A Heart Possessed

by Katherine Sutcliffe

  I did not understand but nodded nevertheless.

  Wyndham turned then and without looking back walked to his room, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 3

  From my window I could see the distant granges of Malham, dank beneath black ice and fog. Blurry white forms moved in and out of the vapor, images so vague only my common sense told me they were sheep. Beyond the zigzagging row of stone walls perched the township of Malham. Its tumbled roofs clustered about the hollow and were flanked by yellow-green hills whose crests were invisible in the fog. Here and there the stark branches of tall elms pierced the low-lying clouds. Their leaves had fallen to the ground and their trunks were tangled with dying vines of wisteria. Rooks' nests spotted the upper branches. As I watched, several of the large black birds burst from a nearby acacia tree and flew into the distance.

  From the window I also looked down on Walthamstow's north garden, with its high walls and stone copings. Wisteria grew profusely here as well. I imagined in spring its blooms might replace the musty odor of the old house with sweet perfume.

  On foggy days like today, the flat land looked like an expanse of cotton wool with tufts of trees pushing through it. I looked forward to sunnier days when I might look out on Pikedaw Hill and Scarsdale and the long summit of Malham Cove. The hills would be dotted with sheep and sheepdogs and shaggy-haired ponies. Perhaps I would take Kevin for a ride on one of those ponies.

  47

  It was three hours past noon and I had heard nothing more from Nicholas. He had not left his room, I was certain. Jim had arrived with my bag barely an hour after I'd settled in my quarters. From my window I had watched him drive in a pony cart along the winding ribbon of road to Malham. Behind him had bounded a half dozen hounds. Their baying had brought back memories of Nicholas wading through the animals as they frolicked around his legs. "To the hunt, gentlemen!" he had shouted then to his fellow riders. From inside my bedroom window over the Cock and Bottle Inn, I had watched enviously as they mounted their sleek steeds and headed for the moor. Nothing in his behavior then had hinted of madness. How, I wondered, did a man go mad overnight?

  Then I reminded myself that two years had passed since I had last walked Raikes Road to Malham. The moor never changed: For over five hundred years the same stone fences had divided the grange into squares of lush grazing pastures. But people changed. Circumstances changed them.

  I had no way of knowing the time for certain, but the hour was growing late. Darkness had begun its slow encroachment over the moor. By four o'clock nothing but the twinkling lights of the distant village could be seen outside my window. I yearned for summer, when daylight still flooded the countryside until nearly midnight. Then I was not forced to endure the solitude of my mind for so long a time. For with that solitude came the memory—the one memory that would forever haunt me. Seeing Wyndham again after all this time unleashed the ache, brought that glimmering from the past shining ever brighter and more painful before me.

  Nicholas. Whispering the name even now broke my heart.

  Nicholas.

  Sighing, I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the glass, remembering that night. Even now I could recall the muted laughter of drunken men coming from my uncle's tavern. But even that had dimmed as I looked up into Nicholas's eyes. "I have to know," came his whisper-soft voice. "Have there been others?"

  "No others," I responded.

  He kissed me all over, tracing the ribbons of fire's glow with his tongue until my timidity was replaced by passion and the need to give myself to him. He touched the loose strands of my hair, finding pleasure in the way the black curls coiled around his fingers. He then took those curls and brushed them ever so lightly over my breasts until they grew full and ripe, the points hard and rosy, aching for his mouth to claim them. And he did, molding them with his fingers, his tongue, pulling gently with his teeth and suckling like a hungry child.

  A strange delight rippled through me, bringing a warm fullness to my loins. As if he sensed it, he slowly ran his hand down low over my abdomen, touching me at the apex of my legs and slipping between my thighs. I shivered, though not with cold, for suddenly my body was aflame, burning with the sweet heat of desire and love, I trembled with the need to be a part of him, to make him a part of me, inseparable in mind and heart and soul, to cleave his body into mine so that the joining would make us as one.

