A Heart Possessed

by Katherine Sutcliffe

  Well. This is it then, I thought. As he turned to face me, I said, "Will you at least let me see my son again before you do it?"

  My lord scowled. "Define 'it.' "

  "Murder me, of course."

  He muttered something foul before striding to the ,bed. Time passed very slowly as I looked up through the shadows at his face. I found no anger there, no twisted visage of bitterness as I had so often witnessed since my arrival at Walthamstow. Yet there was pain and confusion and a great deal of worry. I was sorely tempted in that instant to trust him.

  When he spoke again, his voice sounded strained and weary. "Maggie, I think you already realize that someone has been drugging me." At my continued silence he cursed again and raked his bloody hand through his hair. "Does it not stand to reason that whoever drugged me would also bend low enough to kill me?"

  "Us," I corrected. "And one may have nothing to do with the other. If someone had wanted you dead, why did they not attempt to kill you long ago? Why wait until now, after you've married?"

  He stared at me again, his eyes black, his look solemn. Then he turned away. "I've so much yet to remember, Maggie. So much is still a blank to me. I may never remember it all. I cannot say unequivocally that I did not kill Jane, or that I have not harmed someone else during my bout of insanity."

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off.

  "Aye, insanity it was, or a form of it. The drug drove rationality from me. I might have done anything under its influence. I can remember times when I acted without thought and struck out, if not physically then vocally, to friends or . . ."

  He could not bring himself to say it, so I said it for him. "Family."

  I saw him flinch.

  Nicholas walked to the window and stared out into the darkness. I glanced toward the door, then remembered that he had locked it. When I looked at him again he was watching me, one side of his face lit by the candle light. "You still don't believe me, he said softly.

  I did not know what to believe.

  We gazed at each other through the soft glow of candlelight. Then he said, "I vowed to you before we married that I would never hurt you. Do you remember why?"

  "You said you loved me."

  "Aye, I said that. And I meant it."

  "You said it before as well, yet you married Jane."

  He pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. "I didn't remember, Maggie. They were the ones who told me that I was about to marry Jane."

  "They?"

  "My mother, Adrienne, and Trevor."

  "Adrienne knew why you were traveling to York: You were going to break your engagement. Why didn't she say something?"

  His eyes came back to mine. "I cannot give you reasons for the madness that seems to have a hold on this house. Perhaps I am guilty of past crimes perpetrated during my insanity, but guilty of shoving you down stairs and poisoning your milk I am not."

  He moved toward me so suddenly I fell back in surprise. Looming over me, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the candle, he looked at me steadily and spoke in an odd whisper. "That poison was meant for us both. I would stake Walthamstow on it. I will also hasten to add that whoever tainted the milk will be expecting us to be dead as a doornail shortly. It stands to reason that he—or she—will be returning at some time to search us out. Are you willing to wait?"

  I agreed, uncertain if the glint I saw in his eyes was some lingering madness or simply determination. Either way I was willing to chance it. It was that damnable trust again, and a heart that refused to harden against him. Hope was like a barbed arrow point in my breast, yielding to my better judgment a final and bitter surrender. Slumping back into the darkness, I waited.

  Chapter 22

  We talked in whispers late into the night. Nicholas told me something of his life, or what he could recall of it, since he kissed me good-bye at my uncle's tavern.

  His loss of memory bothered him greatly, but I assured him that he would likely remember everything once his mind and body were given sufficient time to heal. I explained that the fall into the ice had brought about a certain trauma to the brain that had been greatly exaggerated by the opium's effects. When he asked me how I knew this, I was forced to explain that, while in Oaks, I assisted several of the doctors who frequently practiced there. In turn, I had been treated better than the average patient, and was thus allowed to read many of their medical texts for entertainment.

  He encouraged me to talk of Oaks, and I did so as dispassionately as possible. Yet it was a painful monologue; more than once a bitterness edged into my tone as I recalled the unsanitary conditions, the neglect and cruelty of many of the workers. Several times I watched him reach for me. "I'm sorry," he repeated over and over. Once he buried his face in his hands until he could compose himself and face me again.

