Against my inclinations, I felt a twinge of empathy. Dining in a house that had been their family home for generations could not be easy. If I were Miss Talmadge, I would likely be doing exactly as she was, throwing myself at Jason in a determined effort to return her one-time home to the family.
At that point I was forced to rearrange my face to disguise a pout. Sympathy was the last emotion I wished to feel for the Talmadges. Alyssa was the enemy, no doubt about it. Miles? An enigma, an odd mix of scowls and smiles, yet what was he really thinking? Mrs. Talmadge was simply pathetic, a poor lost soul whispering her way through life.
My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Talmadge, seated next to me, who initiated a flirtation that lasted throughout dinner, giving short shrift to conversation with his sister, who was seated on his other side. I returned his easy badinage with more warmth than I usually did, curious to see how far he would go. And quickly discovered the answer was “rather further than I liked.” Enough so that I encountered censuring looks from both Cressida and Lady Hadley. And for once I could not blame them. I pulled back into my governess shell, wondering if Mr. Talmadge spoke to all ladies in that manner or if his degree of warmth was prompted by the rumors he had heard about me.
Did he perhaps fancy himself a Don Juan, a natural-born flirt? Looking back, I realized I had seen him ply Cressida with the same overweening charm. I had even caught the simpers and coy glances she had returned, sometimes directly under Sir Basil’s nose. Though I, thank God, seemed immune to the power of his magnetism, I had to admit Mr. Talmadge appeared able to draw women to him like mindless sheep.
Had he subjected Eileen Dawes to his blatant flirtations and insinuations? Was he a man who liked to prey on women of a subservient class? Those who would find it difficult to say no. Or was he merely a man who liked all comely women, casting his charm in every direction? Yet none of my speculations would account for his erratic behavior toward the residents of Lunsford Hall—blowing hot and cold for no rhyme or reason that I could detect.
With such confused feelings about the Talmadge family, I wondered if I was in danger of making as fatal a mistake about their characters as I had with the Earl of Oxley. Surely not. I could only pray that egregious error had been a once-in-a-lifetime event.
I attempted to consider the Talmadges from all angles. Were they what they seemed? Mrs. Talmadge, a nonentity, weak and fluttering. Alyssa with her eyes firmly on the end result, carefully disguising any revulsion she might feel over Jason’s scars. Miles, the most enigmatic of the three. Yet I found it difficult to picture him with depths so dark he would attempt to murder a child. Then again, he had reason to resent, perhaps hate, anyone in the Lunsford family, even though both participants in that fateful game of chance were long gone. Neither love nor pride could claim to be logical.
Yet it seemed absurd to suppose the handsome, debonair Mr. Talmadge could be the Machiavelli behind all our disasters. The man who murdered Eileen Dawes, perhaps even old Mudge, the rag and bone man. A man depraved enough to kill children.
Miles Talmadge, the true demon of Fenley Marsh?
No! I was grasping at any explanation that would exonerate Jason. And thinking dire thoughts about the Talmadges because I did not care for Alyssa’s dead set at Jason. There! I’d admitted it.
When the men joined the ladies in the drawing room later that evening, I sneaked a peek at Miles Talmadge while keeping my head down over my embroidery. Yes, he was a handsome gentleman, his hair the dark brown of pine bark, with eyes to match. Tall and slim, he moved with athletic grace, in stark contrast to Jason who was slightly shorter, broader in the shoulders, and whose limp was even more pronounced than usual tonight.
Miss Talmadge promptly moved to the piano, where she demonstrated a smooth expertise I could only envy. I was quite sure I could not play half so well, which was a sharp blow to my already battered pride. After the applause and praise for her performance died away, the buzz of conversation rose, flowing around me like water around a rock in a river. So far this evening, I realized, no one except Miles Talmadge and Lady Hadley had spoken one word to me. I, Miranda Chastain Tyrell, who had been hostess to countless dinner parties in my time, felt the slight keenly. I, too, was now numbered among the demons.
After a soft request to Lady Hadley that I might be excused, I slunk from the room and climbed the stairs to my bedchamber, where I sat by the window and watched the moonlight reflect off waters at high tide while tears rolled silently down my cheeks.
A few days later, the boys and I escaped the unrelenting tension in the house by making the long-delayed visit to Nurse Jenkins, though not in the manner originally planned. Jason escorted us in his carriage with the senior stableboy—a grizzled man of some fifty years, armed with a shotgun—up on the box with the driver and Amos standing on the footman’s perch at the rear. Not at all the quiet, informal visit I had planned, but if our visit had depended on my driving us in the cart, I fear we would not have seen Mrs. Jenkins for any more than a nod and smile at church. My fears—some irrational, some not—had come back to haunt me. It took all my courage to go about my duties without falling into the trap of railing at God for the unfairness of it all. Surely Jason had suffered enough from what the war had done to him? And I had lost the love of my life and nearly allowed my son to be forever scarred by a heinous evil. Dear God, is that not enough?
Horribly ashamed by what I had been taught was near-blasphemy, I buried my face in my hands and made my apologies to God. I was the one who had eloped to Gretna Green, and this must be my punishment come home to roost at last.
No! Even my strict Papa put more emphasis on the New Testament than the Old. God was loving, not vengeful. I had to believe that. But at the moment it was cold comfort.
Naturally, when Jason offered to take us to visit Nurse Jenkins, I leaped at his suggestion. Escape at last. From Cressida’s seething animosity, from Alyssa Talmadge’s predatory looks, from constant fear of another incident. From the frustration of being no closer to finding the true demon who walked among us.
We set out on a sunny afternoon, though a bank of low-lying gray clouds to the west hinted of rain to come. Nurse Jenkins was delighted to see us, tears misting her eyes as Jason swept her into his arms and gave her a hug. Although she knew Chas only from being introduced to him one Sunday after church, Mrs. Jenkins treated him with as much warmth as Nicholas, and the boys were soon happily munching on biscuits while Jason and his elderly nurse reminisced and I sat and watched, basking in a moment of warmth and tranquility. In fact, I could actually feel the tension draining away, rolling off me in waves and flowing out the door that had been left open to the brisk salt breeze coming in with the tide.
The sheer joy of it. If only we might come more often . . .
A shadow loomed in the doorway, cutting off the sunlight. “For shame, woman!” a deep voice roared. “You entertain the anti-Christ and his whore. Beware lest you roast side by side with them in the fires of Hell.” Mr. Pilkington began to spout Revelations, a chapter of the Bible my politically astute Papa tended to avoid from the pulpit, though he had not hesitated to threaten us with it at home. “But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death—”
Before the curate could say another word, Jason had him by the arm, propelling him outside, where he must have handed him over to Amos and possibly the guard, for I heard him say, “Escort Mr. Pilkington back to his church, where I suggest he go down on his knees and ask God’s forgiveness for his sins.” I winced, picturing the horrified expression on Amos’s face when ordered to manhandle a curate. I could only pray Mr. Pilkington went willingly, but since the man seemed to be hovering on the verge of madness . . .
Unable to resist temptation, I went to the door and peered out. Amos was standing beside the carriage, head down. It was the guard who held Mr. Pil
kington’s arm, moving him inexorably toward the village while Jason watched, cradling the shotgun in his arms.
Not good. But what else could Jason do? The curate was out of control, preaching the fiery vengeance of less enlightened times. Surely his bishop would recall him, suggest a period of rest . . . perhaps even another profession.
I felt movement and realized the boys were right there with me, Nicholas peeking around my elbow and Chas peering out from under my arm. Drat! This was not a sight I wanted them to see. Nor did Jason. When he caught sight of us, he tossed the shotgun to Amos and strode back to the cottage, shooing us all before him. “My apologies, Mrs. Jenkins,” he said. “Quite clearly the man has gone mad. I believe it is time I wrote directly to the bishop.”
Although we made an effort to return to the pleasant moments before we were interrupted, the peace of the afternoon had been irrevocably shattered. We made our farewells, promising to return soon. But perhaps not, I added to myself, until whatever evil was dogging our footsteps had been identified and shut down forever.
