Midnight at Mallyncourt

by Jennifer Wilde

  Cook had done herself proud with the picnic lunch. There was crisply fried chicken, cold and meaty, and various sandwiches, hunks of cheese, boiled eggs, a large, dusty bottle of amber colored wine and, for dessert, tiny brown cakes thick with raisins and nuts. Pouring wine into two sparkling crystal glasses, Edward admitted that he had chosen it himself, bringing it up from the cellar this morning. It was a light wine, delicious with the chicken, not at all inebriating. We sat on the tablecloth with the basket between us, and as we ate four cows strolled past the ruins, one of them stopping a few feet away to regard us with an inquiring stare. I was a bit nervous until it finally went away, and Edward chuckled, refilling my glass with wine.

  “Harmless creatures, quite tame. They won’t hurt you.”

  “They’re so large—”

  “I’ll protect you,” he promised, smiling lazily.

  We ate leisurely, sipping our wine, both of us completely relaxed. It had been glorious once we arrived, and I wondered idly why I had been worried earlier. Edward sat with his legs folded in front of him like a Red Indian. The cloak hung about his shoulders in limp folds, spreading out on the ground behind him like a silky black pool, and, tearing the meat from a drumstick with his teeth, he looked like anything but a predatory seducer. In fact, I felt closer to him than I had ever felt before, more at ease with him, and I had been afraid I would have to fight for my virtue. Perhaps he had given up that idea. Perhaps he had realized how futile it would be to try and bend me to his will. I let him refill my glass a second time. The wine had a wonderful taste, rather like olives, quite mild, with none of the heady dangers of champagne.

  Finishing up, I set the glass aside and placed one palm on the ground behind me, leaning back to peer up at the sky. The clouds looked even lower, so low it seemed I could almost reach up and touch them, and the patches of sky visible behind them were a watery purple. It was incredibly warm, almost sultry, and that brooding, tension-filled calm still prevailed, not a single breeze blowing, not a leaf rustling, everything still and silent, so silent we could hear the cow bells clanking almost a mile away. I felt wonderfully indolent, wonderfully at ease, and I wondered if the wine might have been stronger than I thought. No, of course not. My head was perfectly clear. I felt a curious sensation inside, and I suddenly realized that it was happiness. I was happy, all worries and cares temporarily forgotten, happy to be here, happy that Edward was with me.

  “You look pensive,” he remarked.

  “I was thinking.”

  “Oh?”

  “I—I was thinking how—how different you are now.”

  Edward reached for another piece of chicken. “Different?”

  “You seem—almost nice, almost human. This morning when we left you were so—so stern, as though you were angry about something, as though you were contemplating a brutal murder. Now, though, now—you’re not the Edward I know.”

  “Which Edward is that?”

  “Cold, remote, unscrupulous, unfeeling.”

  “You think I’m like that?”

  “You are. Most of the time you—are like that.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve given you that impression, Jenny. I’ve been under a great deal of strain since we arrived, surely you’re aware of that. I won’t pretend I’m a hearty, affable, outgoing chap, but I—uh—I’m sorry you think I’m unfeeling.”

  “I—I don’t think that. Not now. Not at this moment.”

  Edward finished the piece of chicken and threw the bone aside, then he climbed slowly to his feet. The cloak swirled about his shoulders in silky folds. He placed his hands on his thighs and spread his legs wide apart, looking down at me. I leaned back on my palm, so indolent, gazing at him. His loose white silk shirt was slightly damp with perspiration and his hair was slightly damp, too, several blond locks plastered across his brow. Heavy lids drooping, blue eyes thoughtful, he lifted one corner of his mouth in a twisted smile, standing there like some mighty conqueror of old. I was vaguely alarmed, but only vaguely, too indolent to feel anything stronger. A long moment passed. A sudden streak of lightning flashed across the sky veining it with dull silver, then disappeared. It was warmer than ever. My skin felt moist. The bodice of my dress seemed to cling wetly to my bosom. A gust of wind suddenly swept over the hill, causing Edward’s long cloak to bell out behind him in fluttering waves.

