The Countess

by Catherine Coulter

  It was like a blow to the middle. It wasn’t true, it wasn’t, and so I said, “That’s utter nonsense.”

  “I believe it to be true, but who cares why now? None of it matters. You are my uncle’s wife.” He then turned to face me and said in a very deliberate voice, “If you rode my horse and he managed to kill you, then at least I wouldn’t have to see you again.”

  “Once more. In my casket.”

  “I want to know why you married my uncle.”

  Amelia called out to me.

  I walked over to pat Tempest’s nose. He leaned toward me, well aware that I was doting on him, and I hugged him as best I could with John in the way.

  “I’m leaving,” I said, and climbed down from the paddock fence.

  “Why, damn you?”

  I said over my shoulder, “Amelia asked me the same question last night when she took me to The Blue Room. It isn’t any of your business. If you have such a consuming curiosity, ask your uncle.”

  I saw the surge of black violence in his eyes, then it was gone, once again well controlled. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy in a battle. I saw the pulse in his throat, throbbing. He was angry. Well, it wasn’t my fault. He said finally, his voice as hard as those bars would have been when they’d covered The Blue Room windows. “Evidently you’re not afraid of men in general, since you married my uncle. Or is it just old men you don’t fear?”

  “Shut up, damn you.”

  “Ah, have I hit upon something here?”

  “You could not hit that barn with a magnification glass.”

  “Riled you, have I? Hit you right between the eyes. Ah, yes, here you are three months later, my dear step-auntie, married to my damned uncle, a man certainly more than old enough to be your father. Why did you do it?”

  “Go away. No, I will. Good-bye.”

  He said nothing more until I picked up my skirts and trotted toward Amelia, who was holding the reins of the sweetest-looking chestnut mare I had ever seen. I heard his laughter, the bastard. I patted her mare’s nose, gave her a carrot that one of the stable lads passed to me, and never once considered looking back at John. I focused all my attention on that sweet mare. “You’re a love, aren’t you,” I said. “What do you think of Tempest? Would you like to gallop with him?”

  “No, Buttercup wants nothing to do with Tempest. I saw you patting him, Andy. You must be careful. Even though I have never seen him be nice before to anyone except John, you should take care. The stable lads are afraid of him. He’s vicious.”

  I finally looked back over to the paddock. I watched John put a bridle on Tempest’s tossing head, then swing up onto his bare back. I watched them sail as one over the far paddock fence. Soon they were gone from sight.

  “Don’t ride that horse, Andy. John makes riding him look very easy, but it isn’t. John is amazing, but he’s been a soldier for a very long time. He is used to taming savage sorts of things.”

  I could well believe that, but what savage sorts of things did Amelia mean, precisely? I wasn’t afraid of him, curse his eyes.

  “You seemed to be arguing with John. What about?”

  “Nothing. You simply misunderstood.”

  Thank God Amelia didn’t say any more about it.

  Ten minutes into my tour of the stables, I found a sprightly little Arabian mare named Small Bess and promptly fell in love again. “His lordship jest fetched her here three months ago,” Rucker, the head stable lad, said as he scratched her ears. That meant, I thought, that he had not bought Small Bess for me. What a pity.

  “Why don’t ye ask his lordship?” Rucker said even as he began brushing her long silver-gray mane.

  “I will, thank you, Rucker. Good-bye, Small Bess.”

  “You may ask Uncle Lawrence at luncheon. He never said why he bought her, and no one really asked. The stable lads have been riding her, no one else.”

  “He didn’t buy her for me,” I said. “He didn’t even know me then.”

  “We’ll see. Now, Andy, let me take you to the Black Chamber, where some say that a long-ago Devbridge countess stabbed her lover.”

  I felt the unnatural cold in that small black room the moment Amelia unlocked the door and pushed it open. There was only a narrow cot in the room, nothing else, not even a rug to cover the wide-boarded floor. The walls were painted black. The single window was covered with a dark drapery. I couldn’t tell what color, but close enough to black to make my flesh ripple. Amelia raised her candle branch high.

