Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  A stairwell, narrow and unlighted, opened in the wall just before the door to her apartments. It led to only one place— the third floor of the south tower: her father’s rooms. Though all the other Evanses had lived in the main building, her mother had taken a liking to the magnificent view from the tower, and he had bowed to her wishes. No one had visited there since his death, and as she climbed the stone steps and stopped before his door, she noticed that the air was stale, musty.

  She took a deep breath and she moistened her lips nervously.

  The door opened stiffly, its hinges squealing so loudly she thought surely someone would hear it. But she did not hesitate; she squeezed inside and closed the door behind her. She needed no light for what she was about to do. All she needed was another ration of courage to prevent her from disgracing her family spirits.

  The interior of the Daniels’s cottage was brightened by the golden light from candles and a fire blazing in the hearth. A partition had been constructed on the left side of the house to provide privacy for Gwen and Davy; old Les’s pallet had long since been removed. The two brothers were seated in tall, narrow chairs flanking the fireplace, and Gwen occupied a bench facing the flames as she worked on a quilt spread over her lap.

  “Imagine her thinking I’d come at her call, like I was a dog or worse,” she muttered, stabbing at a patch with her needle.

  “Cor,” Davy sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “There she goes again.”

  “Well, damn your eyes, I got a right, don’t I?” she said.

  “You have cause,” Orin rumbled around the stem of his clay pipe. “You have cause.”

  The wind stirred the fire and the ashes eddied under the logs stacked on the andirons. Then Orin took the pipe from his mouth and examined the contents of its bowl. Gwen glanced up at him without lifting her head, and she could see by his expression that the evening’s lecture was about to begin. She groaned silently, but there was no getting around it. Every night, or so it seemed, he asked quietly when she and his young brother would be seeing the vicar. It wasn’t right, he would say, the way they were living together. As if people didn’t have enough to talk about, what with all the goings on in the main house, he didn’t think it proper they should add fuel to the fires of gossip.

  But, though she and Davy had spoken of it often, neither of them felt comfortable with the idea of marriage. It wasn’t their love, which seemed to have increased in strength and purpose; it was their mistress. Their marrying now, Davy argued, might somehow be construed as a slap in her face, showing her what true happiness could be if only the right people were involved in the relationship. Though more often than not Gwen tended to agree with Orin, Davy would not budge from his position. And a stubborn Davy was five times worse than a deep-rooted stump in a cornfield.

  But Orin surprised her.

  “We’ll be havin’ a visitor soon enough,” he said, without meeting either of their startled gazes.

  Davy made a loud, disgusted noise and reached for the green bottle of gin next to his chair. But he never completed his motion. In no time, Orin was out of his chair and had grabbed the bottle by its neck. With little more than a glare, he reduced his brother to a small child.

  “Who?” Gwen asked, before Davy recovered his courage and made a grab for the gin.

  “You’ll—”

  A faint knocking at the door froze them all. The sound was barely heard over the battering of the wind, but it filled the small room with ominous tension. Gwen slowly folded the quilt and put aside her needles and patches; Davy straightened, and folded his legs under the chair in case he had to stand in a hurry. Orin, however, only set his pipe on the rough-hewn mantel and stepped around Gwen’s bench to the door. When it opened the wind gusted through, whipping the fire to a frenzy and making Gwen gasp at the night’s cold breath. But it wasn’t until their visitor had moved into the light that she recognized him.

  “Martin,” she said to the goldsmith, “what in heaven’s name are you doin’ up here?”

  Randall accepted Orin’s assistance in removing his large hat and voluminous cloak. Then he stood in front of the fire to warm his hands and back. Once done, he took Orin’s chair and stretched out his legs.

  “You’re here,” he said to her, nodding his pleasure.

  She blinked. “Well, of course I am! Where’d you think I’d be on a hellish night like this? Walkin’ the cliffs, waitin’ for a ship?”

  “Gwen,” Davy cautioned.

