Whispers at Midnight

by Parnell, Andrea

  He’d have to leave. He bothered her, gave her a queer niggling feeling deep inside. There was no question of his staying in the house, and yet she dreaded the ordeal of asking him to go. It seemed, in all conscience, like turning someone out of his own home.

  With a hand pressed to her aching temple, she moved haltingly down the long brick passageway that connected the kitchen to the house. The rows of windows were open and the cooling night breeze drifted freely through, carrying a scent of rosemary and sage. But for the passageway, the kitchen was a separate house set to the side of the main building. Across the way was a laundry, and near that a smokehouse. The space between was used for growing flowers and both the vegetables and herbs used in the kitchen. Had she not felt so miserable, Amanda could have enjoyed the serenity of the evening.

  As it was, she moaned lightly as she pushed open the door of the kitchen and peered within. Her mind had become a muddle of confused thoughts, but not one among them strong enough to lead her to some purpose. She wanted tea, hot and strong, to temper the wine that had her head drumming like a child’s toy.

  A lamp burned on a kitchen shelf, sending a sphere of faint light over the room. Amanda blinked. After the soothing darkness in the passageway her eyes objected to even those few pale rays. She was not fond of wine or strong drink of any sort. Somehow with Gardner she had gotten caught up in a festive mood, and when he had ordered a good bottle of Madeira, it had seemed fitting to toast her arrival in Williamsburg. One toast had led to several, and soon she had consumed far more than was wise. If her present condition were an indication, she would pay for it dearly.

  Seeing Ryne in the house had only added to the throbbing in her head. She couldn’t possibly confront him without first trying to undo the wine’s hold on her. She hoped fervently he had not brought still another woman to the house. Her blood flushed, running hot just beneath her skin as she remembered the tryst she had interrupted last night. There were limits to what she could endure even for Aunt Elise’s son.

  A kettle hung warming above the hot coals banked in the large stone fireplace that ran down one side of the kitchen. A blue china teapot sat waiting on the table nearby, ready for the morning’s preparations. Amanda breathed deeply. The room smelled of fresh baked bread and spices. Gussie had been at work while she was gone, and the wonderful aromas advertised the plump woman’s expertise in the kitchen.

  Amanda started for the pantry, which opened off the back side of the kitchen. Gussie must have forgotten to shut it, because the door, which opened inward, stood ajar a little, held open by a wedge of wood beneath it. The tea, Amanda recalled, was inside in a tin with a green leaf pattern.

  Moving slowly into that darker part of the kitchen, she pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. The pantry was a narrow shelf-lined space filled with jars and barrels of foodstuffs and supplies. It was a good fourteen feet deep, nearly as long as the kitchen itself, and immensely dark except near the door. She looked where she’d left the container after making tea for Elizabeth and herself earlier. Had that been today? Or years ago?

  She sighed. The tin she sought had been moved. Thinking Gussie must have set it elsewhere, she ran her hand down the wooden shelves, feeling for the container. At last her fingers touched it on the shelf above her head, and she rose to her tiptoes, straining as she reached for it. Amanda caught hold of the round tea tin and brought it down, but, still unsteady on her feet, lost her balance and went staggering against the shelves. The tea tin clattered to the floor and rolled out into the kitchen. Before Amanda could move, the tin knocked the wooden wedge from beneath the pantry door and the wooden portal swung shut.

  “Ohh,” she moaned in despair, groping blindly for the door. Whatever had possessed her to drink so much? Tomorrow she would severely regret her overindulgence. She sighed deeply, feeling a wild beating in her temple. She regretted it already, as the dark enclosure of the pantry seemed to be spinning like a boat in a whirlpool. She moaned and her hands went up to massage her aching head.

  “Damnation,” she muttered, imitating some voice she had heard on the stage long ago. Normally she would avoid like poison any theatrical expression in her voice, but something about the absurdity of this night—Gardner’s cheeriness, Ryne’s scowling face, Ezra’s shrill voice reciting rhymes, being shut up in the pantry—made it seem she was acting out a part in a ridiculous play.