  “It’s a pit in here,” I said, backing toward the door. “I don’t want to stay in here. It is depressing. It invites premonition and nerves.”

  “Come along, don’t be a coward. It’s nothing. I wish there was something strange in here, for my father’s sake, but I have never seen anything amiss with the room other than some loon painted the walls black. Did a former countess really stab her lover? I hate to admit it, but it does make an excellent story—but in person, in here? No, it’s just a small black room. I suppose I could have it painted white and put a nice lacy curtain on the window. What do you think?”

  “It’s not right. Something is very wrong here. Don’t you feel it, Amelia?”

  I was standing well behind her, not two feet from the door now. She was standing in the center of the room, raising the candle branch high, sending the wispy candlelight into all the black corners. “Feel what?”

  “The coldness. The unnatural coldness. Cold and clammy, and it makes your skin skitter and your heart jerk. It’s not right.”

  She walked back to me, staring, her head cocked to one side. “What do you mean? Oh, yes, I know my father speaks about how in some rooms there will be a certain spot that makes one shiver because it is so suddenly and inexplicably cold. But I don’t feel anything here.”

  “I do,” I said, and quickly backed out of the room. “I don’t know about any countess killing her lover, but there is something in there, Amelia, something that’s malevolent and cold, and blacker than those walls.”

  She was shaking her head at me, even smiling, as she pulled the door closed and locked it. She didn’t believe me, obviously, but that was all right. I didn’t want to believe myself.

  “Has your father ever visited that room?”

  “No, Father hasn’t visited me here as of yet. Thomas and I have been married a little under a year. Father would have probably come with me and Thomas and spent many hours examining each and every room in the Hall, but there’s my mother, you see. She has been ill during the past year. She is fine now. I would very much like them to visit.”

  I was walking quickly away from that awful room, and Amelia had to skip to keep up with me. “What was your mother’s illness?” I asked when we had walked halfway down the corridor. When she didn’t answer, I turned to see that she had stopped, and was staring into a room whose door was open about six inches. A wildly bright splash of sunlight shot out into the dim corridor.

  “How odd,” she said, and walked into the room. “Just a moment, Andy.” I stopped, then shook my head and prepared to follow her, when suddenly the door simply slammed shut in my face.

  Why had she done that? “Amelia? Open the door. What are you doing in there? Amelia, answer me.”

  I heard her call out once. “Amelia!” I threw my shoulder against the door, but it didn’t budge. I fought with the doorknob, but the door was locked. I felt utter terror, and for a moment, I was witless, locked into that terror. “Amelia, I have to get help.”

  The wide corridor of the west wing wasn’t quite dark, but dark enough, since all the doors that gave onto the corridor were firmly closed and there wasn’t a single window about. Shadows were everywhere, everyone of them coming at me, wanting to suck me inside them.

  “Stop it, you idiot!” I yelled at myself, my breath lurching out hard and deep.

  I finally reached the massive central staircase and went flying down the steps. I nearly tripped once, but grabbed the railing and righted myself.

  “Lawrence, John!
Help! Come here, quickly!”

  There wasn’t anyone anywhere. There were dozens of people in this huge house. I called out again, as loud as I could. I wondered, though, how loud it really could be, since my heart was pounding louder than a clap of thunder.

  I was nearly down the stairs when suddenly, someone flung open both of the great front doors so wide they banged back against the walls of the Old Hall. Dazzling, blinding light poured into the dim Old Hall, more light than I could imagine, overwhelming white light that filled even the shadowed corners, that touched the ancient suits of armor against the back wall, filled everything with such blank whiteness that it was painful. I screamed at that crushing white light, lost my footing, and tumbled down headfirst the remaining three or four steps.

  I must have scrambled my brains, because everything was blurry and vague, and I really didn’t care. I heard a man’s voice, above me, saying my name over and over again.

  I managed to get my eyes open to look up at him. He seemed to float above me, this creature who seemed all dark, yet he was in the middle of all that blinding whiteness. And then I knew. I was dead.

  Thank God I’d made it to Heaven.