  “Well, it was a silly question, wasn’t it?” she said, making room for Orin on the bench. Then, with a frown, she understood. “You knew he was comin’, didn’t you, Davy?” Davy nodded, blushing at the guilty secret.

  She looked at Orin, who was watching the fire, then at Randall, who was looking straight at her. “How’d you know I’d be here?” she demanded.

  “The mistress spoke with you today.”

  Astonished, she half rose, and would have stood up had not Orin taken her arm lightly and pressed her back into the chair. “What’s going on? What does Cat have to do with any of this? Talk to me, David! Orin! What does—” She stopped, and her eyes widened.

  “She gave you an order,” Randall said quietly.

  “Damn right,” Gwen snapped. “It could’ve been Flint talkin’ she was so damned high and mighty. La, you’d think she was one of them ladies we was always seein’ at Eton.”

  “You disobeyed her,” Randall said, his full lips quivering now in a faint, amused smile.

  “Damn right again I did. Nobody talks to me like that and gets away with it. Who does she think I am anyway, that little slut Mary?”

  Randall roared, his head knocking against the back of his chair, while Orin chuckled deeply in his throat and Davy covered a laugh with the back of his hand. Gwen, enraged, leaped to her feet and stood with her back to the fire, where she ignored the heat on her spine.

  “Enough!” she shouted. “Enough of this, you hear me?”

  “Davy,” Randall said once his composure returned, “you were right.”

  “Right?” she yelped. “Right about what, David Daniels?”

  Davy’s face seemed ready to split in half with his grin. “That if the mistress talked to you proper and stuffy, you’d do just the opposite, just to spite her.”

  It took a while for the words to sink in, a while longer before she confessed to bewilderment and took her place again. “Please,” she said then, “please stop this and tell me.”

  Randall nodded once, sharply, and gave her a quick narration of Caitlin’s visit to his shop. He had not mistaken any of the messages she had sent him beneath her words and had, shortly afterward, contrived a reason to visit the farrier and convey her plan.

  As soon as he was finished, Gwen started to her feet but Orin stopped her again. “No,” he said gently. “You must stay here, out of the way. It was obviously the mistress’s wish you not be in the house tonight.”

  “But why?”

  Randall fell silent, and neither Orin nor Davy would give her a clue. Panic rose in her breast, and her heart began a wild pounding. “She’s doin’ something foolish, isn’t she?” she said. “She’s—”

  Davy immediately squeezed onto the bench beside her and put his arms around her shoulders. She leaned into him, suddenly cold.

  “I thought she’d gone English,” she whispered.

  “So did we all, to our shame,” Randall said. “But that’s changed now. Now we must be ready when the mistress is. We cannot fail her. All hell is breaking loose at Seacliff tonight.”

  Gwen slowly lifted her head, her eyes wide again. “She… I’ve heard that before.” She looked to Orin. “I’ve said that to you before.” She snapped her fingers. “On her birthday!”

  Orin nodded, then cocked his head to listen to the wind. “It didn’t happen then,” he said. “But it’s happening now. It’s happening now.”

  Caitlin slipped down the staircase with a bundle tucked under one arm. At the bottom she scanned the gallery fu
rtively before darting into her apartment and stuffing the bundle into the chest at the footboard of her bed. A sigh of relief escaped her as she slumped onto the chest and lowered her head. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, and her hands trembled. Then she glanced up at her reflection in the full-length mirror and groaned. If ever guilt was written across a woman’s features, it was written across hers. Boldly. In blood red. For all the world and James Flint to see.

  She stood up and wrung her hands. She had no idea how she was going to make it through the night. Sleep was out of the question. So was pacing the floor; she’d be exhausted by morning. She walked to the side window and looked down at the staff cottages, then at the wavering dim light that marked the Daniels’s home. By straining, she thought she was able to see figures before the fire through the window, but she knew it had to be only her imagination. Thank God Gwen had not lost any of her spirit or her independence. She would have been in great danger had she, through a resurgence of loyalty, sought out her mistress and stayed with her the last night before Caitlin’s disastrous union. She had hated ordering her friend about this afternoon, but it was the only way she could ensure the safety of them both.

