Ondine

by Heather Graham

  God! she prayed suddenly, fervently. What new cruelty of fate was this? She stood ready, thrilled by her recent discovery— escape was a wondrous open doorway for her! And here she was, discovering herself the victim of some strange illness.

  Nay, nay! Like Mathilda, she denied the truth strenuously. This could not be! She simply would not be ill; not until she was far from Chatham Manor! She forced herself to stare at the stalls. The bay she had ridden once before whinnied, and Ondine decided that this mare would be the best mount. The tack room was at her side, and all the bridles, saddles, and trappings were within easy reach, neatly arranged. It would be easy to slip out the secret corridor after midnight, run to the stables, and leave with the mare. Blessed hope! This was not some daydream, but reality!

  “Ondine! What are you doing here? It’s going to storm!”

  She screamed out, startled and then terrified as the voice came to her and a hand set down upon her shoulder.

  Clinton.

  And he carried a hoof pick in his hand, small, but, oh, so lethal looking as he stood in a shaft of moonlight, tall and muscular, staring at her curiously.

  Clinton … no matter how kind in manner to her, perhaps he was capable of murder …

  “Ondine!” He seemed to whisper her name, and she thought of another whisper she’d heard in the night, haunting, frightening, meant to drive one mad.

  “Damn him!” Clinton said suddenly, fiercely. “Has he so upset you that you’ve no reason left? Does Warwick know you’re out?”

  “Does anyone?”

  She couldn’t speak; some cruel lethargy was hard upon her; her limbs were as heavy as lead, her mouth as dry as dust. And here he stood, Clinton, discovering that no one knew where she was …

  “Come on!” he said suddenly, harshly.

  “No—”

  And then his hand raised, the hand with the pick. She saw the muscle of his arm, hard and bulging and strong. He slammed it toward her, suddenly, lethally …

  She opened her mouth, longing to scream, it was all so quick; it seemed like an absurd motion.

  His hand, the pick, slammed harmlessly against the wall beside her head. He shuddered, controlling anger, then looked at her more closely. “You’re ill. I’ll see you back to the house.”

  She placed a hand on his sleeve. “Nay, I…”

  “Don’t fear; I know that he does not allow you out, and would not be pleased to see you with me. I’ll lead you as far as the door, and then I’ll call for Mother.”

  She couldn’t protest; she couldn’t even answer him. She was terribly afraid that she wouldn’t even be able to walk.

  But she could stumble, held by his arm. But though he talked to her, she could barely hear him. She could see Chatham before them, but the manor wavered before her eyes just as the stalls had done. Dear God, what was this? This awful, awful sickness.

  “We’re at the steps; hold, and I’ll call Mother.”

  Her mind … where was her mind? Where was thought, and knowledge and strength and logic? She gripped her temples between her hands and tried to press the dizzying numbness from her head, but her hands were as numb to touch as her mind was to thought.

  It was almost as if she were drugged, almost like the horrible stuff the pirates had used. It wasn’t the same at all in one way; it was exactly alike in another …

  “Mother’s here.,She’ll bring you to bed.”

  Ondine heard the words. She looked up at Clinton, who smiled and started off into the darkness. She lifted a hand, thinking that she could call him back, that something was wrong. Danger lurked.

  Except that she couldn’t identify the danger.

  Arms came around her. “Milady! Are you ill?”

  “Yes …” she whispered. “I’ll …”

  “I’ll take you to bed; come, let me help you.”

  She managed to stand, leaning heavily against Mathilda. “Ah, lady, what are you doing wandering about? You shouldn’t be. You’ll not leave here; I said that you would not leave here. I’ve the answers that you need; I know what happened to poor Genevieve. I know it all; I found the secret in the chapel. Warwick will know all. You’ll never, never have to leave.”

  The words filtered slowly into Ondine’s mind; they made no sense, they made every sense. She clung only to a few.

  “The answer?”

  “I have all the answers. In the chapel.”

  “The chapel?” Ondine wet her mouth with her tongue and formed the words. The answer … Warwick’s answer! Tonight. She could have done with it all—pay that debt for her life this very night, before pursuing her own.

