by S K Rizzolo
Looking into his black eyes, Penelope discovered the solution to a puzzle that had long troubled her. A woman knows, she thought, when a gentleman likes her, enjoys her company, and even if she doesn’t reciprocate the feeling, she can’t help but experience a tiny thrill of conquest. Yet while Lord Ashe might choose to treat his wife’s hired companion with complaisance, she realized in that moment that idle flirtation, or even mere kindness, was not his aim.
He took her arm to guide her down the stairs. “I am pleased that you decided, after all, to accompany Julia, Mrs. Wolfe. I cannot but acknowledge you a steadying influence on my wife.”
Nonplussed, she replied, “Thank you, my lord. Possibly a sojourn in the country may do us all some good. I shall not be sorry to enjoy quiet nights and go early to my bed.”
“Quite sensible. If you will only convince Julia to do likewise, I shall be grateful. I do believe that business with the footman has distressed her more than she realizes.”
She murmured something noncommittal, schooling her expression to remain impassive. Ashe took another step, then stopped, turning again to face her in the narrow space.
“The matter is behind us,” he said softly. “I feel at liberty now to confide that I have been most uneasy in my mind. You see, this Ransom was not what he seemed. That he should insinuate himself into a gentleman’s residence…but it might have been worse, Mrs. Wolfe, much worse.”
Penelope’s heart gave a painful thump. “How so, my lord?”
He bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Need you inquire, my dear? You have come to know Julia so well.”
***
Edward Buckler pulled up the gig to survey the rolling downland he’d once called home. Over a sleepless night, he had decided to leave London and set out after Penelope. Usually, he strove to make calculated decisions; he was not used to acting on the spur of the moment.
But while tossing and turning in a futile battle with his covers, it had seemed to him that she would be too alone, too isolated not knowing anyone in Dorset. Though he’d written to ask his brother to look in, Buckler could not feel at ease thinking of her in that strange, remote house.
In the morning, after asking Bob to reschedule his paltry few appointments, he packed a bag, left a note for Thorogood, and booked passage on the stage. An outside seat, for, of course, the guard refused to allow Buckler’s dog inside the coach, and even to secure a place on the roof had required a substantial bribe. Two, in fact, since he’d also had to shell out to still the outcry from the assorted riffraff who were to be his travel companions.
After a chilly, jarring, interminable ride during which he never had time to bolt more than a few morsels of food at various coaching inns, he rented a gig at Salisbury and set off down the turnpike for the last sixteen miles to his brother’s home.
By now, afternoon was deepening to evening, less than an hour of daylight remaining. He’d best get on. The high road beginning in the miry, low ground of the Ebble valley had ascended to a throat-catching expanse of land and sky that continued until Blandford. Traffic was light at this hour, and the horse seemed to know the road well. Buckler had plenty of leisure to think, to observe the flocks of purplish-green lapwings, and to listen to the hoarse shrieks of rooks.
There was something about this place that both stirred and depressed him. It was beautiful yet somber, even eerie, rich with endless variety, and always endlessly the same. Occasionally, the grassy swelling of an ancient earth mound, so much a part of the landscape as to be accepted without thought, broke the ground’s contour. It was said that somewhere existed a barrow which held a magnificent golden coffin awaiting discovery. Near Woodyates, one observed evidence of a later presence when the high road joined briefly with a stretch of the old Roman thoroughfare. And it was in this vicinity that the royal bastard Monmouth had been captured at the conclusion of his ignominious bid for a crown.
Curled at his feet apparently sound asleep, the dog missed the greater part of this journey across the downs. It did not stir until they stopped to pay the toll at Cashmore, at which point it rose slowly to its haunches and looked around without much interest. Aged and of indeterminate breed, Ruff was the most lugubrious, inert animal Buckler had ever encountered. The dog neither fawned nor groveled, but seemed curiously independent of humanity, his master included. Still, in recent days it seemed that Ruff had come to view him with some measure of partiality, as evidenced by a weakly thumping tail whenever Buckler approached with food.
Thus, he was astounded when a few minutes after they left the turnpike, Ruff, having seemed to lapse again into a doze, reared up from his place on the floorboards to peer over the edge of the seat.
“Hell and the devil,” said Buckler.
His response was a distinctly baleful look out of watery eyes and a growl. Ruff turned his gaze back to the road and maintained a low rumbling, punctuated by short, furious barks. Buckler looked also, but saw nothing; they were alone on the road, which led to Buckland village and the manor where his brother was squire. Unless the damned mutt had decided to bark at the lengthening shadows, Buckler had no notion what there was to trouble him.
“Easy, boy,” he said soothingly and placed a hand on the dog’s head, trying to nudge it down.
Ruff shoved back, hard, thrusting his body up so that his forelegs scrabbled up and across Buckler’s lap, nearly overbalancing him. Lifting his head, the dog gave a wild, inconsolable cry.
Before Buckler’s ears had time to register this fearful noise, he had his hands full of plunging horse. Swearing fluently, he yanked the gig to a shuddering stop. Ruff subsided at his feet, trembling.
***
Rebecca waited until the gig had disappeared in a cloud of dust before rising from behind the gnarled tree. When she was sure it was safe, she set off in the same direction, thinking of the bewilderment on the man’s face, the piercing strangeness of the dog’s howl. Somehow, the creature had known she was there, but she did not know what this portended. Why should it fear her? Perhaps it had sensed the shadow of evil and death that was her constant companion and had merely sought to warn her.
For a moment she wondered if she’d done right to run away again and shivered remembering Janet’s anger when she had crept back the last time after that terrible night in the parish lock-up. Sobbing out the story of Dick’s death, Rebecca had thought Janet would strike her. Janet had purpled with rage, then turned so white that Rebecca had started forward to prevent her falling. But Janet pushed her away, and after that, they no longer spoke of Dick.
This time was different. Rebecca had suddenly known where she must be to finish it all. No matter that the demons would follow her; it might be that she would get there first. Repressing the urge to glance over her shoulder, she forced herself to go on, though her feet felt as if they were rooted to the earth and had to be ripped up for each step she took. Oh, she was tired. She’d had nothing to eat since morning when a kind farmer’s wife had given her a hunk of bread and a dipper of milk, and despite the mildness of the spring evening, she felt cold.
Clear, reddish light washed the sky as the day offered up its final burst of glory. There was a fullness in her womb and a dark blood haze coloring the edges of her vision. It will soon be over now, she thought.
Chapter XIX
“You didn’t meet Sir Roger and his party on the road?” asked Henry, offering Buckler a brandy.
“They are to spend one night at an inn, and I imagine I got a far earlier start on the stage. No, the only event of any note on this journey was when my dog took violent exception to thin air and nearly overturned us.”
“Do you suppose he saw something?”
“How the deuce should I know? I was too busy controlling the blasted horse.” Buckler raised his brows. “Why, what do you suppose we came across on the Buckland track? A hare? Or do you mean something rather less corporeal?”
“No,” said Henry, his cheeks getting rather flushed. “I was just thinking of the old tales about
travelers on the downs encountering monstrous, saucer-eyed dogs and the like.”
“Ah.” Buckler was the least superstitious of men except when it suited him to indulge fancy. Even his worst enemy could not have called him a believer; his mind hadn’t the necessary tone. Henry was much the same.
“We’ll go together to church on Sunday,” said Buckler’s brother with an abrupt change of subject, “and you can satisfy yourself about your Mrs. Wolfe.”
They were in the library, whence they’d retired after dinner to dismantle the formality of a long separation, but Buckler was finding it increasingly hard to hold up his end of the conversation. It felt as if a great weight like Henry’s monstrous dog had decided to flop upon his chest.
From the depths of the shabby, comfortable easy chairs that had furnished this room as long as either of them could recall, Henry Buckler watched his brother with a worried expression. Ruff, keeping his distance ever since they’d arrived, also eyed his master narrowly from his spot by the fire. And yet all of them, servants included, always kept up appearances. His brother would say little if anything, even should Buckler retire to his room and stay there for the duration of his visit. It wasn’t that Henry didn’t care, Buckler knew. Quite the contrary.
In truth, Henry’s reticence was meant to show that he respected his younger brother’s privacy and trusted him to come about as he always did. Still, sometimes Buckler wished that this reserve were not so impenetrable and that his brother were more forthcoming about the needs and feelings at the center of his life. Buckler might thus find it easier to acknowledge his own. Why now, he thought with something approaching despair. Why must it happen now when I’ve just come home and this ought to be a time of happiness?
“How are things in the village?” he asked, hearing the forced cheer in his own voice. “I found my welcome a trifle restrained when I rode through this afternoon. They greeted me right enough, but there was none of the usual raillery.”
Henry frowned. “’Twas a hard winter. You know the last harvest was a disappointment, so some belt tightening proved necessary. Our people came out all right, but I’m afraid Wallace-Crag’s tenants are feeling the pinch.”
“Yes, I’d heard he lost his bailiff. A shame. A good man. Who’d they get to replace him?”
“A grasping, money-sucking here-and-thereian.”
“That bad, eh? I don’t suppose matters will improve now that Sir Roger has returned to the estate. He’s never taken much interest in the welfare of his people.”
His only answer was a snort, and the brothers lapsed into silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Even in the gentle firelight, Henry’s face looked more lined than it had the last time they’d been together. He was a well set up, modestly handsome country gentleman, a dozen years Buckler’s senior and a good half a foot taller. He had never married; why no one knew. He ran his hounds, oversaw his land, and lived what was obviously a busy and fulfilling life as a trusted and permanent fixture in the lives of his dependents. When the thought chanced to occur, Buckler was vaguely troubled that as his brother’s heir he would someday bear the responsibility for the estate. He doubted he would make near as good a job of its management.
After a time Henry picked up the conversation where they had left off. “Wallace-Crag’s nonsense about digging up that old abandoned church isn’t helping matters any. I tell you that man has windmills in his head, which no one is inclined to doubt considering that medieval horror he had built.”
Buckler actually laughed, feeling a momentary lessening of the gloom. “He’s excavating around that ghostly wreck in the Druid’s circle? What does he hope to find?”
“Dashed if I know,” said Henry, grinning at him in obvious relief at this indication of a lighter mood.
“I have heard of an antiquary in Wiltshire who’s been opening up every barrow in sight. He’s found bits of a coarse pottery, small bronze and iron pieces, some Roman coins. And several urns of human bones. You have to admit, Henry, that it’s time someone investigated the prehistoric remains in this area. Jupiter, there are enough of them.”
“I’m not so sure. Not when the villagers are so quick to fly up into the boughs about it. Besides, there ain’t a burial barrow just there, just an earthbank.”
The gloom resettled. Beginning to think longingly of his bed, Buckler put down his brandy glass on the side table. Spirits wouldn’t help the headache that throbbed at his temples.
“Why should the villagers care? It’s been years since anyone used that church. The roof fell in, didn’t it?”
“Yes, at least two score years ago.”
Buckler got to his feet. “Then what’s the problem?” he said, impatience creeping into his tone.
Henry looked at him. “You had better ask Mrs. Thomas for a dose of laudanum to help you sleep, Edward. You look done in.”
“I am,” he replied, trying to speak pleasantly. “I believe I’ll take your advice.”
“Good.” Henry rose too, and for a strangely awkward moment the brothers faced each other across the hearthrug.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” Buckler said finally.
***
Bells, liquid and soaring, summoned the parish to Sunday service. Afterwards, as Lord and Lady Ashe waited to exchange greetings with the clergyman, Penelope scanned the crowd of farmers and local gentry until she spotted Edward Buckler standing alone by a low stone wall, coat-tails flapping in the breeze. At his back sprawled a large farm, an expanse of corn fields, and a cluster of cottages. Beyond that, there was only a country track that dipped down the valley, accompanied in its course by a stream swollen with the spring thaw.
She had been astonished during the service to see Buckler sitting across from her, an older gentleman at his side. Penelope had liked the look of Sir Henry Buckler on sight. The two brothers did not much resemble one another, though some indefinable similarity revealed their shared blood.
But what to make of Buckler’s presence here? Thinking of their last meeting, she had felt the prick of unease. He had seemed so…determined, but on what she could not be certain. He must know that any real intimacy between them was impossible given her circumstances. And yet, she could not be entirely sorry he had come. It would be a comfort to be sure of having a friend in the next village, for as much as she liked Sir Roger, he was not the man to turn to in any difficulty.
Now, as Ashe exchanged courtesies with the vicar, Julia lingered, clearly feeling out of place, but seemingly unsure of what to do with herself. Penelope assayed a smile in her direction, which was not acknowledged, and excusing herself with a brief gesture, walked away.
“Hello, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Buckler.
She gave him her hand, thinking he looked weary and that his smile lacked spirit. Even in the intermittent bursts of sunshine, his red-brown hair, which he kept pushing out of his face, appeared dulled, quite without its usual glint of fire. His eyes, a darker gray than normal and shadow-ringed, met hers without ostensible interest.
“I did not expect to see you, sir,” she said brightly. “I had thought you fixed in London.”
“How is Sarah?”
“She’s fine. She and Maggie and Frank are exploring the cloisters at Cayhill this morning.”
“Have a good journey?”
“Yes, thank you. And you?”
“Uneventful.”
Suddenly shy, she couldn’t think what more to say. There was something in his manner that constrained her, prevented her from behaving naturally. She turned with relief as Buckler’s brother joined them.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Sir Henry said courteously, bowing.
As Buckler performed the introductions, Penelope studied the two men. Where Buckler was slight of stature and build, Henry had the sportsman’s tall, well-formed figure. Dressed with propriety and simple elegance, he was yet attractive, though gray powdered his dark hair.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Wolfe. I hope you’ll find time to see something of
our county whilst you’re here, ma’am. We have much to offer whether your taste runs to the ancient, or to the picturesque. I suppose Cayhill might be said to fall into the latter category,” he added dryly.
Smiling at him, she had framed a suitable reply when Buckler interrupted. “You do not know but that whatever menace struck down that footman has followed you here to Dorset, Mrs. Wolfe. Be on your guard at all times in that house.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Is that why you’ve come?”
He didn’t answer, and Sir Henry stepped into the breach. “You’ve only to tell us if we can be of any use to you. Buckland is not far, a mile or so distant. Send a message anytime.”
Penelope was still looking at Buckler, a cold pit of dread forming in her gut. “What is it? Your manner seems so odd today. Are you unwell?”
“Mrs. Wolfe,” called Sir Roger. “Would you care for a tour of our little church? The vicar has kindly granted us permission to do some poking around.”
“Go on, Penelope,” said Buckler in a low tone. “I’ll ride over and see you in a day or two.”
She shook her head at him uneasily, but there was no time for more. Perforce, she made her farewells, and taking Sir Roger’s arm, walked with him up the path toward the chapel.
Julia still loitered near her husband, who was engaged in earnest discussion with the vicar.
“Accompany us, my dear,” said Sir Roger.
After an uncertain glance at Ashe, Julia curtsied. “I own I shall be grateful to remove from this wind.”
Penelope and her companions stepped inside, pausing in the nave. This was an unadorned flint structure with no arches and a roof of rough-hewn timbers. Its few windows were narrow, making candles necessary even in broad day. The church was a modest, aged structure with no tower or steeple, only a humble wooden casing to house the bell.
“Such austerity is oddly appealing,” said Penelope. “It frees the mind for contemplation.”