"Goddamn you," he hissed.
A short, plump servant, her blond hair tucked beneath a white bonnet stiffened with stays, wrung her hands and pleaded, "Milord, I only found 'im. What was I t' do?"
Gathering my wits about me, I dashed for the child cradled in another servant's arms. "Let me have him," I ordered.
Her eyes round in surprise, the girl argued, "Nay, I will not."
I repeated, "Let me have him." Before the woman could resist me further I slid my arms around the infant and lifted him to my breast. Blood oozed from his cut forehead. His tiny round face was blotched with bright color and slick with tears. The sight weakened me. I sank onto the upraised hearth, the very culprit that had caused the grievous injury. Using my dress sleeve I did my best to wipe the blood from his face.
"He fell," came the cold voice from the doorway.
Nicholas turned. His face white with fury and his fists shaking at his sides, he railed, "By God, you old hag, I've warned you. Had you been doing your job properly, this would not have happened."
The tight skin over the crone's face darkened slightly. It was her only show of anger. "I don't have to take this abuse," she replied. "The child is uncontrollable, milord, as you well know, and I am not a young woman. I have repeatedly asked for help in managing him."
"What the devil kind of woman cannot manage a one-year-old?" he blasted.
"Your wife, for one." One corner of her thin mouth quirked like the tip of a rat's tail.
He took a violent step toward her, and for a dreadful moment I witnessed a hint of the barely leashed rage that had fueled the rumors from Malham to Keighley. "Milord!" I spoke urgently, anxious to avoid the ugly scene about to take place. "Your son needs attention." Kevin's quiet whimpering was the only sound in the room. "Milord?" I pleaded more softly,
He whirled toward me, one hand coming up and raking through his disheveled hair. With a sense of relief I noticed that the frightening anger of moments before had been replaced by concern. Going to his knee, he touched the boy's brow with the tips of his shaking fingers. " 'Tis only a scratch," I assured him.
"Aye, a scratch," he replied. "But my brother should see to it. It might take stitches," He held his arms out for the child. "Come along, lad, and well get you cleaned up."
I released the child reluctantly, with a gentle brush of my lips over the wound. I he babe buried his little face in Nick's shirt, and all the fury that had hardened his father's features diminished in relief. His tightly pressed lips relaxed in a smile; his eyes closed. The sight was Wrenching, I looked away, empty, and in pain.
Magilacutty, mum. Matilda Magilceutty's in' name, 'is lordship says I'm I show y' to yer quarters, 'ave y* any parcels? Luggage’n such?" The servant's eyes twinkled up at me, making me smile. She was a cheery sort, as round as she was tall. I liked her immediately. "I left them at Crown Inn," I told her. "I wasn't expecting—"
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Ah, no bother, mum. We'll see to it. Ole Jim'll 'ave someone fetch 'em soon enuff, or 'ell do it 'imself. Give 'im a good excuse to tip up at t' tavern on 'is way back, if y' know what I mean. Come along now."
I was given the grand tour along the way.
"There's near one hundred rooms at Walthamstow," Matilda boasted. "Give or take a dozen. We ain't counted in a century or so. Some rooms ain't been aired in decades. No reason t' use 'em anyhows. More's the pity for us if they decide to open 'em up. I wouldn't like the chore of cleanin' 'em, I vow. Last we heard, t'owd walls were damp as dungeons anyhows. I shiver just thinkin' on it. Some say ole 'enry the Eighth slept back there, y' know, when he was runnin' amuck and blastin' all the bleedin' Catholics to heaven and back. I'll wager t'owd bugger daydreamed of droppin' Anne's block in a basket from that very room."
The hallway, as always, was dismally dark. I sensed my way along, keeping my eyes trained on the white cap that bobbed up and down before me.
Matilda slowed and pointed with a short, pudgy finger down an adjoining corridor. "Them quarters there are the doc's. There's an entrance from the east garden, so he comes and goes mostly without our seein'. Sometime 'e sees 'is patients there, sometime 'e don't. We don't clean there, y' see, 'cause 'e's got all them gobble-dygooks in somethin' called cruc—cruci—"
"Crucibles?"
Matilda's brown eyes widened in surprise. "Well, now, ain't you the clever one? That's t' word I was meanin'. And al—?"
