"You should not hate him, Adrienne," Trevor said. "He cannot help what has happened to him any more than our grandfather could. We know little of the mind and its afflictions, so, for the time being, patience is a must. He does have his rational moments and during those times we should all do our best to support him. Now, I'm certain we've taxed Miss Rushdon enough."
He left his chair briskly and offered me his hand. I took it, but not before helping his sister into her chair.
Walking me to the door, he said, "I'm sorry to have put you through this, Miss Rushdon. But you must realize that committing your services to this family should take some thought. Our life here is far from typical, not as you might have suspected upon your arrival. Should you decide to stay I will only caution von to take extreme care with Nicholas, His mood -.wings are unpredictable. Should you experience any problems you will let me know immediately."
I nodded.
Trevor opened the door. "Good night, Miss Rushdon."
The door closed behind me. I stood in the dark, cold silence, my mind whirling in confusion. Perhaps I had misjudged Nicholas Wyndham after all. It seemed the entire world believed him mad—not only mad but capable of murder. Perhaps I did not know him at all,
Had never known him. Perhaps I had come to believe in my own fantasies, no less fanciful than a child's. No, I did not know him. Had never known him.
I had just moved away from the door when it opened again. I waited, and in a moment Adrienne Wyndham's slim form slipped into the hallway. She stared at me, her fingers gripped her dressing gown tightly about her throat, and I watched as a tiny stream of breath from her lips dissolved into the darkness.
"Miss Rushdon," Adrienne addressed me in a small
"Yes?
Adrienne moved toward me with short steps. When we stood face to face, she smiled briefly, "You were very kind," she said. "I fear Trevor has grown too stoic where emotion is concerned. It has been necessary for him to do so, considering his profession, you understand"
"Yes," I responded.
Lowering her voice further, she said, "Help Nicholas 11 yon can. Trevor is determined that the only way to excuse his behavior is to accept it. I cannot accept it, You see, but neither can I help him. I am still too damnably angry at him for leaving me. You see, Nick and I were very close, but since this malady has come upon him . . ." She looked at her hands. "It is like looking at the most beautiful being in your life and suddenly finding him horribly scarred. I simply cannot face him, and that frightens me."
I touched Adrienne's hands, stilling their nervous wringing. "Perhaps he's frightened, too, milady/' I said. She looked up.
"Will—will you stay with him? Help him? He's so desperately alone now, except for the child. The child is his life, the only one who can accept him as he is. Were it not for the child . . ."
"Of course."
"You believe in him . . . ?"
"Of course."
Turning back toward the door, she chanced one last glance at me before closing it between us.
Blackness again. The cold settled inside me, yet all I could think of was the child in Nick's arms. I knew then what I must do, what I had to do, for my own sake as well as his.
The laughter came then, soft and low, as cold as the draft that stirred my skirts and made me shiver. He was as illusive as the shadow in which he stood, blacker than black, filling the emptiness of the hallway with his presence and the rich tone of his laughter. As he stepped more into the light I could see he was wearing a dinner jacket of dark green velvet and a shirt of white linen. At his throat he wore a cravat of expensive white silk and upon it, a jade the size of a cat's eye winked in the candlelight.
"You see," he said. That was all. Only "You see."
I stood inside my chamber, listening to my lord's footsteps diminish in the distance. Then silence again.
Once I had craved the tranquility of solitude, but this soundlessness seemed oppressive, and it made me shiver. I had not realized until that moment how alone I was, yet . . .
I did not feel alone.
Shrugging off the bothersome feeling, I changed into my bedclothes and climbed into bed. Staring toward the steady candle flame on my dresser, I convinced myself, again, that what I was doing was right. There would be no turning back.
The candlelight wavered and a thin stream of black smoke coiled up toward the ceiling. And then the cry, long and shrill and painful, sending tremors up my arms and causing my heart to stop. Leaping from my bed, I threw open my window, gasping as a rush of frigid air swept round me. Again the cry, more distant now. To my frightened ear, it seemed as if it came from the direction of the . . . stables.
