Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  He turned on his heels, a military about-face. “Neither do I, but it was done. I can only assume Mrs. Courder allowed the fruit to remain too long in her larder. She has been spoken to, I can assure you.”

  She shook her head to indicate that she still didn’t understand but she refrained from saying more. And when it was clear that she was drained of protests, Oliver bade her a good evening and left. She stared at the hearth and wondered. Despite all the resolutions to remodel her life, she knew that Oliver was the one element she could not change. Once she’d gotten on her feet again, his concern had become perfunctory, and nothing anyone could tell her would convince her that he cared about her. It would be difficult, this new thing she was trying; by the same token, she had never gone quite so far as to convince herself it would be easy, either.

  When Gwen returned with beef broth and vegetables, and a small goblet of wine, Caitlin asked her to stay awhile, and Gwen readily agreed, dropping to her knees to light the fire. She smiled mischievously as she dragged Oliver’s chair closer to the hearth. A silence comfortable and gentle filled the room, and it was broken only after Caitlin had sponged the last of the gravy from her plate with fresh bread and had licked her fingers to capture every last drop. Releasing a sated sigh, she lowered the tray to the floor, her silk robe rustling as she pulled her legs under her and turned to face Gwen.

  “Now,” she said with a decisive nod, “you’ll not put it off any longer, my dear.”

  “Oh, Caitlin…”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said, with a hint of exasperation, “where is it written that I must be shielded from the world for the rest of my life? Each time I ask you a question, if it’s good news you bubble it all over me, and if it’s bad, you pull a dreadfully sour face and tell me I must rest. Well!” She thumped her hands in her lap. “Well, I’m fed, and I’m rested, and I’m not feeling the least bit tired. So tell me, Gwen. Tell me about Davy, and what you’ve heard of Griff.”

  “Must I?”

  “If you don’t, I’ll see to it you give Bradford his monthly bath for the next twenty years.”

  Gwen’s feigned horror set them both laughing for nearly ten minutes, but when it was over Caitlin reminded her she’d not forgotten her question.

  “Well… Davy is fine now, mistress. He sometimes feels the rain a bit, the weather, but he’s good as new otherwise. Fact is, he’d be right pleased if you’d see him for a minute or two. When you’re up to visitors, that is. He’ll want to thank you for what you did.”

  Caitlin experienced a moment’s embarrassment as she waved the thanks away. Davy had once again crossed words with Oliver, and her husband had decided it was more than high time he be made an example before the rest of the staff. Oliver had claimed the servants were growing rebellious, and this was the best way he could think of to bring them back in line. A few ill-chosen words, and a young man nearly lost his life.

  “And Griff?” she said, wanting to change the subject so her temper would not rise. “Word?”

  Gwen had told her of her trips to Falconrest to bring Griffin news of her illness, and she’d told her, too, of the mysterious attack on him toward the end of the month. Griffin would say little about it save that he gave as much as he got, but she’d seen the bruises and the gashes, the pained way he hobbled about the room while he asked about Cat, and she knew there was more in the telling than she’d been able to grasp.

  “But this past fortnight I’ve heard nothing, mistress. I’ve not been able to go over, but I seen Master Randall who does work for him now and again, and he tells me the place is dark at night, and Jones isn’t seen around neither.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “he’s taken time off for one of his adventures.”

  “La,” Gwen said, lifting her gaze to the ceiling. “He’s adventures aplenty around here without going off and looking for them, if you ask me.”

  Another silence, this one weighted and hanging heavily between them.

  Finally, Cat yawned in spite of herself, stretched and suggested she take to bed early. “I’ll want to be out tomorrow,” she said shyly, waiting for the storm of protests to begin. “I think it’s time I stop playing hermit and let people know I’m still alive.”

  But there were no objections from Gwen, and that surprised her. She lowered her bare feet to the floor and leaned forward, staring at Gwen to try to read her face.

  “What is it?”

  “Tomorrow there’s a hearing,” Gwen told her. “It… it will be the second one since you took ill.”

