by Linn Chapel
It hadn’t been very long ago that she had stood beside that other grave across the sea, mourning the death of one of her patients. Since that time, she had passed through so many dangers and seen all her hopes end in disappointment and loss. Now she was standing beside another grave, contemplating once again the emptiness of her life.
At the burial service last January, the ground had been covered with white snow instead of spring-green turf. The headstones next to the New England church had stood up in neat rows instead of tilting sideways with age, like the one before her. But nothing else had changed. In fact, her problems had only grown worse.
Now she knew more clearly how little she could accomplish, despite her good intentions. And she was even more certain that she’d end her days unmarried, for her dreams of beginning a life with Holt, the only man she could ever love, had died before they were even born.
It was true – she had come full circle. She was still a failure, still a misfit, still alone.
Looking down at the old grave, she felt as chilled as if it were the middle of winter again.
Winter... cold as death, hungry as the grave.
She turned away from the weathered gravestones to find the footpath.
As she rounded the hilltop, a branch appeared in the footpath and she paused for a moment to choose her route. One way led downward into the valley below, where the northern fields of the Langley estate met the surrounding hills. She’d never explored in that direction, for it lay beyond the spot where she’d found the dead rabbit in the woods, but she had as little desire to visit that part of the estate as she did the more familiar lane with its trio of cottages.
She could see their thatched roofs even from here, looking soft and golden among the mounds of purple and white lilac bushes. Nearby, the bare rock of Windy Top rose up like a stony sentinel.
She took one last look at the Langley estate and then turned away to follow the other branch of the footpath through the hilly countryside west of Langley.
Feeling too restless to work any longer, Peter set aside his notebook. With every hour that he remained grounded in the country, the secret plans that had taken over the Operation were proceeding unchecked.
He stepped outside Cup Cottage for some fresh air. His eyes shot around the confines of the garden with its enclosing stone wall and then rose upward to the sky, where the wind was blowing ranks of dark clouds over the treetops.
A movement in the lane caught Peter’s attention and he turned, hoping to spot Tressa at last. But the figure striding steadily up the lane was Holt.
Peter called out as soon as Holt was within earshot. “Have you seen Tressa today?”
Holt’s brows drew together. “No.” His look darkened. “I haven’t seen her since last night.”
Peter gestured up the lane. “It’s almost lunchtime. Maybe she’s helping Hugh in the kitchen.”
Holt nodded and they fell into step together. After a quick walk they arrived at Arbor Cottage, but they found only Hugh at work in the kitchen.
Exiting the cottage, they came to a mutual decision to sweep the grounds behind the manor house. They both suspected that they’d find Tressa there, daydreaming in some quiet spot.
But once again they came up empty-handed. Hoping that Tressa had returned to Cup Cottage while they were gone, they strode back together in worried silence, scanning the woods and fields on the way.
When they arrived at Cup Cottage, Peter stepped inside and called her name. There was no answer. Holt followed him into the cottage, muttering, “If only she would stay in one place. Her penchant for wandering into trouble is maddening.”
Peter agreed. “I could throttle her,” he said. If she were still alive. Peter shook the grim thought away and lowered himself onto the sofa, thinking hard.
There had to be some reason other than foul play for her absence. If the Operation had found their hiding place, why had only one of their number been taken? It made no sense.
Holt had been moodily stalking about the living room, still ruffled over Tressa’s wandering ways. He stopped to say, “Peter, you’ve no doubt endured many worries and concerns as her brother, but I can assure you that my own troubles have been far worse, for Tressa has even wandered into my thoughts and memories!”
Peter looked up at that. “What do you mean?”
“It seems that a psychic link has formed between us,” Holt explained, glowering.
Taken aback, Peter could only stare at Holt for a moment. “Hmm. Maybe that’s not such a surprise, now that I come to think of it,” he added reflectively.
Holt’s brows drew together in an ominous line. “There’s no telling what harm might befall her because of it.” He made another agitated tour of the room.
Peter had to agree. With Holt’s dark past, any psychic wanderings into old memories could prove problematic indeed.
Holt had to have known all along that any kind of romantic relationship with Tressa was impossible. Holt had been born close to the dawn of the nineteenth century, after all. His goals and opinions were unusual, to say the least.
And even more to the point, Holt had spent two hundred years as a vampire. Peter could tell that Holt had been no ruthless predator, but, still.... And then there was that business during the wars, when he’d been an undercover courier who’d doubled as an assassin when necessary. His past was filled with violent experiences and emotional isolation.
Because Holt was savvier than Tressa, more realistic about the ways of the world, he had to have known that he was all wrong for her. Tressa had some problems of her own, it was true, but she possessed none of Holt’s emotional baggage.
It must have been Holt’s sense of responsibility that had prompted him to install her at Langley. But hiding out together in such close quarters had to be painful for both of them.
Peter hadn’t missed the fact that their chilly separation had been growing. Recently, Holt had been moodier and more frustrated than ever, and Tressa had become so cold and distant that it seemed she could barely spare a civil word for Holt. The temperature between them had dropped to artic levels.