Forcing myself to smile, I said aloud, "Henrietta. It is only Henrietta." Then closing my windows and drape I crawled back into bed, stared at the steady candle flame, and hugged my pillow to my breast.
Chapter 4
I dreamt again of the darkness. The cloying, suffocating darkness. It washed over me, cold and damp, so I fought out of fear to battle it back. If I didn't hurry they would come: the ones with the hands to grip my skirts and arms and legs. They would call me evil and shame me. They would threaten to cut off my hair. They would beat me or starve me. They might even kill me.
"Help me," I tried to whimper. "Oh, help me."
Where was Jerome"?
Dead.
"Oh, no. No!" I wept.
I pushed away from my pillow, forcing open my eyes, telling myself that it was all a dream as I rolled my legs from the bed. Focusing on the tiny room, I drew in great lungfuls of cold air that made me cough. You re safe, I told myself. No more hands coming at me from the darkness. No more darkness.
The candle flame sputtered. Its halo of orange light flickered erratically about the walls and furniture in the room: a chest of drawers, an armchair, its high back covered with rosebud carvings. They all seemed distorted in size as the light played back and forth in the draft of wind that found its way under the door.
I had just stumbled from the bed, grabbed up a new candle, and prepared to light it before the other went out when the knock came.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I stared at the doorknob and held my breath.
Silence.
Again. Knock. Knock. Knock.
With trembling fingers I swept up the key from the chest and moved swiftly to the door. Thrusting the key into the lock, I hesitated, then twisted it a fraction until the bolt slid into place. I stepped back as the door swung open.
He smelled of mist, of leather and sherry and . . . dirt. The wet hem of his cloak clung to his muddied knee-high boots. His face was chafed red and his hair, curling slightly from the dampness tumbled over his brow.
"Miss Rushdon," came his quiet voice. "I've disturbed you."
"No, my lord." I lowered the candle, feeling those gray eyes travel over my person. It was only then I realized that I'd forgotten to don my dressing gown before responding to his knock. Knowing the sheer material of my nightdress hid little from his perusal, I crossed one arm over my breasts. Tilting my head a little, I looked at him from under my lashes and asked, "Have you a need for me now, my lord?"
One end of his mouth curled up. "Aye," he said, huskily.
"If you'll allow me to change—"
"Don't bother." His hair stirred. So did the tail of his cloak. Hunching his shoulders more closely to his body, he added, "You're fine as you are."
I accompanied him to his studio.
I stood amidst the tented works of art that cluttered each corner of the room, feeling as if I had stumbled into a child's playroom. Swatches of bright and dull paints covered the walls and sheets were tossed randomly over easels and canvases.
"Sit’ there," came his voice, I sensed rather than saw that he pointed toward the stool near the window. I took my place atop it and stared at the window, my back to him. I watched his distorted reflection in the panes of glass as he discarded his cloak, letting it fall to the floor. Then he stood with his hands at
his sides and stared at me.
Feeling panic rise inside me, I asked, "Is there something wrong, my lord?" Only then did I look over my shoulder, where my gown lay threadbare against my shivering skin.
Wyndham's face looked white but for the spots of color in his cheeks. His eyes were the color of cold ash. He pointed to the knot of hair I'd wound atop my head before climbing into bed. "Release your hair."
Lifting my hands, my fingers numb with cold, I fumbled with the combs until the heavy black coil tumbled over my shoulder. When I looked at him again his eyes were narrowed.
He moved toward me slowly, in all his catlike grace, his presence enough to suck the very air from the quarters, leaving me weak and uncertain. I tried to search his eyes, but they were vacant. What memories lingered there? I wondered. What was left, if anything, of the Nicholas Wyndham I once had known?
He stopped, stood beside me a long moment before reaching out and catching a tendril of my hair. My heart raced, and the memories—my memories—came tumbling forth. I thought back to when he had touched my hair that first time, and the memory rocked me with an impact no less forceful than it had that blustery spring day on the moor.