  Half-laughing, half-sniffling, Amanda reached out to push the door open, hearing, as she did, a sudden scuffle behind her. She stiffened as the darkness became oppressively frightening. Amanda thought immediately of rats. Those evil-looking creatures had terrified her since a time in childhood when she had been trapped in another dark storeroom with one.

  It was a day when she had wandered through the theater alone while her mother rehearsed. She had found a box of costumes that attracted her childish curiosity, not noticing as she looked through them that the door had swung to and locked behind her. She remembered with revulsion the gray rat, with its ragged fur, and sharp little yellow teeth, crawling out of a corner. A well of hysteria had come over her and she had screamed and screamed until someone heard and got her out.

  The memory made her horror as fresh as if she were still a terrified child of nine. Her breathing became erratic. A cold trickle of perspiration dampened her brow. She had to get out. With a groan of desperation, she hurled her weight against the door, giving it a violent shove. It held fast. Amanda pitched her weight against the door again, in vain. The latch had evidently fallen in place when the door shut, and she had, as she feared, succeeded in locking herself in a place as dark and frightening as a cave.

  Another scuffle sounded, louder and closer. Amanda cried out and pushed with all her might against the door a third time. It creaked with the punishment of her blow but the latch gave not one whit. From deep in the pantry she heard a heavy breath, as if the darkness itself had taken life and meant to crush her in its suffocating layers. She gave a horrified gasp, feeling the press of something brushing against her and the heat of a living thing terribly near and threatening.

  She made a rasping little cry that was lost in a din of fear as she felt hands, large and strong, grip her trembling shoulders and thrust her gently aside.

  “Let me, dear lady,” came a mocking and familiar voice.

  Amanda spun about quickly, upsetting jars and bottles, which toppled and fell. Her breath caught like cotton wool in her throat as the hard edge of a shelf cut sharply into her back. She heard a crash, the sound of the wooden drop latch splintering, as the door flew open.

  Amanda gulped and blinked her eyes at the sudden onslaught of light. She stumbled hurriedly out into the kitchen.

  “Ryne!” she shouted. “You bloody boor! How dare you frighten me that way!”

  Ryne shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “You’re hardly the one to complain. I don’t relish being locked in a pantry with a woman too sodden with wine to know what she’s doing.” The corners of his mouth turned down slightly as he mocked her. His dark brows furrowed and he gave her a cold, leering look. “Or perhaps I was too quick to break the door open.”

  Mumbling to herself, Amanda picked up the green tea tin from where it had rolled on the floor, and though she was fuming, kept a carefully maintained calm to her countenance. She followed Ryne across the kitchen, glad he had taken the lead and could not observe her tipsy steps. When he turned about to face her, she stopped and braced her unsteady legs against the sturdy wooden table. His expression was guarded and there was a moment of tense silence as Ryne took the tin from her hands, opened it, and measured out a portion of tea.

  Amanda opened and closed her hands slowly, determined she would not let him awe her.

  “What were you doing in there?” she asked stiffly. “I’d have thought you’d outgrown childish pranks.”

  He turned toward the fireplace, where the kettle was just beginning to steam. “I was there for the same purpose as you, I suppose, looking to make a cup of tea. And the prank, s
weet Amanda, was yours. You shut us in.”

  “So I did,” she conceded. “But you could have called out, let me know you were there.” Amanda’s vision was still deceptively fuzzy, but it did seem he was laughing at her behind his somber face.

  “And missed the entertainment of your tittering and tottering about the shelves like a drunken pollywog?” Ryne took the kettle from its hook and brought it to the table. Amanda’s eyes followed a wisp of steam that rose from the spout and swirled up like a vaporous snake between them.

  “I am not drunk,” she protested, gripping the table edge to steady herself. “I am tired.” But even to her own ears her voice was thick and the words seemed to stick on her tongue. She saw his brows draw tolerantly together as she tried to turn the conversation in another direction. “How did you get downstairs?”

  “Dear Amanda, you do remember the back stairs?”

