A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  For two days we’d searched the most desolate stretches of Dartmoor for any sign of Alfred. From the boggy cotton grass of Cocks Hill, we’d swept north and south as far into the interior as we could manage, with the assistance of several members of the staff and even a few neighboring farmers, but all was fruitless. We found nothing to suggest Alfred had ever passed that way, not even the missing gold button from his coat. It truly did seem as if he’d vanished. Fearing the worst, the men even prodded the mossy bogs, but to no avail. If he’d stumbled into one of those morasses, I wasn’t certain the moor would ever give him up.

  It didn’t help that I continued to dream of the shadowy man watching over us while we slept. Given the fact we now suspected Alfred could be dead, that presence had taken on a new, more menacing edge. If only I could see the figure’s face. Maybe then I could uncover what the dream meant, and lay some of my wilder imaginings to rest.

  The discovery of his grandson’s torn and bloody coat had understandably upset Lord Tavistock, but at least it had convinced him of the need to end the secrecy. We’d finally been able to reveal to the landowners and laborers we’d spoken to only days before exactly what we’d been hinting at, and most had willingly agreed to help with the search despite their aversion to Alfred. I couldn’t help but note their relations to Rory, who circumstances seemed to indicate would be the next Viscount Tavistock. Although their exchanges with him were somewhat stilted, they seemed to accord him an amiable deference.

  I also noticed after so many hours together that Rory envied Gage’s easy interaction with the other men, and the genuine esteem they seemed to hold for my husband. Most people reacted to Gage thusly, so I rarely paid any heed. But Rory was evidently not accustomed to seeing his cousin in such a light. Though he readily allowed Gage to lead the search, directing the others on where to look and hearing their reports, as the hours wore on his expression grew sourer when he looked at my husband. Perhaps Rory had changed for the better, but there were still traces of the seeds of resentment his mother had sown in him earlier in life.

  As such, I wasn’t surprised when Rory decided to remain behind when we ventured to the village. We hoped to discover what we could about the villagers’ dealings with Alfred, as well as learn about any unrest that might be festering. We had no way of knowing who had sent Lord Tavistock those Swing letters, or if they’d come from Peter Tavy, but we intended to at least find out how sympathetic the villagers were to the cause.

  As such, we elected to divide and conquer. After stabling our horses, I left Gage at the Peter Tavy Inn, where he planned to confer with those in the bar, a room I wouldn’t even be allowed to enter as a woman. Instead, I retraced our route through town on foot toward the church and its rectory, thinking the rector or his wife might have information they would be willing to share. When no one answered my knock at the door, I decided to continue on into the village.

  But first, unable to resist, I pressed up to the stone wall to peer past the shield of thick trees into the old churchyard. I’d thought Gage might wish to stop there, to visit his mother’s grave, but he’d kept his face pointed resolutely forward, as if he could ignore the graveyard’s existence. I’d tried to ask him about it, but whenever I drew breath to speak, he suddenly had words of his own to impart. Eventually, I’d stopped trying, for it was obvious he knew what I wanted to know, and just as obvious he did not want to discuss it.

  The trees overshadowing the churchyard blocked much of the sun’s direct light, giving the space an atmosphere of somber reverence even on such a warm day. Scattered among the vegetation stood crooked rows of crosses and weathered gravestones, their bases sinking and twisting in the soft, mossy soil. And somewhere in that jumble of graves lay Emma Trevelyan Gage, the stone marker over her shaded resting place as cold as her grave. Even though I imagined it to be far more grand than the average gravestone, finding it would take more time than I could spare.

  “Can I help you?”

  I whirled about, pressing a hand to my chest. I flushed in embarrassment that I’d been so startled by the sound of the woman’s voice who stood behind me. She was not much older than I was, and her puzzled frown didn’t appear particularly welcoming. Her gaze flicked up and down the epaulet front of my smart plum riding ensemble while she bounced a young dark-haired girl on her hip.

  “My apologies,” I replied. “My mind was elsewhere. Yes, you could.” I adopted my most concerned expression, hoping to disarm her. “I hoped I might speak with the rector, but he appears to be gone.”

  “Yes, my father was called away. He won’t be back for several more hours.” She paused before begrudgingly adding, “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Perhaps. I’ve come for information, really. My husband and I are here on behalf of Lord Tavistock to find out if anyone might know anything about the whereabouts of Lord Langstone.” This pronouncement caused a swift change in the woman’s impatient countenance. Her eyes hardened and her mouth tightened into a disapproving moue. But still I pressed on. “He’s been missing for over a fortnight, and we have reason to believe he may have come to some harm.”

  “Likely no more than he deserved,” she snapped. “If justice was served, you’d find him in hell.”

  I stared wide-eyed at her, uncertain how to respond to such an acrimonious statement. That her hatred of Alfred was real, there was no doubt. And I could only surmise such ferocious animosity came from personal experience.

  My eyes flicked to the little girl again, wondering if she might have a bit of the look of the Dowager Lady Langstone in her. As if in confirmation, the woman’s scowl deepened and she clutched the girl tighter. Had her expression been pleasanter, I realized the woman would have been quite pretty, if a bit jaded. I could well imagine her catching Alfred’s eye.

