"He has no saddle, sir."
"I know,” murmured Colin, swinging himself up wearily behind him, “that doesn't matter. I'll hold you, Ted. You shan't fall."
The child clouded again. “You won't tell Father?” he worried.
Colin took a handkerchief from his trousers pocket and presented it to the boy. “Blow,” he charged, “and wipe those eyes or I won't have to tell him anything, he'll know at sight of you."
"You, too, sir,” said the child, observing Colin's swollen eyes, and tear-stained face. “You look frightful, sir. I . . . I never saw you cry before."
"Please God you never do again,” muttered Colin under his breath.
No more passed between them on the ride to St. Michael's vicarage. Enthralled over an opportunity to sit astride the legendary Exchequer, the boy seemed to have forgotten everything else. The wind had risen fanning their hot faces, but it also raised the dust, choking them as they rode. From behind, Colin held the child securely while he struggled with the mask, trying to make it fit over the fear, the anguish and the rage that attended him then. But it was too short a journey for him to accomplish that completely, and when he saw the vicar running down the vestry steps to meet them, his racing heart sank.
He approached them so quickly that Exchequer shied and pranced nervously in the drive, and it took all of Colin's strength and skill to hold him.
"Get back, damn you, Elliot,” he snapped. “You know better than to come at this beast like that. Do you want to get trampled? Jesus!"
The vicar ignored him. “I saw you coming from the kitchen window,” he said. “What's happened?"
Colin delivered Ted into his father's arms. “Nothing,” he said, soothing the agitated horse with a firm hand on his lathered neck.
Elliot set the boy down and searched his face deeply. Frightened now of that, Ted spoke quickly, “Uncle Colin gave me such a fine ride on his horse, Father,” he said, jumping up and down in the dust.
The vicar frowned toward Colin. “Say thank you to him, son,” he said, “and go on in to Rina—there's a good lad."
"Thank you, Uncle Colin,” the child said passionately.
"That's all right, lad, we shall have another fine ride soon. Go on, then, mind your father."
The boy waved and flew up the steps, disappearing through the vestry door.
"All right, Colin, what's going on?” the vicar demanded, taking him in totally.
"I was out for a ride when I came upon Ted and I spared him the walk home."
"Out for a ride were you—half dressed on that horse with no saddle, and your dagger in your belt? What? Do you take me for a fool? Try again, Colin."
"Nothing happened, Elliot,” Colin pronounced. “I came upon him along the footpath. What possesses you to let that child wander the moors on his own? He's barely five-and-a-half years old, Elliot. Have you gone addle-witted? You know better. After all that's befallen us in this place over the years, how can you be so—so bloody careless with that precious child? Christ!"
"The footpath?” breathed Elliot, having heard little else.
"Bravo—it has ears!"
"Something did happen out there—I knew it."
"If something had happened we wouldn't be here now would we? But we are here aren't we, Elliot? What does that tell you? Are you listening to me at all? You've got to pay more attention to that child. He's bored and he's lonely—he needs a father.” He thumped his breast. “He needs what I needed at his age, goddamn you. I was deprived, and we both know the outcome of that!"
"You aren't going to convince me that you just happened upon that child,” cried Elliot, waving a wild arm in Colin's direction. “Not looking like that—the pair of you. Just look at your face—your eyes! They're nearly swollen shut, and his as well."
"Do you see that cloud of dust behind me?” snarled Colin. “It hasn't rained for days. That's what's in our eyes. We've eaten half the dirt in Cornwall riding here, and so will you if you stay out here much longer in this blasted wind. Christ!"
"Come inside, Colin, we need to talk."
"Thank you, no,” he replied curtly. “We have talked, Elliot, and I can see it's done no good, so you leave me no choice but to act. I have something urgent to attend to at the house, then I shall return. Since you are so anxious to have me in, have Rina set another place for dinner. Afterward we shall discuss Ted's future—which school you want to send him to. He will go off at once. I shall see to it, and I shall pay for it. It's my gift, and that we shan't discuss."
"Now I know something happened. Perhaps it's best I don't know what."
