A Heart Possessed

by Katherine Sutcliffe

  Sensing my husband watching me, I looked down into his eyes. "I'm slipping over the edge," he said, "and I can't seem to stop it any longer."

  I stroked his temple with my fingers and did my best to smile, "Let go. I'll catch you when you fall."

  "I'm afraid of hitting the bottom, afraid of what I'll become . . . Why has this happened to me?"

  "I don't know."

  "You won't let them take me."

  "Certainly not." I brushed my fingertips gently over his lashes, closing his eyes. "Sleep, my lord husband, while you can. I'll be here when you awaken."

  His voice was groggy as he said, "Aye, but will I know you?" Then he drifted to sleep.

  I watched the fire until the coals turned gray and the case clock in the hallway rang out in the silence. I found my solace by holding my husband, by watching my son sleep. It was a vision I had carried in my mind for the last year. If need be, this memory could last me forever.

  I had no doubt now that my husband was an addict; unknowingly, but an addict nevertheless. Someone in this house had turned him into one. My first objective was to release him from his dependency. I believed the pain he experienced in his head was a combination of the drug and his mind's effort to recover the past. With that release, I hoped, his memory would be totally restored.

  But what then? I asked myself.

  He would know me for the impostor I was: I had come to Walthamstow intent on revenge, intent on ruining him, on hurting him, on taking away my son— his son—and never returning.

  Would he understand? Would he forgive me?

  That was my dread, my desperate, heartbreaking fear, more powerful even than the possibility that he was a murderer. Murder, after all, could be committed in an instant of violent passion, leaving the perpetrator bloodied but remorseful. But revenge? Cold, passionless, premeditated intent on destroying. Aye, I was guilty. If he turned me out I would go . . . and never look back.

  Chapter 17

  I thought I was prepared. I wasn't.

  I saw Nicholas through the first three days of his withdrawal without leaving his side. Each time he looked at me, his eyes questioning why? why are you doing this to me? I turned away and wept. For him to think that I was the cause of his pain was almost more than I could bear.

  Little by little the tremors ceased. The hallucinations became less frequent, the pain in his head less intense. But little by little he changed, withdrew. Again I was becoming a stranger to him, and I feared my greatest worry would be realized. Perhaps his loss of memory was permanent and had actually had nothing to do with the drug. Perhaps the man I had grown to love those years before no longer existed. Perhaps, I thought, he never had.

  The fourth evening Nicholas slept soundly enough that I allowed myself to leave his room and venture to the Great Hall, prepared for a barrage of questions from his family. I had refused them entrance to our quarters when they pounded on our door demanding explanation. Facing them now would not be an easy task. But I was certain now that someone in this house was slipping my husband an opiate, and I was determined to learn who was doing it and why.

  Upon my entering the room, Adrienne came out of her chair. "It is about time," she said. "What in heaven's name is going on up there? What are you doing to my brother?"

  "He's been ill," I said. "He's better now."

  "Ill? What do you mean? If he's ill then why haven't you allowed Trevor to see him?"

  "It was my husband's request," I said.

  "You're lying," she stated boldly. "You've made this illness all up. To think I trusted you at all. You're just like Jane, I think. You want to keep him to yourself, Afraid I'll convince him this marriage is a farce. Well, J will if given the chance. I shan't allow you to usurp my position in this house like she did,"

  Pouring myself a cup of tea, I closed my eyes in weariness before saying, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Adrienne. I had hoped we could be friends."

  "No doubt I'll be ostracized even more now by my peers. When they learn the new lady of Walthamstow is nothing but a common little—"

  "That will be all," Trevor ordered. I looked around, placing my cup on the Chippendale game table beneath the window. Trevor stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his sister. "My apologies, Lady Malham, for my sister's ill manners. Suffice it to say she is overwrought with concern." Satisfied he had successfully shamed Adrienne into silence, he entered the room. "How is my brother, madam?"

  "Sleeping."

  "He's had a total breakdown, hasn't he?"

  Adrienne dropped into the chair and pressed her kerchief to one eye. "Of course he has. For God's sake, Trevor, don't be so imbecilic."

  "Are you all right?" Trevor asked me, his voice kind. "My God, Ariel, we've been out of our minds with worry. You can't possibly cope with something like this by yourself."

  "I am coping well enough."

  He caught my chin and tipped up my face. "Is that a bruise on your cheek? Ariel, has he been abusive?"

  I pulled away. "He hasn't," I answered truthfully. "He hit me by accident. He was in the throes of a nightmare. My husband is well," I assured him, wishing I felt as confident of the matter as I sounded. "Given another two days of bed rest I'm certain he'll be as good as new."

  Trevor crossed his arms over his chest, lifted one brown eyebrow, and smiled. "You are lying, of course, and I know it. We've anticipated this breakdown for some time. I'm just sorry it's happened now, just as he's married again. It must be very difficult for you."

  I glanced toward Adrienne, then out the window at my left. I had no energy to argue. I was drained from my ordeal and already I regretted having decided so soon to face my in-laws' curiosity. Perhaps, if I had been more confident of my husband's total recovery, I could have faced their accusations with more certainty. But I was not. I was feeling decidedly defeated and hopeless, and at that moment I wished I had never returned to Walthamstow.

  I was relieved when Reginald entered the room. He looked first to Trevor. "Sir, your appointment has arrived. I have shown him to your office."

  Taking my hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze, Trevor said, "We'll speak on this further, Ariel. Until later, ladies." Spinning on his heels, he left the room.

  Uncomfortable and unwilling to subject myself to further abuse from Adrienne, I too excused myself and made for the door. Just outside the room, however, reginald stopped me. "My lady, Dr. Brabbs is here to see you. He wishes to speak with you privately."

  I followed him to the smallest drawing room on the east wing of the house. There I found Brabbs standing beside a spiral-legged table, looking out the window. As he turned to face me I knew immediately that something was wrong.

  "Lady Malham. Rosine Baron is dead/' he said. "I thought you would want to know.''

  I stared, my sudden grief choking me speechless.

  Dropping his hat onto the table at his side, Brabbs opened his arms. I yearned to fly into them, to bury my face in his damp topcoat, but fatigue and despair stayed my step. Shakily I lifted my hand to him. Too late he obliged: I collapsed onto the floor.

  "Maggie! Maggie, for the love of God, child!" He scooped me up in his arms and hurried me to the black-walnut settee across the room.

  I felt again all the grief of Jerome's passing. I had loved Rosine like I had my own mother. She had been a mother to me those many years after my father's demise. Now she was gone. They were both gone. My world was shrinking day by day.

  Sweeping a tangled web of black hair from my face, Brabbs touched my forehead, my cheeks. "Merciful God, look what he's done to you already," he said. "Maggie, you're hardly more'n a wisp of air."

  "Please," I begged him, "do not chastise me for 'owt foolish. You have just told me my friend has died." I began to cry.

  Pressing a kerchief to my face, he shook his head. "Maggie-mine, there are more to your tears than Rosine's passing. Tell me what is wrong."

  Giving into my grief, I wrapped my arms around his neck as I had when I was a child, and wept against
his chest. "What am I to do? They don't want me here. I only wanted to help, now they are blaming me. Even Nicholas has withdrawn. He won't touch me. He called out Maggie's name in his delirium, not mine. He loves Maggie and not me—"

  "Lass, do you hear yerself? You are Maggie—"

  "Nay. Maggie is dead. She is buried in his memory and will forever remain, so it seems."

  He rocked me and soothed me, but he didn't understand.

  "He is loving the image in a reflecting glass but hating the one who makes it!" I sobbed again.

  "Tell me what has happened."

  I pushed my way from the settee, rubbing my eyes. "I was right. Someone has been slipping him some form of opium in his drink or food. Someone is trying to do away with him." I walked to the window and looked out on the snow-covered grounds. "I thought—hoped—that once rid of the dreadful drug he would be his old self again. I was wrong. The sharper his mind becomes, the more he withdraws. He looks on me with suspicion and distrust, as if he believes I am somehow responsible for the pain he's experienced of late."

  "He's told you this?"

  "Nay, he hasn't uttered a word. He doesn't have to. lie just stares at me with those damnable gray eyes as if I were some specter from hell sent here to make him suffer."

  "I'm certain you're maldn' too much of it, Maggie. You always had an over-imaginative mind."

  "The opiate was no product of my mind, sir."

  Brabbs's response was a moment in coming. "Do you realize what you're claiming, Maggie? You're claiming someone here has some unseemly intentions toward his lordship. Who would do such a thing? And why?"

  Facing him again, I met his eyes and lowered my voice. "Adrienne is highly excitable and very bitter because Nicholas ruined her chance to marry. She constantly harps on it and never lets him forget it for a moment. Bea loathes him because she suspects he killed Jane. I've heard her vow numerous times that he'll pay for his crime. Then there is Trevor. Being a physician he is most capable of getting his hands on the opium."

  Brabbs shook his head. "He gets all medication from me, Maggie, I would know if he were using an unaccountable amount of laudanum. And what reason would he have to want to kill Nicholas? He is not in line to inherit. At his death Walthamstow would pass to George in Boston."

  "Aye," I responded thoughtfully. "Trevor has been very kind and supportive since my arrival." I looked at Brabbs. "Finally, of course, there is you, my friend."

  He did not move, but stared at me with expressionless eyes that were faded with age.

  My heart ached but I continued. "I had not suspected you until the morning of my marriage, when I learned of your intense anger toward Nicholas. Now you have just told me that you are the only one who has charge of the opiate." Silent, I waited for him to deny the charge. When he did not, I said, "I could understand, perhaps. I was—am—like a daughter to you, as you are like a father to me. You blamed Nicholas for the ruination of my innocence and finally my death. You wanted to destroy him. Since you are frequently to this house to see Trevor, slipping opium in some form into my lord's sherry would seem an easy enough task."

  His head dropped slightly as he stared at the floor.

  "Will you deny it?" I asked him.

  "Would it do me any good?" He looked at me again, a tear in his eye. "Maggie-mine, if a deed or thought is a crime, then I am guilty. I have murdered him over and over in my dreams for the last two years." He stood then, and with shoulders back, walked to the table and picked up his hat. "I can see I am no longer welcome here. Good-bye, Maggie."

  I watched, wanting to call him back, but unwilling. It seemed I had forsaken the one person who truly loved me for one who did not know me, who apparently did not care to know me—who did not love me and perhaps never had. But I had married him—Wyndham, Earl of Malham, Lord of Walthamstow—for better or worse. And I did, regardless of everything, love him.

  My friend walked to the door and stopped. Without turning, he said, "Think with your head and not your heart and you will realize the plain truth: Jane is dead. Her skull was crushed, her body burned. The madness that killed her is deep and true and more deadly than any opiate ever was. You might soon be wishing you'd left him sedated, Maggie. You may have released a monster."

  The words struck cold fear to my heart. I harbored in my mind the portrait of Jane, of tilted, china-blue eyes and hair as gold as summer sun. To picture her struck down so brutally was torturous to me. To think my husband may have done it brought me immeasurable pain.

  Doubt! It continued to plague me, no matter how many times I assured myself that Nicholas was not capable of murder. Yet he had struck her. He remembered striking her. Passing my hand over my eyes, I ran for the door and into the hallway. Brabbs was gone.

  The cold crept in on me and chilled me to my bones. My spirit was low, lower than at any time since my internment at Oaks. My head ached. I was lonely. That morning I had two friendly acquaintances in this world: Rosine Baron and Brabbs. One was now dead; the other hurt beyond measure.

  I continued down the hall, anxious now to return to my room. In the distance I saw the open door of Trevor's office. My stride lessened. Nearing the doorway, I held my breath and listened.

