Her breathing became labored. The ground was rising and the fog began to thin. She tried to analyze her feelings, to rationalize them so they could be put aside as unimportant, external to her purpose. Was she afraid? It seemed like it. She felt jumpy, and the difficulty with breathing wasn’t caused entirely by her exertions.
Why was she scared? Being alone in a fog was not a good reason. Perhaps she feared what lay ahead. Perhaps some part of her brain withheld a dreadful memory. What secret did the Manor hold, and how could it pull at her so strongly that not even a squadron of bats would cause her to turn back?
The last two oaks stood like sentinels on either side as she emerged from the fog onto a wide grassed area. To left and right the drive curved away. Across the lawn, a distance of at least two hundred yards, a stone-flagged terrace rose, and above it the walls of a perfect Palladian house, its pillared portico lined with stone urns, its balustrades running the length of two side wings, set back from the main building. One of these wings, the eastern, was much older. It had been built of mellow Tudor brick, then later cleverly incorporated into the new design, with the continuing terrace and shrubberies balancing the whole.
How restrained and beautiful, she thought. Just like the sketch. Only one thing marred it – the tower. She could just glimpse it away to the right at the end of the Tudor wing, its blackened stones bulging like an excrescence on a work of art. It must have been part of an even older original building. But why, having suffered partial destruction, had it been left to fall into greater disrepair until positively dangerous, by the look of it?
So many questions, and no answers. Abruptly she set off along the right-hand fork, skirting the lawn and main house and following the line of the terrace. The tower drew her. It exuded a horrid fascination that she couldn’t begin to account for.
The sun had cleared the tree tops and reflected in the windows of the Manor, so that the house seemed to peer from behind frosted lenses. Karen felt overlooked. Her nerves on edge, she forced herself to go on, on toward the tower.
It loomed much larger than it first appeared, a broken, crumbling thing, but powerful still. It had walls three feet thick at the base, the stones cracked and soot-blackened, the narrow window slits naked to the wind. The roof had gone, and most of the upper storey, leaving just a finger of stone, a calcified bone pointing to the sky. A part of the stairs still clung like broken piecrust to the curved inner wall. But where the damage was greatest, it had fallen away to reveal great heaps of rubble, weed-choked broken blocks like the fallen headstones of giants. Karen felt she was looking at a tomb.
A cloud must have passed over the sun. She felt a chill run through her, and began to shake. No effort of will could control the rigors that gripped her. Sweat broke out on her forehead and ran down her face. Her stomach heaved with nausea. Then, worst of all, a hidden door in her mind swung open. She looked through. She saw the flames, heard the ravening howl of the monster as it stampeded up the stairwell after her.
‘Chloe! Antony! Nooooo …!’ Her scream faded as she collapsed on the scarred turf, her head inches from the doorsill where Antony had fought to save his Jenny, and lost.
*
‘I tell you, she would not heed me. She was determined on the journey and I had no power to restrain her.’
Charles faced an Antony he’d not seen in years, a man whose icy intensity of rage could quell a mob uprising, and actually had done so when a rabble of unemployed weavers smashed the mill machinery of a friend before going on to attack the owner’s house. Having witnessed their rout, Charles could swear to its truth, without quite knowing how it had been achieved.
Now Antony had that same look, controlled, but with a set jaw revealing how rigidly his control was exercised.
‘A way might have been found – the carriage disabled, the coachman drunk. Something of a like nature should have occurred to you. But to permit her to set off alone on such a journey… to that place!’
Ah! There was the root of the trouble, thought Charles. It was not so much Caro’s absence as the knowledge of where she had gone. Antony ceased to be rational where the Manor was concerned. It loomed in his mind as a place of horror and destruction which could not be allowed to touch anything or anyone he valued. The fact that his father chose to live there did not signify. He had no power over the old Earl, frail and arthritic but determined not to quit the home he liked best. Antony could not move him.
But Caro, his wife, for whom he cared more than he knew, had chosen to go to that place he feared and hated.
Charles understood that his friend needed a whipping boy, but could not resist saying in a deliberately aggrieved tone, ‘I did send outriders.’
‘One would hope so!’ Antony retorted, unappeased. He strode over to the library window and stood with hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders set like rock. He had done no more than remove his travelling coat before asking Charles to make his report.
Charles wished he’d had better news. He could not even give a satisfactory reason for Caro’s sudden flight. To say she had seen a sketch and was seized with a sudden desire to view the original would scarcely find acceptance with the angry man before him.
Antony whipped around. ‘When did she leave?’
‘No earlier than five o’clock.’
‘’Tis light until ten, and then a full moon. She may not stop.’
‘The road beyond Richmond is bad, and she is unused to travelling such distances. She will surely spend two nights resting. Antony – ’
‘Have Lightning saddled and brought around immediately. I must change.
‘But you have not supped nor slept, after the journey you have had…’ Charles put out a hand as Antony brushed past him.
He paused in the doorway and looked back. ‘I dined and slept on the crossing. Do as I bid you, Charles. You will forward the papers in that packet on the desk to Lord Liverpool, and inform him that I shall do myself the honor of reporting in person before the week is out.’ His look of strain lightened and he added with an attempted smile, ‘Never fear, Charles. I am aware that you could not curb my lady’s starts once she had the bit in her teeth. But I must go after her. I cannot endure the thought of her in that hellish place. It once caused me to lose the treasure of my life, and I will not risk another such loss.’
Charles was thoughtful as he put his orders in train. He had been in the right of it. Antony cared very much for the welfare of his Caro. It was a far cry from his attitude of a few months ago. An intriguing reversal.
Only after Antony had left the house did it occur to Charles that he had not spoken of the matter of Sybilla and her brother’s plottings. Of course, with Caro away; there would be no immediate danger to her. Yet he could not be at ease. Who would credit such perfidy within the actual heart of the family? He pondered this for a time, concluding that there must be a strain of madness somewhere in Lady Oriel’s august lineage.
An even more terrible thought occurred to him. His assignation with Amanda would have to be postponed. It would take him sometime to gain access to the Foreign Minister, and the precious documents could be entrusted to no one else. He swore a long and comprehensive oath before sitting down to pen a note to his love, and looked up to see Bates’ shocked gaze upon him.
*
Antony rode throughout the night. His horse all but foundered under him, although he had been careful to give it periods of ease, and he was forced to stop by mid-morning. In the yard of a roadside hostelry somewhere on the Salisbury Plain he reeled from the saddle, flung an order at an ostler, and downed a tankard of ale before throwing himself on a hastily prepared bed. A boy pulled off his boots and coat and took them away to be cleaned, and he slept like a man bludgeoned into unconsciousness. Six hours later he was on the road again.
His third horse went lame not thirteen miles from Ashbourne St. Mary, and neither cajolery, threats nor bribes could find another that night. Through necessity, he spent several hours chafing at the delay, unable to rest
and trying, without success, to put a rein on his runaway imagination.
Reason said that Caro would be in no danger at the Manor. The only persons in residence were his father and a small staff to serve him and maintain the property. Aware that he could not justify his apprehension, Antony felt it growing, feeding on the delay like some monstrous serpent that swelled and coiled itself around his heart.
Wide awake, and oppressed by the walls of the inn, he paced the courtyard cobbles through the early hours, greatly disturbing his fellow travelers and suffering the tortures that can only be inflicted by an imaginative and emotionally engaged mind.
He knew now that he loved his wife, and had done for weeks past. As far back as the first evening when she appeared in public after her accident and was approached by Jack Thornton – even then, he’d known. Seized with fury, he’d wanted to attack and throttle the man in Lady Wharton’s drawing room.
Of course, he could not admit to common jealousy. That would be too confronting altogether. What? He, in love with a woman whose activities had fed the gossips so well for a twelvemonth – a woman who had smirched his name and laughed as she did so!
But that was not the Caro he now knew. How greatly she had changed, softening in some ways and growing firm and strong in others. It was like seeing a reverse image in a looking glass, the same yet not the same. Some alchemy had transformed her most unlovable characteristics. Where she had so often shown the world an expression of churlish boredom, or other evidence of self-interest, now there was grace and a gracious attention and care for the feelings of others. There was also a guardedness, with an underlying sadness that provoked his most deeply felt urge to protect. She seemed haunted by an inner vision he could not share, and he was even jealous of that.
He welcomed such hungry pain as an indication that he could react. For too long he had let life flow over him, with little more response than a dead man; but now the vacuum in his heart had filled with warmth and feeling. He loved again, and his world had gone from gray to all the rainbow hues. His hearing, long deaf to all but the call of duty, was now attuned to the many songs of happiness this world held. But… she had gone to the Manor.
The sluggish nag eventually provided for his use would not be hurried by any means he could devise; yet he turned the wretch’s head into the drive of Ashbourne Manor an hour after sunrise.
At his hail, the gatekeeper hurried from his cottage, fumbling his work in the fog.
‘How goes it, Crimmins?’
‘Yarely, my lord. I thank ’ee.’
‘Has there been another caller in the past day, a lady?
Crimmins swung the gate and stood back. ‘No, my lord.’ He sounded surprised.
Antony paused, then urged his horse forward. He might as well go on and warn his father and the household to expect company. As well, a solid breakfast would render him more fit to organize the search.
Fog swirled over his boot-tops, surrounding him in a milky sea. If it had not been for the oaks as markers he soon would have strayed off the track. Crimmins’ report had not been reassuring. Caro was still somewhere on the road, without his protection. Anything might have happened to her. His mind churning with visions of coach accidents, highwaymen and worse, he found himself hovering at an agonizing pitch of anxiety. He wanted to cram his mount to a gallop, to release the unbearable tension, but knew this could bring disaster upon them both. To go crashing through fog amongst trees invited broken knees for the horse and a broken neck for himself; and who then would care for Caro?
For Antony, minutes, hours and years were the same until he finally emerged from fog and trees onto the freshly scythed grass before the house. Ashbourne Manor. At last he saw it again, this scene of halcyon contentment and the blackest, most bitter despair. Long repressed memories swept over him. He sat trembling, and the tears he had denied himself before ran down his cheeks as he mourned his past lost love. It was a cleansing, and he felt the better for it. But it was not yet finished. Before he could go to Caro with a free heart he must face that last, most dreaded symbol of his despair, the tower. He nudged the horse on towards the eastern wing.
Blinded by reflection from the windows, all he saw was a gray and blackened blur, a jagged stump of stone that might have been anything. Then, rounding the terrace he came to the heaped-up ruins. The doorway with its massive lintel still stood, and at its step lay a huddle of blue cloth.
Dread hit him over the heart with a physical pain. He bowed over in the saddle, a silent litany of curses and prayers weighing him down. This was not happening. It could not be.
Clutching the pommel, he willed himself to retain his senses. When his breath returned he slid to the ground and flung himself on his knees beside the still figure. Gently he lifted her and turned her over.
Her eyes were closed. Her lovely face was scratched and smeared with soil; but the bosom of her gown rose and fell evenly.
Thank God! Thank God! Holding her to him, he buried his face in the bright springing hair and sobbed, a man reprieved from damnation.
*
Once again she woke in a strange room, and with a feeling of disorientation. She’d been in the middle of a strange dream, and it lingered, mixing with waking reality so that she was unsure of where she was or even who she was.
Light poured through windows to illuminate the pretty floral walls and hangings of a bedchamber. She looked about her, confused, then centered on the man slumped in a chair beside her, holding her hand as he slept. He had not shaved. His stock beneath his chin was creased and grubby. He looked exhausted.
Antony. Her eyes roved lovingly over the disheveled figure. She wanted to smooth back the thick dark hair falling over his forehead, and erase the lines of exhaustion that added years to his face.
