.

  Caitlin stood just inside the threshold, her hands clasped loosely at her waist, the raven black of her hair cascading down her back. She was wearing a simple shepherdess dress, with a black silk tie around her throat, and a red ribbon wound through the lace at the neckline, which was just low enough to expose the tops of her breasts.

  Ahead of her in the gloom barely retreating from the spilling sunlight was the back wall, where several bronze plaques marked the sealed drawers beneath them. Most of them had darkened with time, but one still gleamed, its mortar still freshly white. She stared at it for nearly an hour, allowing her mind to sort through childhood scenes dominated by her father’s presence: the winter nights when he protected her from the spirits walking the mansion, the light summer days when he stood at the base of the cliff and watched her wade into the water at tide’s ebb. She could not imagine him lying in the crypt alone. At one point she was grateful her last memory of him was when he was still alive, grumbling and laughing in spite of his monstrous illness.

  And when, at another moment, she felt hurt and angered that he had left her on her own, she reminded herself that he was with her mother now, and Caitlin Morgan was a grown woman who could, if she’d a mind to, take care of herself.

  Her weeping was done. There remained a quiet, empty space in her heart that she knew would never be filled, one tinged with loss and love. And with a smile that blended joy and sorrow she promised her father silently she would use the old pine tree as he had himself, to draw consolation and to reacqua
int herself with what and who she was when necessary. Then she murmured, “I love you, Father,” and in the center of the floor laid a single rose she had taken from the garden.

  A backward step, and she pushed the doors closed and threw the bolt. She touched the cool bronze in one final gesture, and her eyes blinked rapidly as she walked away from the mausoleum, noting without really seeing the headstones that marked the history of the village.

  And she stopped, suddenly.

  There in the distance, in the middle of a brilliantly green field, was a man on a massive white horse. It took her no time at all to recognize him, and her left hand clenched into a fist at her side. She realized Griffin Radnor had followed her, and he looked like a blinding white ghost in the middle of the day. There was no thought of permitting him to catch up with her. The ghost, she thought, was a good way to think of him—a specter from her past that could touch her only faintly like a childhood memory.

  She glared, hoping his keen perception might note her displeasure. Then she made her way quickly along the gravel path through the cemetery. Davy was waiting on the road for her with a pony and trap. She glanced up as she neared the low iron gates and saw him wipe a voluminous sleeve under his nose hastily. She smiled, as much at his sorrow as in relief that he had not seen Radnor prowling the fields. That would have been too much. Davy had never kept secret his admiration for the master of Falconrest, and she did not wish to endure his clumsy reminiscences now.

  The smile almost faltered, however, when the young man’s expression altered suddenly, and his back straightened as if he’d been prodded with a knife. Following his gaze, she turned her head to the right and saw a scrawny man leaving the front of the narrow gray stone church. The temptation to hurry on was stifled instantly. Sooner or later, once an appropriate period of solitary mourning had passed, the villagers would make their way to Seacliff to express their condolences. Tradition dictated they do so. There was no way she could avoid the painful procession of visitors, and she knew she might as well greet the first of them now. Especially since this one would probably be the least enjoyable.