  “Are you an angel?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The angel blinked, I could see him that clearly. Those very dark eyes of his blinked yet again. He gathered me to him, so close that I felt his warm breath on my forehead, sweet and dark.

  “Perhaps,” said an equally dark voice.

  “Maybe I was wrong about Heaven. Is this Hell instead? You’re all dark, even your voice, like sins kept secret for a very long time. Are you one of the devil’s angels? Grandfather always believed that the devil had his angels just like God had his. Is that what you are? Your eyes are nearly black. How can you bear all that white light?”

  “It isn’t all that strong. Hush now.”

  “It’s like Heaven has split apart, and everything is gushing out of it. It’s too much, really, it’s just too much. I don’t understand any of this.”

  And I closed my eyes again. My brain went blank, but deep down, I didn’t want to be in Heaven or in Hell. I didn’t want any angel at all to be with me, and if it turned out that he was one of the devil’s angels, then I was in big trouble. I tried to remember major sins, but my mind only managed to dredge up the time I had stolen a shilling off the vicar’s desk. Surely even the devil couldn’t remember back to a sin that I’d committed when I was seven years old. No, surely not. “I don’t want to be dead,” I said to that dark face that seemed to fade in and out just beyond my nose. “I want to stay right here in Yorkshire and ride Tempest.”

  “You may only do the first, not the second.”

  Then he picked me up easily, and I realized this angel was very strong. He turned, and the incredible white light shown fully in my face.

  Then the white light was gone again. “I want both,” I said against his shoulder.

  “I promise that you are still in Yorkshire. But you won’t ride Tempest. If you try it, I’ll thrash you. Now, just hold still.” Everything fell suddenly into place. I knew then, all of a sudden, in that very instant, that it was John, and the fear pounded deep and steady. I hated it. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

  He said, his voice calm and deep, “That’s it. Don’t fight me. I know you’re afraid of me. I don’t know why, but perhaps soon you will tell me. Trust me, Andy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek. It was strong, steady, a bit fast. He was very much a man, never an angel. I opened my eyes to look up at his chin. My brain slipped a notch, whirling me back to uncertainty, and I said in a thin wispy voice, “Where are we going? Why aren’t you simply flying me?”

  “I am not a damned angel. I don’t have any wings. I’m your damned step-nephew. Your cheek is against my heart. Can’t you feel the human beat? No, don’t say anything. Just be quiet, you’re still half-witless.”

  “All right,” I said, closed my eyes, and simply drifted away. The fear wafted away as well, and that was a good thing. I didn’t think I was unconscious, but everyone who was suddenly around me did. There were so many voices, all of them speaking at once. Amelia, I thought. I had to tell them that Amelia was locked in a room on the second floor.

  I forced my eyes open, felt a stabbing pain behind my right ear, and said, “John, please, I was running to get help. You must help Amelia.”

  Thomas nearly leaped on me. “Heh! What’s this about Ameila?”

  I focused on his suddenly pale face. “West wing,” I whispered, “a room about halfway down the corridor on the right. It was open, and Amelia seemed surprised that it was. She went into it. I was following her, but the door slammed in my face. I couldn’t get it open or break it down. Amelia cried out. I don’t know why. I’m all right. Go to Amelia. Please, I don’t know what’s happening to her.”

  And then I just folded down. I knew now that I was very much still a part of this earth because the pain was building and building, and I just closed my eyes and let the pain take me deeper and deeper until finally I managed to ease away from it and slip into beautiful deep darkness.

  I don’t know how long I was away, but I woke up again, in that sort of twilight that was calm and soft, and there were no demands on me, no one talking loudly. I was just lying there, a nice cool damp cloth on my forehead. When I opened my eyes, my angel, who just happened to also be a man I was afraid of, wasn’t there. It was Lawrence, no angel, but rather my husband, which meant I wasn’t dead, but back here on earth.

  “I hope I stay alive this time,” I said.

  “You’re very much alive,” he said, and smiled down at me. I felt him squeeze my hand. “How do you feel, Andy?”

  “Amelia,” I said. “Where is Amelia?”

  He was silent a moment, turning away from me. I heard quiet voices. Then he was there again, so close to my face that I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.

  “Amelia is sleeping. When Thomas and John found the room, the door was open just a bit and there was Amelia, lying on her side in an empty room, and she was sleeping.”

  “She was carrying a branch of candles,” I said, trying to find any sense at all in what he had said.

  “Yes, the candles were there as well, no longer burning, just there, lying beside her.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Nothing happened, Andy,” Lawrence said, squeezing my hand again, like I was some sort of brain-numbed invalid.

  “She cried out.” I tried to pull myself up. “The door slammed shut, and she cried out.”

  “No, don’t move, it’s too soon.”

  “Let me go,” I said, and forced him to move away as I pulled myself up. I was lying on one of the sofas in the drawing room, a cream-colored throw covering me to my waist. I swung my feet off the sofa and sat up straight. There were a lot of people in the room, but only one of them a woman. I stared at her, and she said after a pained moment, “I’m Mrs. Redbreast, the housekeeper, my lady. We haven’t met yet, well, now we’re meeting, but it is rather strange this way.”

  Strange, indeed.

  There were John, Lawrence, and Lawrence’s valet Flynt, a man I detested with every ounce of dislike in me. He had the flattest eyes I’ve ever seen, black and opaque.

  And another man, standing next to John. John said, “This is Boynton, my batman in the army and now my valet.” This man looked hard and tough, his face darkly tanned, the texture of leather. He was nearly as short as I was. Then he smiled, and I saw the big space between his front two teeth, and despite what was happening here, I smiled back. He was old enough to be my father and a good ten years younger than my husband. The smile slid off my face.

  I pulled the throw up closer and said, very slowly, very precisely, to the room at large, “I have told you what happened. I heard Amelia cry out. When I could not get the door open, I yelled to her that I was getting help. Even though I fell over my feet when John came through the front doors, I wasn’t un
conscious for very long.”

  “No, not long at all,” John said. He frowned at me, and there was something in those nearly black eyes of his I didn’t like. Maybe it was pity. Yes, pity. If I’d had a rock at hand, I would have thrown it at him.

  He said, “The fact of the matter is, we got to that chamber very quickly. Uncle Lawrence is telling you what happened. The door wasn’t locked. Amelia was sleeping on the floor. She woke up and told us that she had seen the door open, was curious because that door was always closed, and had gone inside. She remembers you were in the corridor. Then she simply doesn’t remember anything else. Nothing.”

  “She cried out,” I said again. “And that door slammed in my face. It was locked. I pulled and pushed at it, but it just wouldn’t open. I’m not insane or still addled.” And I was tired of repeating the same thing over and over, particularly since no one appeared to believe me.

  “I’m sure that’s exactly what happened, my dear girl,” Lawrence said. “Now, we’re expecting our local physician at any time. He will ensure that you are all right.”

  I rose slowly. I felt only briefly dizzy, then it cleared. I was nearly back to being myself again. “I don’t want a doctor. I want to see Amelia.”

  “Certainly,” Lawrence said. “It is obvious you are very worried about her. However, she is asleep again. She was so tired, she said.”

  “Does any of this make sense to you? Why would Amelia be tired? And say she was tired, why in heaven’s name would she decide to take a nap on the floor in an empty room? Why would the candles all be out, like someone snuffed them out?”

  No one said anything.

  I didn’t like this at all. I looked from one face to the next, from Lawrence, who looked faintly concerned, to John, who had the look of a dark angel who didn’t know what was happening, to Flynt, Lawrence’s valet with his flat black eyes, a bad man, I was sure of it. He looked at me like I was a liar, nothing more than that, a liar and of no account at all. As for Boynton, John’s valet, there was a deep frown on that brown leather forehead of his. He didn’t understand any of it, just like his master, and I didn’t, either. I smiled at him again. This time he didn’t smile back, his frown remaining firmly in place. As for Mrs. Redbreast, she looked mildly alarmed. Was she afraid that her new mistress was a loon?