  “What?” She jumped to her feet, shaking her head at the dizziness that had her grabbing for the back of the chair. “What? You mean to tell me, Gwen Thomas, that Sir Oliver has already presided over one hearing without me?”

  “You… you were ill, Cat,” Gwen pointed out, cringing into the chair away from Caitlin’s outburst. “You were dying!”

  “I was nothing of the sort,” she cried. “And he should have waited. He should have waited!”

  The hearing was an institution created by her great-grandfather to oversee legal disputes among the villagers. At least once during each two-month period the people of the valley would gather at Seacliff to present grievances against neighbors, ask permission to marry or to sell parcels of land; new families were introduced, births celebrated, levies collected, and fines assessed; and those who had committed crimes not covered by the master’s domain were remaindered in a specially built cottage near the stables until the circuit judge arrived.

  Under Caitlin’s harsh questioning, Gwen revealed that Oliver had managed everything rather brusquely, with the estate’s steward, James Flint, carrying out his orders with his band of retired soldiers. Oliver had also given a short speech on the need for soldiers in the king’s army, since war had broken out in the American colonies; and if there was war in America, there was sure to be some fighting against the French who were Britain’s age-old enemy and who would eventually side with the colonies. No one had come forward, but Oliver had continued to send messages into the village, and he was confident that sooner or later he would have a small troop ready for the king.

  “He never said a word,” Caitlin muttered, stumbling away from the fireplace to her bed. “He never said a word about a hearing. And he knows—he knows, Gwen!-—that I must be there for his authority to be legal.” She slumped to the mattress, feeling suddenly bone-weary. “What else?” she said, more to herself than to Gwen, who had followed her and was turning back the quilt. “What else has he taken from me while I’ve been in this damned place?”

  Gwen’s brow furrowed in concern. “You’d best not think about it now, Cat, really. You’re not as strong as you think.”

  “My God!” she said. “That’s all Oliver ever says. Take it easy, Caitlin; relax, Caitlin; marshal your strength, my dear, so we can have you well again.” She raised a fist to the ceiling and brandished it fiercely. “Well, damn his eyes, I am… I am…”

  Her eyes widened in mute panic as chills washed over her, and she drew up her legs, her teeth chattering, to keep warm.

  “My… God,” she whispered, and looked to Gwen, pleading. “My…Gwen, please! No, it can’t be. It can’t be, not again.”

  Gwen hustled her under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. “It’s not,” she said softly. “You’re worked into a tizzy, and now you’re paying the price. You rest, mistress. You just rest, and tomorrow you’ll be right as rain again.”

  “Yes,” Caitlin said. “Yes, yes I will.”

  She fell back to the pillows and clenched her teeth to keep them still. Gwen fetched the tray from the floor and tucked it under her arm. She glanced around the room, and she moved to each of the candles in their sconces and pinched them out until only the firelight was left. As a shadow, then, Gwen drifted out of Caitlin’s vision, humming a lullaby and smiling, blowing her a kiss and closing the door softly behind her.

  A hearing, she thought, alone in the half-light. He’s taken over everything now, everything I own.r />
  And though a cautionary voice told her it was only until she was well and mobile again, she could not help the tears she shed through the night.

  19

  She heard voices through the deep black fog that engulfed her; she wanted to speak, to scream, but she felt as though a gag had been stuffed into her mouth, and her eyelids seemed glued to the rise of her cheekbones—blinding her, though she knew her vision was still perfect. It was frustrating, it was horrifying, and the worst of it was that no one paid attention to her moaning.

  “… too much at once. I told you that, Major. Another reversal like this could very well prove fatal. You’ll have to heed my prescriptions, and do that very carefully.”

  “I understand that, Doctor.”

  “I certainly hope you do.”

  “Well, you’re certainly being forward for someone so deeply in my debt. Remember, sir, I have an estate to run—one of considerable size, lest your feeble brain fail to comprehend that fact. I cannot be in a hundred places at once.”