  “You’re Sebastian Gage’s wife, aren’t you?” she demanded. “We heard he was up at the manor, though not all of us believed it. When he swore he’d never return, none of us blamed him.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “But I suppose now we know why. Blood is blood, even when half of it is rotten.”

  Several of her assertions stunned me. Namely the fact that the entire village seemed to be aware that Gage had sworn never to return to Langstone Manor. I could only assume they also knew why, even though I, his wife, did not. But I didn’t have time to contemplate that further. Not when this woman glared at me as if I were somehow responsible for Alfred as well.

  “Yes, I’m Mr. Gage’s wife,” I murmured softly, hoping by remaining composed I might also calm her. “And you are?”

  Her brow furrowed as if she was considering not answering. “Philinda Warne.” She nodded down the lane from which I’d come. “My husband owns the inn.”

  I suspected this last was added to make sure I knew she was wed and that the little girl I’d scrutinized, who watched me curiously, was legitimate. But just because the child had been born in wedlock didn’t mean she’d been conceived thusly. If Alfred had trifled with Mrs. Warne and refused to rectify the situation, her marriage to another man who would accept her, either knowingly or unknowingly in her expectant state, would be a natural next step. This little girl would not have been the first healthy, purportedly eight-month-old baby born in England.

  “We’ve heard Lord Langstone was something of a scoundrel when it came to women. Do you think any of the women he’s wronged or their relatives might have gone so far as to physically harm him, deservedly or not?” I added, echoing her words.

  She considered my question, intelligence as well as vengeance glinting in her eyes. “If they did, I’ll not help you find out who. I’ll only silently applaud them for giving him his just deserts.”

  I thought it more likely she would be the one clapping loudest. Regardless, the only information she was going to provide me was that Alfred had, indeed, had enemies in this village, and some of them had been angry enough to take action against him if the occasion arose. Had
one of them found him wandering the moor alone that day and seized the opportunity?

  I thanked Mrs. Warne and took my leave of her, feeling her eyes bore into my back as I returned to the road and resumed my stroll toward the heart of the hamlet. There along the stone bridge that straddled the trickling brook congregated the villagers, old and young alike. The older women sat in chairs in the shade of the oak trees overhanging the water to knit and gossip while the littlest children played at their feet. Splashes of water and the shouts and laughter of older children echoed up from the banks of the stream. A few young girls were put to work carrying pitchers of water up from the brook and down the road to the houses where their mothers worked to hang sheets on a line. Most of the males old enough to wield a thresher would be out working in the fields or their shops, but a pair of stooped elderly men sat along the opposite verge of the road, nattering at each other in the sun. I assumed the rest of their aged number were enjoying some ale at the inn on such a warm day, and hopefully conversing with Gage.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the opportunity to observe this altogether common yet thoroughly fascinating picture of rural life for long. The first woman who saw me striding up the road in my fine clothing, the train of my riding habit draped over my arm, turned to her companions and pointed. Soon everyone had paused in their activities to watch me. All but one small child who continued to poke at something in the dirt and the children playing in the brook, whose cries seemed all the louder in the silence that had descended.

  Instinctively, I wanted to check my steps, but I forced myself to keep moving forward and paste a pleasant smile on my lips. Perhaps I should have rejected Gage’s suggestion that we separate. He would have felt no qualms about approaching these women and charming them into sharing all they knew. I squared my shoulders, determined to do my best.

  I gravitated toward the woman seated near the center of the line of chairs, the woman to whom the others seemed to defer, each darting glances in her direction as I neared. Her gray hair was tightly restrained and her clothing crisply pressed, and I surmised she would be someone who valued plain speaking.

  “Good morning,” I greeted them. “Such a lovely day.”

  “And a hot one,” the matriarch replied.

  I nodded, seeing I’d guessed correctly. But before I could explain my reason for being there, another woman spoke up in a softly melodic voice, though it creaked at the edges with age.

  “Would ye like a cool drink, m’lady?” Her eyes were so sweetly earnest beneath her crystal white hair I could hardly say no.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She called out to one of the young girls clutching a pitcher of water, her steps having been arrested by the sight of me. Apparently, dawdling to hear what I had to say was worth risking a scolding from her mother. The child hurried forward, holding the pitcher out to me as if I were some sort of royalty. I flushed, flustered by such treatment, and smiled as I expressed my gratitude.

  Perhaps another lady would have sent one of the women to find her a cup to drink from, but these villagers reminded me of the people of Elwick—the tiny Border village where I’d grown up. It seemed silly to send them scrambling when I could drink the cool, crisp water from the pitcher as any less grand person would do. Maybe this meant I’d failed some test of gentility, but I was content with that.

  I must have done well enough, for the sweet-faced woman nodded in approval. The girl practically beamed under my praise, and when I returned the pitcher to her she cradled it close as she stepped back.

  “Yer from the manor? From Langstone?” the stern woman prodded, growing impatient.

  “I . . . yes.”

  “She be the one what married Master Gage,” one of the women leaned forward to whisper, and the others nodded and clucked in approval.