  Little by little my doubts of him subsided, as they always did.

  I persuaded him to talk of his nightmares, convincing him that they could, in some way, be related to his memories. As always, he talked about the fire, of hitting Jane, of clawing his way from the stables and watching them burn. Bits and pieces of fact and images of confusion. Was he being drugged before then? He didn't know for certain, but he suspected he was. He also suspected that the opium had somehow affected him the day of his accident. What other explanation could there be for his riding so dangerously close to a frozen pond?

  He discussed the voices he heard at night outside his door. Then he spoke again of the ghostly image of a woman he had seen in the hallway, at Walthamstow's tree line, and at the stable. At that my head came off my pillow.

  "But that is not illusion, husband. I have seen her myself."

  His dark eyes bore into mine. "You've seen her," he repeated.

  "Aye. She showed herself at the cemetery. I saw her the next day wandering in the fog outside the house, and again in the closed west wing."

  His hands came for me suddenly, lifting me and setting me atop his chest. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

  "To be honest, my lord, I did not trust you not to lie. After I found the room—"

  "Room? What room?"

  "The room where she was living, I assume. I took Trevor to see it, but when we arrived there it looked as if it had never been lived in. At that point I thought I had begun to hallucinate. Then it was explained to me that Samantha had once been kept there—"

  "Kept there?"

  "Aye," I responded. "Kept there by you or Trevor."

  "So says . . . ?"

  "Adrienne." I looked hard through the shadows, into my husband's eyes. "Husband," I whispered. "Were you and Samantha lovers?"

  He took my face in his hands. "In honesty I cannot say. Maggie, there is so much just before and just after Jane's death that I cannot remember. My madness was at its peak then, I believe. I may have taken the girl as a lover. I can recall that she was a comely lass, small and pale and blond, not unlike Jane. I may have kissed her once—no, don't turn away—you asked for honesty and that is what I've given you. Aye, I did kiss her once, but more than that I cannot say."

  Releasing my shoulders, he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me to his chest. "One thing is for certain, Maggie. I haven't been imagining the woman I've seen on the grounds. I do think she wanted me to believe in my own insanity. And I nearly did believe it. I was so close to breaking, Maggie. Then you came and saved me, made me believe in myself again."

  In the long silence that ensued, I drifted to sleep, lulled by the heavy beating of my lord's heart against my ear. Once I dreamt that I heard him say, "Maggie, I love you," while he stroked my hair and pressed his lips to my forehead. Then I dreamt he wept.

  The sound was so subtle that at first I thought I had imagined it. Then I heard it again: a shift of the doorknob.

  I felt my husband tense beneath me, then his hand came up over my mouth in a warning to keep quiet. He gently rolled me off his chest onto the bed, then shifted his legs to the floor. He walked as silently as a cat to the fireplace and pic
ked up the poker.

  I too left the bed, driven by fear. If he should leave this room, he might not return. Throwing myself against him, I whispered as urgently as possible, "My lord, to venture out this door would be foolish. Stay. Wait until the morrow and we will see this nightmare to its completion in the light of day."

  Cupping my cheek with his free hand, he smiled and asked as quietly, "Might I take this as encouragement, Lady Malham? Mayhap you've decided to believe me?" , The door again.

  My husband nudged me aside and walked on the balls of his feet to the door. He listened.

  Nicholas slipped the key from, his pocket and eased it into the lock. Then with a quick twist of his wrist he sprang the bolt and flung back the door.

  Nothing.

  He stepped into the hall.

  Nothing.

  He hesitated, seemingly formulating a plan, then disappeared into the darkness. I waited impatiently, my ear attuned to any sound, my eye searching for any sight of him. I issued from our apartment, stood in the center of that endless tunnel of cold and blackness, and wondered how the shadows could devour him so swiftly and completely. Then I saw him. He carried Kevin in his arms.

