Soon the footman announced that the nephew had arrived. Dolores stood up and stared at the door, standing as straight and unflinching as she could. Here was the man who wanted to take her home, to leave her penniless and alone. To leave her to retreat to Mother and Father, who were old, and didn’t want the burden of an unmarried daughter. She could already hear Father’s words. “Why can’t you just be like your sisters? They’re all married. And they don’t make a fuss. Why did you have to return?”
For some reason, she’d expected Mervin to be around the same age as his uncle. She knew it was foolish, but she had never met a young Sykes. But when he entered the room Dolores was greeted with a man of around thirty years, with deep brown hair and earth-brown eyes. His body was muscular, his arms out to his sides as though preparing for combat. His face was strong, his jaw square. He wore long-tailed jacket, high-knee boots, and tight britches that accentuated his muscular legs.
Dolores curtseyed. “My lord,” she said, not daring to say more.
He looked at her, and then spun on his heels. “Where is Uncle?” he said.
Dolores hurried after him. “At the funeral parlor, my lord,” she said.
Mervin nodded and then returned to the drawing-room. “Last time I left he was in fine health. Am I to believe that he simply collapsed from—from what, precisely? What, exactly, am I supposed to believe?”
That he was old. That he was an old man and he’d lived out his putrid years. “He was over sixty, my lord,” Dolores said quietly.
“Yes, I know that,” Mervin snapped. “But he was showing no signs of degeneration. What am I to think, hmm? What am I to assume?”
His tone was every bit as supercilious and suspicious as she’d expected it to be, judging from his letter, in which he’d all but accused her of murder. “My lord, won’t you take some tea?” Dolores said, trying to return things to a sense of normalcy.
Mervin looked at her for a few moments, and then turned away. “I will see you at dinner,” he said. She heard his footsteps as he ascended the stairs.
Dolores had some tea herself, trying not to be afraid.
*****
Brickwall Manor stood at the top of a steep, finger-like hill, overlooking the town of Wells. When ascending this hill, one had the feeling of being in a fairytale, and half-expected to find a trapped damsel at the top. The feeling was not diminished by the Manor itself. It was old, with gray stone walls which were covered in creeping ivy. The windows were ornate glass, and the main doors were like a castle drawbridge, their size intimidating. In past generations it had been used by the Sykes’ to house their most privileged guests. Now it was just a home.
Dolores would often climb the steps of the Manor to the uppermost room and look out upon the country and the town below. The July sunlight was exquisite causing the landscape to burn golden yellow. The country rolled in soft hills, the green so sharp it almost blinded the eye, the trees tiny, like children’s constructions. The buildings, too, appeared like the playthings of a child, or a giant, depending on how one thought and felt. At the edges of the hill, the ruins of the wall from which the Manor had taken its name marked the land like pebbles.
She was about to turn and leave the attic when she heard steps behind her. Mervin stood at the top of the stairs, watching her. She started, and then grabbed at her chest. “How long have you been watching me?” she breathed.
Mervin shrugged. There was something like pity on his face. But then it vanished, and was replaced with coldness. “I am going into town today to make inquiries,” he said.
“About what, my lord?” Dolores said, her voice calmer now.
“About you and Uncle,” Mervin said. “I need to know what kind of relationship you had. It is my understanding that he had some friends in the town with whom he was close. And I need to see the body on any account, and talk to the doctor.”
“I will answer any questions you have, my lord,” Dolores said.
Mervin grinned, and then shook his head. “If you want the truth of the relationship, never ask the wife. If she is a bad wife, she will make her husband out to be a demon, even if he is a saint. If she is a good wife, she will make her husband out to be a saint, even if he is a demon.”
With that he left, pounding down the steps. Dolores listened to him go. “How very profound,” she muttered sarcastically. She watched him ride down the lane, toward the steep decline of the hillside path, and then out of sight. When he was gone, Dolores went downstairs and broke her fast.
Her heart was pounding madly in her chest. Mervin wanted to oust her from Brickwall Manor, to send her home to Mother and Father, the disgraced widow of a horrid old man. She took a deep breath, willing calm to descend over her, willing her heart to stop beating so rapidly, willing her hands to stop shaking.
But she could not rid her mind of Father’s accusing face, or Mother’s disappointed shaking of the head.
*****
She didn’t speak to Mervin for four days. He seemed very busy in trying to make her homeless. She saw him a couple of times, but only from behind. He never stopped to greet her, and it seemed he purposefully ate his meals in Wells, so he didn’t have to speak with her. She felt snubbed, angry, offended. He was in her home – for it was her home now – and he was treating her like this. It was understandable, she supposed. Thornton had never made a will gifting his estate to his beloved nephew Mervin. In name and deed it belonged to Dolores. And Mervin wasn’t happy about that.
On the fifth day, when she was sitting in the drawing-room trying and failing to focus on the book before her, Mervin entered. He said nothing for a time, only seated himself opposite her and laid his hands upon his knees.
“I have heard troubling things about my uncle,” Mervin said, at length.