As we journeyed back to Lunsford Hall, I was certain Jason was as anxious to discuss the incident as I, but that was impossible with the boys staring at us, big-eyed and asking far too many questions. Questions Jason refused to answer except with curt set-downs which were not at all the way he usually treated the boys. Inwardly, I groaned, for this meant I was the one who must explain to two very young gentlemen why the curate of their church, a supposed man of God, despised them. And thank you for that, Jason dear.
When we arrived home, I followed the boys upstairs with a heavy heart. How did I explain to Nicholas that his curate, like some people in the village, feared he was a demon? Or to Chas that he was tarnished by a similar false brush? That because I had been married over the anvil, some people considered him a bastard. Because we were accepted in Kent—most likely due to Avery’s aunt’s impeccable respectability—I had not yet explained to Chas that his father and I had also said our vows before a proper vicar, though admittedly not until after he was born. I mean, how does one use the words “whore” and “bastard” to a child?
Somehow I got through it, primarily casting the blame on Mr. Pilkington, saying the poor man had run mad and was filling the villagers heads with terrible lies. I assured them that Mr. Lunsford had appealed to the vicar and the bishop, that he had even hired a Bow Street Runner—an assertion that made both boys’ eyes go wide, and also seemed to lessen their worried frowns. “We will put a stop to this, I promise you,” I said, even as I wondered if I were as guilty as the curate of conjuring imaginings out of thin air.
Mr. Guthrie returned from a short journey to Boston, the nearest large town, with three men who looked what they were—veterans of the many battles fought in Wellington’s long march from Portugal to France. I knew it was foolish to think brawn and firepower would be effective in combating the villagers’ evil fantasies, but having extra eyes—sharp, experienced eyes—on the boys boosted my spirits from the pit of despair to a faint glimmer of hope for an end to this horror.
Mr. Guthrie, who was putting up at the local tavern, also reported there were intensified grumblings in the village since Mr. Pilkington had suffered the indignity of being escorted back to his church by a stableboy from Lunsford Hall. And evidently Pilkington had scarcely stopped to draw breath since in his rant against the Lunsfords and anyone else unfortunate enough to live in what he termed “that den of iniquity.” In short, with the exception of Sir Basil, the Talmadges, and Nurse Jenkins, our neighbors scorned us. Or were too afraid to buck the prevailing wind and embrace our cause.
“Perhaps it is a good time to inspect Nicholas’s property,” Lady Hadley suggested that evening at dinner.
“Mama!” Cressida cried. “What foolish notion is this? I do not wish to be parted from Sir Basil, and Alyssa is in momentary expectation of an offer.”
At this bit of nonsense, I fear Jason, Hesper, and I forgot our manners and actually groaned out loud, though with varying degrees of disgust. “How you could think for a single moment that I would ever consider offering for that woman, I cannot begin to imagine,” Jason declared, his voice cutting like a sword, “You live in fantasy, Cressida, with no concept of the world beyond the tip of your nose. Has it escaped your notice that someone is attempting to murder your son?”
“It is you!” she cried, suddenly transforming from silly widgeon to hysterical female. “That is what Basil says. You wish to be a viscount.”
“Nonsense!” Hesper snapped. “Have you forgotten we are here because Jason would not live at Kempton Abbey, that he wished to hide forever in this Godforsaken part of Lincolnshire?”
“He’s changed his mind,” Cressida asserted, her chin firmed into an unbecoming straight line. “Alyssa wishes to be a viscountess, and Jason aims to please.”
“I wouldn’t have that woman if she were the last female on earth!” Jason roared.
I ducked my head to hide a smile.
“Enough!” Hesper snapped. “Cressida, you will be silent. Jason, I cannot help but think we would all do better elsewhere until this contretemps is resolved.”
Contretemps, I thought, was rather a mild word for attempted murder. And then I remembered Eileen Dawes and the rag and bone man, and my fears snapped back to full-blown. I shivered.