"Alembics."
"Aye," she sniffed, "Alembeaks."
We made another turn, then climbed the staircase.
Once again Matilda pointed down a corridor and explained, "This’ll be Miss Adrienne's quarters. Shell be sleepin' now, y'see. She calls it 'er beauty sleep and she won't be disturbed until mealtime. She eats and sleeps and complains t' the doc that his lordship ruined 'er life."
As we turned down yet another hallway Matilda's stride lessened noticeably. Finally she stopped completely. I waited silently as the servant ran her hands clumsily over a table to one side, bumping over a candlestick in the process and clattering a Chinese vase against the wall. A flame gasped in the darkness, smelling sharp and pungent. Its black-gray smoke curled in an oily stream into the shadows, and before the sudden cold draft of wind could extinguish it, Matilda touched it to the candle wick. She lifted the tallow light between us.
"This'll be 'is lordship's quarters/' Matilda stated in a quieter voice. "We don't see 'em 'cept at mealtimes, 'e don't like nobody disturbin' 1m, y' see, 'specially when 'e's workin'. That there's 'is studio where you'll be sittin'. That there is Master Kevin's room and yonder is 'is lordship's room."
Looking back down the long row of closed quarters, I tugged my wrap closer about my shoulders. "It's colder here," I said.
"Aye. It's the north side, y' see. The wind from the moor gets in through the copin's and comes barrelin' up the tunnels." She cupped her hand around the candle flame until its frantic dancing eased somewhat.
I moved from the halo of yellow candlelight through the darkness to the studio door.
"It's locked," Matilda said. "No one goes inside but 'is lordship . . . and now you, o' course."
"No one?" I leaned back against the wall, looking up and down the sequestered rooms. I pointed to the farthest door. "Where does that lead?"
"That were Lady Malham's room, miss, but she never used it. She's deceased, y' know."
I thought back to those tense moments in the library, remembering Nicholas as he stood looking out the window. "How did she die?" I asked.
Matilda, all business suddenly, bustled to the door one down from the studio. "This 'ere'll be yer room. It adjoins the studio, though his lordship keeps that door locked as well."
I noted that only the studio separated my room from Nick's. "I asked you a question," I said.
"She burned t' death, miss."
On impulse I said, more to myself than to Matilda, "That hardly sounds like murder to me."
Matilda looked up, her eyes like dark china saucers in her plump face. " 'oo said anythin' 'bout murder?"
"Why, his lordship himself," I responded calmly.
Ramming the key into the lock, Matilda gave it a hardy twist, then pushed open the door. "This 'ere's yer room," came her voice from inside the enclosure. "Ill 'ave ole Jim bring up some peat for the fire." Turning again for the door, Matilda hesitated, throwing a brief look back over her shoulder before finishing, "Yer on yer own, miss, and good luck."
The first thing I did was to open the heavy crimson velvet drapes adorning the window. I did so with a flourish, scattering particles of dust that danced in the light like sunbeams before settling on my shoulders. The room was tiny but no smaller than I was accustomed to. What mattered most was that it was my own. No palace on earth could have been finer.
The clouds parted in that instant. Sunlight spilled through the lancet window, its spear tip high above my head splintering the rays into dazzling yellow, red, and blue shafts that warmed the back of my neck, I closed my eyes and imagined the many ni
ghts I had rested upon my bed at the inn and dreamt of spending one night in this house.
My heart began racing, and I felt queerly giddy. How easily Jerome's plan was working. Almost too easily. Only one thing disturbed me: My feelings for Nick were alive still, and with such a realization there was also pain. It could not be otherwise. I would be forced to hurt him, and although I had set my heart and soul upon the task before coming to Walthamstow Manor, now I could find no peace of mind in doing so. For he was already haunted. The child, it seemed, was his link to sanity. Where would he be when I robbed him of that?
I was certain of my solitude before leaving the room. The corridors, black as pitch and cold as a well, were empty to my right and left. Entering the nursery, I fond life-sized marionettes dangling on ropes from the ceiling. Their polished oaken faces smiled with pleasant mouths that stretched all the way to their red-dotted cheeks. They wore busbies of bear fur. Upon the wall were pictures of lambs; black-faced and smiling, they frolicked among butterflies and birds. Bees frozen for eternity on the paper-and-stone canvas hovered over gardens of buttercups and violets. I realized, with a shocking sense of pride, that Nicholas had painted them all.