“You have, my lord?” Dolores said, keeping her voice level. She would show no fear, no desperation, to this man. She would keep herself as calm as water, as still as a stone. If he wanted to steal her money, her home, fine, but he would not steal her dignity.
“I have, my lady.” My lady was said meaningfully, with an inclination of the head. He was addressing her properly again. Something had changed.
“What have you heard, if I may ask, my lord?” Dolores said.
Mervin took a deep breath, and then leaned forward on his knees. “I have heard that you were rarely seen in town, though he was seen often. I have heard that when you did appear, it was with bruises on your face, poorly covered with powder. I have heard that he was wont to brag about his young bride, and say—dishonorable things. I have also heard that, in this past year, he has smoked, eaten, and drank to excess. All of this I have heard. Can you confirm any of this, my lady?”
Dolores was about to talk when something occurred to her. She would gladly set the record straight about the lecherous old man, but this could easily have been a trick. Mervin could be lying, to make her say something disparaging about her late husband, and so build a case of slander against her. It would not look good, a Longford lady spreading rumors about the noble Sykes.
Dolores shook her head. “I cannot speak of that, my lord,” she said, keeping as impassive as possible. She looked straight ahead, and didn’t move her head, her hands, her feet, at all when she spoke. Still as a stone.
“You will deny it, then, my lady?” Mervin said.
“I cannot speak of it, my lord,” Dolores said. “It would be wrong of me to speak in that vein of my late husband, who has so recently past.” She made a small gesture to her attire. “Can you not see that I wear mourning colors?”
“And you’re smart to do so,” Mervin muttered. “There are those who would say the old man had every right to do anything to you.” Mervin leaned forward. “Let me tell you how things are, my lady. My mother sent me here to try and dislodge you from your home. She is furious that Uncle did not leave her anything more substantial than two rather nice chairs. She wants it all. She wants me to break you, cast you aside, and claim this place for our own. She wants, specif
ically, for me to prove that you murdered the old man.”
Dolores said nothing, just watched him. More tricks? More lies?
Mervin looked at her for a moment, and then smiled ruefully. “You’re being careful. That is good. You have taught yourself well. Okay, just listen, then. I have no desire to cause you any more harm. Here is what I think. Uncle beat you, abused you, used you, hurt you, humiliated you. I think he did all of this because he was a bad man. Yes, I could not say it publically, but he was a bad man.”
“What has caused this change, my lord, in your perception of your uncle? Not a week ago you were eager to see his body, and your voice was ever so full of remorse.”
“I had to act, did I not, as though his passing troubles me? And I had to keep my plan in mind. I had every intention of taking this place from you.”
“Had, my lord?”
“Yes, had, I don’t want this place, not if it means further hurting you.”
“I apologize, my lord,” Dolores said. I do not understand. Why are my feelings of any concern to you?”
Mervin grinned again. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
He laughed. When he laughed, he looked so young Dolores could weep. She had spent so much time around Thornton, with his wrinkled, grasping hands, and his gravelly laugher, and his mean, sunken eyes. To be with someone closer to her own age was like a blessing. But she would not allow it to show, mustn’t allow it to show. “We’ve met, before,” he said. “About four years ago now.We didn’t speak. Perhaps that is why you don’t remember. You were in London, for your sister’s wedding. I was also there. I knew the husband. We touched hands briefly, and said our helloes, but we didn’t speak further.”
Dolores straightened her back even further, looking down at him. She couldn’t recall the incident. It could’ve easily been offended. “If we presume for a moment that this is true, my lord,” she said, “it still does not explain why you care for my feelings.”
“Yes, it does,” Mervin said. “Because I remember thinking that you were the most beautiful lady I had ever met. And now you look scared, and you’re all closed up. Something dreadful happened to you, did it not?”
Dolores didn’t say anything. Mervin nodded. “You don’t believe me. I cannot blame you. Well, here is what I propose. Mother expects me to stay for around a month. In that time I’ll either be able to prove your complicity, or I will have to return, defeated. I plan on doing the latter. I could stay in Wells, but it may arouse suspicion if Mother ever hears of it. I wish to stay here for a month, waiting out the allotted time, and then returning. You will not lose your home; I will not lose whatever small inheritance Mother has rabbited away for me.”
“What will you do, my lord, whilst you are here?”
“Rest, my lady,” Mervin said. “A year ago I was in France, being shot at, stabbed at, being dragged from town to town for battle upon battle. The idea of rest does not disturb me in the least.”
“You were in France?” Dolores said, unable to hide her excitement. She had grown up with the war in France looming in the background, but she had never heard much about it. It wasn’t for the youngest daughter of a middling family to worry about things like that.
“I was,” Mervin said. “And, you know, that is the first hint of emotion I have heard in your voice since I arrived.”
Dolores forced coldness back into her voice. “So you will stay, then?” she said. “Of course, you are welcome to. My home is open to you.” My home.
Mervin stood and bowed. “My thanks, my lady,” he said. When he bowed, Dolores say that he had a scar on the side of his neck, like a lover’s bite. He saw her looking, and bared his flesh, showing her in more detail. Despite herself, she leaned forward. It was fascinating. “Cannon fire,” he said. “It hit a support for a shack, and the wood flew outwards. Caught me in the neck.”
