The Heart Denied (34 page)

From the larder came a muffled cry. "Oh, M'lord!" Bridey wailed, hurrying toward the mess in her most expeditious shuffle. "Your dear mother's-" Glimpsing her master's face, she broke off, pressing a finger tightly to her lips, and hastily withdrew to a safer proximity.

"I'm well aware you never approved of my choice of a wife," Thorne said, leaning on white-knuckled fists over the table in front of Arthur. "But by God, that does
not
give you the right to belittle my differences with her, or to speak lightly of what she suffered at the hands of my stable master--my
brother
,
as
you
would have it--may God rot his soul in hell!"

Another startled cry sounded from the larder. Thorne stormed out of the kitchen, the door to the south gardens announcing his exit with a thundering slam. Bits of herbs and flowers drifted down from the rafters where William had hung them in bundles to dry.

"Jesu Christi," Arthur murmured with a despairing look at the wild-eyed cook, and put his head in his hands. "What have I done? What possessed me to speak so?"

Bridey's only reply was a keening moan as she sank into a chair and covered her face with her apron.

* * *

Thorne slowed his pace considerably when confronted by the blinding fog. Making his way down the sloping gardens, he used the vague silhouettes of the outbuildings as guides, but upon reaching the gate, it was as if the earth dropped off into a cloud.

"One of you men, bring a light!" he shouted in the direction of the stables. His voice sounded strangely muffled to his own ears in the soupy mist, but he was quickly hailed in reply. It seemed an eternity before one of Dobson's men approached, his lantern the first thing to bob within Thorne's vision.

The two men carefully crossed the lane and entered the stable yard. Finding the door, Thorne held a hand up to his escort. "I've business with Hobbs. If I need assistance I'll call for it."

He closed the door quickly behind him as he entered. The fog had slipped its tendrils past the shuttered windows; some heat was needed to burn it off. The brazier was cool to his touch.

"Hobbs?" He lifted a lantern from its hook, frowning to see it nearly burnt dry. He made his way cautiously toward the rear passageway. Several of the horses nickered softly in greeting, but he paid no heed, wondering if perhaps Hobbs had taken a foolish notion to ambush him.

He reached the closed door of the stable master's quarters, tasting gall to think that the man might actually be sleeping.
No conscience, no fear.
Rage, so recent and simmering near the surface, threatened to boil over, making his voice harsher than he had intended.

"Hobbs! Open up!"

When there was no answer, he hung the lantern up and proceeded to pound his fists a half-dozen times on the solid oak portal. "Open up at once, Hobbs!"

There was no reply. Pent-up fury was unleashed at last, as he drew back and gave the old door a powerful kick with the heel of his boot. The heavy iron bolt held, but another blow splintered the dry wood that surrounded it. He crashed through shoulder-first, leaving the door sagging on its loosened hinges.

The room lacked windows, and here too the lantern was nearly burnt dry. For the few seconds it took Thorne's eyes to adjust to the dimness, he almost feared Hobbs had slipped by the guards during the night and into the concealing fog.

And left a windowless room bolted from the inside? Not likely.

Spotting the chair turned over on its side, Thorne frowned. It was then that he became fully aware of the rhythmic creaking sound, the protest of stressed wood; then, too, that the significance of the malodorous air struck him. He had first associated it with unswept stalls.

His heart slowed, his blood chilling. Every muscle in his body tensed. Forcing his head to turn, he looked over his left shoulder.

His breath caught and held; bile rose in his throat.

Less than an arm's length away, the body of Tobias Hobbs hung by the neck from the soot-blackened rafters, its bulging eyes staring sightlessly at Thorne.

I am cursed.

Perhaps from the cradle. The sins of the father...

Raising the glinting decanter of Scotch whiskey high, Thorne sucked its dregs as a babe would suck life from its mother's teat.

Cursed in life, cursed in love; cursed in every righteous endeavor.
He swallowed the fiery liquid, then chuckled aloud.

Why do you laugh?
he asked himself, and realized that one minuscule part of his brain still held its head above the churning sea of Scotch.

Then I'll fetch more Scotch and drown the little buggerer.
But his limbs refused to budge from their comfortable position in the chair. As chilly as it was in the room, he cared not a whit. There was warmth enough in his veins at the moment, or perhaps no feeling at all, which was just as well.

He stared through the tall windows of the library solar, the room in total darkness behind him. Something told him the moonlit landscape was every bit as cold as it looked tonight. Across the lane the stables stood stark and stony, for all the world appearing uninhabited, but somewhere behind those shuttered windows was Nate--who had adamantly refused to take Hobbs' old quarters, in fact was loathe to stay anyplace under that roof overnight. It had required a sticky bit of negotiating for Arthur to convince him.

Thorne barked a laugh. Nate was undoubtedly the most highly paid stable groom in the shire, if not in the whole of Mother England.

By grace of dogged determination, he heaved himself out of the chair and lumbered toward the corner cabinet, where, he discovered with a mumbled curse, there was no more Scotch. Such a catastrophe demanded a dangerous trek up the great stairs to his own chambers, where, by God, there had
better
be another bottle in his sideboard, he wasn't paying the chambermaid for naught...but shouldn't stocking the spirits be a task for his manservant?
I must advertise soon...

Once inside his chambers, he staggered toward the sideboard and groped blindly in its recesses until his fingers encountered hobnailed crystal. He nudged the heavy decanter forward, accidentally knocking something out onto the floor with a soft thwack--and stared, spellbound, at the volume of poetry he had confiscated from the library.

Elaine.

The thought hit him so squarely in the diaphragm it might have been a fist--and he went down that quickly.

He sat as he landed, legs splayed on the bare waxed floorboards, arms clutching the leather-bound book to his chest. He could think of nothing more appealing, more comforting, than to imagine she was in the library at this very moment...that he'd only to creep down the stairs to find her in that chair, a mere two maddening yards from his own, her shining chestnut plait cascading to her waist. She would be bent over her book, her long lashes poised just above her cheeks and lips slightly parted, entranced by the words on the page. Those generous lips...aye, his eyes had more than once lingered on them undetected, had often seen them spread into a heartbreaking smile at one of his abrupt inquiries or muttered asides. She would hold her book in those long, slender fingers as if it were fragile and priceless--this book he held now, the very one in which she'd written his name.

Twice.

But she left you, didn't she
, taunted the cynic in him.
As did the rest of them...Catherine, Lena, Robert, and Gwynneth. Even Caroline.

The book was tossed onto the shelf, the decanter of Scotch dragged out in its stead. Using the sideboard as a prop, Thorne pulled himself up, then wove his way across the room and fell heavily into a fireside chair. Knees apart and back slumped, he uncorked the bottle and resumed what had been his chief diversion since Caroline Sutherland departed four days ago, after Hobbs' burial.

She'd refused to meet his eyes upon her arrival, much less speak to him, and had turned up her nose at his offer of guest chambers. Her coach had stood ready in the churchyard to fetch her back to London immediately after the service.

As badly as Thorne felt about Hobbs' suicide, he'd yet to feel any softening toward the man himself--which only made him feel heartless, although he suspected few men could forgive such abomination as Hobbs had perpetrated on the Neville family and one of their servants. No true brother would have behaved so.

Hobbs had left a note, undiscovered until late the day he was found. The scrap of paper read simply, 
As I am bound to hang, I shall at least choose the day
. Always contentious, was Hobbs. Ever ready to pick a fight or to argue a point.

And Arthur. For the last four days, as Thorne had wandered about the house or sequestered himself in his chambers, his steward, his friend and mentor, had stayed away. True, there was no pressing business, this being the time of year when there was little to be done other than keeping the herds, with the ground too wet to plow and the salmon still down-river. And Arthur had been quite civil, but Thorne knew he was grieving, and not just for Hobbs.
I love the both of you as if you were my own sons
,
he'd told them, and Thorne knew that no matter what was to come or what had gone before, the old man's love for him would prevail.

But Arthur was not long for this world, a few years at most, and who would be left then? Not Gwynneth. Not Caroline, which was probably a blessing.

And not Elaine...even if society allowed.

 He lifted the bottle high and drank, first to slake his thirst, however ineffectively; second and more importantly, to numb whatever remaining nerve or two was indulging in this damnable self-pity. He kept one eye on the decanter, uncertain of his coordination even at close range, and the other on the view from his windows. The moon had just reappeared from behind a cloud when he noticed something in the Northampton Road.

With what felt like a Herculean effort, he pushed up from the chair, and veered his way to a window.

Someone was there. Thorne held onto the casing for support as he squinted, trying to focus his Scotch-blurred eyes. The figure--slightly built, cloaked and hooded--moved again. It appeared to be examining the rose hedges. A strange pastime after dark, Thorne mused, and hadn't the roses had only barely begun to bud?

Curiosity held him there, along with the lead in his limbs, not to mention the fact that it was comforting to discover another human about the place, as even the servants were lately steering clear of him.

The cloaked figure reached to finger a tender branch; simultaneously its hood fell back.

A woman.
Thorne frowned and started slightly, for even at this distance there was something familiar about her. Long hair, colorless in the stark moonlight, was loosely cradled in the folds of her fallen hood.

Who the deuce are you?

The thought was intensely curious, and as if she'd actually heard him speak, the woman turned suddenly to gaze at the Hall.

For breathtaking, blood-draining moments Thorne stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to believe what he was seeing, yet unable to tear himself away. At last, when it felt as if his chest was about to implode, he gasped for air; then with a hoarse, garbled cry, he pushed himself away from the casing with such force that he staggered, reeled, and fell hard to the floor. Vaguely aware of striking his head on the way down, he watched as the room and its contents began to spin with nauseating speed; then he shut his eyes.

Merciful velvet-black unconsciousness closed in upon him, his last thought fading away...

