A Heart Possessed

by Katherine Sutcliffe

  "But you're not certain it was my husband."

  "I can't be certain, no. I must tell you, however, that the young woman was very enamored with Nicholas. And, of course, at that time he and Jane were living . . . apart."

  Gripping the arms of my chair, I said, "Dear God, Adrienne, do you think she's come back? Do you think that Nicholas ..." I closed my eyes as pain washed over me. To imagine him in the arms of his wife was bad enough, but to believe he would hide a mistress in this very house . . .

  Adrienne left her chair. Placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, she said, "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you when I can't even be certain of the facts. It seems so unfair when the evidence always points to Nick and he hasn't the ability to defend himself."

  Shaken, I pushed from my chair and left the hall. Samantha. Could the woman who followed me from the cemetery and whom I saw roaming Walthamstow's grounds be the same girl? Samantha. How often had that name come up when talking with Matilda or Polly or Kate? And now Adrienne. A sudden realization made my skin prickle. Samantha had conveniently disappeared the night of Jane's death. Had she, in some way, been involved as something other than a witness?

  The door to Kevin's room was open. I stopped in the doorway and watched my son, dressed in a long white sleeping gown, play inside his bed. My eyes filled with tears as he looked up and saw me, lifted his pudgy little hand in greeting, and squealed with excitement. I might have run to him, but then Bea was suddenly there between us, shuffling toward me, her thin face twisted with malice. Before she could slam the door in my face, I told her, "Don't bother," then turned away.

  I entered my husband's room. He was not present. I heard him in the studio and walked to the door.

  Remaining silent for some time, I watched him paint. I studied his hands, thinking they were the most beautiful hands of any man I had ever known: strong, perfect, able to work magic on my body. I watched his shoulders: the subtle flexing each time he stroked the canvas. I had once believed he could balance the world on one shoulder and the universe on the other. They had seemed that broad, that capable. Why, I wondered, could I not shake that image?

  "Who is Samantha?" I asked softly.

  My husband turned slowly.

  "Samantha," I repeated. "Who is she?"

  I stood in that threshold forever, it seemed, waiting, watching his eyes. Finally he put down his brush and said, "Lady Malham. Come here, if you please."

  I did so, steeling myself for the touch of his hand on my shoulder. He moved me around so I faced the canvas.

  Pandemonium again. I closed my eyes.

  His voice came from behind me, lending me an odd sort of comfort. Leaning slightly against him, I found the strength to face the painted nightmare.

  My husband said, "I have asked myself why I continually come back to this . . . insanity. Why I continue to paint on it. Ariel, I'm beginning to understand. Will you listen?"

  He took my failure to respond as acquiescence.

  Nicholas pointed to the canvas, his finger trembling very slightly. "First there was the fire. It is most obvious. As I point to these other things, tell me what you see, or think you see."

  "Stalls ... a horse . . . hay . . . the stable door. A ... shadow." I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck. Struggling to think, I focused harder. "Red. Blood?"

  "But it is here, in the stall," he said.

  "From the horse possibly."

  "Possibly."

  Moving away, I walked to the door before facing him again. I love you, I thought with despair. "Nicholas, who was Samantha?"

  He shrugged before picking up his brush again. Rolling the camel-hair tip back and forth in the red oil, he said, "She was a servant here for a while. She left Walthamstow the night Jane died."

  "Did you have an affair with her?"

  His head snapped up. In that moment I could believe him capable of murder. "Well?" I struggled to ask.

  "Would you believe me if I told you that I don't remember?" Before I could form a response in my own mind, he finished. "Your mind was made up, m'lady, before you ever entered this room. Get out."

  I did.

  That night I never thought to sleep; but I did, fitfully. During moments of wakefulness I reviewed the events of the day. One image dissolved into another, but they always came back to Nick. Nick and Jane. Nick and Samantha. That image disturbed me most, and as I drifted to sleep again, the image of his touching Samantha, holding her, loving her as he had me, brought me upright and weeping in my bed.

