Falconridge
Page 21
“That was very foolish,” he said, his voice level. “I wanted it to be pleasant. You have made it very unpleasant. I expected better from you, my dear. Now I suppose you will scream and thrash about. Go ahead. No one can hear you.”
I was too terrified to speak. My head was whirling, and I fought to maintain consciousness. My whole body was weak, limp, and I could not move. It seemed that black wings were closing in on my brain, shutting out everything but the sound of the pounding waves below. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t. I wanted to scream, but no sound came from my parched throat. The black wings fluttered, pressing in on my brain. I gnawed my lower lip and fought them.
Charles Lloyd heaved his shoulders and took a deep breath. He came forward, kneeling down to take my shoulders. I heard the explosion and saw the incredible orange streak flash across the darkness like a minute bolt of lightning. Charles Lloyd straightened up, his face stamped with an expression of sheer agony. He staggered forward, his hands clutching his chest. His foot slipped on the edge of the precipice, and for a moment he stood balanced in mid-air. He threw out both his arms as though to embrace the space, and then he fell. The waves crashed and thundered below, claiming their victim.
Norman Wade helped me to my feet. Tiny plumes of smoke curled from the barrel of his pistol. He wrapped one arm around me, supporting me against him. I closed my eyes, giving way now to the fluttering wings. I was aware of nothing but the thundering noise of the sea and the marvelous strength of the arm that held me so securely against the man who had saved my life.
XVI
I STOOD AT the edge of the cliff, looking down at the waters. They were calm today, washing gently over the sand and leaving a lacy residue of foam. Far out, the light blue water turned darker, richer blue, until it merged into a thin purple line on the horizon where the sea seemed to touch the luminous pearl gray sky. Sunlight sparkled on the waves, and a sea gull spiraled in the sky, its wings almost silver in the light. A gentle breeze blew wisps of hair about my temples, and the salty tang in the air was bracing. Three weeks had passed, and this was the first time I had been able to summon enough courage to come here. I wanted to stare at the sea, to put aside forever any terror it might hold for me. I sighed softly as I watched the waves lap the sands.
It was all over now. That night of terror would live forever in my memory, but it seemed years ago. I thought about my foolishness. If I had not left my room, none of it would have happened, and yet if I had not done so Charles Lloyd would probably have been successful in his devious plan. Norman Wade had been pacing up and down in the library that night. He had heard the crash in the hall, and he had run up to my room. When he found it empty, he had seized his pistol and run outside, arriving just in time to see Charles Lloyd standing over me at the edge of the cliff, where I stood now.
Norman had been suspicious all along, but he had been unable to put the pieces together. Of course he had known about the affair with Lavinia, and when both Charles Lloyd and Andrew Graystone had disappeared his suspicions grew stronger. It was not until I told him about the missing food in the pantry that he suspected the truth. When he had found Lucy’s body in the courtyard he had known that Charles Lloyd was alive and in the house somewhere. That was why he had locked me in my room. He wanted me to be safe until he could get me away from Falconridge and away from danger.
How unfair I had been to him. It had amused him to know that I was convinced he was a murderer. It did not amuse me. I was ashamed. I had convicted him in my own mind. He had been cool yet cordial during these past three weeks, too busy to pay much heed to me. I tried to suppress my feelings toward him. I did not want him to know how I felt. I did not want him to laugh at me and call me an infatuated schoolgirl.
I thought about Lavinia. Those sad, tragic eyes must be filled with regret now. She had been apprehended in Liverpool where she was waiting for my uncle to come for her. When they told her about his death, she had burst into tears, they reported. She would have a long time to cry now, I thought. She would spend many, many years in prison. I was sorry for her. It seemed her life had been marked for tragedy from the very first.
The strangest thing of all was the disappearance of Martha Victor. When Charles Lloyd’s body was brought into the house, she stood over it for a long time, studying the lines of the face she had loved so well. Then she left the room, moving as quietly as ever. She left the house. No one had seen her go. She literally disappeared. The authorities had not found her yet, and I doubted if they ever would. Without her master to look after, I imagined the old woman would live her few remaining years with a heavily laden, embittered heart.
My uncle had been buried quietly, privately, without a proper funeral. That had already taken place, and so far as the citizens of the community were concerned, the body in that lonely cemetery was the body of Charles Lloyd. The gold had been returned to London on the same coach it came in, along with a long letter to Mr. Stephens. Everything had been taken care of. The nightmare was over, and Falconridge itself was a different place. It seemed as though a dark pall had been lifted. It was old and damp and drafty, but it no longer had that ominous aura. I was beginning to see why Helena and her nephew loved the place so much, and I hoped that I, too, could grow to love, it in time.
I turned around to look at the house, my back to the sea. The sun sparkled on the huge gray stones and the dark green roof. The towers and turrets rose tall to touch the sky, and the two wings sprawled out over the lawns. To one side I could see the gardens, in gorgeous bloom now. I saw Helena, looking very tiny, moving among the pink and yellow roses, the three dogs bounding behind her. She wore a blue dress and a floppy white sun hat. She stooped down to touch a blossom. Helena was a happy woman now, as happy as it was possible for one who has had so much tragedy in her life to be. Her days were full and exciting, as they would always be for one so vital.
Norman Wade was strolling down the lawn towards me. He must have just come back from the fields, for he was wearing the tall brown boots and tight, faded beige pants and white linen shirt that were his customary clothes for work. He carried a thin leather riding crop, slapping it against the side of his boot as he walked. His raven black hair blew in the breeze, and the gathered sleeves of his shirt billowed a little. I knew that he had been out inspecting the fields this morning. He had come in early. I wondered what he wanted with me.
I turned back to the sea, not wanting him to see the expression on my face. I was afraid it would betray me. In a moment I could feel him standing behind me. I said nothing, ignoring him.
“Thinking?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Many things.”
“About me?”
“Perhaps.”
He turned me around so that he could look into my eyes. His own were sparkling with devilish merriment as they had been that first day I had met him in the clearing. He was grinning. The grin irritated me. He must always make fun of me. He must always be the merry rake, teasing. He must always treat me like a schoolgirl.
“Now,” he said. “What were you thinking about?”
“As a matter of fact,” I snapped, “I was thinking about a letter. I have to write to Clarissa and tell her I will be coming to visit soon. She will be with her parents in the country, and I am quite anxious to get away from this place.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I think you know!”
“You’re angry.” He clicked his tongue. “Such spirit! It will take a lot of breaking, a lot of curbing. Thoroughbreds always do. I think I can manage.”
“Do you really?”
“I’m positive,” he said decisively.
“Well, don’t be so certain you have the job,” I told him.
“I think I do,” he said, still grinning.
“You’ve been ignoring me for three weeks.”
“I know. I’ve been busy. I’ve arranged a loan from a firm in London. I’ll be able to make all those improvement
s now. I’ve been out inspecting the fields. The harvest is going to be great this year. There’s every sign that it will be the best in years. Falconridge is going to be just as I’ve planned.”
“That’s why you’ve ignored me?”
“I wanted to wait until I had something to offer.”
“I see,” I replied crisply.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to write that letter.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to tell Clarissa that I probably won’t see her for a long time.”
Norman Wade burst into laughter. The rich, melodious sound followed me as I hurried up the sloping green lawn to Falconridge.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1969 by T. E. Huff
Cover design by Julianna Lee
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9826-0
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT
FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
EBOOKS BY JENNIFER WILDE
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia