"Why are you here, then?" she asked.
I had momentarily forgotten the handkerchief. Looking down at my hand, I answered, "To return you this."
Her eyes shifted to my hand. "What is it?"
"Your handkerchief, of course. You dropped it in the hallway."
She slid off the bed and approached me, took the kerchief and inspected it. "This is not mine," she said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Simply, it is not mine." Pulling her own handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve, she crossed the floor and held it out to me. "Mine are plainly monogrammed, as you can see."
I felt my anger rising again.
"Perhaps," I said severely, "you have one that is not monogrammed."
Adrienne stepped back, surprised at my vehemence over something so trivial as that handkerchief. "Would you like proof?" she asked.
She lifted one brow in a way that reminded me of my husband. That resemblance made me all the more determined. "Yes," I told her. "Show me."
She crossed the room to a high, narrow chiffonier and pulled open a drawer. "See for yourself. There is not one square of linen here without my monogram: AW."
There were no less than three dozen handkerchiefs but I inspected every one of them. Finally satisfied that Adrienne was telling the truth, I gently closed the drawer and turned back to face her. She had returned to her bed.
"My apologies, Adrienne. But if the handkerchief does not belong to you, then whose is it?"
"Where did you find it?"
"Outside Trevor's office."
"Well, then, it no doubt belongs to one of his patients."
I saw through that excuse immediately. "Someone capable of owning this finery would not be traveling to Walthamstow to see the physician. He would call on her."
"You're right, of course. Why don't you ask him?"
I could hardly do that, considering the circumstances.
"Why is it so important?" she asked.
Looking down at the dainty, fragrant material, I said, "Perhaps it isn't. I fear I've become over-emotional on the issue. I beg your pardon."
"You need not beg me for anything any longer," I heard her say. I looked up. "You are Lady Malham now, remember."
"And ill to death of hearing it, I must confess."
That surprised her. Adrienne leaned back on her pillows and frowned. "But you are in an enviable position."
"Am I? Tell me why."
"Walthamstow is yours."
"Why should I want her? Her chambers are drafty and cold and her grounds are continually covered with mist. While Malham basks in sunlight this estate broods in the clouds. I have not experienced such dreariness since I left . . . Keighley."
"Then why did you marry my brother?"
"Why?" I walked to the bed and leaned against one of its towering four posters. "Why?" I repeated. "Is it not clear to you yet? Madam, I love your brother."
She looked embarrassed. Turning her face from me and staring at the china bowl of dried rosebuds near her bed, she asked softly, "How can you love something like that? He is barely human any longer. The man who was once my brother no longer exists. He is gone. Gone! Why can you not accept that?"
"Why are you so eager to accept it?" I asked her pointedly. "I will tell you why. For the same reason you covet this house, these rooms, your friends' opinion of you. They bring you prestige and envy, and each gives you a feeling of power and worth. You thought Nicholas perfect before, a shining example of a flawless gem you could dangle before your friends. You are no better than your mother." She gasped and covered her face. "You hated your mother because she manipulated him, yet you use him in the most selfish ways and now, because he is less than perfect, you cast him aside because he embarrasses you."
"Stop," she cried.
"Do you know why I love him? Because he is human. He saw the ugliness in the world and acknowledged it. He saw the beauty in simplicity and loved it. He should have been king, madam, housed in a palace. Instead you would house him in a cage at some asylum. Well, I shan't let you do that to him, Adrienne. If I must, I will take him away from here. I will auction off this house and everything in it you hold so dear, and I will take my husband to Boston to live among barbarians. I have no doubt that they are more civilized than your idolized ton."
I ran from the room to my own quarters. I struggled with the lock on the door before it gave, then, gaining entrance, slammed the door behind me and leaned against it.
My husband, sitting before the fire, turned his head and looked at me. What did I see there? Suspicion. Confusion. Anger. And all directed at me.
"Why are you locking me in here?" he asked.
"To keep them out."
"Them?"