  At first I noticed nothing unusual in the stillness, but then the slight click of a door closing brought my head around. Blotting my tears with my sleeve, I listened first, then slipped from my bed and tiptoed to the door. Someone walked quietly down the hall. My husband?

  I took up my candle and went directly to my lord's quarters. Not bothering to knock on the closed door, I opened it and ventured into the room, my eyes on the bed, hoping to acknowledge his sleeping form. He was gone.

  I ran back into the hall, besieged with a kind of madness that I had not experienced even in Oaks. Despite the cold that nipped at my skin through my thin gown, I hurried down the corridor, cupping my palm around the dancing candle flame.

  I came to the top of the stairs. How quickly he had escaped. And to where? Gripping the balustrade, I leaned forward slightly and peered into the darkness below me. Was that a movement there? A form in the shadows? Moving around the rail, I took one step down, lifted the light a little more, and looked again. I recognized the form of the tall case clock in the foyer. In the dead silence I could hear its muted tick-tick-tick and the shifting of the chime as it prepared to strike the hour.

  Silly me, thought I, letting your imagination get the better of you. Go back to his room and -wait. He will come back eventually—

  An unexpected force buried into my spine, and as my body flew forward, I grabbed frantically for something—anything—to save me. My hands opened; the candle flew into the distance, and in that instant I realized what had happened.

  I screamed.

  My arm hit the stairs first, then my shoulder, and finally my head. My body tumbled uncontrollably down, down, into the darkness. Out of instinct my hands reached out, clawing at images that whirled past too quickly. And then I felt the hard rap of wood against the back of my hand. I grabbed again.

  Somewhere in the dulled, whirling recesses of my mind I heard the striking of the clock. Once. Twice. In the intense stillness that followed I gradually became aware that I lay on my back, my feet slightly elevated and my arms out to my sides. At least, I thought, I am not dead.

  But as the pain flooded my body, I thought death preferable to this intense agony. I tried to move, but my body rebelled. Closing my fingers more tightly about the balustrade, I pulled myself around until my head rested even with my feet. Only then did I cry out for help.

  Through the haze of my suffering I saw a light approaching, floating down the stairs, and the reason for my laying broken and bruised on the stairwell came back to me in a terrifying rush. My murderer approached, signaled by my cry for help that I was not dead. I struggled to lift my head. I would know the killer and I would take that knowledge to my grave and pray to God Almighty that He avenge my untimely demise.

  I suddenly felt colder. The pain left my limbs as I stared up into familiar features. "Oh God," I cried out. "God, no; not you! Not you . . . husband!"

  I closed my eyes and tumbled headlong into an abyss of darkness.

  At first there was pain and nothing else. Then dim light filtered through my lids, and the words came to my mind: Like God's lamp shining to find me. I thought: Perhaps I've died.

  "She's regaining consciousness," came the man's voice, confusing my thoughts. "Lift up her head slightly. This drink will help to alleviate the discomfort she's experiencing."

  Forcing open my heavy lids, I focused on the hands stirring the silver spoon round and round the rim of the crystal water glass. It sounded strangely musical to my
confused mind.

  I felt myself lifted, and it was then that I threw my hand up, knocking the glass to the floor. "No!" I cried. I heard a woman gasp, and then Adrienne appeared over me, her eyes frantic.

  "He did this to her," she said. "Oh my God, Trevor, he tried to kill her."

  "We won't know that until she tells us."

  "But I saw him standing over her. It could be either of us next time. Certainly she'll see now that something must be done to stop him."

  Their voices faded as I drifted again, my mind tumbling with questions.

  "Ariel? Ariel?" Someone shook me gently. I opened my eyes. Trevor smiled and kindly touched my cheek. "I've checked you over. Nothing more than some severe bruises; no broken bones. You took a hard fall and you'll be sore for a few weeks .*. . Can you tell us what happened?"

  "Where is my husband?" I asked.

  I saw him frown. "Ariel, we found it necessary to lock Nick away."

  My heart stopped. Dear God, how long had I been out? Images of Oaks flashed through my mind, nightmare images that made me cry aloud.