“Were you close to death?” Dolores said.
“No,” Mervin said, standing up. “It wasn’t as bad as all that. Hurt, though. If you like, whilst I am here, I can tell you more of the war. You seem interested.”
Dolores was extremely interested, but she didn’t want to give this man anything. Perhaps what he said was true, or perhaps he was just spinning heratale to win her confidence. Perhaps all of this was a performance to make her lower her guard. “If we can find the time, my lord,” Dolores said, forcing the formality back into the conversation.
“My lady, I hasten to remind you that we are upon a steep hill, with nobody but servants for company, in the middle of the country. I do not imagine time is a rare commodity.”
Dolores nodded. It was true. Time stretched in Brickwall Manor until it seemed endless.
“On the morrow, we will take a walk around the grounds, my lady, if you are willing, and I will sate your curiosity.”
She made to talk – to refuse – but he held up his hand. “Think on it, my lady,” he said. He bowed and left the room.
Dolores was left alone, wondering which parts of what he’d said were lies, and which parts were truths. It was almost impossible to tell. But she knew one thing. She wanted to take that walk with Mervin, and hear of his time in France. She wanted to spend more time with him. It was a dangerous impulse.
But she couldn’t ignore it.
*****
She awoke the next day with an inexplicable smile upon her lips. She hadn’t woken with a smile on her lips in years. As she readied herself for the day, the smile stayed. She felt lightheaded. She shook her head, and forced the smile away. It was a shame to kill whatever this happiness was, but there was a man in her house who might very well be a viper. When she entered the breakfast room, Mervin was already there. He stood as she was seated, and then sat back down.
“My lady,” he said.
“My lord,” she replied.
They broke their fast, and then sat in the drawing-room. They hadn’t discussed that they would retire here together. It had just sort of happened. Mervin lit a pipe and smoked, and for almost half an hour they said not a word. But the strange thing was, Dolores didn’t feel the need to say anything. With Thornton, she’d always had to think of something pretty or nice to say, to please him. But now she was content to be silent, and it seemed Mervin was, too.
When he finished smoking, he laid his pipe aside. “So, my lady,” he said, “shall we take that walk?”
“I hope you are not planning on pushing me off the hill, my lord,” Dolores said, only half-joking.
Mervin watched her for a few moments, as though trying to gauge whether or not she was in earnest, and then shook his head. “I have not lied to you, my lady,” he said. “I swear it; I swear it on God.”
“Swear it again, my lord, and say it all.”
“My lady, I swear it on God that everything I said to you yesterday was the truth. I wish He would banish me to the hottest depths of hell if I am lying.”
Dolores gasped. “I hope you are sure you didn’t tell any accidently lies, my lord,” she said.
“I didn’t,” Mervin said, his voice full of confidence. “I wanted to tell you the truth, and that was what I did.”
“Good,” Dolores said.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?”
“No,” she said, “but I believe you more than I did before.”
“I did not realize there were shades of belief.”
“Neither did I,” Dolores said. “But it appears that there is.”
“Very well.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s get out of the stuffiness for a time. The sun is up, the heat is rising. It is a lovely day. Take a walk with me. Do not worry, we will not descend the hill. We will not be seen together. I know you are still in mourning. But what harm is there walking your grounds together?”
“The servants will gossip,” Dolores said.
“Yes, they will,” Mervin agreed. “But servants will always gossip. It’s better to give them something to gossip about, than to let them invent their own stories. Any
way, I am sure the footmen that go to town for supplies have already spread the word that we have been alone in the drawing-room. That in itself is enough to ignite a scandal in some circles in London. But we are not in London. You are a widow and I am the son of a poor sister. The higher echelons of society care little for us, I’d wager.”
“One walk,” Dolores said, rising to her feet. “No pushing. And nothing dishonorable. I have had my fill of that.” She knew they were unwise words to speak, but despite herself they escaped her lips. She was becoming more comfortable around Mervin. It was like he was casting some kind of spell on her. He had an easy smile, and his presence was strong and reassuring. “That is not to say that—”
“I did not hear a thing,” he said. And then, shyly: “Dolores.”
Dolores’ cheeks reddened. “Very well.” And then, even more shyly: “Mervin.”
He smiled, and she found herself smiling with him. It felt good, to smile at somebody at mean it. She had spent the past year fake smiling at Thornton until her mouth ached. He would grow angry if she was not smiling, if she did not appear the pinnacle of happiness. But with Mervin, she was smiling because she wanted to, because it felt good, because it was a respite from a bleak pit of nothing.
“You seem far away,” Mervin said. They were leaving the Manor, walking toward the ruins of the brick wall.
“I was,” Dolores admitted. Stop this, a voice called, deep in her mind. Don’t trust him. Don’t open up to him. He is your enemy.“But I don’t wish to speak of it,” she added quickly.
“Very well,” Mervin said.
The Duke of Ice Page 37