  But it was wrong; all wrong … why couldn’t she see it, understand it?

  “We’ll go there now,” Mathilda told her conspiratorially in a soft, hushed whisper.

  Ondine never said aye or nay; Mathilda took her up the entry steps and through the foyer, but did not lead her up the stairs. Instead, they passed through the ballroom, empty now, echoing the wind and shadow and darkness.

  They came to the chapel entrance. Mathilda pushed open the door and led Ondine in. She walked her straight to Genevieve’s beautiful altar, and only then did Ondine see that the stone was opened again, that the recess to the tombs below gaped like a black pit before her bleary eyes.

  Two ropes with sturdy nooses dangled from the altar to the pit, like ropes of a hangman. They were hung so that the lovely marble angels with their heavenly faces could stare down upon the dead.

  Ondine opened her mouth; she tried to scream. No sound came from her and—oh, God!—it was most chilling, for now she knew, she understood fully that Mathilda meant to kill her, yet her body was so numb that she could barely move, barely speak.

  “Drugged …” she managed to whisper as Mathilda seated her calmly in a pew to continue her preparations. And then, “Why?”

  “Oh, you pretty, pretty thing!” Mathilda crooned, and too late Ondine saw the total madness in her eyes. She had known there was madness seeping into Chatham, but never had she suspected Mathilda to be the well from which it sprang. Mathilda! Who had claimed to love Genevieve so dearly. Mathilda, who had cried such terrible tears when she and the supposed baby might be sent away.

  “Why?” Mathilda murmured absently, checking the loops on the two ropes that held them to the marble altar.

  “You—loved—her. I thought … you cared … for me.”

  “I loved Genevieve dearly! And, sweet girl, you are lovely, too. See, I have here two nooses, so as not to send you off alone! Ah, yes, that was the mistake, you see, that I made with Genevieve.”

  “No …”

  “They cry out!” Mathilda said suddenly, fiercely. “Oh, lady, have you not heard them? They, the lady dead and my dear mother! That was the crime, you see? I was there that day; I saw it all! My mother, pushing Lady Chatham to her death! Then that horror, that absolute horror when she fell through herself! Ondine, ever since that day they have cried out to me! Genevieve … I thought that she would satisfy them. That a Chatham bride, dead in beautiful youth, would fulfill their needs and let them rest. There was the mistake—Genevieve was not enough! Don’t you see? It must be two. A Chatham countess for the countess; the mistress’s bastard daughter to take her eternally damned place in the hollowed halls of this place!”

  “No … drugged.”

  “Ah, poor lady! Of course the milk was drugged, to ease thee from this life! You mustn’t fear, I’ll take your hand. I’ll hold you as we depart this life for our role in the next!”

  She tried to open her mouth and scream. She tried to fight Mathilda as the small woman slipped the noose around her throat and dragged her toward the pit. She tried. She had no strength, no will at all, it seemed. She could only stare at the horror—now too late—finding the logic of insanity a motive for murder.

  Warwick barely nodded at Jake, leaving him free to go about his business, when he slammed into his own chambers. His temper by now was truly foul—Clinton hadn’t said a word to him when he’d made ar
rangement to have the carriage ready again by dawn. He’d felt his cousin’s reproach, and that was far worse than any argument.

  From the stables he’d gone to his office and procured a large supply of gold coins. She would refuse them, but she’d take them, and she’d be on that ship to sail far away from England if he had to have her bound and gagged until the ship was too far out for the little fool to dream of returning.

  Warwick paused in his study, frowing to find the brandy bottle on his desk. No matter, he took a long burning swig of the stuff, knowing he would need it. He would face his final confrontation with her tonight, and it would take everything that lurked within him to keep himself from touching her, from breaking, from telling her not that he despised her as a peasant, but that he adored her as a woman.

  She had to leave. He was not a superstitious man, but he felt as if the very walls of Chatham were closing in around them, as if the storm and darkness and howling wind were a warning that death was closing in once again …

  He straightened his shoulders, then strode through his chamber and the bath, ready to confront her. He swung open the door to her chamber, then stopped, frozen with amazement and fear.