Colin's whole body delivered a deep nod setting the nervous horse's hoofs in motion again. “Right,” he thundered. “Don't face a thing and perhaps it will go away, eh? Take that tack here now, my friend, and it's likely to go away for good and all. Now you listen here to me, you get back in that house, and you take that boy in your arms, and you pay him some attention. Do not scold that child for wandering off, it's your fault he did. Yes, your fault, not his, Elliot. Do not interrogate him. Just . . . just see if you can hold onto him until I can get him away from here. See if you can just do that."
With no more said, he jerked back on the reins and wheeled the horse around, driving him hard at a gallop back into the dust cloud he'd come from.
Looking after him the vicar swallowed dry. No, he didn't want to know what it was that Colin was withholding. He had seen many faces of Colin Chapin, but never the one he'd just witnessed on that strange, dusty August afternoon with the sun shining brightly down. Somehow the warmth of it chilled him. It seemed a mockery, and it was some time before he dragged himself back into the vicarage.
* * * *
Colin's first order of business upon returning to the house was to dismiss David Foster-Smith, who found himself sprawled on his face in the drive long before his belongings came flying after him. This, Colin knew, was counterproductive since, when it came to Malcolm, even a bad tutor was better than no tutor at all. However, in this case it didn't seem to matter. The man hadn't prevented what had very nearly been cold-blooded murder done right under their noses. Such as that deserved neither wages nor any sort of courtesy, as Colin saw it, and he gave neither.
Malcolm was his next order of business, but he was nowhere to be found, though Colin literally tore the house and grounds apart in search of him. None of the servants had seen him either, and hoping that the boy had fled for good or fulfilled his favorite fantasy at last and toppled off the cliff, he bathed and changed, and set out for the vicarage astride a calmed, groomed, and saddled Exchequer.
He rode by way of the footpath, half hoping to find the dark youth at the stones. Absently he patted his middle to reassure himself of the dagger's presence beneath his belt. It would be some time before he went anywhere without it again.
But Malcolm wasn't at the ring when he passed it by. If he had glanced back over his shoulder toward the top of the ridge, he might have seen him crouching low behind the tall spears of marsh grass, foxglove, and lavender, and the sparse clumps of rhododendron that lined the narrow path to the gardener's cottage on the northern rise. Had he looked back, he might have caught the last rays of the sun bouncing off the oilcan in the dark youth's hand as he waited for the darkness, and the wind to rise around him.
But Colin didn't look back. He was just finishing a fine chicken dinner when Malcolm struck the match and lit the oil that set the gardener's cottage ablaze, and he was seated in the vicar's study finalizing the arrangements for Ted's departure for school when Harris came to fetch him home. Streaked with sweat and soot, the grizzled hair on his forearms singed black, the stabler reassured him the Wythes were safe in the servants’ quarters thanks to Malcolm, who had saved them from the inferno.
Colin was incredulous. Not for a moment did he believe in the child's alleged heroics. He saw it for what it was—a clever ploy on Malcolm's part to redeem himself in everyone's eyes from the horrific event earlier, should it come to light. Surely no one wo
uld harm a hero for something so trivial as a mere game of pirates.
No, Colin wasn't taken in. He knew Malcolm had set the fire, and he knew he'd saved the Wythes to his own advantage. What he didn't know was that redemption was only part of the boy's strategy. Years would pass before he would come to realize too late the full scope of Malcolm's strategy in bringing the gardener and his family into the main house.
* * * *
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Chapter Twenty-four
* * * *
Ted was sent off to Harmon Hall, an exclusive boy's boarding school at Harrogate in Yorkshire, as far afield of the Cornish moors and Cragmoor as Colin could manage, and he didn't draw an easy breath until he'd enrolled him there himself.
With the boy safely out of the way of harm, there was no immediate threat in Malcolm's presence. That, however, didn't keep Colin from engaging another tutor. But Malcolm was growing bored with education again, and he reverted to his earlier practice of driving them off as fast as Colin employed them, until the winter of 1879 when the last of them came to Cragmoor.