I'm dying. Thank God, I am dying.

* * *

"He's coming 'round." John Hodges brought the candle nearer his patient's face and lifted an eyelid. "Ah, his pupils are contracting a bit. 'Twon't be long." He turned to Arthur. "When he wakes, send up warm broth and strong black tea with sugar. Get someone to force it down him, for I'll wager he's had little but spirits in several days."

Arthur nodded, indicating the bandage on Thorne's temple. "Need we change that soon?"

Gathering the contents of his black leather bag, Hodges shook his head. "I'll see to it tomorrow." He eyed Arthur gravely. "He needs rest and light nourishment. Absolutely no spirits. And you," he added, "look as if you could use some rest yourself. Doctor's orders."

When Hodges had gone, Arthur plumped pillows and straightened bedcovers, at some point glancing up to find the patient's bleary, half-opened eyes upon him.

"Have I sacked the chambermaid again?" Thorne rasped.

Arthur almost smiled. "No, M'lord. Hodges has been and gone, and I thought I might as well make myself useful."

Thorne tried to sit, but was gently pushed back against the pillows. "How long have I been out?"

"Two days." Arthur moved the candle out of harm's way. "At first we thought you a goner, with that goose egg on your temple." He looked sternly at Thorne. "Hodges claims you and the bottle have been close friends these last few days. Friends such as that tend to turn on you sooner than later, and I'd say you were bloody-nigh killed by yours. Have you never heard of alcohol poisoning?"

Thorne grimaced. "Spare me the lecture, Arthur, 'tis one with which my bloody conscience badgered me the whole time I imbibed. But sometimes," he said through his teeth, trying again to sit upright, "a man must hit bottom before he can rise again."

This time Arthur aided him with an extra pillow. "Well, I can't say I agree with your philosophy, but what's done is done. Just thank Providence that the bump on your head is no worse. Seems you fell against the edge of the ottoman. Now, I'm on my way to the kitchen. Hodges says you're to eat, and if you refuse, I'm to force it down you."

Thorne snorted at the idea, though he felt surprisingly hungry. Arthur was soon out the door, moving with more energy than he'd displayed in a long while. It suddenly struck Thorne that as long as Arthur felt he'd a purpose in this life, he was more than likely to be around for a good while; hence, he quickly reversed the decision he'd made days ago that his old friend needed more rest and less work. He should have known better. The man had always thrived upon activity.

He glanced toward the windows. Dusk had fallen. Memory came flooding back, standing the hairs at his nape on end.

"You were drunk, Neville," he muttered, then glanced about to make certain he was alone. "Drunker than a bloody sailor on his first night in port..."

Of course...that would explain it. He was fortunate, he told himself, not to have seen far worse than he had.

* * *

By nine of the clock next evening Thorne was comfortably ensconced in his room, quite sober, and determined to prove to himself that his vision three nights past had been the product of drunken delirium.

He was perturbed to discover an hour later that the vision had been no hallucination. But in his sober state and perhaps because he was prepared, he felt no fear. In its place was anger as he watched what appeared to be the same person inspecting the pubescent rose hedges again.

He abandoned his chambers. Encountering William on the service stairs, he dispatched him to "inquire of the person lingering in the Northampton road," but was keenly disappointed when the bewildered youth returned only to say that the road was deserted.

Once more Thorne sought the solitude of his rooms. Ignoring the inclination to indulge in a glass of Scotch, he strode to the window.

She was there--still in the road, in practically the same stance as he'd left her. His heart began to race.

Turn 'round
,
he bade her silently, while he stood stock-still with dread that she might do just that. He told himself she was one of the villagers, or perhaps one of the maids out for a late-night stroll in spite of the risk of incurring Dame Carswell's wrath.

Wrong
!!!
she seemed to say, at that very moment turning directly toward the house. Her eyes were like tiny brilliant beacons, aimed directly at the southern windows of the old structure...and at the man who stood watching her in dumbfounded disbelief.

It wasn't until she smiled--a gesture so unmistakable and sweetly horrifying in the harsh moonlight--that Thorne's skin broke into gooseflesh. With his heart in his gullet, he scrambled backward, unable to assimilate a second more of the shattering reality that the woman's mere presence implied.

For the first time in his life, he drew the heavy draperies over every window of his bedchamber. Hampered by dread-stiffened limbs, he kept his hot dry eyes obstinately averted from what surely awaited him beyond the myriad panes of glass.

* * *

The night passed in dead silence, the room stuffy, dark and muffled with all the windows shuttered and draped. Shortly past two in the morning, Thorne rose to light a fire, then impulsively pulled a velvet panel just a hair away from the window and peered through the slit.

There was nothing...no one. The road was quite deserted.

As he let the air out of his lungs, he briefly considered opening the draperies--very briefly. When dawn finally broke, he jerked each panel impatiently aside and secured it. In the light of day it was easy to forget that that familiar and beloved landscape had turned so malevolently alien by the light of the moon.