  She was not there.

  “Ondine!” he called. The wind moaned the only reply. In seconds he tore about the place, searching every nook and cranny, beneath her bed, beneath his bed, in the bath, the closet, everywhere.

  She was not there.

  He stormed out to the hall, shrieking for Jake. The little man ran anxiously up the stairs.

  “She’s gone!”

  “She can’t be! I swear by my life, she passed me not!”

  Justin emerged into the portrait hallway from the dining room, staring warily at his brother’s torn features, then at Jake.

  “What—”

  “She’s gone! By God, I have to find her. Justin—”

  “F ve never touched one of your wives!” Justin railed furiously, and then he, too, seemed to sense some import in the night, and his face paled. “Why do we stand here? We must confront the danger.”

  The front door opened and closed. Clinton entered, carrying the household ledgers. He stared up at those tense men in surprise.

  “What is it?”

  “Ondine! Have you see her?”

  Clinton stiffened and hesitated. “If you intend to offer the lass more ill use, Warwick, I’ll not tell you a thing! And if you so desire, I’ll be glad to depart this place in the morning! You behave as no decent man, but as the beast the title claims you to be!”

  Warwick came tearing down the stairs and clutched his cousin’s shoulders frantically. “Clinton, for God’s mercy! I intend no harm to her! I am frightened to the bone!”

  Clinton tensed, aware now that something was wrong, and that Warwick was frantic. He hesitated just a second longer, then spoke gently.

  “She is in her room. She seemed ill; Mother took her.”

  “What? Nay, Clinton, nay—she is not in her room. I came from there—she is gone.”

  “Then …”

  “Where is Mathilda?” Justin asked suddenly.

  Silence followed his inquiry. Then Jake spoke, his voice quavering uncertainly.

  “The … the chapel? There ‘twas where she disappeared before …”

  His sentence fell. Warwick, with the others at his heels, raced like the raging wind to the chapel door. It was barred. He slammed his shoulder against the wood, but it was sturdy stuff. He slammed against it again and found his brother and cousin at his side. With the next heave the latch broke, and the door went tumbling in.

  For one moment they all paused, icy horror enwrapping them. Mathilda sat on the stone by Genevieve’s altar, her legs dangling over it, as she dragged Ondine ever closer to the orifice.

  Ondine … She seemed to sleep, her sweet peaceful beautiful lips curving upward in innocence. Could she be dead? Nay! For a noose was about her throat; a noose well tied and tightened! It was strung to the altar so that once she fell, the short length of rope would hang her quick and well.

  “Warwick! And Justin, too, I see. Dear, dear Clinton! ‘Tis almost done now. I take my lady with me—and future Chathams may now reside in peace!”

  ‘ ‘No!” Warwick shrieked the word; the sound rose like thunder and cascaded about them, anguish deeper than life or death.

  Mathilda smiled sweetly, then edged herself into the gap.

  “No!” Even as he raged, Warwick moved, leaping across the chapel with a great cat’s power and rage.

  He was too late; Mathilda was gone, and Ondine’s lovely form began to follow hers.

  It was not too late, it couldn’t be, dear God, it couldn’t be!

  He threw himself toward the cavity and, catching his wife’s skirt, tugged and pulled and lifted—and dragged her back to his side, panting. Justin was there, quickly easing the noose from about her throat. She was so white, so pale, so cold!

  Warwick pressed his head to her chest, listened and prayed.

  “She lives!” Justin shrieked. “She lives! I hear her breathe.”

  And then her eyes opened. Lost, she saw Warwick above her, saw his haggard features, his golden eyes.

  She smiled, and her eyes fell shut once again.

  Warwick cast the rope far away. He rose to his knees, swept her into his arms, and stood, resting his cheek against her hair, tears stinging his eyes at the precious, precious beauty of her warmth.

  He turned to take her away from this loathsome place of death, but paused then, for his eyes fell upon Clinton. Clinton, who had tenderly lifted the small weight of his mother’s body from the hole of darkness. Clinton, ravaged now and stunned by the events.