If it hadn’t been for the Operation’s pursuit, Peter mused, the whole affair might have died an easier death.
Peter took a deep breath and exhaled unhappily. For so long, he had been hoping that Tressa would see the folly of trying to forge a relationship with Holt, but now that she seemed to be giving up at last, Peter didn’t feel as relieved as he’d expected.
His gaze drifted over to the lean, clever face of the former vampire who was still pacing about the room. Against all odds, Holt had become a trusted ally, a rare friend, and Peter found himself wishing things could have ended differently.
Peter shifted restlessly on the sofa as he pondered Tressa’s whereabouts again. “We’d be seeing more action if Ted and Margot had managed to find our location. Tressa’s probably just spending some time alone.”
Holt stopped pacing. “There’s no need to mince words, Peter. She’s doing her best to avoid me. Whenever we do chance to meet, she’s much too calm and reasonable. It’s unnatural,” he muttered. “She’s like a mechanical doll.”
Peter digested that for a moment. “Look on the bright side, Holt. It’s a good thing if she doesn’t have any strong feelings. Strong feelings coming from a woman can be worse than a right hook to the jaw,” he said, remembering several unpleasant scenes from his own past.
“But you’re wrong, Peter. She does have strong feelings.” Holt came to stand by the hearth with his arms crossed over his chest. “She hates me, and I find I cannot blame her.”
Peter opened his mouth to offer some words of comfort, then shut it, realizing there wasn’t anything he could say. Time and distance would help, not words.
Meanwhile Holt stood before the hearth, staring at the charred remains of the previous night’s fire.
Darkness was approaching by the time Tressa had retraced her path near the marsh and was climbing the slopes to the terrace of the manor house
.
She circled the west wing and passed down the little lane. Lights were glowing in the windows of Arbor Cottage and she heard the murmur of voices from within as she walked swiftly past, but no one noticed her in the gloom.
When she arrived at Cup Cottage, she found that Peter had stored enough provisions in the kitchen to make a simple dinner of toast and scrambled eggs for herself. The food was quickly made and quickly eaten. Upstairs, Tressa gathered her clothes and placed them in a bag for her escape to London the next morning.
All during this time she had been listening for any sounds at the front door, feeling very anxious about being questioned by Peter and Luke. They were bound to be fuming over her absence that day. But so far, she had heard nothing.
Now that she had finished packing, she planned to turn out the light and pretend to be sleeping, so that they’d leave her alone whenever they returned with Albert for the night.
But first she crossed the hall to rummage through Luke’s things. She found a spare notepad and a pen, then returned to her chamber and wrote a note that was filled with vague reassurances. The last thing she wanted was to worry the others and spark any fears that she’d been kidnapped by the Operation again. Then she propped the note on her dresser and turned off her light.
In the dark, she felt her way to the four-poster bed, pulled down the coverlets, and was just about to undress for the night when a sound downstairs made her freeze. Someone was knocking at the front door.
She heard another brief set of raps, and then silence.
Her heart seemed to skip several beats as she wondered if it could be Holt. She couldn’t face him tonight, not on the very eve of her departure.
But Holt never knocked before entering the cottage. He had his own set of keys and always opened the door and strode inside at will.
Whoever had knocked was gone, for now there was only the sound of the wind sighing through the branches outside.
Uneasily, she switched on a light and descended several stairs. Pausing, she could hear drops of rain pattering lightly against the front windows, but that was all.
A piece of notepaper lay on the floor, though. Someone must have slipped it under the front door. Perhaps Jane’s condition had taken a turn for the worse, and Hugh had come to enlist Tressa’s aid. That would explain why the others had remained for so long at Arbor Cottage.
Filled with concern, she quickly descended the rest of the stairs and picked up the paper.
Switching on another lamp, she drew in a sharp breath as she read the words. The message wasn’t at all what she had expected. It was written in a flowing, feminine hand and the words slanted diagonally across the page, as if they had been penned in a hurry.
Tressa, you must help me. Holt has been wounded in a fight with an intruder. Bring any first aid supplies that you can find. Take the track that crosses the northern fields. Come quickly. – Eleanor
Tressa felt a shock run through her. Holt had been in the habit of patrolling the estate at night, she knew. Who had he surprised – an operative? Or maybe it had been an altered vampire. Tressa shuddered.
Holt might be quick and very experienced, but now that he was becoming human, he could be seriously wounded. She wiped a shaking hand over her brow.
How badly wounded was he?
Eleanor must have been waiting for him somewhere nearby as he made the rounds of the estate. Holt would have surely told her about the transition by now.
Envy rose up in Tressa’s heart, making her cringe from the prospect of seeing Holt and Eleanor together. Would they look upon her with pity, or just pretend there was nothing painfully awkward about their sudden meeting tonight?
Tressa turned and entered the kitchen. She couldn’t waste time on her own heartache when Holt’s wounds could be crippling, or even serious enough to cause his death. Quickly she pulled open the drawers in the kitchen until she found a stash of household supplies. Bundling up a stack of linen towels, she added a pair of scissors for cutting them into strips and a bar of soap. When she spotted a small flashlight, she added that to her bundle, too.
