Matilda pointed me toward a rush-seated chair. "She's a mite thin," she said. "Given a few cakes with treacle she'll fatten up."
"She's right bonny," someone said.
I smiled my thanks as Matilda patted me reassuringly on my shoulders. "Aye, that she is. She's 'is lordship's new sitter, y' know."
"T don't say," Polly returned. "Finally found one 'e couldn't send runnin' down the road, did 'e?"
I eyed the sweet treacle hungrily as Matilda lathered it over several buttered cakes. "I don't find him frightening at all," I responded.
"You ain't seen 'im in one of 'is moods." It was Polly again. "Becomes a real fright, 'e does. Only one what can control 'im is 'is brother."
"Where you from?" someone else asked.
"Keighley," I answered.
"Me mum's from Keighley. Where 'bouts in Keighley?"
I avoided the question, licking the treacle from my finger. "This is very good. My compliments to the cook."
A middle-aged woman, weighing no less than twelve stone, dropped heavily onto a chair and reared back. " 'e was grave walkin' last eve."
"Give over," Matilda said.
I sucked on my finger and watched the woman rock back and forth in her chair.
"Sure 'e was. I went down to Rockover with Pete. Was on me way home when I seen 'im at the cemetery. Standin' there like a ghoul over 'is wife's grave, 'e were."
"Did 'e howl?" Polly asked, taking a chair herself. Several of the women laughed nervously. I, however, did not. She sniffed and went on. "I'll be expectin' to hear any day that 'e's dug her up and driven a stake through her breast."
"Good riddance," Matilda said. "She were a witch and deserved what she got."
A murmur of agreement followed.
"I, for one, am glad she's gone." The young servant I had earlier met in the morning room poured herself coffee.
Lifting one brow, Polly leaned slightly over the table and said softly, " 'Cordin' to 'is lordship she ain't. Jane's come back t' haunt 'im."
I sat back in my chair.
Matilda shook her head. "Y'll stop spreadin' such rumors, Polly, There ain't no such thing as ghosts."
" 'oo says?" she responded, looking to each of our startled faces. "Y' can't deny that some mighty strange things We been goin' on 'round 'ere of late. Why, just last week a tin of Miss Adrienne's best tea went missin'. One evenin' it were there, the mornin' it were gone." Narrowing her eyes, she added, "Just yesterday a plate of scones vanished practically under our noses."
"Don't be daft," Matilda scolded. "Ghost don't eat anyhows."
" 'oo says?"
The younger servant repeated, "Well, Jane's gone and good riddance. I could never see what Lord Mai-ham saw in 'er in the first place. She treated Samantha poorly, I vow. That's why Sammy buggered off."
"Samantha buggered off 'cause she seen the murder," Polly argued.
They began a mighty discussion then about Lady Jane's death that made me lose my appetite. I pushed my dish away, with its uneaten cakes and treacle still piled high atop it. I thought of telling those loose-tongued women that they owed Nicholas Wyndham some loyalty. He was their employer, after all. Finally deciding it was no business of mine, I excused myself and exited the kitchen through the back door.
"There goes a strange one," I heard Polly say.
The day was clear. The moor rose green and high on the horizon and the air was sharp with the smell of peat. I drank it in until my head swam dizzily with the musty aroma, until I felt my blood sing in my veins.
The cat caught my eye, black as night with eyes the color of buttercups. It looked at me steadily, one paw raised and hooked slightly over its nose. The fur about its mouth was white with cream. Going down on one knee, I held out my hand and called, "Kitty, kitty."
It eyed me suspiciously. Finally it padded over, arcing its back as it weaved round and round my hand. My first friend, I thought, smiling. Scooping him up in my arms, I continued walking down the path past the overgrown gardens, where the withered stalks of poppies rattled together in the breeze. I walked several minutes before turning and looking back.
"Walthamstow," I said aloud. Had I really spent my first night there? Aye, the first of many, I reminded myself.
The house rose like a mountain against the sky; from each of her stone chimneys coiled a wreath of gray-blue smoke. Her annexes stretched east and west, and were obscured partially by trees that lifted their leafless branches toward the sky. A rook perched atop the highest tree, balancing with a flap of his black wings as the branch swayed back and forth in the wind.
The child's squeal of delight wrenched me from my daydreams, daydreams too often filled with Waltham-stow and Nicholas Wyndham. Again I reminded myself of my reasons for coming here.
I turned back down the path, clutching the cat to my breast harder and harder each time I heard Kevin's laughter. Giving up my patience, I began to run, finally leaving the well-trod path for one less obvious.
The glass-smooth pond lay serenely against a backdrop of whip-thin rushes and blooming roses. Any other time I might have considered the place paradise. I could do nothing now, however, but stand and stare, mute in my horror, as the child tottered toward the muddy shoal and brackish, lily-covered water.
The cat yowled and twisted in my arms as I began to run. "Come away from there!" I called out. My eyes searched frantically for Bea, but there was no one there. Fear blinded me to all but the tiny tottering image in the distance. "Come away from there!" I screamed it now as he stumbled down the grassy incline, his short, pudgy arms waving out to his sides.
I reached him the very moment he fell. He tumbled into my arms and I swept him up, sinking to my ankles in the lichen-covered mud. Burying my face in his fine hair, I closed my eyes and drenched my senses in his musty child-smell. "Oh, Kevin," I whispered. "Kevin."
Opening my eyes, I found Bea standing at the edge of the rose brambles, watching. Her eyes glittered like jacinthe in the half-light; she bared her teeth in a way that reminded me of a jackal.
"Give him to me," came her voice over the croaking of frogs. Her clawlike hands lifted as she plodded toward me.
I shook my head. "Nay, I will not. You were remiss in watching him. He might have fallen—"
"Give him to me."
I clutched him to me. "Nay," I argued. "I shan't. I shall inform his lordship—"
"Go on and tell him. Hell have forgotten by dusk." The crone laughed in her throat. "Sick, sick man. Deranged man, now give me the child."
"But you were remiss—"
"He slipped away. We were picnicking there." She pointed over her shoulder. Then plunging her hand in the deep pocket of her skirt, she pulled out a squirming kitten. "I was chasing the animal, Kevin's pet. You must understand . . ." Her bony head tilted; she watched me from the corner of her eyes.
In that moment I realized how I must have looked, desperate and clinging like a ... I staggered toward the carpet of brown wilted grass and placed him upon it. He ran to the hag and I turned away, fixing my eyes on the opaque water until I was certain they were gone.
Only then did I collapse on the ground. I yearned to beat it; I almost did. But the blood on my arms halted the tantrum. With my fist upraised, I stared at the thin bloody grooves running the length of each arm. The cat; I hadn't even realized.
No longer so angry, I sat with arms propped upon my knees and stared at the spider's web crisscrossed between two rushes. I wanted nothing more than to leave this place. But I was bound to it in blood. Dedication to my cause was as great as my need for revenge. Greater, I realized in that moment. Far greater.
What had happened to the hate that had sustained me through those bleak hours in Menston? The hate that had pumped new life into my lungs, even as Jerome took his last dying breath?
Hate then had a face, a name. Wyndham. Nicholas Wyndham. I hated him even as I ached for him, and asked them all: why? Why had he done it? Lied, cheated, and made me a fool. He'd been so good at it, so wretchedly co
nvincing. I had been so certain that he loved me.
As I sat there brooding, immersed in my past, I thought: I hope his conscience has driven him mad.
Chapter 5
Upon entering Trevor Wyndham's quarters I was not a little startled to find his brother there, standing with his back to me, before a window, his hands clasped casually behind him. As I stopped at the door, I heard Trevor's voice clearly from within.
"You were to meet me for cards last eventide, Nick. Where were you?"
"I don't remember. There. Isn't that what you expected of me?"
"How is your head?"
"Cracking."
"You should try sleeping."
"I cannot sleep."
"Have you heard the voices again? . . . Nick?"
"What's it to you?"
Trevor, without turning, moved from one table laden with bottles to another strewn with papers. "You went out last eve, Nick. Do you know that?"