"Them! Them, damn you! The one or ones who did this to you."
He looked again at the fire and said, "There is no one doing anything to me but you."
I covered my face with my hands. "Don't say that. Please don't say that. I'm trying to help you—"
"By locking me away."
"You're confused, husband. It's to be expected. Soon everything will be crystal clear again. I promise you."
"I trusted you," he said, and the coals in the hearth shifted, spraying the floor with embers.
The hour was late. I sat by the fireside, sewing my newest creation: a simple black taffeta that I planned to wear to Rosine's funeral on the morrow. As I sewed, I glanced occasionally toward my husband, asleep in our bed.
Hopelessness burdened my heart. Finally placing the material aside, I blew out the two wax candles standing on the table beside me, then climbed into bed. I kissed my husband's brow and vowed to him again. "Tomorrow things will be different. You are growing stronger every day. You will be your old self tomorrow. Have faith." Then I lay back on my pillow and closed my eyes. Soon I drifted off to sleep.
In my dream, I saw again the twisting path, snow-covered and rutted by carriage wheels. Raikes Road. I followed it, oddly floating above the frozen terra firma until I came to the split in the road. No. No, I did not care to follow. Not there. Let me go back to Walthamstow, if you please! my mind pleaded. Yet I was compelled onward through the stone and wrought-iron gates of Malham Cemetery.
I felt the cold mist swirl around me, touching my face, clinging to the frail material of my sleeping gown. I strained my eyes but saw only the still marble faces of angels whose eyes followed me on my course. They whispered. I heard their tiny, melodious voices singing, "Amen. Amen. She has come."
I floated onward, looking down on the snow-covered mounds, on the slate-topped roof of the burial chapel and the mausoleum. The clouds broke. A dim moon shone through, lighting the clearing on the ground.
A man stood at the edge of the mist with his back to me, his shoulders covered in a black mantle that spilled to his ankles. I heard the scrape of iron and gravel and then saw the open grave at his feet.
From the mist came the mournful sound of a woman's weeping. A ray of moonlight spilled onto her as she stood at the edge of the grave, dressed in black, her downcast face covered by hat and veil. I suddenly understood. It is me, I thought. I am mourning my friend, dear Rosine. I felt the grief in my throat, and yet I could not cry. I reached and placed a cold hand upon the shaking shoulder, offering comfort; still the vision shook.
"Amen. Amen."
Suddenly I was airborne again, helpless like a leaf in a tide, rising then drifting back to earth. I rested in a satin bed surrounded by flowers, and thought: At last. Peace.
"Amen."
The weeping continued. The woman stood above me now. As the breeze lifted her veil I knew the wasted flesh, the weary eyes. Rosine. Rosine Baron! Confused,
I attempted to struggle from my bed. This is not right, I cried. There is some mistake! But I could not move. Some weight pressed me down. Heavier and heavier it became until my breast ached and I fought to breathe.
Then the man appeared, looking down onto me. His eyes were hard and gray as steel. "No!" I screamed. "Nicholas, i
t is I!" I lifted my hands but the earth rained down onto me, filling my nostrils and mouth. I twisted and raked my face with my hands.
The moon cast its timid light onto the cold marble fixture above me, illuminating the wretched name.
JANE.
"Amen
Chapter 18
I sat upright in bed, gasping for air. The door of our bedroom was open and my husband was gone. Throwing the covers aside, I jumped to the floor, and without benefit of a dressing gown, ran from my room into the hallway. At its far end a single candle burned on a table.
I looked left and right, listening for sound, then went for the candle and with it wandered down the corridor to the top of the stairs. There I waited, cursing the loud pounding of my heart that drowned out all other noises to my ear.
I heard a door slam. Footsteps rang out in the silence. I held my place, watching both left and right. Then I perceived a figure in the distance. Closer it came until finally I recognized Trevor.
"God in heaven," came his voice. "Ariel, what are you doing out here?"
"Nicholas is gone," I told him.
He cursed under his breath.