  He reached for my hand. He pulled me to my feet. I felt weak, disturbed by the feeling. The wine, I thought, it must be the wine making me feel this way.

  “You’re lovely, you know,” he said huskily.

  “Edward—”

  “You wanted to see the wall. Come along, we’ll look at it. It’s going to rain soon.”

  He was still holding my hand as we skirted the ruins, but that seemed perfectly natural. The contact of palm against palm was intensely pleasant. Once, when I stumbled, he squeezed my hand tightly, pulling me upright, and that brief instant of crushing pain was pleasant, too. Leaving the ruins, passing under a group of oak trees, we reached the old Roman wall. It was surprisingly wide, over six feet across, heavy stones on either side. The center of hard-packed earth was uneven, worn down by the sandaled feet of Roman warriors walking guard duty centuries ago. Edward helped me up onto the wall, climbed up behind me.

  “It only stretches a short distance,” he said. “The rest has crumbled away. Not as impressive as Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland, I’m afraid, but interesting nevertheless. Want to walk a bit?”

  I nodded, and we began to walk along the wall, stooping occasionally to pass under low-hanging oak boughs that reached out over it. The wall was perched on the very edge of a sheer cliff that dropped in a cascade of jagged gray rock to the floor of the valley below. The valley was dark, dark green, treetops a blacker green, and it took me a moment to realize that those fluffy white spots scattered about over the grass were sheep grazing. From this height they looked like tiny white daisies. We walked for several minutes, finally stopping when the wall ahead disintegrated into a heap of dirt and broken stone. I stood looking out over the valley, dim and blurry in the purple-gray light, and Edward stood directly behind me, his body almost touching mine.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said quietly.

  “Beautiful,” he agreed.

  He wrapped one arm around my waist, pulling me back against him. He curled his other arm loosely around my throat and leaned his head down, and then his lips were on my earlobe, warm, moist, caressing it. Fear swept over me. I tried to protest. He held me closer, his forearm firmly across my throat, his lips on my temple now. Sensations awoke, tight buds exploding into blossom inside, and I tried to ignore them, tried to hold on to the fear. Edward whirled my body around with one quick turn, and before I could even think coherently his mouth was covering mine. Bending me at the waist, he swung my body around, and I had to cling to his shoulders, arms holding tightly for support. His mouth worked urgently, and I responded, I couldn’t help but respond, and when he released me I was thoroughly shaken, conflicting emotions warring inside.

  “Today,” he said tersely.

  “No, Edward. I—I can’t—”

  “It’s what we came for.”

  His voice was stern, his features hard, blue eyes burning with fierce determination. I shook my head, denying it, trying to deny the sensations surging inside.

  “Don’t do this—” I pleaded.

  “It’s what we both came for!”

  A clap of thunder exploded, rumbling violently. The whole earth seemed to tremble. Lightning flashed, ripping at the sky with merciless silver claws. Raindrops began to pelt down, staining my skirt, streaming over my upturned face as I looked at him, entreating him. His mouth was a tight, grim line. His nostrils flared. His fists were tightly clenched, and his eyes were like blue fire. Raindrops continued to fall, faster now, heavier, splattering loudly all around us.

  “We’ve had this appointment from the first,” Edward said harshly. His chest heaved. “From the moment we met there on the promenade, we’ve h
ad this—”

  The clouds seemed to burst. The rain came down in sheets, soaking both of us instantly. Edward leaped down from the wall, pulled me roughly down into his arms, set me down beside him. Holding my wrist in a savage grip, he began to move rapidly through a splattering, swirling, blinding world of rain, and I stumbled along beside him, slipping on the now muddy ground, my heart pounding. Lightning flashed over and over again in blazing silver-blue explosions. Thunder rumbled, louder, louder. The ground seemed to rock with rumbling fury as we hurried toward the ruins as though through crashing waterfalls.

