"I got your note," I said in as flat and as discouraging a tone as I could summon. It wasn't at all difficult.
"Thank you for coming.''
"What do you want?''
"I-I want nothing. That is to say-"
"Clarinda, you didn't ask me up here without a reason," I said wearily, putting my candle on the table.
She snapped her mouth shut.
"Just speak and have done with it.''
She lifted her chin, her eyes steady. "Edmond said that you were well, that when I shot at you I'd missed.''
She had not missed, not at two paces, but I'd been able to vanish for a crucial instant, and the darkness and flash of the powder had served well to cover things.
"I thought he might have lied to me. I am glad to see he did not."
"Are you?"
"You can believe what you like, Jonathan, but I never wished you any harm.''
"Oh, indeed?"
"What was done was done only to protect my child."
"And what rare pleasure you took from it, madam, trying to murder his father.''
"That was only a sham for Thomas Ridley's benefit. All of it. If I hadn't pretended such for him he would have killed me on the spot."
"You were most convincing.''
"I had to be!"
"Of course."
Her hands formed into fists and dropped to her sides. "I can't expect you to understand, but I did want you to at least know why I was forced"
'Clarinda," I said in a clear cold voice. "If you want to waste the effort telling me this rot, that's your business, but I have better diversions to occupy my time. I am not a fool and neither are you. I recall exactly everything you tried to do last night and how close you came to success, and nothing, no distortion of truth, half-truth, or outright lie from you will change that memory."
That stung her good and square. Were we in another place, she'd have probably slapped me soundly and marched out. Here all she could do was stand and stare and fume. Not that it lasted long. She recovered beautifully, smooth as a cat. Her fists relaxed and she assumed a rueful expression.
"Very well, no more pretense. Is it possible that with you I may be able to speak the whole truth?''
A cutting reply concerning my sincere doubt that she would know how hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I held it back and gave a brusque nod, instead.
She may have seen or sensed my skepticism, but chose to ignore it. "Edmond doesn't know you're here, does he?"
There. She'd just correctly read one of the other reasons behind my abrupt manner. I should have to take extreme care dealing with her. "It seemed the tactful thing to do for the moment."
"No doubt. He's a formidable man.''
I offered no comment, though I could easily agree with her on that point.
"He said that you'd seen Richard."
"Took me by last night."
"Did you like him?"
"What does it matter to you?''
Another sting for her, which was something of a surprise, By now I'd thought her beyond all tender feeling.
"It does matter. I'm afraid for my child. Our child."
"In what way?"
"I'm afraid that because of what's happened Edmond might do him harm. He could punish Richard for the things I've done."
Clarinda was shut away in a most disagreeable spot with only her own dark soul for company, so hers was a reasonable fear, but not one I seriously harbored. Edmond could be unpleasant, but I sensed he would not purposely harm the boy. Even so, I had an excellent means of dealing with him to guarantee Richard's well-being.
"I'll see that the child is safeguarded from any harm." Instinct told me to preserve a cool and indifferent front before her, but she was perceptive enough to see through it.
"You really do care for him, don't you?" she asked with more than a hint of rising hope.
It seemed better not to answer, though my silence was answer enough.
"I'm glad of that. What I say now, what I ask now, is not for my sake, but for the sake of that innocent child. You' re a part of this family, but you haven't lived long with them, you don't know them as I do. Richard will need a friend. Will you look out for him?"
A fair request, and certainly for something I'd be doing regardless of her intercession in the matter. "I shall do what I can. What about your other son?''
She looked away briefly. "He's already lost to me. He's away at school, his life has been ordered and set out for him. Edmond saw to that. Edmond and Aunt Fonteyn."
"Whom you murdered." Edmond and I had worked as much out between us, that Clarinda had killed Oliver's mother, but I wanted to know for certain.
Clarinda's lips twitched in a near smile. "If you think I regret helping that evil old harridan along to her place in hell, then please do reconsider. You-any of you-could get away from her. I could not. It was an ill day for me when I married her favorite brother and worse still when I gave him a son. She was always there, interfering, sharp as a thorn, and never once letting me forget who controlled the money.''
The Fonteyn money. The inspiration and goal behind all of Clarinda's trespasses. "How did your first husband die?''
"What?"' The apparent change of subject first puzzled her, then she divined the reason behind it. "For God's sake, do you think-"
"I don't know what to think, so it seemed best to make a direct inquiry."
"He dropped dead from a bad heart," she answered with no small disgust. "I had nothing to do with it. A pity his sister did not follow his example, else life would have been easier for all of us."
"Then you married Edmond?''