"He must have taken the key from the pocket of my dress."
"What the hell does he think he's doing?" he demanded.
I had never seen Trevor so angry. I backed away.
"Have you searched the house?"
"No."
"Then we'll being here. I'll send Jim down to the cemetery just to make certain. Go put on some warm clothes before you freeze. Quickly!" He stepped by me and descended the stairs.
I returned to my room to dress, donned my cloak, then left the house, intent on joining Jim on his trek to the cemetery.
He came at me from the darkness, a blur of white that froze the scream in my throat before I could expel it. My lord wrapped one arm around my shoulders and clamped his hand over my mouth. I swooned against him in relief.
"You won't scream," he said.
I shook my head in response.
Dropping his hand from my mouth, he caught my arm. "Come with me," he said.
Rebelling, I stood my ground. "Why and where?" I demanded.
"To the stables."
"Why? What are you doing there?"
He stared down at me, his eyes deep and shadowed, his black hair stirred by the wind. "Jane," he said.
My heart tripped. "What?"
"I followed Jane to the stables."
I close my eyes. I might have collapsed from despair but he caught my arms again with a violence that wrenched me from my lethargy.
"Husband," I said. "Jane is dead. You saw her buried in Malham Cemetery."
Nicholas continued to stare, making no move or sound to indicate that he had heard me. Still gripping my arm, he started down the path, beyond the kennels and tool shed, past Jim's house, to the burned stables.
When finally we stood at the edge of the charred remains, I was too numb to think.
Unaffected by the cold, my husband paced before me, moving in and out of the shifting mist. "There is no one here," I said.
"I heard her calling my name outside our door," Nick insisted. "When I opened it, I saw her standing at the end of the hallway. She wanted me to follow and I did. She led me here."
"You imagined it."
He kicked a charred timber angrily. With his hands on his hips, Nicholas stared at the sky. I considered telling him the truth now—-the entire truth, that there was more to his illness than a simple dependency on sherry, that his hallucinations were brought on by addiction to opium, but in his state of mind, would he believe me? Somehow I had to find substantial proof of who wanted to destroy him in such a way, and why they were doing it. Only then would I reveal my assumptions.
As he took up his pacing again, I begged him, "Please come back to the house. You will fall ill from the cold."
I turned back for the path, hoping he would follow.
That is when I saw Trevor and Jim approaching at a fast pace. I opened my mouth to speak, but the sudden look of terror that crossed my brother-in-law's features froze my words, and I spun to look behind me.
Brabbs's words came back to me: "Jane is dead. Her skull was crushed."
My husband stood holding a massive stone in his hands. Numb with terror, I stumbled backward into Jim's arms while Nicholas stared at me, first in confusion, then realization, and finally disbelief. He dropped the rock and looked from me to Trevor and back again.
"So," Nicholas said, "you believe it too. I wondered how long it would take you to come around to their way of thinking." Trevor reached for his arm, but he shoved him away. Then Lord Malham returned to Walthamstow without me.
He locked me out of our room so I was forced to return to my old chamber. I was to learn later that my husband's drive to cure himself was much stronger than even I believed possible. For he did not turn to the sherry as I feared he might. ..But neither did he turn to me, and that was as painful as watching him struggle alone with his ordeal.
In the morning, as was my custom, I went directly to Kevin's room, but found the door locked. I pounded the door with my fist for long moments before it barely opened. Bea's black eye glittered at me through the crack.
"Why have you locked this door?" I asked her.
"His lordship's orders."
My heart stopped. "What do you mean 'his lordship's orders'?" I asked. She remained silent. "Speak to me, Bea. What do you mean by that?"
"You ain't allowed in," she said.
I leaned against the door, panicked but Bea's weight held me back. I heard her chuckle. "I told you. He's a devil, I swore, and now you've got on his black side. You'll regret it. He'll kill you just like he did my Jane." She slammed the door in my face and locked it against "me.