"Don't be frightened," he told me. "I have no intention of hurting you."
"I'm not frightened," I assured him before looking back toward the window. I watched him as he studied my profile.
"Beautiful," he said before turning back to his canvas.
I sat on my chair, unmoving, like a bird on a perch. The cold gathered about me, seeped into my skin so my bones ached and my fingers and toes grew so numb it hurt to move them. It was little enough sacrifice, I thought, for the rewards that would eventually follow.
I watched him in the panes, hour after endless hour, and was sorry when the dawn deleted the faceted image on the glass.
He put down his brush and pallet of paints.
Sliding from the stool, I stretched the stiffness from my legs and back and shoulders before venturing toward the easel. His voice stopped me.
"Come away from there," he said.
I smiled to myself, thinking he was only bluffing.
"I said,"—he stepped between me and the canvas—"no,"
I stepped away then, as quickly as possible, though in that brief moment the heat of his body had warmed me. I threw my head back, intention meeting his eyes without flinching. But though I tried desperately, I could not. Those eyes, like steel, cut into me like a sword.
"You will never, under any circumstances, take liberties in this room," he told me. "When—if I should decide to allow you to view the painting, I will let you know."
Bully, I thought.
"That will be all, Miss Rushdon."
I turned and left the room, feeling his eyes behind me. I closed the door and waited. Nothing.
Returning to my room, I climbed onto my bed, dragged the heavy counterpane up over my shoulders, and tucked it beneath my chin. My entire body was numb, but it was a numbness that I had grown accustomed to. The cold had never bothered me. It was my constitution, after all. I was thick-skinned like my father. Or so my mother, dead fifteen of my twenty-three years, had told me once.
No, the cold didn't bother me. It was the darkness. I had never, never liked the dark; even as a child, before Menston and its prison of shadows with nothing but the moon to illuminate the bleak stone corridors. Night played foul tricks on my mind, turning chairs into wolf demons that hunkered in corners, waiting to pounce on me if I dared close my eyes. It hid a childhood demon under my bed, with his skeletal hands ready to nab me should I venture off my mattress during the night.
Now I stared at the candle, the vague shapes of chairs more distinct as the early morning mist whirled in clouds against my window. I stared at the candle and wondered what wolf demons possessed Nicholas Wyndham. I would slay them if I knew. I would, I thought, as I had learned to slay my own.
Minutes later I was summoned by Matilda. "Miss Adrienne wishes to see y'," she called from outside my door. "Hurry, miss."
Leaving my bed, I pulled on the same dress I'd worn the day before. I had no others. I raked my fingers through my hair, letting the black curls tumble where they may: over my shoulders to my waist, around my face. Having no ribbon to tie it back, I supposed it would have to do, this maiden's way of wearing it. I laughed bitterly at the thought before whirling toward the door.
Adrienne Wyndham sat alone in the morning room, her brow wrinkled in consternation as she studied the paper in her hand. I stood in the doorway of the slightly shabby apartment, noting the faded Persian rug, as threadbare as my gown, and the discolored silver service placed on the table near her knee.
"This will never do," I heard her mumble.
"What will never do?" came the voice behind me.
I whirled, startled by Trevor's appearance. He smiled down at me as Adrienne said, "Miss Rushdon, come in."
"Yes," Trevor added. "Never dally at Walthamstow. Speak up and let your presence be known."
He took my arm and ushered me into the room.
He continued, "I trust, dear sister, that you are perusing this week's menu. You won't tax yourself?"
"Hoity boy," she came back. Her mood was clearly much lighter than it had been last evening. "You are up and about very early, Trevor."
"So I am."
"Business?"
"Isn't it always?" He took a chair opposite Adrienne. It was a straight-back Jacobean with a faded seat, and flanked by urns of feathery ferns. I continued to stand until he said, "Sit down," and wagged a finger toward a crewel-seated armchair. I took my place in it and waited.