  Stumbling himself, Edward pulled me into the corner of the ruins where part of a roof offered some little shelter. Rain slashed violently against the walls and pounded on the jagged stone roof projecting several yards out into space. It was dark, purple-black, but the lightning continued to flash repeatedly and I could see him in those explosive silver bursts. His features were taut, granite-hard as he ripped off his cloak and spread it out over the ground. His shirt was plastered against him in a solid mass of wet white silk. His hair clung to his skull in flat, wet locks. I backed up against the wall, my bosom rising and falling, my throat tight with fear. Rain swept in through the opening, spraying over us in furious showers. Edward turned to me, standing with fists planted on his hips.

  “You’re going to marry me,” he said harshly.

  I nodded. I knew that he was right. I knew what he was, and I knew he was using me, yet I knew I was going to marry him. He had proved what he had set out to prove. There was another blinding flash of lightning. Another violent gust of wind hurled sheets of rain through the opening. Observing my expression, Edward scowled angrily.

  “You love me,” he said in a tight voice. “You’re going to marry me. Does a ceremony make so much difference? Does a slip of paper? Are you so bloody conventional you must have that before—”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Edward turned away angrily and stalked over to the opening, standing there tensely as the rain slashed and splattered. Several moments passed, and then I drew myself up and began to wipe the wet auburn tendrils from my temples. The storm would be over soon, and in just a few days I would be Edward Baker’s wife. His victory today hadn’t been total, but if he hadn’t turned away when he did it might easily have been. I was fully aware of that. I tried not to think of it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I CAME downstairs unusually early the next morning. It was just after eight o’clock, half an hour before the maid usually woke me up with my breakfast tray, but I knew Cook placed an early buffet breakfast in the drawing room for Lyman and I hoped there would be toast and coffee left. Lyman left for the tenant farms at eight, so there was no danger of encountering him. My hair brushed smoothly, my tan and brown striped muslin skirt rustling over billowing petticoats, I moved down the hall, completely composed. I felt more at ease than I had for some time. I was going to marry Edward, and it would probably be a disastrous mistake, but at least that tormenting indecision was behind me.

  I stepped into the drawing room, startled to find Lyman leaning over the sideboard, pouring coffee into a lovely Spode cup. He looked up, as startled as I, and then, without a word, reached for another cup and filled it as well. He was wearing highly glossed black boots, a handsome navy blue suit and a black satin waistcoat. His sky blue ascot was impeccably folded, and his hair, for once, was carefully combed, although an unruly raven wave was already beginning to spill over his brow. He handed me the coffee with a curt nod.

  “There are eggs and kippers under the covers,” he said gruffly, “and toast in the rack. You’re up early.”

  I nodded, standing by the table and sipping my coffee.

  “Shall I get you a plate?” he inquired.

  “This will be fine for now.”

  “You didn’t come down for dinner last night,” he remarked. “Hope you weren’t ill.”

  “No. I—Edward and I went to the ruins yesterday. We were caught in the storm. I was rather tired when we got in and went to bed early. That’s why I woke up so early this morning, I suppose.”

  “It’s just as well you didn’t come down. My—uh—my wife was in one of her moods, one hateful remark after another all through the meal. Your husband was in an unusual mood, too, almost jovial. That didn’t help Vanessa’s disposition at all. In fact, it made her worse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Edward seemed inordinately pleased with himself.”

  “Did he?”

  “Inordinately. He mentioned that the two of you were going to London. Made a point of mentioning it, in fact, though he didn’t say why you were going.”

  “We—decided to have ourselves a holiday.”

  Lyman was watching me closely, and I had the peculiar feeling that he was baiting me, trying to spur me into making some specific response. Taking my coffee cup over to the window, I peered out at the front gardens. The sun wasn’t fully out yet, and a faint mist hung in the air. The thick multicolored flowers were a soft pastel blur, blues, reds and golds half seen through the shimmer of mist. When I turned, I found Lyman still looking at me with dark eyes, a crease between his brows. He seemed to be contemplating some grave question. Once again I had the feeling that he knew far more than he let on. I was vaguely uneasy, irritated with him for making me feel this way.