  “Nevertheless, you should have been more cautious. Now we’ll have to do it right. Therefore, please see to it that Lady Morgan rests. Rests, Sir Oliver! There is no other cure for it in my experience.”

  “Can I take it you mean a great deal of rest, Doctor?”

  “You may be sure of that, sir. You may be absolutely sure of that indeed.”

  “Then—”

  “Then you will continue as you have done. And you’d best instruct whoever nurses this woman that on no account must she be permitted to leave her bed until—until, sir—I have given my permission.”

  “You have my word, Doctor.”

  “See to it you keep it. You don’t want another body on your hands.”

  “Cat? Cat, can you hear me? Oh, God, Cat, please nod your head or something and let me know you can hear me. He’ll be coming soon, and I must be quick. The cobbler, Tommy Williams, was brought before the hearing last week, and they said he’s been hoarding gold under his hearth instead of paying his debts. He said nay, but Flint claims to have seen it. Sir Oliver took less than a minute to tell the cobbler he must repay his obligations within a fortnight or forfeit his home. He said nay again, but no one was listening. They dared not speak up for him, Cat. None of them dared speak up for him. It was terrible, but it isn’t the end of it.

  “Oh, God, can you hear me, Cat?

  “Last night, it was gone midnight and Quinn Broary was out back of her place with Randall. You don’t ask, and I won’t tell. But they heard strange sounds from the Williams cottage that’s right down the lane a bit, off the main road. They didn’t do nothing about it, but they remembered it this morning, and they asked around the Stag’s Head and places to see what’s known. But there was nothing to be heard. Then Randall took himself to the cottage and the next thing you know the vicar was right by him, yelling and swearing and getting on his horse and riding right here to Mr. Flint.

  “’Twas his duty, the reverend says. I suppose it was, but he didn’t have to ride like the Brits were on his heels.

  “The thing is, Cat, that Williams is gone! Wife, children, everyone gone from the whole place! Broary must’ve heard them packing it all together, I imagine. But it’s odd they didn’t hear the wagon moving out, isn’t it? I mean, I would think you’d hear something of a loaded wagon on that miserable excuse for a road, wouldn’t you?

  “It’s not good, Cat. It’s not good at all.

  “They’ve declared Williams an outlaw, and they’ve put gold on his head.”

  “What are you talking about, Bradford? This is Gwen Thomas here, not one of your whimpering underlings, like Mary.”

  “I will ignore that, woman.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Hold your tongue! Now, you will see to it she is bathed every other day, turned every four hours, and—”

  “You bitten sod! Who the hell are you to tell me how to take care of my mistress, eh? You pomp around this house like it was your own, and do you once come up here to see how she’s doing? Oh, no! Not the great and mighty Emmanuel Bradford, not you. You—”

  “That is enough, woman.”

  “I am indeed woman enough for you, you old fart. More than enough. Now get the hell out of here before I take your hide to the fire!”

  “The master will hear about this, I can assure you.”

  “The great and bloody master hears the damned crickets pissing, he does.”

  “You’re in trouble, woman!”

  “Fie, I’ve been in worse trouble from worse men than you.”

  She heard the voices and the comings and goings, but she could not feel heartened by her improving condition. While she did not seem to be suffering the same sort of fever as before, she was still enveloped in an invisible shroud of cotton, blinding her, gagging her, making her finally pray for the nightmares because at least they gave her movement.

  “Good Lord, Mary, what d’you call this slop here?”

  “Be broth, Thomas, be broth.”

  “Oh, my, aren’t we feeling our oats today. I’m Thomas to you now? Like hell I am! You mind your place, girl, or I’ll give you the kind of scars Davy has on his back.”

  “Not a muscle moves, Mr. Flint, as you can well see.”

  “A woman so lovely shouldn’t be in such a condition, Sir Oliver.”

  “A noble sentiment, but wasted, I’m afraid. She neither sees nor hears us, Mr. Flint. She keeps her color because that Thomas bitch keeps the air on her, washes her like she was a baby, and feeds her with a spoon. Caitlin swallows readily enough, though I suspect she doesn’t keep it all down.”