"I told you—"
"You had several pints with Jim at the inn. You two have grown as thick as Damon and Pythias." Trevor looked over his shoulder. "Do you think it healthy?"
The response was a moment in coming, "Leave Jim alone. He is my friend."
"If he were your friend he would not continue to perpetuate these notions you have. And it is one thing to feel some sort of gratitude toward him—he did save your life, or so he says—but I would caution you to leave it at that. The man has an over fondness for bitters, Nick, and you hardly need that . . . atop everything else."
I cleared my throat.
Trevor turned. My lord, however, did not.
"Miss Rushdon," Trevor approached me, smiling. "You're quiet as a cat," he told me,
"I'm sorry."
"Mb bother." He stopped as he noticed my arms. "Lord God! What has happened?"
Lord Malham partially turned from the window. His face was without expression. But I could not turn from his eyes nonetheless. "The cat," I finally managed.
Trevor took a closer look at the scratches. "What a bloody mess," he said. "What cat did it?"
"A black one with yellow eyes."
"Belzeebub. The damnable animal is a nuisance, always filching our cream. Come into the light so I can see you better,"
I watched his hands moving tenderly over my arms. "It isn't bad," I assured him. "But Matilda thought I should see you."
He flashed me a smile. "Good for her." Then he reached for a bottle and clean linens. "Push up your sleeves," he told me.
I looked up from his concerned blue eyes, feeling my face warm.
He laughed. "What a proper girl you are, and shy. I assure you, Miss Rushdon, baring your elbows to my eyes will hardly mar your reputation."
"I'd rather not," I told him.
"Very well, then." He proceeded to touch the lacerations with the soaked cloths. The scratches burned frightfully, and I winced. "There now," he said more softly, "is it too awful, Miss Rushdon?"
"No, sir' I replied. "I can bear it."
"You're a strong lass. Isn't she, Nick?"
I waited for my lord's response, but none came. Finally, unable to refrain, I looked and found him staring at me, his mouth set in a harsh line.
I could not help but notice his appearance. There was a manner of pride, still, in his stance, though his shoulders appeared a little too stiff and therefore formal for this occasion. He wore a jacket of the finest broadcloth, cut closely to his body. His breeches were fawn leather and fit him snugly. He had fine thighs.
"There now." Trevor turned away and dropped the cloths in a basket. "Ill send a portion of this potion with you, Miss Rushdon, so you may continue to bathe your arms."
I lowered the bruised limbs obediently. "What do I owe you?" I asked him.
"Owe me?" He shot me a disarming smile. "Perhaps a bit of conversation some lonely eventide, Miss Rushdon. Nothing more." He handed me the potion. "Cleanse the wounds thrice a day, please, and let me check them this time tomorrow."
I thanked him with a smile and turned for the door.
I had walked only a little way into the hall when Lord Malham's voice stopped me. "Hold up, Miss Rushdon."
I turned.
He stood in the doorway, filling it with his presence, and surveyed me with eyes that revealed none of his thoughts. "Should I help you to your room?" he asked me.
I checked my surprise. "No," I said. "The scratches are on my arms, milord, not my feet."
His face thawed, if only for a moment. He smiled a little, and my heart, traitor that it was, took wing at the sight. I had cracked that veneer of bitterness and anger. As his mouth—once as precious a treasure to me as owned by any king—curled up and dimpled his cheek, I forgot my own bitterness and anger long enough to smile back,
I turned and continued down the hall. He joined me, easily matching my stride.
"I assume you've had time to tour the house, Miss Rushdon?"
"I have, sir."
"Ah, Then you've greeted the help." We turned a corner. His elbow bumped me and he pardoned himself, putting a slightly greater distance between us. "I assume you've been informed, then, on all the gory details."
"If you are aware of their tongues, milord, you could dismiss them."
"Yes I could. But you see, therein lies a problem. No one wants to work for a lunatic. They know it, of course, and bleed my pocket dry because of it." He did not speak again for a long moment. Then, "Are you up to posing again, Miss Rushdon?"
"When and where?" We stopped outside my door.
I looked at him boldly, though my heart was constricting in my chest. Not out of fear-—oh, no—he had never frightened me. Not then, not now, despite the gossipmongers, despite his self-recriminations and doubts, "Where?" I repeated more firmly.