I pounded on the door. "Damn you," I said, "let me in to see my son. I demand it." Enraged, I ran across the hall to my husband's room. He was not there. I made for the studio then, and rushed in.
Lord Malham stood in the center of the room, impeccably dressed in black, a snow-white ascot about his throat. About him were strewn the many canvases he had painted throughout the previous months. On the easel beside him was another, draped by a cloth.
I watched as he tugged kidskin gloves onto his hands. The movement was controlled, arrogant. He half turned and fixed his eyes on me. "Lady Malham," he said coldly. "I've been expecting you."
His eyes were clear, clearer than I had seen them since my return to Walthamstow. I moistened my lips and forced myself to breathe.
One eyebrow drew up and he smiled, a macabre curl of his lips that hinted of mockery. "Have I shown you my paintings?" he asked, his voice soft. "I'm certain there are several here that will interest you." He made a beckoning motion with his hand and I followed him, hypnotized by the cadence of his voice, the odd, steely light in his eyes. This is how Satan would look, I thought. Tall and dark and alluring enough to make even the most Christian-hearted soul follow him into the pit of hell for want of his love.
"Well?" he seemed to whisper. "What do you think?"
I forced my gaze to the paintings along the wall.
"Do you think the British Museum would be interested, my sweet?" he asked.
I stared at the one painting I had witnessed before: hands reaching out from the flames, eyes wide in terror. Madness . , . Pandemonium. I shuddered.
"I painted whatever came into my mind. I realize now that they were simply shadows of memories. That's why all my painting sessions were preceded by, and followed by headaches." He moved up behind me and caught my arm. "I'm in the mood to paint again, my love. Have you objections?"
"None, my lord."
He took the covered canvas from the easel, then led me back to our bedroom. Then, grabbing up my cloak and spreading it over my shoulders, he guided me into the hallway and out of Walthamstow. The chaise was waiting, its solemn driver, as usual, standing attentively to one side of the door.
Soon we were on our way. My lord sat across from me, as he had on our weddin
g day, and I could not help but recall the intimate moment of consummation we had shared then. Nicholas had that same desirous look in his eyes, and though he remained as still as stone I knew he too recalled the moments, and the movements. I closed my eyes and prayed very hard— that he would take me in his arms again. Here. Now. Desertion breeds desperation, and I feared he was leaving me, in heart and mind.
When the coach stopped and the door was opened, I looked out on the distant ledges of Malham Cove. With some hesitance I took the driver's hand as he helped me to the ground. Nicholas followed, the canvas under his arm, then ordered the driver to bring the chaise round and wait at the foot of the hill. He then took my arm and propelled me toward the cove.
Malham Cove. No trees lined its limestone cliffs. Its sheer, razor-sharp edges plunged two hundred feet to the rock-studded valley below. From where I stood upon the cliffs, I could clearly see the footpath winding up distant Sheriff Hill. A solitary beam of sunshine broke through the clouds and reflected off frozen channels of rainwater fissuring the limestone. With the spring thaw, those icy rivulets would surge and plunge with awesome force to the beck below.
I sensed when my husband moved up behind me; I smelled the lemony scent of his cologne and the damp wool of his mantle.
"I enjoy it here," came his words in my ear. The tips of his gloved fingers brushed the side of my neck and my breath froze in anticipation. "I think it is the closest to heaven as f will ever get. You can touch the clouds on rainy days." He pointed toward the distant opening of the gorge. "After a rain there is a rainbow that bridges those cliffs . . . Have you ever seen it, Ariel?"
His hand then shifted to catch my waist. He pulled me over to a plateau covered with last summer's dead grass, covered the ground with his cloak, and said "Sit down."
I did so. Nicholas stood at the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the pewter sky. Too close, I thought. He is standing too close to the edge.
"Do you know why I brought you here?" he asked.
"To paint, I suppose," I told him, my eyes still on the ledge. "Or to prove that you still control everything at Walthamstow. Including me. Are you about to tell me to jump over the edge, sir?" I looked at his eyes again. "Well?"
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