  “It isn’t very good color.”

  “It isn’t the color of death, either, Mr. Flint.”

  “It may as well be.”

  “It shan’t be, Mr. Flint. It shan’t be.”

  “When will she recover?”

  “Soon. Soon.”

  “Radnor is back.”

  “Ah?”

  “He was in London, doing a bit of snooping around.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s not like the cobbler and his gold, Oliver. We have to be careful.”

  “Later, Mr. Flint. This is neither the time nor especially the place. “Later. In my study.”

  Had she the wealth she would have ordered a cathedral built to rival Canterbury’s the day she was able to discern shadows in her vision. A subtle separation of dark and light increased as time passed, sharpened as the sun strengthened, and burst into full, glorious color on an afternoon that tinged the room a curious gold.

  And it was the same again when Gwen noticed her blinking. This time, however, Caitlin heeded the instructions given her, swallowed her water slowly, her food in small portions, and ordered Gwen not to tell anyone that she had regained her awareness.

  Contrary to Oliver’s belief and Gwen’s fears, Caitlin did not attribute the conversations she had overheard to the fancies of bitter dreams. She recalled every word, every nuance, every sneered and sworn phrase, until she was ready to sort it out into meaning.

  “Danger?” Gwen said, leaning away from the word Caitlin had uttered moments before as if it were an asp coiling to strike.

  Caitlin nodded as she nibbled on a freshly cooked slice of mutton. “Danger. I am a healthy woman, Gwen, and don’t you dare look at me as if I’ve gone ’round the bend. I am fully aware of what I’m saying. So mark me, Gwen, and mark me well: I am a healthy woman. If I fall ill, whether it be from tainted fruit or too much excitement, I do not fall abed like old Les with his ailments. I sleep, I heal, and I am myself again.

  “This”—and she pounded a fist on the mattress—”is not natural. It is not right.”

  Gwen shook her head in confusion. She knew very well what Caitlin was implying, but the enormity of it threatened to engulf her in terror. Nevertheless, she listened carefully, and with increasing horror, as Caitlin related her husband’s mutterings and gave her the interpretations.

  “Now tell me this,” she sai
d, an impatient hand raised to keep Gwen from interrupting. “You brought me food and drink?”

  Gwen nodded, frowning perplexedly. “Mrs. Courder prepared it?”

  Gwen nodded again.

  “All of it? All the time? And you brought it directly here, right from the kitchen?”

  Gwen started to nod a third time and caught herself. Her eyes narrowed, then widened as she touched her fingers to her lips thoughtfully.

  “Well?”

  “Well, I couldn’t really bring it up all the time, Cat. I had to attend to my other duties as well.” She scowled. “Sometimes Mary would do it for me, not that she really wanted to. But she did. She always made a hell of a mess giving you the broth. ’Twas all you’d swallow, but she managed to get more than half down your front, sure as I’m standing here.”

  Caitlin sank back against the pillows with a sigh. There’d always been that one glimmer of hope she was wrong, that what she feared was merely a figment of her dreams. But all it took was a few sips of broth, just a few drops, and Oliver would have his invalid right where he wanted her.

  She would have wept had she not been so furious.

  “But what could something like that be?” Gwen protested, still refusing to believe it.

  “Oh, Lord, Gwen,” she said wearily, “a bit of this and a bit of that. Powdered hawthorn, hollyhock, mistletoe… so many things to keep me alive and dead at the same time.” She went on, but by the time she was finished and Gwen convinced, the sun had slipped below the horizon, and a chill had crept into the shadowy room. Gwen, trembling, set the fire and lit the tapers nearest the bed. When warmth returned, Caitlin plumped the pillows and folded her arms over her chest.

  “He doesn’t want to kill me, of course,” she said, wondering how she could make it all sound so ordinary, “but as long as I’m stuck up here, he can do what he wishes and tell others his decisions are made with my concurrence. Just as he claimed that everything before the illness was done with my father’s consent. And if he’s lying about this, then he lied fully about that.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. It had to be said, and Gwen had to hear it.