Lady Darkefell examined her. “I will look after Lydia, you know, despite my poor opinion of her.” She then clamped her lips tightly shut, her expression stony.
“I know you will,” Anne said gently, adding, “I suspect that you will always do your duty by your family, my lady.”
Tears welled in Lady Darkefell’s eyes and the woman nodded, then turned away.
Anne walked out into the sunshine, a sense of freedom sweeping through her. She took Sanderson’s hand, heaved herself up into the carriage, and he shut the door after her. Irusan climbed into her lap, turned once, and fell asleep as the carriage pulled away.
***
It was late afternoon, the sun glinting brilliantly off the diamond panes of the castle windows. Darkefell wearily descended from the pony cart and limped up to the new section of the castle as Tanner, his butler, opened the door and bowed. The other men—Dandy Lincoln, his son Ronald, and some others—were going their separate ways, but Tony had warned them to keep looking for Grover’s body. Pomfroy said he’d ride down to Whaw, and a couple of villages beyond, the next morning, to warn residents about the body that had been swept downstream and have them on the lookout. There was a deep—some said bottomless—pond a few miles downstream; if the body made it so far, it might not be discovered for some time.
Pomfroy! Darkefell could still barely bring himself to speak civilly to the old fool. It was his fault Anne’s life had been endangered. The stuffy ass had been offended by Darkefell and Anne’s investigative work, and when he took Grover away—he refused to confine the man to a cell at the guildhall—allowed the murdering bastard to go home until suitable quarters could be arranged. He clearly had never believed Grover guilty and took his word that he would stay at his own home, which would allow him to finalize the sale and packing of his personal goods.
Even now, Pomfroy thought that Darkefell and Lady Anne had gotten it wrong and that Hiram Grover had been driven to act “out of character,” as he put it, by their cruelty. Osei, who Darkefell had judged should not be searching for Grover’s corpse, given his past uneasy connection with the man, met him in the hall and helped him off with his jacket; Harwood, his valet, came hastily down the main steps just then and took the jacket, tut-tutting at its filthy state.
“The library, Osei,” Darkefell muttered. “I need brandy and a chair.”
“You did not find Mr. Grover?”
“No, but we’ll keep looking. I have to dictate a letter to Theophilus. Despite his estrangement from his father, this is going to be a very difficult time for the fellow. Theo and I have had our differences over the years, but he’s everything his father was not, in sincerity and a deep moral conviction. Telling him of his father’s awful deeds and subsequent death is not an easy task.”
Osei nodded, not needing any more information. The younger Grover’s revulsion at his father’s slave-dealing, and his horror over the incident on the ship, had been expressed in formal terms in the letter Theophilus had written to the marquess. In it, he sincerely apologized for his father’s actions and moral lapses, and ended with his sincere best wishes to Osei Boatin. Darkefell had given it to Osei to read.
Osei took down the particulars of Darkefell’s letter to Theophilus. It began with the delicately phrased announcement of Hiram Grover’s death, but that his body was lost in the rain-swollen Staungill, and followed with the news that Darkefell would visit Theophilus himself to tell him the details. Osei suggested some better phrases and polished it with an eloquent expression of sympathy for the younger Grover’s grief. He then rose to retreat and leave the marquess to his brandy.
“I’ll be dining at Ivy Lodge this evening, Osei. I have particular news I wish to share with my family, but you may as well be the first to know,” he said, swallowing hard. As much as this decision was all his, it still unnerved him. Though he always knew he would marry, it hadn’t been in his plans for the immediate future. But as he pulled Anne back from the lip of the precipice, he knew he couldn’t imagine living without her. This odd fevered emotion he thought must be love overwhelmed him; marriage was the only cure. He would practice saying it out loud: “Lady Anne Addison and I are to be married, soon.”