  Peeking around the door frame, I searched each corner of the dim, musty quarters. Finding no one in attendance, I entered the room. With a distrustful eye I viewed my cluttered surroundings with new interest. I pondered each crucible. Studied each alembic. I lifted and sniffed and tasted each bitter phial and pungent powder I found hidden or otherwise,

  I was about to leave this quarter when I heard a rustle of material, a soft footstep nearing the office. I looked about, searching escape. I found it: the door leading to the courtyard and out of the house. Quickly! Some instinct told me I must not be found here alone. I grabbed the door handle. It would not turn. I tried again, gritting my teeth and throwing my weight backward. The door opened. Stepping into the twilight and closing the door behind me, I waited, holding my breath.

  The bolt shifted across the door, locking me outside.

  A soft, cold drizzle covered my face as I listened, heart racing and flesh quickly turning to ice. Moving toward the window to my right, I tugged away the withered streamers of ivy that clung tenaciously to the brickwork, then I cautiously cleared dirt from the pane and did my best to peer into the room, through the slight opening between the partially closed drapes.

  I beheld a form, decidedly feminine and dressed in white, moving gracefully among the lengthening shadows. Unable to see, I cried to myself: Stand still for one moment, blast you, so I can tell who you are. "Damnation!"

  Pushing away from the wall, I began running the best I could through the ice and snow.

  The night air, though brittle, was very still. A peculiar mist covered the grounds, luminous as it reflected the patches of snow against the frozen earth. Odd, for there was no moon.

  Behind the bank of fog the hounds wailed, the mournful sound echoing beyond the tool shed and centering, it seemed, in the hollow where the old stables had been. I regarded all this with only partial interest, however, for my intent was to get back inside Walthamstow as quickly as possible and return to that chamber before its intruder disappeared.

  I burst through the kitchen doorway, causing Matilda to drop the joint of pork she was preparing. Polly threw up her arms, strewing pudding batter across the table. "Lady Malham," Tilly cried. "Wot's happened? Wot're y' doin' outside in this weather without a—milady, is 'owt wrong?"

  "Out of my way!" I exclaimed.

  "Lud," Polly expelled, "she's gone daft as 'er 'usband, I vow."

  I ran down the hallway, knowing my way well enough now to avoid the furniture and loosened bricks about the floor. I turned one corner. The shadows lengthened. I turned another. My footfalls rang out in the silence. When I finally reached the chamber, the door was closed. Gripping the knob with one hand and bracing my other palm against the door, I took a breath . . . and shoved it open.

  Empty.

 
; "How can that be?" I asked aloud. Slamming my fist against the wall in frustration, I returned to the corridor. To my left the hallway ended at a wall. The only way out was the way I had come.

  I waited until my heartbeat slowed before turning back up the hall. Then I saw it, a white piece of material resting just outside the office door. I bent and picked it up.

  I hurried away from the chamber and back to the Great Hall. Alone, I sat down at the secretary, pulled the tallow light closer and spread the square out for inspection: a woman's handkerchief of delicate, laced-edge linen. I ran my finger lightly over the embroidered scroll in one corner, and as I lifted it to my face the faint scent of flowers touched my nostrils. The fragrance stirred some recollection in my mind, but though I tried I could not recall where I had smelled it before.

  I considered my alternatives. The handkerchief must have belonged to Adrienne, as there was no one else in the house who could lay claim to such a pretty piece of lace and linen. I could pretend that it did not exist, or I could confront its proprietress and ask her why she was milling—again—about her brother's office. Deciding on the latter, I made my way to Adrienne's quarters.

  She was reclining on her bed reading a leather-bound copy of Jean Jacques Rousseau's The Social Contract. She looked up, startled, as I entered without knocking, then calmly closed the book and placed it aside. "Oh dear." She sighed. "You have finally come to evict me."

  "No. I do not want this room, Adrienne." I meant it.

  "Well, then, you have come to tell me that from this moment on I am to be on an allowance. I understand. Just tell me what meager stipend is to be allowed me and I will do my best to adjust."

  I felt my anger desert me. "Nay, I've no such news.

  I hope for both our sakes I am not so hard-hearted as the former lady of Walthamstow."

  She tilted her head. Her soft brown hair spilled over her shoulders.