  “Of course I do.” She frowned at those bewitching blue eyes that were regarding her with a sobriety that was unbearable. She spoke up again quickly. “Why are you here, Ryne?” His leg bumped against the ruffled skirt of her gown as he approached the table, making her starkly aware of his nearness. Amanda stepped aside clumsily and dropped into a kitchen chair that looked invitingly stable.

  “Dear little cousin,” Ryne chided as he poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot and covered it with a heavy cloth. “You don’t mind my calling you cousin, do you?”

  “No.” How she wished her head would stop its spinning and that Ryne’s words wouldn’t buzz around her ears like insects.

  “You see, Amanda,” he began as he dragged a second chair to the table and sat across from her while they waited for the tea to steep.

  “Yes,” she responded softly. His eyes had grown a dark, treacherous blue and gave her the sensation of looking into a bottomless well. She rubbed a hand absently across her neck. She could feel herself being compelled to lean farther and farther over the edge, as if at any moment she might slip and plunge into the fathomless depths.

  “We had a fire at the lodge last month. It destroyed the roof and weakened the timbers in the walls. The place isn’t safe until they’ve been replaced,” he went on. “I’ve been staying here till the rebuilding is complete. I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

  Why did Ryne make her feel she was on the fringe of danger. Was it because she knew he hated her having Wicklow? Very well. She could be as difficult as he.

  “You found shelter last night, I trust.”

  “I did. But not in a place I’ll likely be welcome again,” he retorted.

  “There are inns.”

  “There are inns for those with a fat purse, which I have not.”

  “The cottage?”

  “The cottage I have lent to my overseer and his family. He’s got five young ones and a sick wife. I couldn’t think of putting them out when Wicklow was standing empty and with you not expected until September.”

  Amanda felt a tiny tremor in her veins. So Ryne had a soft spot for the unfortunate. She’d never have thought it.

  “Perhaps you would be welcome at Gardner’s house?”

  “Ha!” He pounded a fist to his palm. “Cain and Abel were closer. I’m afraid, dear Cousin Amanda, I must humble myself before you.” He smiled a tender touching smile, and though she knew it was only an ornament he had cleverly hung on his face, she felt herself yielding to his charm. Sensing his advantage, he spoke again. “If you do not allow me to stay at Wicklow, I will have to take up residence in some barn.”

  “But Aunt Elise left you quite a large sum of money and a great deal of land.”

  “That she did, but not being the thrifty businessman my brother is, I find my pockets currently empty.” He slid his hands into the pockets of breeches that could scarcely have hidden a single coin, so tightly did they fit about his loins. “Temporarily, to be sure.” A diabolical grin spread across his face. He withdrew his hands and turned the palms up to show their emptiness. “I have investments that are sure to show me a rich return soon.” Ryne stood and began to move about the room with ease and comfort, making it clear to Amanda he had spent many pleasant hours of his boyhood in the cozy warmth of the kitchen. As he talked, he readied two teacups for pouring and removed the cover from the teapot. “But, alas, until then I am a homeless wastrel in need of shelter.” He smiled, with a ready charm she felt certain was affected. “What do you say? Is it Wicklow or am I to be turned out to the stable?”

  Eyeing him in amazement, Amanda lifted the blue Wedgwood teapot and poured two steaming cups of tea. What audacity he had. And could he possibly have squandered away in a matter of months the fortune Aunt Elise had left him? Ryne twisted in his chair to reach a small pitcher on a shelf behind him. He turned back and, looking very sure of himself, poured cream into one of the cups. He was about to pour cream into the other when Amanda quickly picked up the teacup and lifted it for a sip of the bitter brew. It galled her that he even presumed to know how she took her tea.

  “Wait,” he said, his eyes calculatingly on her.

  “I don’t take cream,” she snapped, wondering what he was about to say as his lips moved to speak again. She took a large swallow and suddenly, painfully, she knew as she pulled the cup away from her scalded lips, spilling half its contents on the surface of the table. Awkwardly she grabbed for the cloth and pressed it to her stinging mouth.