"I needed his protection and he needed my son's money, but what a farce that turned out to be with the lot of us still subject to Aunt Fonteyn's whims. When Richard was born sooner or later she'd know Edmond was not his father, all of them would know, and then what would happen to us? She'd have put me out on the street quick enough or packed me off to Bedlam and done God knows what to my baby."
I didn't see Edmond or even Aunt Fonteyn for that matter allowing things to go so far. The offensive prospect of a scandal would have likely mitigated any judgment she made once her initial outrage had passed. Clarinda had the intelligence to know and play upon that weakness. No, she'd ever been after the family money; it was just that simple.
"So you got the likes of Ridley to be your protector, to be subject to your whims."
Various thoughts were clearly flickering back and forth behind her eyes, too fast to interpret. She paused a goodly time to search my face and finally shook her head. "You don't under stand," she said with genuine incredulity, then softly laughed.
There was a sound to make my skin crawl. The room seemed to shrink around us. "I think it's best that I don't."
"Or you might have some sympathy for me? For what my life has been like? Don't bother yourself.''
"As you wish."
A baleful silence grew between us, filling this dank and chill closet right to the ceiling like smoke. There was no room in it for me. My questions were all satisfied; therefore I had no need to remain. I made to pick up my candle.
"No, wait!" Her hand shot out to seize mine. Because of the restricted space we'd been close enough to easily toad but had managed to avoid it.
Five years past I'd been more than eager to touch her. Just last night I' d fought off the temptation to do so again only with the greatest difficulty. I saw her still as a very beautiful, desirable woman, but any craving I'd ever fostered for her was now stone dead.
I shook her off. "I'll leave the candle if you like."
"It's not that. I have one more thing to ask of you."
Tempting as it was to point out that I owed her no favors, I waited for her to go on.
"Jonathan, do you know what Edmond has planned for me? What he will do once we're home?''
"He has not communicated that information to me, nor is it really my business."
"He'll have me shut away in a room that will make this seem
like a palace."
"There are worse spots, madam. Would you prefer Bedlam or Bridewell?"
"You speak that way because you're angry, but please, try to see things through my eyes, just for a moment, I beg you.''
Again, I waited.
Outwardly, she calmed herself, but her heartbeat was very loud to my acute hearing.
I sensed that the earlier talk and questions about Richard had never been a real concern for her. It had been but a useful means to sound me out; was she finally coming to the real reason why she'd asked me here?
"There may be worse places, but I can't think of a single one," she whispered. "I am to be shut away forever and ever. I will be completely alone. After tomorrow, I will never see the sun or even the warmth of a candle flame again. It will be always dark and always cold. He's promised as much. Those are his very words."
I thought that she was lying again, for it would be easy to verify the truth with Edmond, but her fear was genuine enough. I could smell it. I could almost taste it.
"He full well knows that it will drive me mad, giving substance to the story he'll tell others. No person with an ounce of compassion in them would treat a mongrel dog with such cruelty, but that's what he's sworn is in store for me."
No sunlight, not even a candle. God, but could I not thoroughly appreciate what kind of darkness that was? "Very well, I'll speak to him,'' I said heavily.
"No! I want you to help me get away from him!"
My turn for a bout of incredulity. "By heaven, I think you're mad already."
"Not yet. Not yet! I don't ask you to help me escape, but just to get me away from him. Devise whatever prison you like for me, let me be totally alone, but if I can have but an hour of daylight I'll ask nothing more of you.''
An hour of daylight. What would I not give to have as little for myself? Most of the time the lack did not grieve me. No! much. But then I had diversions aplenty to fill the hours. I had some choices left. Clarinda had none.
"If... if that's impossible," she continued, faltering as her gaze dropped away, "then I would ask you to give me the means of making another kind of escape.''
"What means?"
She raised her eyes to search mine and licked her lips. "I've heard it said that if one takes enough opium'
"Good God, Clarinda!''
"Otherwise I can tear up the bedclothes and find a way to hang myself. It would please Edmond very well, I'm sure."
"There's no need'
"Is there not? I mean this, Jonathan. You still seem to have a heart left, that's why I thought to talk to you. I can trust no one else. I'm not asking a great deal. You' d put a mad dog out of its misery, would you not?''
"I would, but'
"But what? It's that or take care of me yourself-or help me escape altogether."
She waited and waited, and for all her skill at deception could not completely keep a sharp little spark of hope from showing in her eyes, but I did not deign to remark on that last absurd suggestion. Any or all of her talk of another prison with me as keeper or of taking her own life might have been meant to soften my resolve so perhaps I would agree to help her escape. Well, I'd already told her I was not a fool. I shoot my head. "There's another way of handling this. I'll see toil tonight."