Her fingers must have tightened on his, because he was suddenly awake and looking into her unguarded eyes. What he saw there struck an answering spark in his own.
He moved to gather her in his arms. ‘Caro, my dearest girl.’
‘Dear love, what is it? Why do you name me so?’
His grip tightened convulsively. She stifled an exclamation. From a distance of inches his gaze had an intensity that almost frightened her. ‘What did you call me?’
‘Dear love. ‘Tis my name for you.’
His voice seemed to rasp in his throat. ‘And what is my name for you?’
With his fingers biting into her shoulders, she said on a gasp, ‘My… my lady sweet. It came from the love poems we read together, do you recall? Why do you ask?’
His grip slackened and she fell back against the pillows. Sinking into the chair, he stared ahead of him. Color seeped from his face while she watched, leaving it waxen. His expression had an edge of horror.
‘Antony!’ She sat up and put out a hand, but he drew back as if from something repulsive.
‘How could you know? How could you do this?’
She said anxiously, ‘My dear, you are not well. I shall send at once for Doctor Styles. Or, better, I shall go down to my stillroom for a decoction of dandelion flowers and a root that I know of…’
‘Great God! What is this?’ He was on his feet, trembling like a tree buffeted in a storm. His face was so terrible that she cried out and sprang from the bed to hold him to her.
‘Antony, you must sit down.’ She gave him a push, and as if all power had left him, he collapsed back into the chair. Kneeling, she took his hands in hers and chafed them. Her eyes searched for signs of what really ailed him.
His own eyes closed in denial, he reasoned to himself, ‘There was Feathers’ reaction. He knew her. Then the way she used her maid, refusing to let her sit up late to wait on her. Her changed manner, her sweetened temper. Then Chloe. The child now dotes on her. Why did she come here? She has never cared to live in the country. She knows Styles. And now… this.’
‘My dear, will you not let me help you?’
His hands turned in her grip, and now she was held fast, imprisoned in a relentless hold. His eyes
were beams of concentrated energy. ‘Tell me, who are you? What is your name?’
‘Are you funning, Antony? This is no time for games.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Antony! You are hurting me. You know I am you wife, Jenny.’
The silence stretched, time stretched. It seemed they had sat there, eyes-fast, forever.
Suddenly he was on his feet, dragging her to the looking glass that stood in a corner of the room. Pulling her hard against the length of his body, her back to him, he faced her in reflection.
‘Then tell me, Jenny… who is this?’
She stood and stared. The beautiful woman in the glass looked back at her with bemused eyes.
‘Well?’
When she continued to stare dumbly, he gave her a little shake. ‘Tell me about this glorious creature with her termagant locks, and the face and figure that set half Landon afire in her first season. Tell me how she could be my little brown Jenny, my lovely, sweet Jenny? Can you explain that?’
Still she stared. She’d heard him speak but the words passed by her like wind over a lake, scarcely rippling more than the surface. She’d gone down to a place where he could not reach her, and in those depths she could see herself in two distinct facets – as Jenny, as Karen. She heard Amanda saying, ‘Give credence to the possibility of a soul being reborn in another body, in another time,’ and she knew, without any possibility of doubt, that this had happened to her.
Once she’d inhabited the frail limping body of Jenny Marchmont. The many-faceted spirit that was the intrinsic she, the personality that could never fade or die, had chosen to pursue that particular lifetime. It had also chosen the role of Karen. She was a composite of both, and of many more men and women in countless lifetimes. She was a soul caught between time frames, yet bound to the karmic wheel that decided her fate.
With a sigh she released herself from Antony’s slackened hold. It seemed he could no longer bear to look at her. Like a blind man, he stumbled across to the chimneypiece and stood there, his fisted hands resting on the shelf, his head bowed. She didn’t fear the jealous rage he’d once shown her. He was beyond that. She could feel his immeasurable hurt in her own heart, and went to him, saying softly, ‘Antony, question me. Ask me what you will and I shall answer truly.’
Endless Time Page 27