  A bath was the next thing, she decided a few minutes later. A bath to calm her nerves, and perhaps soothe her to sleep. She yanked the bell-pull by the door and paced impatiently around the room until Mary arrived, sullen and red-eyed, and almost balking when she was told to fetch hot water for the tub.

  But she did. And within the hour Caitlin was immersed in a cloud of comforting steam. She might have drifted off had not the outer door slammed open and Flint strolled into her chamber as though walking through a garden.

  Caitlin did not bother to cover herself. “You have heard of knocking, I presume?” she said coldly.

  Flint, in his velvet dressing gown, his dark hair brushed down to his shoulders, smiled broadly. “Even on the night before our nuptials you insist on playing the scold.”

  “I am doing nothing of the sort.”

  He bowed to her correction. “It appears our guests will be somewhat damp tomorrow,” he said, walking to the French doors and peering out at the night.

  “I don’t think anyone will come.”

  “Now, Caitlin,” he said without turning around, “I believe there will be more here than you suspect.”

  She thought of his men camped in their barracks, and shuddered. “Perhaps.”

  “No perhaps about it. Just before I came up here a wagonload of assistants came to the door. The Courders, I believe, for the cooking, and some of the younger men for the cleaning. I trust they will not disturb your sleep.”

  “I will make the best of it.”

  A sudden turn, a long stride, and he was kneeling by the iron tub, where he dangled the fingers of one hand in the water near her breasts. “You will not regret this, Caitlin.”

  “I doubt it.”

  His smile grew strained, and she was forced to admire the way he kept his temper in check.

  “I was thinking,” he said, swirling a finger around one of her nipples, “that these rooms may very well prove to be inadequate for our purposes. What would you say to using your father’s apartments above us?”

  She almost choked on her fury, but when he looked at her questioningly, she only shrugged, not daring to speak.

  “You disappoint me, Caitlin. I had hoped for some display of righteousness.”

  “Your hopes,” she told him, “are not always achieved, are they, Mr. Flint?”

  He slapped the water with a palm, and she wiped the moisture from her face quickly. “My lady,” he said sternly, “if nothing else, tomorrow you will cease to call me Mr. Flint. I will be James to you, or I will be nothing!”

  “Very well. James.” She shifted. “I would like to get out.” He rose and backed away. “Then get out, my lady.”

  “Alone, if you please.”

  Again his temper flared and flushed his cheeks, but this time he lost control. Before she could stop him, he had grabbed her arms and yanked her from the water. He dragged her halfway across the room and threw her to the bed. She rolled away from him, but not swiftly enough. He was on her in no time, flipping her onto her back and pinning down her shoulders, his legs straddling her hips. Fear paralyzed her, and she was unable to stop him when he moved his hands from her shoulders to her wrists and brought her arms over her head. Her flesh gleamed in the bronze firelight, and the shade of her hair caught sparks that seemed to take on a life of their own.

  “No,” he said, gazing into her widening eyes. “No, my dear, I shall not have you tonight. That would be unseemly.” Then his voice lowered to a hissing. “But tomorrow, Caitlin, you shall be mine. Every inch of you, every shadow, every curve. You shall be mine, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. Nothing! I am in command, and your last defense has crumbled.”

  He kissed her then, harshly and long, bringing the salty taste of blood to her mouth before he pulled away brusquely and left her trembling on the bed. She lay there for over an hour, unseeing, not hearing, until the room’s chill set her limbs to quaking. As if in a dream, she rose and stumbled to the wardrobe, pulled out a nightgown and slipped it over her head. To the fire she went for warmth. To the blankets, for protection.

  Then, exhausted, she stared at the open doorway until sleep engulfed her.