Osei didn’t appear startled so much as confused. He took off his glasses then pulled a letter from his vest pocket. “Perhaps that explains this letter, sir. I was to give it to you when you came in, but you were later than expected and I forgot. Did Lady Anne leave to go home and prepare her parents for this news?”
“What?” Tony said, frowning up at his secretary. “What are you talking about? Anne left? I don’t understand.”
Boatin’s expression shuttered, and he said, “Lady Darkefell’s housekeeper sent this note over with the stableboy and said, in a separate note to me, that Lady Anne left this morning first thing, but that she had left this for you. I suppose it explains her intentions.”
Tony felt the first hint of trepidation. Had she actually agreed to marry him? He had assumed she would, even though she seemed irritated by him. She hadn’t said “no,” at least. What woman would say no to him? And surely she would not have let him kiss her so often, nor would she have reacted as she did if she didn’t intend to accept his hand.
But she’d left? “Ah-ha,” he said suddenly, sitting up straight. “She means for me to follow her! She wishes to prolong the chase, to be wooed. Very well, I’ll chase her.”
“Perhaps, sir,” Boatin said hesitantly after Darkefell explained how he had left things with the lady, “she does not mean to marry. There are some ladies who do not wish to. Or perhaps she has been hurt some time in the past and has not yet recovered?”
Darkefell groaned and slapped his hand over his eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you?” He took his hand away. “I shall have to speak to Lydia. Lady Anne was engaged to Lydia’s brother several years ago, and the fellow died in battle, presumably a heroic ass. I shall have to pry from Lydia, if she can manage to string together three words that make sense, how Lady Anne feels now about her late fiancé.”
First, he read Anne’s note. It was little more than a stiff note of thanks for saving her life and the hope that he did not suffer any repercussions. She wished him well. It was insulting in its brevity, but he would not take it amiss.
He bathed and dressed then rode to Ivy Lodge, demanding an audience with Lydia the moment he entered. John had to be present, of course. He hung over his wife as if she were on the verge of death instead of merely enceinte, and he filled in words for her when she was tongue-tied. When Darkefell peppered Lydia with questions about Lady Anne’s departure, she pouted and constantly deferred to John.
“She didn’t say anything, Tony,” John finally said, exasperated. “She wished us well, and when we get to Bath in June to consult Dr. Haggerty, we are to visit her at her grandmother’s home there.”
Darkefell stared at his brother and sister-in-law. If she had said anything at all about marriage to him, they would have said so immediately. He drilled Lydia with one of his focused looks. “Lydia, I know you were young, but think back and tell me—was Anne excessively devoted to your brother when they were engaged?”
Lydia’s huge eyes filled with tears that spilled over and coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, yes,” she said in breathless tones, clasping her hands together. “You’ve never seen such devotion. When she looked at Reggie, there was such love in her eyes. It was like… like someone who has seen perfection for the first time and cannot take their eyes from it,” she said in a rare flight of fancy.
Darkefell had known Moore slightly and had thought him vacuous, vain, frivolous, and unbearably insipid. The man had no opinions but on fashion, gambling, and society. None of that fit with his opinion of Lady Anne, but in a rare flash of insight sharpened by a knife-thrust of jealousy, he saw how, as an eighteen-year-old girl in her first Season, Sir Reginald Gladstone Moore, a member of the Horse Guards, may have seemed the epitome of beaux. His death, not even a year later, may have wounded her deeply, as a fir
st experience with tragedy will.
So that was what he was up against; his Anne was a determined spinster who mourned so deeply for her first love that she would not allow herself to find happiness, even if a far-superior suitor arrived to court her. He could mount an offense that would defeat such a foe. No dead fiancé could rival his determination, and he had one thing on his side, besides the little matter of being alive while Moore was dead. She was sensually attracted to him already and wanted him almost as much as he wanted her. There, at least, was a place to begin. He would storm the battlements of her chaste fortress. He strode from the room without another word to his brother and sister-in-law.