  “She was mad,” he whispered raggedly, still trying to understand it all. Then his gaze rested on Warwick, fell upon Ondine with a flicker of happiness.

  “By God, Warwick, I am so sorry.” He shook his head painfully. “I didn’t know; I had no idea …”

  “I know that,” Warwick said softly. “And I, too, am sorry, Clinton. It was the generations past that so destroyed her.”

  Clinton, dazed, cradling his mother’s cheek, nodded. “Before God, Warwick,” he said hoarsely, “I love your wife, as a cousin should. Never would I have seen harm come her way if I’d had any idea at all… Oh, God! Blessed saints, I know sorrow, yet I feel the keenest joy that Ondine lives and breathes! If it will ease you, Cousin, I’ll bury my mother, then leave-—”

  “Nay, Clinton,” Warwick said gently, raw with Clinton’s pain. “Nay! We are Chathams, all. We three have paid this night for the sins of our fathers, but that horrible debt is paid. From it all we have one another. Chatham is yours, as well as mine. She was your mother—my father’s half sister. We will bury her; and we will go on, together, to see that the past remains truly buried.”

  Then Justin spoke. “Take her, Warwick; take Ondine from here. I will see to Mathilda with Clinton.”

  Warwick nodded. He stepped outside into the wind, for he felt he needed that cleansing touch.

  Far out in the northern hills the wolves began to howl.

  And he was glad, for he knew that it was a natural sound, and no specter to haunt the night, ever again.

  The rain began, cleansing, refreshing.

  He started for the house, anxious to bring Ondine back to consciousness, anxious to love her with all his heart.

  Chapter 21

  A log snapped and crackled on the fire, bringing Ondine back from the depths of the fog that had claimed her.

  She opened her eyes slowly and saw the golden blaze of the fire before her. It was the only light in the room; no candles burned. Only that soft glow came to her.

  It wasn’t her room she lay in, but Warwick’s. She knew that, even as her eyes adjusted to the shimmering blaze. She was upon Warwick’s massive bed. The sheets felt clean and fresh, as she felt herself. She lifted her hands and saw a white ruff upon her sleeves and knew that someone had bathed and dressed her.

  A chill swept through her, despite th
e warmth of the blaze, despite the serenity and security of the room. Memories of the recent past swept over her with a rush of terror—her feeling of utter helplessness, of watching her own doom, of having no part in it. She shuddered as she thought of the rope about her neck— a sensation with which she was growing dreadfully familiar!— and the sheer madness of Mathilda’s eyes.

  But Warwick … Warwick had been there, to catch her when she would fall once again.

  And yet, despite it all, she was glad. She had fulfilled her promise, and not so much for the debt of her life, but because she loved him. He would no longer live in pained frustration, wondering what brutal power had chosen to haunt his life and kill his beautiful bride. She would be free—and so would he.

  Ah, still the things he’d said rankled deep in her heart; her pride decreed it so! Still someday she might dream to come before him, her lands and title restored, and smile sweetly while she chose any man but him! Such a thing was pride. Yet such a thing was love that she already felt the horrible aching void of leaving him while she lay here, in his bed.

  A despair fell over her, threatening to overwhelm all good intentions. She had to leave. Tonight. She could not trust him; the danger was over, but so was her role. He might well want her in the Colonies anyway—-shoved away and out of sight while he pursued his fight for a divorce with Charles and the Church of England. She dared not linger, but she didn’t know his mind.

  She sighed, then feared that the sigh would turn to a sob; she opened her eyes wide, stretching. She noticed then a movement beside her and turned quickly to discover Warwick, his features shadowed, haunted, his eyes pure gold and glittering like the sun upon her.

  “Ondine …”

  She smiled, tremulously, determined now to reassure him, for all that she might despise his temper and his arrogance, he was a man of his word. Never had he faltered in her defense, never had he forgotten his vow to preserve her life—always had he been there, somehow, when she needed him.

  “Can you speak, can you move?”