His gray eyes pinned me. "There is a pond a short walk from the house—"
"I know it."
"There are roses blooming. In the afternoon there is a nice light—"
"At what hour, milord?"
"Two-ish, I think."
"I will be there." I turned for my door.
"Ariel."
I froze, my name sounding on his tongue like a lover's lament. I circled to face him and met his eyes.
He lifted his head to gaze beyond me. "Thank you," he said. And without looking at me again he turned on his heel and walked gracefully back down the hall.
At two sharp I sat waiting on the marble bench set to one side of the pond. There was no hope of sun. The afternoon shadows were long and gray, and even as I watched, the colors faded from the landscape, turning as bleak as the muted windows of the distant manor house. The moon ascended among the clouds, a seemingly transparent orb that vanished moments after its awakening. With its appearance came an uncanny stillness that left me wishing Nicholas would arrive as he had promised.
Huddling close beneath my cloak, I continued to wait, surrounded by great, dense trees and withered briars that formed a sort of lair to hide me. The air became colder. For some minutes I experienced a heightened anticipation; the feeling that I was about to be joined by someone was so strong I left my seat and stared at the vague path across from me. I saw the leaves of a shrub tremble. The limbs and foliage of a tree swayed aside and yet all else was still.
"Is anyone there?" I called out.
No response.
How dark the day seemed to me. How deep the shadow surrounding me. Suddenly a wild and cold wind rose, sobbing over the distant moor, and, unable to hold in my fear any longer, I grabbed up the hem of my cloak and hurried back to Walthamstow.
Entering through the kitchen door I knew immediately that all was not right. Polly stood wringing her hands, and the young woman who had earlier been confronted by Adrienne stood weeping, a handkerchief pressed to her face.
Then I heard the wail, long and pitiful and full of misery.
Leaving the kitchen, I hurried down the corridor, pulling open my cloak as I ran. The crying seemed to be coming from the same morning room I'd visited earlier.
&
nbsp; "You horrible, horrible man," Adrienne cried aloud, "Fiend! How could you do this to me?"
I listened for a response. There was none.
"Monster! You have the heart of a devil!"
My lungs burning, I stopped at the door and looked upon the tragic scene. Adrienne sat on her chair in a powder-blue gown among mounds of white tissue paper, her face streaked with tears. She gripped between her trembling hands a length of exquisite white lace. I was too afraid to look across the room, dreading who I would find there,
My lord Malham,
Tall and dark and silent, his face a cold mask, he stood with his back to the fireplace, as erect and still as the carved caryatids supporting the elaborate Italian mantle. He did not even blink as she railed at him.
"Beast! You are a beast and I would bleed myself dry if it meant separating myself from you completely!"
Spying me then, her eyes flashing and her nostrils distended with fury, she lifted her shaking finger and announced, "Behold the monster, Miss Rushdon; the man you believe is of sound mind and noble heart. He has broken my heart again and—cruel, cruel man, I hate you for doing this to me. I hate you!"
She crumbled before our eyes. I waited, uncertain what Nicholas would do. He did nothing, just remained stolid and unmoving. Unable to bear Adrienne's distress a moment longer I hurried over and wrapped my arms around her.
"There now," I comforted. "It cannot possibly be so bad."
"Why does he loathe me so?" Her shoulders shook as she wept. Yet even as she reproached him, she clutched the lace against her bosom like a treasure. "What have I done that he should want to hurt me this way?"
"What has he done?" I asked.
Opening her fingers, she lifted the material. "A gift."
A gift? "It's beautiful. But why—"
"A wedding gift." Her voice broke as she struggled to say, "This was to be my wedding day. I had put it from my mind until . . . he ruined it. Spoiled my chances of ever being happy, of marrying the only man I will ever love. And now this. He comes sauntering in here with a gift tucked beneath his arm: wedding lace! Then wishes me happiness on my wedding day. Oh, loathsome, loathsome man, I wish you had died in that fire with your spiteful wife. Then you both could have burned in hell for an eternity!"
A Heart Possessed Page 6