As she hurried to the door, the scissors slipped and fell. She bent to pick them up but dropped them again before she had even reached the door. Biting her lip in frustration, she set her supplies down and ran upstairs where she retrieved the canvas tote from her bedchamber. Running back downstairs, she packed everything inside the bag. Then swinging open the door, she ran breathlessly outside.
Darkness filled the front garden and she scrabbled for the flashlight. Switching it on, she ran to the white slats of the garden gate and then quickly entered the lane, shining the beam between the twin hedgerows to find her way.
Soon she was passing through the small woodland where she had found the dead rabbit, and then the lane emerged from the trees and stretched off again between the dark hedgerows.
When a gap appeared in the hedgerow to her left, Tressa paused. With the aid of her flashlight, she found that it was the entrance to a narrow dirt track leading into the northern fields. Far away, in the distance, a single light twinkled in the night.
Thirty-one
Wind gusted across the dark expanse of open field, sending a spray of cold rain into Tressa’s face. Hidden lightning flickered within the clouds, and for a brief instant, Tressa could make out the whitewashed walls of a cottage in the distance, pale and blurry against the darkness of the slope behind it.
As she sped onward, she realized that the tiny twinkling light must be coming from a candle in one of the cottage windows. Drawing even closer, she could see the outline of a second, dimmer window and a set of steps leading to the front door. With its remote location, the cottage had probably never been wired with electricity, and Eleanor must have placed a candle in the window to guide Tressa to the spot.
Eleanor had to be staying at the cottage while she was visiting Holt. Tressa could picture the scene she’d find when she stepped inside the cottage door all too well: Eleanor would be hovering possessively over Holt, filled with concern. As for Holt, he would be lying on a sofa or slumped in a chair, wounded. When Tressa arrived, he’d spare her a glance of regret and turn his face back to Eleanor.
The wind gusted and rain stung at her cheeks. Steeling herself for the coming ordeal, Tressa forced herself to cross the final distance and climb the steps to the door. She raised her hand and was just about to knock when an odd trill of laughter came from within the cottage.
A gust of rain drowned out all sounds, but when it had passed, Tressa heard another trill of laughter.
Lightning flickered amid the clouds again and in the brief flash of brightness Tressa could see her own hand, pale and stark, still lifted to knock. She lowered her arm and retreated quickly down the steps, out of sight.
From a short distance away, she tried to peer through the windows, but the cottage stood above her on a slight slope and the sills were too high to allow a view. But the windows were in poor repair, she could see. One of them even had a small gap where part of a glass pane was missing.
Tressa felt her pulse pounding in her temples as she stepped off the front path and cautiously waded through the wet weeds that surrounded the cottage. Keeping her head low, she came to stand beneath the broken window.
The laughter had ended and Eleanor was speaking now. “You still haven’t greeted me properly, Holt.”
“Don’t come near me.” Holt’s voice growled from within the room. “Be done with all your lies. If she’s not here, where is she?”
“She’ll be here soon. But then I could be lying about that, too.” Eleanor laughed indulgently. “Where has your celebrated patience gone, Holt? I’ve never seen you so hasty and impulsive before. And so stupidly blundering. It’s quite exhilarating.”
A heavy rumble of thunder drowned out Holt’s reply.
Beneath the window, Tressa stood frozen in place as her thoughts whirled with confusion. Eleanor didn’t need any help; instead, she had been setting some kind of trap. And Holt seemed to despis
e her.
The realization that Holt and Eleanor were enemies seared through Tressa, burning away the cold numbness of futility that had wrapped her heart in ice. But all too soon, dread took over.
Eleanor had lured Tressa to the isolated cottage, and Holt as well, by the sounds of it. Why?
The sound of thunder sank to a low grumble and Tressa could hear Eleanor speaking again, her voice laden with satisfaction. “There’s no way out, Holt. I brought an associate, as usual. He’s just outside the cottage.” From her spot below the window, Tressa cast a quick glance over her shoulder, but she could see nothing in the darkness. Eleanor added, “You’ve always been quick, Holt, but you know better than to dream of fighting two vampires at once.”
Tressa crouched, motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Any moment now, the other vampire could discover her.
“Eleanor, you’re only imagining the slight. The change in my circumstances should mean nothing to you.”
He must mean the transition, Tressa thought with sudden alarm. Eleanor would know that he was virtually human by now, and much more vulnerable than he had been as a vampire.
Eleanor’s voice changed, becoming sharp-edged. “You’ve been so cold and controlled over the years. I thought all feeling had died within you when you were turned. But now I know that wasn’t true and everything could have been different. I could have had what I wanted, after all.” Her words were seething with an unspoken accusation.
“You took your chances, and you lost,” said Holt in a hard voice.
The pitch of Eleanor’s speech rose higher. “At first, I didn’t believe the report I heard. It couldn’t be true that you were back in England with a beautiful human. But it didn’t take me long to find this human, and see for myself what had happened. You’d fallen in love at last, after all these years.”
Tressa’s knees suddenly trembled and she had to put a hand out to steady herself against the cottage wall. She waited for Holt to deny the words.