  Without a word I rushed back into our room, held my arms out for our sleeping son. Nestling the child against my breast, I looked to my husband and smiled.

  His look was reverent.

  "I'll go now," he said. "Lock this door behind me and open it to no one but me. You know my signal."

  "Where will you go?" I asked. "What do you expect to discover in this darkness that can't wait until morning? My lord?"

  He closed the door.

  I locked it.

  Loathsome solitude, magnifying each sputter of the candle, each scraping of the elm branch against the window. Each tap-tap-tap against the glass sent me leaping toward the door, only to discover that my husband had not yet returned.

  The candle wick grew short, the light dim. Sitting in the center of the bed, my sleeping son by my side, I watched the yellow halo around us diminish until the last flicker of light danced about the walls. Then darkness.

  Outside, the wind rose. I heard the howling of the hounds in the distance. Moving to the window, I looked out on Walthamstow's gardens. A mist crept over the grounds, inching toward the house from the wood. Above it a full moon glowed like alabaster against a black velvet sky.

  Fear crept up my spine and prickled my scalp. It turned my blood to ice and my heart into a drum that pounded so loudly and forcefully my head hummed with the pressure. I wasn't alone.

  Slowly I turned from the window, searching out each gray corner, each black nook and cranny. I was letting my idiotic fear of the darkness overcome me again. There was no one here. Yet . . .

  I could feel it. As I had felt it in the garden, in the hallway, in the cemetery. A presence: an evil so powerful that it transcended mortal boundaries. I shuddered.

  Cautiously I pressed my ear to the door and listened.

  Nothing.

  I closed my eyes and listened harder. What was near me? Something existed in that vast silence beyond this barrier, I was certain.

  Gradually I opened my eyes and watched the doorknob turn. Backing away from the door, I covered my mouth with my hands, certain that whoever was at tempting entrance to this room could hear my gasps for air. Then the knock.

  Once . . . twice . . . (pause) ... a third time.

  Relief flooded me; I leapt for the door.

  Wait! some instinct called. This is not right. Would he try the door first? He knew I had locked it. And his knock. That long hesitation between the second and third rap, as if it had been done with uncertainty. It was not my lord's signal.

  Whoever is there must know I am alone.

  Stillness, and again the air warmed, the tendrils of fear seeming to dissolve like mist in the sun. I stood for some minutes, composing my nerves, and had almost succeeded when the knock came again, steadily this time. I tried to move. Again the knock. I forced myself to walk to the door, to withdraw the key from my pocket and slide it into the lock. I turned the key. The bolt shifted. I stumbled back, prepared to beat back Satan himself if I had to. The door creaked open. My husband stepped into the room.

  With a cry of relief I threw myself against him, covered his neck and face with kisses. He did not, however, return my affection to such degree. Setting me from him, he locked the door again and walked to the window.

  "Sir," I said, "I thank God you are safe. Did you discover anything amiss?" I then told him that I had been visited by someone during his absence.

  He responded. "I've no doubts that I was observed. I did nothing to obscure the fact that I was about." My lord faced me then. "It'll be dawn soon. Try to get some rest, Maggie, while I keep a watch."

  I dozed. When I opened my eyes again a dim gray light poured through the window. My husband stood before the window, his fingertips lightly pressed against the glass, his face as pale as marble. Lifting my head from the pillow, I was about to speak when he ran for the door. I called his name, yet he did not seem to hear me.

  I jumped from the bed and ran to the window, searching. Patches of mist moved slowly over the awakening grounds: great gray clouds slightly darker than the dawn light. Then a movement among the trees caught my eye.

  I threw open the window, cursing the dreary fog as I strained to see again the object that had sent my husband racing from our chamber. There! A flash of white and . . . the cloaked and hooded figure hurried toward the path leading to the stables. "No," I cried aloud.

  I ran for the door, coming face to face with Bea. Her hands came out for me, clutched my shoulders, and I saw her face, drained of blood, look suddenly much older than her age. "Kevin," she croaked. "The lad is gone, milady!"