The spark flashed once, then dimmed. "What is that?"
"I'll talk to Edmond'
"But that won't'
"He'll listen to me, I assure you."
She made a choking sound.
"You may think otherwise, but I will make him. That's really the best I can do for you, and I believe you're well aware of it."
Obviously this was not what she'd hoped to achieve for herself; on the other hand, it was better than an outright refusal. But however much disappointment she showed, I still had a strong impression that she had accomplished something with me and was calculating its eventual effect on her. Mildly worrisome, that, but nothing more.
She abruptly lowered her gaze, shoulders slumped as if in defeat or acceptance. "Yes, I am aware of it. For what it's worth, I'm grateful to you.''
For what it's worth, I thought. Very damned little, but as she'd said, I'd do as much for a mad dog.
Being more unsettled than angry, it was less perilous now to influence her into taking a restful sleep; thus would she have no memory of my egress from the room. I suggested nothing more than that, though, preferring caution over calamity in the event that I'd misjudged my present state of mind and gave in to error. Leaving her reclining peacefully on the narrow bed, I sieved past the door and back out into the hall, turning solid again before thinking to remove myself from the immediate view of her guards.
Thankfully, I found the footmen were still lost in their doze, sparing me additional exertion. It struck me that I should wake them and tell them to forget they'd even seen me, but that was too much of an effort for so small a detail. They could tell Edmond what they liked, if they dared. I didn't care one way or another. Whatever they said would be little enough. I quietly made my way down the stairs, for I had much to think about and wanted to be as far away as possible from Clarinda. All the relatives and servants would be busy with supper, so privacy was no problem; I had the pick of Fonteyn House's many rooms.
Only one appealed to me, though.
The nursery.
Not only would I have another look in on Richard, which in itself was sufficient enticement to go there, but the superb idea of plying a few questions to Nanny Howard had popped into my mind.
Clarinda was as full of lies as hive has honey. Some I'd picked out without trouble, others were more elusive, and by God, but didn't the woman have more than her share of brass? Wanting me to take Edmond' s place as her warden or to go so far as to help her escape... ugh. That was right out. It was also something of an insult since she'd so badly underestimated me. She was not without considerable wit; why had she even proposed such a ludicrous action? Likely it had to do with the theory of venture nothing, gain nothing. I hoped as much, for then it would seem less offensive to endure.
She was unquestionably afraid, but was her fear for the threat of a dark imprisonment or for imprisonment alone? Either one would be more than alarming, and certainly Edmond would make a stern and alert keeper, but I found it difficult to believe he would be as extreme as she'd claimed. Perhaps he'd been giving vent to his own anger with her, making threats he'd probably not fulfill. More likely she'd simply lied to me. Again.
Still and all, I'd have to sort fact from fancy just to be sure, and could think of no better person to consult than Nanny Howard. If she was as intelligent as she looked, then she'd know all the happenings of this particular branch of the Fonteyn family tree and be able to provide any number of necessary details.
She might be reluctant to talk with an outsider, though, for I was just that despite my relationship to Richard. I made a face, not liking the idea of having to influence her. I didn't like it, but would do so if nothing else would move her.
"What a sneaking rogue you're turning into, Johnny Boy," I said aloud, but not too very aloud. Echoes tended to carry far along these dark corridors, and I had no wish to announce my self-reproach to any stray upstairs maid who might be lurking about. Best to remove my mind from the subject until the time was right to approach it.
So I cheerfully speculated on the prospect of slipping in for another peep at Richard. If nothing else, Nanny Howard would gladly tell me all about him. What did he like to do? What were his favorite games? Did he have other children to play with at Edmond's estate? Did he have a pony yet? Probably not, considering his reaction to the painted one now in his possession. My heart seemed to quicken with a kind of life again at the splendid thought of eventually giving him a real one. I recalled clearly the delicious excitement that had possessed me on one of my early birthdays with Father's gift of a fine white pony. No more sharing rides with others on the front of the saddle, I'd had a brave charger of my own to play out my daydreams. More than that, I'd learned much on the care and codd
ling of equines, and had taken to my lessons in dressage like butter to hot bread. Richard looked to have some of [Rat enthusiasm in him, and what a pleasure it would be to nurture it and...
Father.
Dear me, but I'd have to sit down to write and somehow tell him what had happened.
But later, I thought, bounding lightly down the last of the stairs and taking the final turn needed to reach the nursery.
Unfortunately, just outside the nursery door, I encountered my son's other father, Edmond Fonteyn.
P N Elrod - Barrett 4 - Dance of Death Page 6