***
Anne drifted near sleep, gently lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage. They had been traveling for three days already, with a day-long stop for the holy day, Good Friday, and were almost at their destination, just in time for Easter service the next day.
“The sea!” Robbie cried, bouncing up and down on his seat.
Anne, jolted into complete awareness, sat up. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen the ocean before, Robbie,” she said with an indulgent smile and wink at Mary, who was knitting a muffler for her son.
“But this be different from Kent, milady!” he shouted, peering out the glass.
Anne glanced out. It was a lovely scene, she thought, staring out the glass. This was Cornwall, and the high bluff which the road traveled told her they were almost to their destination, St. Wyllow, a village near Hell’s Mouth on the north coast of Cornwall. The blue sea sparkled in the late-day sunshine. Sanderson turned the carriage around a bend in the road, angling away from the bluff, and within twenty minutes, they pulled up a lane to a manor house that was tranquil in the Cornish sunlight.
“Here, at last!” she said as Sanderson opened the carriage door and she climbed down to stretch her legs. Two days before, from a Shropshire inn, Anne had sent a note to her friend, Miss Pamela St. James, by Royal Mail, to say she was accepting Pamela’s long-standing open invitation and coming for a visit. She needed a change in scene after her upsetting time in Yorkshire. Home at Kent with her father did not beckon, nor did Bath and the company of her mother and grandmother. But Pamela, as sensible as she, if many times prettier and a complete contrast to Lydia, was the kind of companionship for which she longed.
The front door of the gray stucco manor house opened, and Pamela emerged into the brilliant sunshine, accompanied by a smartly dressed gentleman.
“Pamela! St. James!” Anne cried as she swept up the steps. Her friend embraced her as her friend’s dashing brother bowed, but then he, too, took her in his arms for a long hug.
“How good to see you, my lady!” he cried, holding her by the shoulders and examining her. “What a dashing bonnet! At long last, someone worthy of my expert flirtation.”
Anne smiled and laughed.
“Ah, and so lovely, pink cheeks, eyes sparkling… you have been flirting with someone,” he accused. “Nothing like admiration to improve a lady’s color. I’m deathly jealous! Whom shall I challenge, my dearest lady?”
Oh yes, this was just the place to forget dark, thrilling Yorkshire and dark, thrilling Lord Darkefell, as well as his insulting, sublimely strange proposal and the events of the last week. Cornwall, serene and sunny, with her dear friend Pamela and St. James, a notorious but engaging flirt, who had an entertaining line of patter guaranteed to lift her spirits. “Shut up, St. James—you get more ridiculous with each passing year. Pamela, I hope you don’t mind my descending upon you for a long visit.”
“Not at all. We have all kinds of things to keep you busy,” she said, “for with St. James’s regiment billeted in St. Ives, there are assemblies, balls, picnics, strawberry-picking, parties… oh, we shall have a gay time, indeed.”
Anne sighed. This was far from her preferred studious and calm life, but it would take from her mind the sensations she so desperately needed to forget: Darkefell’s kisses, his powerful arms about her, and the thought that marriage to him still sounded like an adventure. She must put it all out of her mind.
She draped her arm over Pamela’s shoulders and squeezed as they entered the house, followed by Irusan, who had exited the carriage and was nudging St. James’s legs as he followed. St. James was a favorite of Irusan’s for some reason; Anne thought the officer bribed him with treats. “You’re just what I need, Pam. And you, St. James,” she threw back over her shoulder, “are what else I need.” She laughed. “So bring on your officer friends—I shall flirt and break all of their hearts,” she finished with facetious sarcasm.
She sighed. One thing she could guarantee; not one of those officers would make her tremble with yearning. Thank heavens.
The End
Author’s Afterword
Dear Reader,
I believe that most readers of historical novels, whether the books be mystery, romance, or straight fiction, are interested in the historical basis of the plot. With that in mind, I’d like to offer some pertinent information to those interested in knowing if there is any fact behind Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark.