I turned round and round, absorbing each wonderful detail. The room was aglow with light. The fireplace at the far end of the quarters hissed at the cold, coaxing away the shivers that had racked me before. Alone in my room, the emptiness of my life had assailed me. But here I was warmed by the fairyland and filled to bursting with hope.
I ran my hand over the rich walnut door of the wardrobe. Unlike the furniture in the rest of the house, it was without the depressing and often frightening symbols of demons. The floors were covered with carpets of Oriental influence. Tapestries of cherubs gave life to the stark walls. And the crib ... ah, the crib. Ensconced in the center of the floor and draped in yards and yards of the sheerest material that hung in swags from the ceiling, the tiny carved bed drew me nearer, until I ran my hands caressingly over the plump beddings and the porcelain-faced dolls that crowded each corner. There were soldiers in uniform and girls with flowing waist-length hair.
As I carefully lifted one in my hand, voices drifted to me from the hallway. Concerned that I would be found in the child's room without permission, I glanced swiftly about the quarters, but found no means of escape. With my heart in my throat, I hid behind the door.
"How dare you!" came the crone's voice. "How dare you bring that woman into this house so soon after Jane's death."
Entering his son's room, Nicholas strode to the cradle before turning to face his adversary. "Shut up," he said simply. "Just shut up."
"I will not. You've gotten away with murder, Nicholas Wyndham, and before I die I'll see you pay."
Relaxing against the bed, he folded his long arms over his chest and smiled. "So you keep reminding me, Bea, but neither of us has seen any evidence of that."
"The evidence sleeps in yonder cemetery, as you're well aware."
"If you are so certain I killed her, then go to the officials. I'll not stop you."
"Nothing would please me more than to see you hanging from the gibbet."
"Do what you will, hag, but one more mistake where my son is concerned and I will turn you out on your bony backside."
"Ach!" She paced, her thick-soled black shoes thumping dully on the carpet. "When I came here with Miss Jane 1 had no intention of servicing some little—"
He moved so suddenly she had little time to react. A gasp was all she could summon as he grabbed her scrawny arm and propelled her against the wall. The marionettes danced disjointedly, their heads bobbing to and fro, as Nicholas said, "Never, under any circumstances, will you again profane my son's name. I will tolerate a great number of things, including your annihilation of my character, but you will keep your tongue civil about Kevin, or—"
I held my breath and watched as the woman's mouth parted in a slit of a smile, baring broken yellow teeth.
"You're insane and we all know it," Bea went on maliciously. "Someday you'll get your just reward for what you did to that poor, dear child. She came to you chaste—"
"She was a whore." Like the eye of a storm, his voice remained calm, yet I sensed the maelstrom inside him. His shoulders rose and fell quickly with the effort it took to check his temper. This was no madman, I thought. No madman would take abuse from such as her and remain rational. He continued. "She found pleasure in her lovers' beds, not mine."
"Do you blame her?" The crone's feral eyes bore into his as she needled, "You never loved Jane. It was always her that little slut who worked at—"
"Watch what you say, old woman, or—"
"Or you'll throw another tantrum? Is your head splitting yet, milord? Are you shaking?"
He looked down at his hand. It was trembling.
"It's been awhile, hasn't it, milord? Wonder when it'll hit again. Soon, I wager, by the looks of you. You haven't been sleeping nights—" "Shut up."
"I hear you pacing. I found those canvases you thought you'd destroyed. They're portraits of madness. You're mad and someday you'll pay for what you did to Jane,"
He backed away, and it was obvious from the way he opened and closed his hands that he yearned to wrap them around her neck. I sensed his battle for control and applauded him in my heart when he answered Bea steadily. "I've warned you: Should anything careless happen again to my son, I will hold you personally responsible. Now get out. Out!"