  His fingers explored me gently, so gently, sliding inside me until they met my unbreached maidenhead. I gasped and he went still. He kissed me softly, as if in apology, then slid his body over me and against me, spreading my legs with his knees while his mouth went on tantalizing me beyond my control, until I wept with desperate, desperate need.

  As his strong, dark hands caught my wrists and pressed them into the bed above my head, he whispered almost regrettably, "I will hurt you only this once, my love. Forgive me."

  His entry was swift, complete, drawing from me a sudden cry of pain that was banished the moment he began moving against me. Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, tears of joy and ecstasy and, yes, tears of distress. For even then he belonged to another. The thought of him loving someone else as intimately as he was loving me tore at my heart. I hoped—prayed—that I should die that moment in his arms. For how would I continue without him now?

  I opened my eyes to find him watching me, I turned my head away toward the fire, but tenderly he caught my face in his palm and forced it back toward his own. Sliding his thumb over my damp cheeks, he said softly, with a hint of regret, "Did I hurt you?"

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  "Aye," he said, "I hurt you and I'm sorry."

  I touched his face, memorized its contours, and he began moving once again until the ancient magic crept in upon me, upon us both, drowning out all sight and sound, encompassing us in abandon that was so intense it bordered on pain. Aye, we were inseparable: fused, two parts of a whole come together at last. We strove toward the top and found it together, touched the splendor and held it for several pulsing moments until it settled as softly as nightfall on our shoulders.

  "I'll never leave you," he whispered again. "My love, my life, trust me. We will be together as man and wife somehow."

  Somehow.

  Opening my eyes and shaking free of the memory, I stared out the window toward Malham, and felt my heart break again with new pain.

  I had just decided to unpack my valise when a knock came softly on my door. My first instinct was to spring, but remembering Wyndham's order of three knocks and nothing more, I waited. Again the gentle rapping, continuous, before Matilda's singsong voice called, "Miss, are y there?"

  "Aye." I released my breath, laughing at my own nervousness.

  "Miss Adrienne has asked t' see y', lass. Come quickly, as shell most likely be waitin' tea."

  Dropping the valise to the bed, I hurried to the door. Matilda beamed up at me, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes narrowing beneath her extraordinary smile. " We y settled, luv?" she asked. "Are y' comfortable in that room?"

  "It's wonderful," I answered. "I can see all of Malham from my window."

  We walked together down the corridor, Matilda holding the candle before us. Having forgotten my wrap, I hugged myself tightly as Matilda responded, "Aye, y've a luvely view from that window. Malham is a good township, I vow, and I'm certain y'll like it 'ere. She's changin' ever day, though, and not always for the better."

  "Oh?"

  "Aye. The Crown Inn used to be the Cock and Bottle, y' know. Ole Kerry Barnes moved in last summer once the proprietor of t' Bottle died. He renamed t'owd place Crown and the ale ain't been near so good . . . so ole Jim says, o' course."

  We continued our journey in silence. I did my best to acquaint myself with the surroundings, knowing as I turned one corner after another that I would find myself lost when attempting to return to my quarters. The corridors were like a rat's maze, the passageways shooting off to each side in unending tunnels of darkness. There was nothing there that would h
elp me, so I devoted my energies on the fixtures along the hallway where I walked. As always there were paintings, of women mostly. Occasionally a table was placed against the wall, a mirror above it and sconces positioned on either side. Their light reflecting from the glass further brightened the hallway until we turned yet another corner.

  "However will I find my way back?" I asked aloud.

  Matilda continued walking, granting me no response.

  Our pace quickened. She plodded steadily along, her breath like wisps of miniature clouds tumbling back over her shoulders. I caught a glance of my own breath as well. The cold stung my face and burned the inside of my throat. The tips of my fingers became numb.

  I could see in the distance a pair of large double doors. Their sterling silver doorknobs glittered in the candlelight as we approached. Matilda knocked softly and called out, "Mum?"

  "Come in."

  I closed my eyes briefly as the servant pushed open the door. Matilda then stood aside and nodded for me to enter. I did so without hesitating.