  “I’ve got eyes, now, don’t I?” the matriarch snapped. “None o’ those other Trevelyans ’ve been sharp enough to get themselves a wife. Shoulda known Emma’s boy would be the first.”

  “And Master Gage is so nice to look at,” the woman with the melodic voice cooed.

  I was forced to fight back a bubble of amusement at the avid look in her eyes. Did Gage know he had so many admirers among the village women?

  “I don’t think herself is here to talk about her husband’s fine figure, Pasca.” The matriarch narrowed her eyes at me against the glare of the sun. “What trouble has young Langstone gotten himself into now? The men ’ve been sayin’ he lost himself out on the moor.”

  I wasn’t sure why I was surprised she knew. After all, gossip traveled faster than even the mail coach, whether it was high society or a small country village.

  “Yes, Lord Langstone has been missing for more than a fortnight. He was last seen walking out onto the moor, and his torn and bloody coat was found two days ago near Cocks Hill.”

  Several of the women gasped, leaning toward each other to whisper in speculation. The girl with the pitcher blinked at me with wide eyes, and one of the little ones looked up, as if sensing the tension, and began to cry. His grandmother scooped him up, shushing him absently as she waited to hear what I would say next. Only the matriarch seemed unconcerned.

  “Have any of you heard or seen anything? Anything that might explain where he’s gone or what has happened to him?”

  I looked to each of them in turn, but they said nothing, just slid their eyes toward the stern woman to whom they deferred. All but Pasca, whose brow furrowed as if she was contemplating something unpleasant. When none of them spoke, I decided to try a different tack.

  “Mrs. Warne suggested Lord Langstone had many enemies.”

  The matriarch scoffed. “That girl makes her own trouble,” she muttered before lifting her chin in confirmation. “Aye, ’tis true his lordship hasn’t exactly inspired our trust. He’s trifled with one too many o’ our girls. But only those who were saucy bits o’ muslin askin’ for it.”

  My eyebrows arched at such a harsh pronouncement. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard such an assertion, and unfortunately it wouldn’t be the last. Sadly, it was more often the women who paid for men’s lasciviousness, in more ways than one.

  She turned to look down the road in the direction I’d come. “I suspect he has a few sideslips, but word is his grandfather always makes certain them and their mothers are looked after.” She shook her head, glancing at the others. “But none o’ our lot would be muttonheaded enough to harm Tavistock’s heir. ’Specially not the rector.”

  I could tell that none of the other ladies would naysay her pronouncement, even if they happened to disagree with her. None of them except perhaps Pasca, who was eyeing me with speculation. So it was to her I voiced my next question.

  “What about Lord Tavistock? Has anyone taken issue with him? I heard there was some discontent over his adoption of the new horse-powered threshing machines.”

  “Now that would be a question for our menfolk,” the matriarch declared with a hard glint in her eye, as if she knew what I was doing and was not going to allow it.

  Realizing I wasn’t going to receive any satisfactory answers, not with this stern woman present, I thanked them and turned to stroll back toward the inn. I’d initially intended to continue on through the village, speaking to people individually, but I could see more than one person watching from the front of their homes and businesses. The chances that any of them would break rank and tell me what I wanted to know were slim.

  I’d traveled about two dozen steps when a voice called out behind me. I swiveled to see Pasca hobbling toward me carrying the pitcher.

  “M’lady,” she gasped. “Please, ye must be parched in this heat. Take another drink afore ye be on yer way.” Her eyes flared wide, coaxing me to cooperate.

  “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  The other women watched us suspiciously as I accepted the pitcher and drank more of the cool water.

  “I l
ike ye, m’lady,” she announced. “I can tell ye be one o’ the good ones, despite all that nonsense the servants at the manor be spreadin’ about ye. An’ so I’m goin’ to warn ye. Drink again,” she ordered, as apparently I’d stared at her too long without sipping. “There be rumors surroundin’ Langstone Manor. Ones that’ve been whispered since I was but a girl in braids. Whispers o’ dark secrets that reach out and touch every life that passes through its halls.”

  The cold water turned to ice, settling like a lump in my stomach. This wasn’t the first time someone had cautioned me about the manor. “What secrets?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know ’em all. But I do know that family be cursed. That a terrible fate befalls any member who dares defy their kin.”

  I searched her face, trying to understand. “Like Emma?”

  “She defied ’em. And she suffered a terrible fate.”

  The manner in which she replied, with a shrug and an unemotional recitation of facts, was chilling. But Gage’s mother was only one person.

  “Who else has fallen victim to this curse?”

  She took the pitcher back from me. “Two others that I know of. Now maybe three.”

  Her direct gaze made it clear what she believed had happened to Alfred. But before I could ask her why she believed this, or how he’d defied his family, she murmured a parting warning to “take care,” and turned to shuffle back to the other women.

  I wanted to stop her, to force her to tell me the rest, but instead I forced myself to look away. She’d already risked the others’ censure by telling me that much; I wouldn’t cause her further trouble. But whether it had been the cool water or her unsettling pronouncement, I no longer lamented the heat of the sun. I welcomed it. For I suspected it was all that kept the ice in my stomach from spreading through my veins.