First: though the characters in this book are wholly constructed out of my imagination, the tale Mr. Osei Boatin tells Lady Anne about his experience on a slave ship has a factual, historical counterpart. The Zong was a slave ship owned by a Liverpool slave-trading firm. It sailed from Africa in September of 1781 overloaded with slaves. Malnutrition and illness had already claimed quite a few lives when the captain decided to cut his losses and toss the rest of the sick Africans into the ocean to drown, keeping only the still healthy on board.
Shockingly, this was not an illegal act, nor was it considered murder; the slaves were chattel, and in court proceedings later it was pointed out that this was no different than throwing horses overboard. The only illegal act was when the shipping company attempted to collect insurance money for the losses. Insurance would not cover those lost to disease, malnutrition, or suicide, nor did it cover the slaves thrown overboard. However, the ship owners argued the slaves had to be killed, as there was not enough water on board for everyone; that exigency would have made it an insured loss. The claim of inadequate water was proved to be wholly false; they had plenty for everyone.
The Zong Massacre became a rallying point for abolitionists in their attempt to put an end to slavery and the slave trade. It took many more years to achieve that goal.
Second: Hiram Grover’s repeated mention of the Curse of Ham or Curse of Canaan is also inspired by real historical perspective. Misinterpretation of an Old Testament tale of Noah and Ham, his son, gave rise to belief in the so-called “curse” that some used to justify the African slave trade and racial segregation.
An Internet search of the keywords “The Zong Massacre” and the “Curse of Canaan” or “Curse of Ham” will turn up a wealth of information for those wanting to know more, or your local library will have informative books providing a more detailed relation of these subjects.
Fond regards,
Donna Lea Simpson
Read on for a preview of
Lady Anne
and the
Ghost’s
Revenge
Available from Sourcebooks Casablanca in August 2009
One
“What does Darkefell mean by following me to Cornwall, Mary? Why is he plaguing me so?” Anne, pacing the length of her small room in the upper reaches of Cliff House, Pamela and Marcus St. James’ rented house, did not need to tell her maid what she meant, for they had already spoken of the Marquess of Darkefell at some length.
As she put away some sheets of paper into Anne’s traveling desk and closed the lid, Mary gently said, “A man in love will do many a strange thing, milady.”
“He’s not in love with me,” Anne declared, contemptuously, though the woman’s words sent an odd thrill through her. “He doesn’t even know me, and a man in love would not promptly try to change everything about the object of his affections, as Darkefell
is trying to do to me.”
Mary paused in her tidying. She hesitated for a long moment, but then said, watching Anne, “I think it would be well for you, milady, to lairn more about the man, before tossing him aside. P’raps he’s just such a one as you should marry.”
Anne gave a snort of derision, but a sound outside drew her attention; she leaned on the windowsill and stared out into the darkness. From her window she could only see a small portion of the back garden, and none of the sea. A moving shadow angled across Pamela’s terrace. “Who is that?” she gasped. “And what are they up to, creeping around outside the house like that?”
With the imperious marquess’s commands fresh in her mind and heart, Anne impetuously decided to do the opposite of everything he said. Even as she made the quick decision, she felt how foolish it was to be guided by negation, but an anxious trembling within her would not let her stay still. She did not want to think of what Mary had just said, that she should give serious thought to marrying Darkefell.
“I want to know what, or who, that is,” Anne said, retrieving her cape, and heading for the bedroom door.
“You’ll not go without me, milady,” Mary said as she followed, throwing a shawl over her shoulders.
As Anne unlatched the garden door, feeling the rush of cool sea air on her face, she murmured, “Cliff House is certainly easier to leave than Ivy Lodge was.” She referred to the dower house of the marquess’s Yorkshire estate, where she had stayed while visiting Lydia; it was a much larger house with a regiment of servants and variety of locked doors.
Lady Anne 01 - Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark Page 30