Black Gold (32 page)

The force of William's malevolence was shocking, almost tangible. For a moment, the table grew deathly still. The smirk left the coachman's lips. The steward grew pale. Jeffery felt a tightening in his chest. A moment later, conversation resumed as if nothing had happened. William ate silently, sulking.

***

Anne guided Charlie into the dining room, her hand on his shoulder. She looked at the table with surprise. It was set for only four persons. Charlie smiled up at her, then pointed across the room. Jeffery, a massive ebony figure, crimson-clad, was standing rigid by a sideboard, his left arm in a sling. Anne was delighted to see him. She had heard he was banned.

Lady Margaret took her seat at the lower end of the table; the place at the other end was empty. “My husband asks to be excused,” she remarked to Paul, who had accompanied her. She added with a quick sardonic smile, “Business in the city, he said. Odd, don't you think, on Easter evening. But there you are.”

She invited Paul to the place on her left usually occupied by Captain Fitzroy. “My cousin, the captain, isn't the kind of man who offers excuses. He declared he would sup—and I expect he will also gamble—with his friends this evening.” She inclined her head slightly toward Paul, her hand lightly touching his. “The two men on whom I must rely have both deserted me. Fortunately, there's at least one gentleman in the house to escort me to the table.”

“My pleasure,” he said politely, as he took his place.

Anne sat to his left, across the table from Charlie so he could more easily try to read her lips. The boy sought his mother's attention, timidly waving his hand. She ignored him, engaging Anne in a conversation about last night's concert. “Did you notice Miss Ware?” she asked coyly. “She usually sings like a princess, fearless, at ease in her part. But on this occasion, she appeared nervous, as if overwhelmed by old Isaiah's lamentation. And…by my Harry's hungry stare.”

“I'm afraid I failed to notice what you observed,” Anne replied, grateful that she could not have watched Sir Harry from where she sat. “Harriet is a religious person. The prophet's sentiments may well have touched her deeply.”

While Anne turned the conversation to other matters, she kept an eye on Jeffery serving the meal. His expression was enigmatic. Only his tired eyes betrayed the stress he was under. As he offered the meat platter to Lady Margaret, he seemed to stiffen slightly. A flicker of self-awareness broke through his mask. She was staring boldly at him. Anne had earlier noticed Lady Margaret's interest in the black footman. Beneath her cool indifference stirred strong, unsatisfied human passions. Jeffery's virile body—exotic, yet elegant in crimson and silver livery—his swift, graceful, cat-like movements, seemed to catch her fancy. Her conscience, however, seemed unaffected. The indignity and injustice of his bondage, even the injury to his arm didn't appear to concern her in the least. Like Sir Harry, she regarded Jeffery as property, a fascinating pet.

At a break in the conversation, Paul turned to Charlie and, speaking clearly, asked him, “Have you learned to bowl?”

“Yes,” the boy replied, his soft blue eyes brightening. He explained with nearly perfect diction how Lord Jeff had taught him the game.

Anne covertly signed to Charlie, “Well done!” She and Paul had rehearsed this little conversation with the boy during the hour before supper.

Lady Margaret's cool demeanor vanished. She stared at her son, startled, as if seeing him for the first time. She reached for his hand and patted it. “I'm proud of you, Charlie,” she said, her voice breaking a little.

“Thank you, Mother,” he replied and squeezed her hand.

For a moment, she regarded her son, taking in his long, wavy black hair, his fair skin, his fine, regular features. Then she turned to Anne. “I
have
noticed what you've done for Charlie in the twelve days you've been here. Before you came, I thought I might lose him, so far had he withdrawn into himself. Now he's happy.” She gazed at her son, a hint of concern appearing in her face. “I've watched him practice reading my maid's lips. How hard it is!” She smiled at Anne. “You've made his task much lighter and I'm grateful.”

Anne thanked Lady Margaret for the compliment, then seized the opportunity she had been looking for. “Charlie would be greatly encouraged,” she said respectfully, “if you could train the household how to speak more clearly to him. Include him in company. Encourage him to speak. Listen to him patiently.”

For a few seconds it appeared that Lady Margaret might have resented Anne's unsolicited advice. A frown crossed her brow. Then, she sighed. “Perhaps I should do as you suggest. Later. When my mind is free.”

The meal passed pleasantly with Charlie taking part. Lady Margaret engaged in the conversation, but from time to time appeared preoccupied. When the meal ended, Paul and Charlie went off for a walk in the mild evening air. Lady Margaret drew Anne aside and asked in a low, strained voice, “Miss Cartier, would you come to my room, please?”

***

While Lady Margaret rang for a maid and changed into a dressing gown, Anne surveyed the room, noting the peephole in the ceiling, the table with the secret drawer. Could Critchley have slipped the package back into the drawer? Who would ever think of searching for it there? Anne's fantasy was interrupted by the maid coming with a decanter of brandy and two glasses. Lady Margaret gestured that they should sit at the table.