  "Ariel, listen to me. He was uncontrollable. Dangerous."

  "No!" I screamed. "No, no, not Bedlam. Please, have mercy and don't do that to him."

  "He's upstairs. I've had Tilly take up something to sedate him."

  Panic seized me. "No!" Rolling, I attempted to leave the bed. "You mustn't! He mustn't take anything again."

  He caught my shoulders. "My lady, listen to me. He was irrational. It took both me and Jim to wrestle him down and get him to his chamber. Once he's sufficiently calmed—"

  I shoved him away, and though my head throbbed and my body rebelled from my efforts, I slid off the bed. "I want to see him. Take me up to see him."

  In that moment Brabbs entered the office. With a cry of relief I fell into his arms. "I came as soon as I heard," he said, gripping me to his chest. "Jim had Polly bring me the news. What in God's name has happened?"

  "It seems Ariel had a spill down the stairs."

  "I want to see my husband," I said to Brabbs. "They have locked him away and—"

  "Did he do this, girl?" my friend demanded. "Tell me the truth, lass. Did your husband push you down those stairs?"

  I swayed against him, weakened by my injuries and my own indecision. To my mind he had pushed me— someone—had pushed me—but I was rational enough to realize the consequences of such an admission. I had to know if indeed my husband had tried to kill me. And I wanted to know why.

  "I want to see him," I told Brabbs. "Please. They've given him something to sedate him." I looked to his eyes, hoping he would understand my meaning.

  With a low curse, Brabbs swept me up in his arms. "Aye, then, I'll take you to see the devil this one last time, girl. Then we all want the truth."

  He swept me from Trevor's office, bypassing Adrienne and the gaping servants. Tilly stood to one side, her hands clasped as if in prayer, but her eyes lit when I attempted a weak smile of encouragement. Then there was Bea, watching from the shadows, her mouth twisting with smug satisfaction. Seeing her craning her neck as she watched us mount the stairs, I was reminded of that rook on the windowsill, its very presence emanating doom.

  "I told you," came her voice, "I warned you. He'll kill you too . . ."

  I closed my eyes and buried my face against Brabbs's chest, blocking the words from my mini I, doing my best to block out the pain that splintered through me each time Brabbs took a step. "I limy,"

  I pleaded softly. "I must see him before he's sedated, Brabbs, or he may not be rational." I tried to rid my mind of the knowledge that one ingestion of opium could trigger a damaging response from his system. It could even kill him.

  It seemed like hours before we finally stopped before my husband's bedroom door. Brabbs rapped and Jim's voice called out, "Who's there?"

  "Her ladyship wishes to see her husband."

  A moment of silence passed, then the lock shifted. Jim opened the door, his face full of relief. "Yer all right," he said to me. ,

  I did not respond, knowing I must save my strength for the confrontation with my husband.

  The room, as always, was dark and cold. Nicholas stood before the window, a black silhouette against the silver glass. "Get out," I ordered Brabbs and Jim. "I will see him alone."

  "I won't allow it," Brabbs said. "Dammit, girl—"

  "Get out!"

  My vehemence set him back, and with a muttered curse he spun and left the room. Jim followed, closing the door behind him.

  I stood in the dark room, my body throbbing with a sort of agony that wrenched more painfully than any injury. Above all, I wanted the truth: Did he shove me down those stairs? And if so, why?

  He advanced from the shadows. As the hearth fire lit his features, I noted a desperate and brooding look on his countenance. He seemed uncertain of making any move that might frighten me, yet I sensed that he wanted with all his heart to collect me in his arms.

  As he stopped before the fire I saw the flicker of a smile relieve his intense features, then he briefly closed his eyes. "Thank God, you're all right," he said.

  As always, the rich timbre of his voice weakened me. I began to sink to the floor.

  He caught me. Suddenly I was floating in his arms, drained of all bitter anger and reason. I knew I was lost as he moved to a chair and sat down, cradling me in his lap and tenderly hugging me to his chest as he might have done Kevin.