St. John Bradshaw was a distinguished looking man in his late forties from London, who came highly recommended by the Sayres. Elliot was acquainted with him as well from his days at Holy Martyrs. But the tutor didn't come alone. He brought his wife, Ruth, along with him.
She was a striking woman half her husband's age, tall and slender, though well endowed, with a glossy auburn mane done up elaborately in curls, and large brown eyes that consumed Colin from the moment she entered the house.
The couple took up residence in the suite of rooms next to Malcolm's chamber, formerly occupied by the Harcourts, and Malcolm promptly settled down to his studies with no more resistance.
Ruth Bradshaw, who professed to be an artist in need of inspiration, wasn't pressed into service. While her husband was occupied with his pupil, she amused herself by exploring the house and grounds, for the most part in search of Colin, whose absences were frequent during the first two weeks of their occupancy. He was well aware of the stalking, and the bait was tempting, but he needed time to decide it he was going to take it until he ran out of time when foul weather prevented his escape one afternoon at the beginning of the Bradshaw's third week at Cragmoor.
After the noon meal, St. John took Malcolm to his chamber to resume their studies, and Colin went to the conservatory to nurse his brandy and monitor the storm through the glass walls. He'd taken a devious route there in order to elude the tutor's wife, but she was too clever for that, and he'd scarcely filled his snifter when she joined him, her blue faille skirts sweeping the arch as she entered.
"There you are, Mr. Chapin,” she crooned, strolling closer than he deemed comfortable. “I've come to see why you are avoiding me, sir."
Colin glanced up at her approach and popped a dry laugh. “Avoiding you, madam?” he said smoothly. “I hardly think we could call it that."
"Oh? What then?"
"Madam?"
"What would you call your continual retreat from my presence if not avoidance? Do you not find me fair enough to take to your bed, sir?"
Colin ground out another wry chuckle. “Well, well,” he said, “I dare say you are to the point aren't you?"
She nodded. “Enough time's been wasted I should think. I've seen you looking at me, sir. I've not missed your glances. They are quite unabashed I dare say. If St. John weren't so complacent he would have challenged you by now."
Colin laughed outright. “Is he that much of a fool, then?"
She edged closer still and unfastened her bodice exposing her voluptuous, perfumed breasts. “You tell me,” she murmured seductively.
Colin examined the exquisite temptation displayed before him with hungry eyes. Reaching with one finger, he traced the outline of the tall, tawny nipple closest to him. It hardened at his touch and he drew his hand away. “Very nice,” he said, “but I've no need of more wenches, madam."
"I've seen some of your wenches, sir,” she said, “common sorts, the lot. I thought perhaps you might enjoy taking your pleasures in a lady of quality for a change."
"That is how you see yourself is it? I see quite something . . . else. I see a dangerous lay here, madam."
"Don't be crude, sir!” she snapped. “What I see is that I've aroused you. Deny that there, if you can,” she triumphed, pointing.
Colin's smile dissolved. Her proposition had all the earmarks of a costly liaison. He had encountered more than one female fortune hunter in the past. The situation called for clarification, and he wrenched her roughly against his hardness. “If this is what you want, bigod, this is what you shall have,” he breathed, “but we will have no prattle over quality. I will not be toyed with. Let us have honesty from the outset. I am attracted, yes. I would have to be dead not to be the way you flaunt it, madam, but that is all that I am. You've made a bad marriage to an old man who evidently cannot provide you with sufficient—how shall I put it—release? And so you come to me to be serviced. All well and good, but I am not enamored, madam, nor will I ever be."
"Nor am I,” she assured him, taking the glass from his hand, “but I think we can serve each other satisfactorily—more so, due to the lack of tiresome affection to put a strain on the relationship, don't you think?"
"I think, madam, you need to be aware that there is no—future, as it were, for you in our association, nor will there ever be—just so we understand one another. Am I making myself plain?"
"Perfectly,” she pronounced, guiding his hand to her breast again.
Colin scooped her up in his arms. “Not here,” he said, recalling Elliot's wedding reception, “unless you fancy witnesses."