Gathering her limp black skirt in her fingers, the woman dissolved like an apparition, into the dark recesses of the hallway. Nicholas stared first at her, then at his hands, holding them level before him, noting that their trembling had subsided. He then looked toward the door where I hid. Smiling, he said, "She is a hoary old biddy, I vow, and I don't know why the deuce I tolerate her . . . You may come out from behind the door, Miss Rushdon."
I did so but remained against the wall. Taking a deep breath, Nicholas clasped his hands around his back and took a leisurely look around his son's nursery before bringing his eyes back to mine. "A little old to be playing with dolls, aren't you?" he asked. "But it's such a beautiful doll," I said. I skimmed my fingers over the wavy blond hair and china face of the toy. Then, not without reluctance, I looked up into Wyndham's gray eyes. His mien was cool, belying the anger and sarcasm I had earlier heard in his voice. But his eyes . . . their unblinking perusal made me flinch.
"Are you convinced yet?" he asked in that taunting, self-mocking tone that disturbed me. He was angry still, and hurt. Perhaps embarrassed that I had overheard the exchange between him and Bea.
"Of?" The doll, forgotten once again, hung from my hand.
He smiled disarmingly, the way I had seen him smile a hundred times in my fantasies and dreams. Then he threw his dark head back in soft laughter. "Miss Rush-don, you don't look like a simpleton and you haven't, up until now, acted like one. I pride myself on judging character, good or bad, and I surmise there must be brains to go along with that . . . beauty." He moved slowly toward me. Again without his coat, his loose white shirt open to the middle of his chest, he appeared warm and masculine and at his ease. I had never considered myself timid, and yet I trembled. My free hand moved backward and sought the solid strength of the wall. I settled against it, praying inwardly for courage. It came.
"I am not a simpleton," I said.
"Very good. Since it looks as if you have ears, I would imagine you overheard my conversation with Bea. We discussed madness and murder, I believe."
"Yes." I nodded.
"She is thoroughly convinced that I killed my wife."
"Did you?"
He had partially turned. Stopping, he looked at me quizzically, his lips curling in a half smile. "It would hardly behoove me to acknowledge the act."
"Except to assuage your conscience," I told him.
"I can live with my conscience, thank you. What I cannot live with is hanging from the neck or feet at the gibbet in Leeds. It is a most foul affair and one I would not care to subject myself to, if I ca
n help it."
His tone was light, bringing to my mind the many nights I had listened secretly to his friendly bantering at the Cock and Bottle Inn. That memory made me smile.
"Da Vinci would kill for that smile," he said quietly, then added, "Ah, Nick, a poor choice of words."
I stared again at the doll hanging by my side, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze, the pagan taunt of his smile. I had once thought him magical and perhaps he was. No. Were it so, he could cure himself; there would be no more talk of madness and murder. The Nicholas Wyndham I had known could not have committed murder. But that Nicholas Wyndham had not been mad.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, startling me from my thoughts. When I didn't respond he continued, "Come now, you know my secrets. I think it only fair that I know yours."
"I was curious, milord. Nothing more."
He walked to the marionettes before turning again. The jester's smiling face intensified the severity of his own. Nicholas's eyes, like chips of coal, were oddly dull considering the room was afire with candlelight. Not for the first time, I questioned my wisdom in coming here.
"Do you like children?" he asked me.
"Yes."
"You were very good with Kevin."
"He's a beautiful child, sir."
There was silence between us. I replaced the doll in the bed, then turned for the door. After the comforting warmth of the nursery, the bleak corridor brought a chill to my shoulders. Without looking back I hurried to my own room, anxious to put distance between myself and the curiosity I saw in Wyndham's eyes. Solitude, however, was not yet to be. As I hurried to close my door behind me Nicholas stood there, his hand on the knob. He said nothing for a moment, then reached into his pocket to retrieve a key. Tarnished with age, it shone dully in the dim light. "Matilda forgot to give you your key, Miss Rushdon."
I took it. He would not relinquish his hold on the door, however, until I looked him fully in the face.
"That is the only key to this room," he told me, his voice low. "Keep it on your person at all times. When you leave this room, lock your door. When you are in the room, lock your door. Especially at night. Should the desire to work surface after hours, I will knock three times. Should I knock twice, ignore it. Should I knock four times, ignore it. Do you understand me, Ariel?"
A Heart Possessed Page 3