"I spent a miserable night," Adrienne told him. "I didn't sleep a wink." Folding her hands in her lap, she said, "Perhaps a few of your powders . . . ?"
"Absolutely not. You know how I feel about that."
Adrienne lifted one brow and looked at me. "Have you ever known a physician, Miss Rushdon, who refuses to treat his patients when they are in need?"
"By gosh," he said. "You do me a great injustice, Adrienne."
"Were I fat old Phineas Clark you would heap me with cures."
"Not so. Were you fat old Phineas Clark I would tell you had dropsy and to cut out the sherry."
A servant entered the room then, a young girl about my age. She dipped first to Trevor, then to Adrienne. /'You sent for me, mum?"
Adrienne picked up the paper in her lap. "Our stores are low, miss. How did this happen?"
"An oversight, mum."
I watched the girl's face color.
"Whose oversight?"
The servant chewed on her lower lip and cast down her eyes.
"Ach!" Adrienne announced harshly. "Don't bother to reply. You're covering up for Nicholas. Has he failed again to satisfy our creditors? He has, hasn't he? Now they've cut us off?"
Trevor cleared his throat, glancing from his sister to me.
Adrienne ignored him. "How long must this continue?" she asked to no one in particular. "He is totally incapable as head of the family, Trevor. When will you do something?"
"Leave it alone," he said a bit tiredly. Then dismissing the girl with a wave of his hand, he added, "I'll remind Nicholas when I see him."
"You coddle him too much," his sister said. "You'll make him delicate in the end."
He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. Tipping his head toward me, so his brown hair slid over his brow, he asked, "How was your first night at Walthamstow, Miss Rushdon? Comfortable?"
"Yes, thank you." Glad the subject of Nick's illness was temporarily forgotten, I began to relax. "We had our first session this morning." "Indeed?" they said in unison.
"How was his behavior?" Adrienne asked, leaning forward in anticipation. "Normal," I responded.
"Painting like a demon throughout the night is hardly normal," Adrienne countered. "Did you, by chance, catch a peek at any other paintings in the room?"
I shook my head.
Trevor laughed. "You see, he has won her over already, Adri
enne. I applaud your loyalty, Miss Rushdon."
"The truth," I told him, setting my chin stubbornly. "I saw nothing, not even my own "portrait."
"I wonder what he hides there," Adrienne said. Cutting his blue eyes from me to his sister, Trevor admitted, "It is none of our business."
A warning note rang in his words, settling into every nook and cranny in the cluttered room. Finally Adrienne collected her menu, took up her sewing bag from the floor, and announced, "I see I've ventured from my bed too early in the day. I'm fatigued, Trevor. You will forgive me?"
I left my chair. "Ma'am, you asked to see me?" She looked surprised. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did." Coloring slightly, she tucked her remnants beneath her arm. "Feel free to move about Walthamstow as you please, Miss Rushdon." With that she spun and left the room.
Then Trevor left his chair. "Your pardon, Ariel, but I have a patient due." He too left the room.
Finding myself alone, I thought there no better time than this to explore my new home.
I met Matilda in the hallway. Her short arms were curled around a pair of rose-painted slops as she beamed at me and announced, "Help's fer breakfast in t' kitchen, luv. Yer welcome t' join us."
I did so, gratefully.
The kitchen, a long room whose walls glittered with copper pans, was the first truly warm apartment I'd visited since arriving at Walthamstow. Servants hustled across floors that had turned black with age, taking turns at the chairs scattered around the antiquated rectangular table in the center of the room.
" 'ere now," Matilda announced. "Where's yer manners, ladies? Say 'ello t' the lass, 'ere."
They all looked around, some peering through wisps of hair, others righting their caps and smearing jammy fingers over their aprons.
Shoving the chamber jars into a frowning woman's arms, Matilda clucked her tongue. "Yer a sorry bunch, gapin' like y' just seen a specter. Close yer mouth, Polly."
A round-eyed woman with gray-streaked hair snapped shut her mouth to a chorus of giggles.
A Heart Possessed Page 5