  "My love," he whispered. "Tell me what happened. Did you fall? What in God's name were you doing out there? This is my fault. I should not have allowed you to sleep away from me. Your place is here. With me. I'm going to take care of you, love. I'm better now—look, I didn't take the sherry that Trevor sent me, though God knows I wanted it. Needed it. You don't know what seeing you on those stairs was like for me, Ariel. I thought I'd lost you again. Jesus, I went mad. Truly mad. I know what it's like now— the madness."

  "I came to your room," I said softly. "You weren't here."

  He stroked my head. "I was painting. Do you remember the portrait I started of you and Kevin?"

  I tried to think. It hadn't occurred to me to check the studio. I'd just assumed . . .

  "Ariel. They've locked me in here for a reason . . . They believe I pushed you."

  I listened to the frantic pounding of his heart against my ear, damning the love that continually blinded me to reality.

  "Of course you'll tell them that I was nowhere near you, that you simply fell. Perhaps you turned your ankle. Ariel . . . love . . . they are going to send me away if you don't convince them ..."

  Other voices intruded then. At first I thought I was dreaming.

  "Get yer murderin' hands off her."

  My husband's arms closed around me.

  "She needs rest, Nick. I've brought something that will ease her pain. She's in shock and needs rest."

  "I told you it was only a matter of time! Monster! Oh God, he hates us. He'll kill us all in our beds. He's over the edge."

  My lord's hands twisted in my hair. I felt the tight constriction of his chest beneath my bruised cheek. Lifting my head, I forced my eyes open and looked at my husband's jury. "I ... fell," I said. "Now leave him alone. Leave him in peace."

  The words faded to an indistinct buzz, an angry sound that made my head ache all the more. I could not reason, and when I felt the cool rim of the glass pressed against my lower lip I no longer struggled, but drank the bitter mixture down, anticipating the lethargy that would follow. Soon the ache left my limbs. I floated downward wondering, in some remote corner of my mind, if I would ever awaken again.

  I slept through the next day. The following night I found Belzeebub watching me with yellow eyes from the foot of my bed. Trevor stood above me, running his hands gently up and down my arms. "You're awake," he said. "How do you feel?"

  Moistening my lips, I spoke in a thick voice. "As if I've been fed a goodly dose of laudanum."

  "It will help the pain."

  "Thank you. But I don't t
hink I care to have any more, if you please. It is addict I've, you know."

  He smiled. "Not if you're careful. But as you wish."

  Carefully sitting on the bed, he continued. "I suggest total bed rest for the next week at least."

  As Belzeebub jumped from 'the bed and padded out the door, I closed my eyes for a moment to rest.

  "How did it really happen?" Trevor asked.

  "I must have tripped."

  "You still protect him."

  I opened my eyes.

  "He tried to kill you and yet you continue to protect him."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  A flash of anger crossed his features. Leaving the bed, he walked to the door before looking back. "If this doesn't convince you that Nick should be put away, the I suspect nothing will."

  Minutes after Trevor's departure Adrienne swept into the room. I watched her pace back and forth across the floor several minutes before I beseeched her to sit down. She did so, on the edge of a chair. "You are as pale as a statue," I told her.

  Her white hands twisting in the folds of her skirt, Adrienne fixed her blue eyes on the window across the room. "I have just received some distressing news and I am not certain what to make of it. I received a letter from Lady Grey. Her husband has just returned from France ..." Her words faded as she again looked at me. But I could not respond. The numbing effect of the laudanum was wearing off and the discomfort I felt was growing ever greater.

  Adrienne left her chair and stood over me, her smooth face sympathetic, her cool hands soothing as she brushed my hair away from my feverish brow. "Would you like to change your gown?" she asked me. "I brought one in earlier to replace the one you're wearing."

  I nodded. Adrienne gently removed my gown, and sponged my arms and throat and shoulders with cool water. She had just begun to dry me when she stopped, brushed her fingers over the inside of my arm above my elbow, and said, "How very curious."

  I looked down at the scarred flesh at her fingertips and started.