  30

  Mary moved about the room quietly, opening the curtains, scraping candle wax from the floor with a long-handled scoop, pouring fresh water into the mistress’s basin. She didn’t care whether she woke Caitlin or not. She had her work to do, and the mistress be damned. She’d started down in the staff quarters, where already Flint was up and poking at the food laid out on the preparation tables, sticking his nose into the pots simmering over the hearth, ordering the staff around. Twice he’d pinched Mary, and twice she’d made a playful grab for his legs, but he did nothing more, nor had he signaled his desire to continue their liaison after his marriage. If he didn’t, she had already decided she would slip out of the valley and make her way back to England. No point staying around. She didn’t like these people. Whenever she was around they spoke in their native tongue, laughing and pointing in her direction. They spat at her and kicked at her shins at the slightest excuse, and they excluded her from gossip and general conversation. If it hadn’t been for Flint, she would have left long ago. She slapped her duster down hard against the vanity table.

  Caitlin stirred, murmuring in her sleep.

  Mary glanced around the room to be sure all was in order, then left hurriedly, pausing at the outer door to smile, then slam it shut as hard as she could.

  Caitlin sat bolt upright, her hands clawing the covers and her eyes fearful and wide. The dream she’d just had was lost the moment she realized where she was, but its aftereffects left her cold, and she rubbed her arms vigorously until she felt the circulation start again.

  Today, she thought then; today was the day.

  Her mouth felt dry. The hand that reached for the water pitcher on the nightstand shook so violently that she had to grab her wrist to steady it. The water was fresh, cold, and when she checked the room from her bed she saw that Mary had been there already. Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to face Flint’s mistress first thing. Without bothering to take her robe from the foot of the bed, Caitlin raced to the balcony doors and flung them open.

  Then she laughed. She felt almost free.

  The sky was still dark; the wind had slowed to a lull but was forceful enough to stir the waves. The scent of rain was strong. She raked her hands through her hair, letting it cascade down over her chest, and she reveled in the thought that one portion of her lengthy prayer had been answered. But only one. There was still so much to do before the day was out, before the vicar and the villagers arrived, and so much could go wrong before then.

  Time, then. She needed to preserve as much of it as she could. To rush now would make her suspect, or would make Flint eager. And if he grew eager, there was no telling what might str
ike his mind. He excelled under stress.

  A long moment staring into her father’s sculptured eyes, and a longer one with her eyes closed and memories crowding all thought out, and she took a deep breath. Suddenly the door cracked open, but it was only Mary bustling in with buckets of hot water. She was sniffling and sneezing, and her red hair was a tangle, her bodice partly unlaced. Caitlin faced her expressionlessly, waiting till the woman was gone. And when she finally left, Caitlin sprinkled the water with lavender, piled her hair atop her head, and slipped into the tub.

  An hour later, when the water had cooled and was no longer comfortable, Caitlin climbed awkwardly out of the tub, wrapped herself in a thick, quilted robe, and dried herself as best she could.

  Trying to pace herself, she moved as slowly as she could as she reviewed every aspect of her plan, searching for pitfalls, prodding for weaknesses that would be her undoing.

  And there were many. So many if s. If the storm did not return; if Randall ignored what she’d told him; if Flint refused to allow her out of his sight; if her courage failed her at the last moment; if…if…if… She bunched her hands into fists and shut her eyes tightly, forcing herself to rein in the panic that had rooted itself in the pit of her stomach. Too soon, she told herself; it’s much too soon to grow fainthearted. What would your father think? What would Griffin think?

  Griff.

  She sat in front of her mirror and stared at her reflection. Behind her she could see a vague image of Griffin as she remembered him, but it was only a vague image. Flint’s men had effectively prevented him from entering the valley or sending her a message. And, she thought, what if Gwen had been mistaken and he had not, in fact, returned from Ireland at all? Or what if he had been seriously injured and was unable to assist her?

  Oh, my God… what if he’s dead?

  “No!” her mind cried.A pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat.

  A gentle knock at the door startled her, and her overreaction made her smile, roll her eyes toward the ceiling, and chide herself for jumping at shadows. It was too soon to be so skittish, too soon, though when Bradford entered with her luncheon tray she realized she’d overslept and the morning had passed quickly.