With no more said, he carried her to the sitting room next door and set her on the divan. Falling down upon her there, he devoured the offering, taking her again and again until, sated at last, he left her there to attempt to repair the shambles he'd made of her hair and frock in time for tea.
That sitting room became their regular trysting place since Colin's chamber was too close to Malcolm's to make meeting there practical. The room was hardly ever used, and in it, while Malcolm and St. John continued to keep each other out of their way, they grew secure—and careless.
Everyone in the house knew of the affair—especially Malcolm, who had engineered it. Observing them with his half smile fixed in place, he abetted their alliance by giving them every opportunity to meet, meanwhile gleaning all of the knowledge he deemed necessary until one afternoon late in the spring when he finally grew tired of the game.
He and the tutor returned to his chamber separately for the afternoon session that day. Malcolm hung back watching from the shadows of the servants’ wing hall until he saw, first Ruth Bradshaw and then Colin disappear into the north wing before he went on to his lessons.
Minutes later, on her way to polish the dining hall silver, Amy saw the tutor stalking toward the north wing corridor with a pistol in his hand. Her chore forgotten, and the cleaning rags and polish lying where she'd dropped them, she ran through the gallery toward the entrance hall, the shortest route to bring Harris, when the vicar entered meeting her halfway.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Croft?” he cried, arresting her arm as she careened past.
"Bradshaw's got a pistol, sir!” she shrieked, pointing. “He's goin’ after the master and that wife o’ his in the sittin’ room down there. Let go, sir—I've got ta get Harris."
Elliot dropped her arm and turned into the north wing just in time to see St. John enter the sitting room with the weapon raised, and he sprang down the corridor and stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway watching the half naked pair frozen on the divan looking down the barrel of the tutor's pistol, aimed to fire.
Deranged, Bradshaw hadn't heard Elliot come up behind him, but Colin saw, and his eyes pleaded with the vicar to stay back.
Elliot paid no attention. Taking slow, soundless steps he continued to advance.
"Filthy blackguard,” raved the tutor, “get up
out of there, or die on your belly like the coward you are.” He cocked the pistol. The sound echoed in the damp, still air. “You've got until I count three. Let's see if you're man enough to die on your feet."
But Elliot reached him on the count of two and dove, grabbing the tutor's rigid arm with both his hands and thrust it toward the ceiling. The pistol discharged blowing a gaping hole alongside the chandelier, and a shower of paint and broken plaster rained down on them in all directions.
The tutor pulled his fist back set to strike the vicar in the face, but Elliot's thunderous voice arrested him. “St. John,” he roared, dodging the blow, “it's me—it's Elliot. St. John, have you gone mad here? Give me that!” he snapped, snatching the gun from the tutor's hand. “Neither of them is worth the gallows. Do you want the constable out here? Use your head, man."
For a moment there was silence. No sound violated it except the eerie tinkling of the crystal prisms set aquiver in the chandelier above.
All at once Bradshaw's posture collapsed. Sobbing hoarse and dry, he shielded his eyes with a shaky hand. “What have I done here?” he groaned.
Elliot grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Nothing,” he pronounced. “No harm's been done. Now I want you to collect your wife and leave this house at once. This is between you and Ruth. Take her out of here."
What followed was quick and simultaneous. Ruth grabbed her frock and ran from the room clutching it about her nakedness. Colin vaulted off the divan and hauled up his trousers and drawers. Elliot gave a start as a tearing pain ripped through his chest while leading the tutor out into the hall.
Somehow he kept his pace. “Take Ruth to the vicarage and wait,” he charged around short, halting breaths. “I'll have Mrs. Croft collect your things and Harris will bring them ‘round to you there. Go quickly, St. John.” He shoved him on ahead.
Too ashamed to face him then, Colin remained behind in the sitting room where he poured himself a glass of brandy and sank back down on the divan.
Outside in the corridor, cold sweat broke out over Elliot's brow as another pain stabbed him and he sagged against the gilt-edged mirror hanging there, gripping the sconce alongside it to steady himself. “Blast,” he murmured as it knifed through his heart, and the pistol discharged blowing a hole in the wall as he stiffened and fell to the floor.
Rape of the Soul Page 31