  "He's asleep there!" I explained, pushing her aside. I ran down the corridor, ignoring the pain in my limbs. Reaching the hallway to Adrienne's quarters, I slowed and noted that her bedroom door was open. Yellow light spilled through the doorway.

  I had to know. I hurried to her door and glanced about the chamber. Empty.

  When I reached the kitchen I found Matilda wringing her hands and placing the chairs upright. She saw me barrel into the room and cried, "Gum, wot's 'appenin'? They've gone tearin' out o' this ole house like the devil 'imself was nippin' at their 'eels."

  I grabbed her and said, "Tilly, go to Malham and fetch Brabbs. Tell him it's urgent. He'll understand."

  I exited the house without coat or shoes, my white nightdress a frail barrier against the elements. I ran as quickly as my weakened state would allow down the path toward the stables.

  At last the ruin rose up before me, all waste and grim black stone. There was the silence of death about it. I could see the door, the stall, the place where Jane had died. There in that corner was a misshapen mass that might have been a saddle. There was a wheel, a brace for a buggy—I shook my head, releasing the memory of pandemonium.

  Where was my husband?

  I left the winter-beaten devastation and returned to the main path, searching frantically both left and right. Then I saw Nicholas as he topped the highest fell, then disappeared on the other side.

  Away from Walthamstow's gardens the wind swept more forcefully, whistling between the moor's bracken crags and crevices, whipping away what was left of last night's fog. Finally I topped the rise and looked down toward Pikedaw Cliff. Mist tumbled and swirled before me, caught up in the helter-skelter rampage of the wind. I caught glimpses of the stone wall my husband and Jim had set out to repair those days before. My fall down the stairs had apparently ceased the renovation, for the gaping hole in the wall had yet to be mended completely.

  My frantic eye searched the dim and misty landscape for any sight of my lord and the mysterious creature who had led him to this inhospitable place. Why? I questioned. Why here? My gaze traveled up and down the wall and then . . . Realization sprang on me as chill as death as I found my husband backed to the edge of Pikedaw Cliff, and before him, advancing steadily was the clo
aked and hooded woman.

  Dare I call out? Dare I move? What fear was this that made my lord back toward that precipice as if death were more preferable than facing this nemesis? Yet he backed again. And again. Nearer he came to the deadly ledge until my fear for his safety lent me strength enough to stumble down the hill, to mount the dilapidated wall, and to jump to the other side.

  Advancing on the woman, I cried, "Stop!"

  The wind rose, sobbing over the gorge and whipping the woman's hood away from her head as she spun to face me.

  Jane!

  Terror reared up inside me, buckled my legs so I stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Was this some specter sent back from the grave to redeem her lost soul? Nay, for as I watched her mane of blond hair rise like a cloud around her and her head fall back in wicked, wicked laughter, I knew she was real. I knew true madness. I had faced it at Oaks. I faced it again in Jane Wyndham's eyes. Yes, she was real, flesh and blood and more evil than any demon of hell could ever be.

  She made a quick turn back toward my husband, whose glazed eyes hinted of shock. Then there was thunder and the ground shook beneath me. Over the wall and through the mist loomed a heaving, snorting monster that seemed to lunge right at Jane. She threw up her arms and screamed. Horrified, I watched as she spiraled backward, away from the horse's pawing hooves, and disappeared over the precipice, her cry of terror swallowed by the mist.

  Moving woodenly at first, Nicholas stumbled away from the cliff, his arms and legs laden with relief. Struggling to my feet, I ran to him while Trevor slid off his horse and approached us.

  My lord's arms wrapped around me, held me fiercely against him as he whispered, "God, oh God, Maggie, was it truly Jane or am I imagining it all again?"

  "Aye," I cried. "It was Jane, sir, you didn't imagine her!"

  My lord opened his arms and took in his brother. "Thank God, Trev, you arrived just in time."

  I stood back and watched as my husband hugged his brother in gratitude. I noted that Trevor's slack arms responded with no fondness, and deep in the center of my breast I felt my heart turn over.