  The immenseness of the room was breathtaking. It stopped me short. The ceiling, no less than twenty feet high, was intricately painted. I might have been gazing at a colossal canvas of rolling hills, trees, and blue sky. From the center hung a chandelier of such enormous proportions I could but blink in amazement. At least two hundred candles blazed within the gold-and-crystal fixture.

  "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

  Startled, I looked around.

  Adrienne Wyndham continued to stare at the ceiling. 44li was my father's idea, you see. My mother was an invalid and rested day in and day out in that bed." She pointed toward the massive four-poster bed dressing the wall across the room. "The woman was always cold, so by painting the ceiling with scenes of summer he hoped to warm her. The chandelier is from Paris and big enough to cast light to each corner of the ceiling. As you can see, the area closest to the light could be scenes of morning. The far corners, where the light is dimmest, is dusk—-won't you sit down, Miss Rushdon?"

  I did so.

  The door opened again. Trevor Wyndham swept in, throwing his cloak to Matilda, who smoothed it carefully over her forearm. He was smiling in that easy manner that had earlier made me feel less conspicuous in his presence. At no time, however, would I allow myself to forget that my hosts were class, pure to the blood, and I was a commoner. Even to sit in their presence, I felt, was an honor.

  "Am I late?" he asked his sister.

  "Aw contraire. You are right on time. How is your patient?"

  "Failing, I'm sorry to say. I don't give her a month. Is the tea hot?"

  They looked at me.

  "Shall I pour it?" I asked them.

  Adrienne nodded, pleased. I did not miss the look she exchanged with her brother as I poured the steeped brew into the blue-and-white Meissen porcelain, and it suddenly occurred to me why I had been asked to these formidable quarters. Like all employees who were assigned to the manor, I should know my place. Perhaps they had been concerned that I did not?

  "Are you settled?" Trevor asked. I nodded as he took his tea.

  "Has Jim returned with your things?" Adrienne asked.

  Folding my hands in my lap, I nodded again.

  "Won't you have tea?" they both asked.

  "No, thank you."

  Adrienne sipped her tea before continuing. "I suppose you're curious as to why we’ve asked you here."

  "You want to know more about me, I suppose. I come from Keighley. I lived with my uncle until recently, but he died of consumption. I saw the notice posted—"

  "Were you working at the Bull?" Trevor said.

  I looked him squarely in the face, aware of the meaning behind his question. "No," I responded.

  He returned my appraisal, his blue eyes sharp with interest as they moved slowly over my face. "Have you been ill?" he asked.

  My hands tightened within the folds of my skirt. How must I have appeared to him, a doctor? I had seen my reflection in mirrors and knew that the last two years had taken a toll on my appearance. My face was thin, and my eyes, already deeply set, appeared deeper yet. As 1 looked down at my hands I noted my fingers seemed overly long and the outline of my legs beneath my limp skirts was narrow. I weighed no more than seven stone, and being slightly over five feet and four inches, I was underweight.

  "I have not been ill," I answered.

  Sliding her cup and saucer onto the table at her side, Adrienne sat back in her chair. "We did not call Miss Rushdon here to inquire on her health," she remarked I hilly to her brother.

  Trevor shrugged. "It is a hard habit to break, Adrienne, but you're right." He looked then to me. "We wish to talk to you about my brother."

  "I see." Sitting back in my chair, I looked about the room a long moment before facing them again. "Did you wish to inform me that he's mad, perhaps?"

  They each appeared stunned.

  Smiling a little, I added, "He told me already."

  "Me told you?"

  "Me did, sir, and, I might add, I found the idea most amusing."

  "Amusing?"

  "Lord Malham is not mad. Angry perhaps. Perhaps he's upset over the death of his wife. Grief sometimes drains us of logic, you see. It makes us numb to certain responses. No, madness is irrational. Lord Malham is not irrational."

  It was Adrienne who spoke next. Two spots of color blotched her cheeks as she stared at me down her straight, thin nose, "My brother's entire existence is irrational, Miss Rushdon. How can you say otherwise when you don't even know him?"

  "1 think madness is something that cannot be here and gone. The very idea that he suspects he is mad is evidence of his sanity. A truly mad person seldom acknowledges his condition. That's what makes them irrational, you see."