“I did not run in the face of thousands of Frenchmen shouting, ‘Vive, l’empereur!’ And I’m certainly not going to run from my neighbors. Nor a madman.” Brown eyes glinting with determination, Jason was magnificent. I saw no scars, only a man in charge of his life and the lives of those around him.
“Then let us take Nicholas away.”
“No.” Sharp, decisive, and shocking.
“Whyever not?” Lady Hadley demanded.
“Because I am staying here, and I cannot watch over Nicholas if he is anywhere else.” Inexorable. Unanswerable. My lips curled into a secret smile. I’d known for some time that I loved him, of course, and my heart swelled with pride. Whatever was going to happen, we would face it here at Lunsford Hall, and face it together.
“You are a fool, Jason,” Hesper said, “but a rather splendid one. I shall pray we all survive your headstrong notions of what is right.”
“Good,” Cressida declared. “I did not wish to leave, and this gives Alyssa time to demonstrate what an excellent chatelaine she will be for Lunsford Hall.”
We all stared.
“Cressida,” Jason said in a tone one might use with a naughty three-year-old, “you cannot have it both ways. You cannot accuse me of attempted murder in one breath and promote my marriage to your friend in the next. It is ludicrous.”
“Indeed,” said Lady Hadley. And sighed.
I could only shake my head and thank the good Lord that Nicholas had inherited his intelligence from someone other than his mother.
Chapter Twenty-five
In summer daylight begins early, warming the land in Lincolnshire, as if making a conscious effort to grow fat crops, fill fishermen’s holds, and even sweeten the tempers of taciturn residents. Though still considerably shaken by our encounter with Mr. Pilkington, followed by the decidedly odd conversation at dinner, I effaced myself to a corner of the drawing room and took up my embroidery, hoping to avoid interrogation about what happened on our visit to Nurse Jenkins. Hopeless, of course.
“No, Cressida, do not sit at the piano,” Lady Hadley pronounced, as if her daughter were no more than five. “No tunes at the moment. I wish to ask Mrs. Tyrell about the incident this afternoon.”
Wearing a decided pout, Lady Kempton abandoned the piano bench and flounced to a seat on the gold brocade sofa, carefully arranging her skirts around her. Her mother was ensconced in her favorite armchair of matching fabric like a queen on her throne, surveying and controlling everything within sight. For the tiniest moment I felt a twinge of sympathy for Cressida. Perhaps her sad lack of reasoning skills stemmed from never being allowed to think for herself.
“Do join us, Miranda. We cannot
talk to you way over there.” Meekly, I put down my embroidery and joined the ladies, selecting a dainty chair with a crewel-embroidered seat, which I greatly admired. The person who fashioned those exquisite stitches had been talented indeed. Though it felt a bit like sacrilege to sit in it, it always made me feel as if I were as queenly as the Dowager Countess Hadley.
Her interrogation lasted long enough that Charles, the footman, was coming in to light the candles at just short of ten o’clock before I was allowed to return to my embroidery and Cressida to a few desultory notes on the piano. But, truthfully, my needlework failed to hold my attention. It was, after all, merely an excuse to keep to myself. A ploy that had failed. Decidedly so. I gazed out the window at the gathering gloom and longed to be free to walk through the dusk, enjoying the breeze off the water, the scent of salt mixed with the fragrance of flowers and an occasional waft of something much sharper from the stables. Sand, waving grass, sea, the balmy touch of a summer evening. Yet outside danger lurked . . .
Something caught my eye. Was that a flicker of light I’d just seen through the ragged treeline at the northern edge of the park? I went to the window, peering into the growing darkness. Another flash of light, at a considerable distance from the first. Another. As dusk turned to night, the sky behind the trees—not at all in the direction of the recently departed sun—began to glow.
Fire? My heart leaped, a surge of fear threatened to choke me. Before giving the alarm, I strained to understand what I was seeing.
The glimpses of fire were intermittent, not steady. Torches? If so, there must be a great many of them to project such a glow in the sky. Fifty? A hundred? Surely far more than the night a few villagers burned Jason’s effigy in the park.
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 18