  “You’re quite spruce this morning,” I remarked. “That isn’t what you usually wear to the fields.”

  “I don’t spend all my time behind a plow, Mrs. Baker.” He curled one corner of his mouth up in what may have been a half smile, acknowledging my bitchiness. “I manage the estate, and that entails considerably more than just manual labor. I frequently conduct business with grown-up men in real offices.”

  “Do you indeed?”

  “As surprising as that may sound. I’m leaving for London on the nine thirty train. I’ll be gone all day, getting back sometime around ten in the evening.”

  “Have a pleasant day,” I said, ever so sweet.

  Lyman set his coffee cup down, scowling. The elegant clothes seemed to emphasize his virility, the cut of the jacket making his shoulders seem broader, his waist leaner. I found myself wondering how Vanessa could ever have looked at another man while she had this one at home. He might have a crude, rough manner, he might lack polish, but his intense vitality more than made up for that. Too, there was a staunchness about him, a kind of fierce integrity that made him all the more appealing. Lyman Robb might resort to violence, but he was incapable of deceit. This was the man I intended to help Edward cheat out of an inheritance. I looked away from him, disconcerted by the thought.

  “Is something wrong, Mrs. Baker?”

  “Wrong? Of course not.”

  “For a second there you looked almost as though someone had stepped on your grave.”

  “What an absurd thing to say.”

  “Jenny—”

  I looked up, surprised. His dark eyes were grave, and he seemed to be struggling with himself, debating whether or not to reveal what was on his mind. The frown dug deep between his brows, a worried frown. Why should he be worried? My coffee cup began to rattle in its saucer. I set it down on the table, disturbed.

  “What is it? What—what were you about to say?”

  His mouth tightened. He grimaced, turning away. A pair of black leather gloves and a riding crop set on top of the sideboard, beside the silver service. Ignoring me, Lyman began to put the gloves on, pulling each one tight, flexing his fingers to get a proper fit. He picked up the riding crop, and when he turned back around his expression was severe. The moment of near-revelation was past. His manner was abrupt.

  “I’m on your side,” he said tersely. “I want you to know that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said! I hate like hell having to leave today, but it’s absolutely necessary I go to London. You’ll be safe enough. The time isn’t ripe yet.”

  “I—don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Brow
s lowered, dark brown eyes glowering, he stared at me, the corners of his mouth tight. “No,” he said, “I don’t believe you do. You’re a bloody, naïve little fool, but under the circumstances that’s just as well.”

  “What—”

  “I have to leave now, Mrs. Baker,” he said abruptly. “I want to get to the station in plenty of time. It’s a long ride.”

  He strode briskly out of the room before I could question him further, and as his heavy footsteps rang loudly down the hall I had a moment of complete frustration, a moment of tremulous fear, and then common sense came to my rescue. I had no earthly idea what he had been talking about, but I had no intentions of letting it upset me. Lyman Robb was an enigma, and I had enough on my mind at present without trying to figure out the meaning of his terse, cryptic remarks. Stubbornly, perhaps unwisely, I poured another cup of coffee, determined to forget about it.

  I had just entered the back hall some thirty minutes later when George came clumping down the stairs, looking unusually robust in his dark blue livery. His blond hair was shaggier than ever, his brown eyes more roguish. He nodded to me as we passed, grinning a sly grin, and I noticed a bright pink hand mark burning on his left cheek. I wasn’t at all surprised to find Susie upstairs in the long gallery, looking for all the world like a mischievous pixie with her upturned nose and merry eyes.

  “Oh—there you are, Miss Jenny,” she cried. “I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I was sidetracked,” she confessed. “I guess you must-a met George on th’ stairs. I declare, Miss Jenny, a girl idn’t safe any more. ’E tried to drag me into one of th’ window recesses, said ’e was sick an’ tired of playin’ games. I gave ’im such a slap!”