  “Hot?” Ryne asked, his head cocked to one side, a gleam of amusement shining in his eyes.

  “Of course it’s hot!” Amanda said sharply. The marks of a frown creased her brow. She had sobered up quickly enough. Feeling Ryne’s gaze upon her, she looked up to return a hostile stare but saw that he had turned his eyes from her and was sipping his tea with slow caution. “Ryne,” she said gruffly. He looked as if he were struggling to contain his laughter. “I’m aware you think I somehow tricked Aunt Elise into leaving me this house. And while I don’t particularly care for your opinion of me, I wouldn’t think of putting you out of Wicklow. It was, after all, your home, and you are welcome to stay as long as necessary.”

  His smile was one of concession. “Mother had her consummate weaknesses and her peculiar reasons for whatever she did,” he said in a light voice. “But nevertheless the house was hers and not part of the inheritance. By the terms of Grandfather Jubal’s will it could never pass into the estate of her husband. If she wanted you to have it, I suppose that was her right, and I should not question it.” He shrugged. “I do appreciate your at least understanding my objections to what seems a rather strange bequest.” He nodded and for once she could read nothing in his eyes.

  Amanda sat utterly silent for a moment. He sounded almost as if he were retracting his earlier accusations. But possibly only because it was to his advantage to do so. She wouldn’t trust his change of heart too far.

  She gave a faint sigh. “I do ask that you promise to be a gentleman and not bring your women here.” She did not add that if the women Cecil Baldwin had spoken about stayed at Wicklow, he would be forced to behave himself.

  “And will you promise to be a lady?”

  “Do not jest,” she said, scowling, then wincing and gently touching her fingers to her lips. So much talk had brought the pain back to them.

  “I assure you I will keep in the right path,” he said very quietly. Ryne was smiling and regarding her with a surprisingly tender look as he slowly rose to his feet and took her by the hand. “Come here,” he said consolingly. “I know a cure for burned lips.”

  Thinking he meant to put some salve or soothing ointment on them, she allowed him to pull her to her feet and followed docilely as he led her to a spot nearer the candle.

  “Let’s see,” Ryne said softly, placing a hand to either side of her head and tilting it back. Amanda closed her eyes so that the light would not shine in them. Ryne leaned closer. His touch was light, but as before, made little currents run under her skin. “Not bad,” he whispered, lowering his moist lips to hers in a kiss as light and gentle as the st
roke of a feather.

  Amanda felt the burning leave her lips and flood through her body like the burst of steam from the kettle. Stunned, she stood like a statue for a moment, neither abetting nor resisting his assault of soft kisses. But when her senses came reeling back, she put her hands to his chest and pushed him roughly away. Shock and anger had her gasping for breath.

  “You are vile, Ryne!” she said, her face twisted into a contemptuous sneer.

  Ryne took a quick, sharp breath, then forced a smile to his lips. “But it feels better does it not?”

  Her eyes blazed with outrage. “Let us understand each other, Ryne. I am not one of your doxies, to be mauled or cajoled when the whim strikes you.” She flung her head up defiantly. “If you are to stay at Wicklow, you’ll do well to remember your promise.”

  Undaunted, he laughed. “You’ll find, madam, I can play the gentleman equally as well as my brother Gardner, of whom you have so quickly become fond.”

  Her voice snapped with indignation. “It would do you no harm to mark his ways.”

  His eyes glowed with evident enjoyment. “Oh, but I do. A beautiful woman interests me just as she does my brother.”

  Amanda gave her head a curt tilt. “Your brother’s interest falls into a somewhat different realm. He is considerate, well-mannered, and charming.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yes.”

  A glint of humor shone again in his eyes. “I suppose he is capable of fanning a flame of interest during your short stay at Wicklow. Tell me, Amanda, how long before you tire of this backward place and sail back to the gay theater world of London?”

  She closed her eyes a moment against a dizzying whir in her head. He seemed to draw his greatest pleasure from goading her into a state of fury. When she opened her eyes once more the fire in them crackled.