  Adrienne's mouth dropped open.

  Trevor lifted one brow and his mouth turned up in a half smile of appreciation. "Well said, Miss Rushdon, I)lit while I would venture to say my brother is not totally mad, I will risk the chance of admitting he could snap at any moment. Which is why we have called you here. For the past few months Nicholas has been under a great deal of pressure. His memory comes and goes with the moon, it seems, and at times, though they be few, he has been violent. We would caution you about accepting this commission, for your own safety's sake."

  I looked at my hands. "I am not afraid of his lordship, sir. I do not believe him mad, and I do not believe he killed his wife/'

  Again they both sat in shocked silence.

  Adrienne pressed her fingers against her temple. "I feel a headache coming on, Trevor."

  "Take a powder. Miss Rushdon, who told you Nick killed his wife?"

  "Why, he did, of course."

  "He admitted it?"

  "No. He admitted only that people suspected him of the act."

  Adrienne left her chair, spilling her lap blanket to the floor. Dressed in a powder-blue dressing gown, she paced to the window and back, one moment wringing her white hands, the next twisting her fingers round and round the light brown tendril of hair that spilled over her shoulder. Trevor remained unmoved but thoughtful. With one long leg crossed over the other and one elbow propped on the chair arm, he absently brushed his lower lip with his forefinger and contemplated me.

  "What shall we do?" Adrienne addressed her brother. "This kind of thing cannot be tolerated any longer, Trevor. Something has to be done to stop him before word reaches the authorities."

  "Certainly you don't believe he killed his wife," I said.

  They both stared at me, silent.

  "The idea is ludicrous," I added. When they said nothing more I asked, "How did Lady Malham die?"

  "In a stable fire," Trevor responded. His eyes still watched me intently.

  "An accident perhaps. I cannot believe . . . they were married such a short time . . . He must have loved IMT -"

  "You seem to know a great deal about Nicholas," he interrupted. "How so?"

  "Everyone throughout Yorkshire knew of his engagement and marriage, sir. Nicho
las Wyndham, Lord of Walthamstow and Earl of Malham, is well-known throughout His Majesty's court, I'm certain,"

  Trevor laughed. "Ah, my romantic child, did you think we dined with royalty when traveling to London? Perhaps we entertained King George in this dreary old house? We are the bastards of London society, my dear. Too many marriages outside our class, too many debts and too much heresy have, over the last genera-lions, tainted our once spotless reputation."

  dripping the back of her chair, Adrienne rubbed her temple again and pleaded, "Oh, Trevor, please. Not in front of the girl"

  "I can see you don't believe me," he said to me.

  "Please," Adrienne wept. "Please don't continue."

  "Our grandfather was insane. That's when the problems started, you see. He spent his last five years at the Hospital of Saint Mary of Bethlehem in Southwark, London. It is a matter of record, unfortunately, and I understand that many of our so-called equals actually paid money to stroll by his cage and view him. The family name, as you might suspect, con Id never fully recover. They've all been waiting for the next lunatic to surface and, unfortunately, he has. Nicholas."

  Stunned, I sat back in my chair, unable to believe the horrible accusations Trevor Wyndham laid before me.

  Adrienne whirled and continued her frantic pacing. "Damn him/' she said aloud. "Nicholas ruined what little happiness I might have had with his idiotic babbling about madness and murder. What man in his right mind wants to marry into a family of lunatics?"

  Trevor looked sleepily at his sister. "Oh, do sit down and stop the theatrics. Nick did you a tremendous favor by having a spell at your engagement party. Chester Beauchamp would have made you a sorry husband and you well know it."

  "I hate him. I hate him, I tell you!" She pounded the chair with her fists.

  I jumped from my seat, frightened by Adrienne's outburst. Perhaps it was my nature to comfort the distraught, perhaps merely a habit I had developed over the last months, but I found myself cradling the woman's shoulders in my arms, smoothing back the hair that clung to her wet cheeks while Trevor Wyndham looked on impassively.