The offer surprised Anne. The noblewoman had previously kept a strict class barrier between them. Anne looked into her eyes. The hauteur was gone, replaced by hints of trouble and uncertainty.

Lady Margaret dismissed the maid and poured a full glass for herself, then asked Anne, who indicated a half glass would suffice. The two women raised their glasses, toasted each other, and tasted the brandy. It was excellent.

Settling in her chair, Lady Margaret briefly assessed her guest. “You're a stranger at Combe Park, but I've learned to trust you. And I've got to talk to someone. My cousin will not listen to me. My husband surrounds me with spies, like his despicable nephew William. And my little Charlie's deaf…” She broke off, as if she were sorry she had slighted her son, then she went on, “and he's only eleven.”

Anne studied Lady Margaret over the rim of her glass. Thin lines of worry creased her forehead, and her deep green eyes had lost their lustre. Her hands trembled. Anne felt sorry for her and remarked she'd be happy to listen.

“You and I have Jack Roach in common. Over a year ago in Islington, he nearly killed you. Last week, he tried again on our portico, and you gave him a bloody lip.” She ventured a wry smile, then drank deeply of the brandy. “He has also been a nightmare to me, probing into my life without mercy. And I've not been able to get back at him. Someone has even robbed me of the pleasure of killing him. Now his evil lives on in Critchley. With his help my husband intends to rid himself of me and Charlie. My cousin defends us with such passion that I foresee a bloody end to it all. Soon!” She took another long sip of brandy and sighed. “There's nothing I can do to stop it, but I warn you to stay clear of us. Or you, too, will suffer.”

Chapter 27

Nightmare

Sunday, April 8

After the diners had left, Jeffery arranged the chairs and doused the candles while the maid cleared linen from the table. He was about to close the door when he saw Colonel Saint-Martin in the hallway sending Charlie to his room to change his shoes. They were going for a walk in the park. The boy dashed up the stairs two at a time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jeffery noticed William Rogers loitering in the hallway. His sullen gaze followed the deaf boy like a cat watching a mouse at play. With alarm, Jeffery recalled the ugly scene in the servants' hall and William's ill will toward Charlie.

His concern mounting, Jeffery slipped back into the darkened dining room and hid where he had a view of the stairway. It was early in the evening. The light from the window above the stairwell was failing. In the hallway below, a pair of sconces cast a dim, fitful glow. William had disappeared into a dark narrow passage to the left of the stairway.

A few minutes later, Jeffery heard Charlie run down the stairs from the chamber story to the halfway landing. Jeffery leaped into the hallway just as William popped up from the passage and held a stick over one of the upper steps.

“William!” Jeffery shouted. The villain pulled back the stick a second before Charlie reached the step. The footman's sudden apparition startled the deaf boy and he stopped, mouth gaping, one foot raised. Meanwhile, William slipped away through a service door at the end of the passage. Jeffery beckoned the boy, who was growing anxious, to continue down the rest of the way. He reassured him with a hug, then escorted him into the entrance hall where Colonel Saint-Martin was waiting.

“Sir, watch out for William,” whispered Jeffery to the colonel, whose brow had begun to crease with concern. “He's seeking to hurt Charlie.”

***

William peered through a clump of newly leafing bushes at the Frenchman and the boy passing by. The sun had almost set. Trees soon blocked his view. He ground his teeth in frustration. Finally he caught sight of them walking a path that snaked through the woods. William followed at a safe distance.

In a few minutes they came out in the open, the Frenchman leading the boy down the hill to the covered stone bridge over the stream that flowed into the pond below. They threw bread to a white swan swimming near them. Then they started back up the hill. As they drew near, the boy looked up into the man's face, trying to read from his lips.

“The little snitcher!” muttered William under his breath, taking cover again in the twilight shadows of the pine grove. Charlie could read lips better than he or Critchley had thought. Yesterday morning in the classroom, the boy had spied on them and had divined what they had been quarreling about. He had told Miss Cartier and she had spoken to the Bow Street man. Now, Critchley was in prison.

“And I'm cheated out of my share of the money. I'm a pauper without prospects,” he muttered. “If I could only find the package Sir Harry wants. Where did Critchley hide it?”

The colonel and the boy walked through the pine grove to the bowling green, passing close by William. He hunkered down behind the bushes and listened. Charlie tried to say, “bowling.” It came out, “poling.” The colonel rolled a ball, then formed the word again, this time more clearly. Charlie repeated it a couple of times and came close to getting it right. The colonel patted him on the shoulder and let him win a game. In the failing light, they walked back to the house, the boy looking up to the colonel and smiling.

“Mother's pet! He'll get his father's money,” William murmured through clenched teeth. “You just wait, Charlie, I'll wipe that smile off your face.”

***

When evening chores were done, the steward locked Jeffery in his basement room for the night. The slave resented this injustice, but it could be worse. Though a prisoner, he had certain resources. Through a barred window to the air well a few feet to the right of the main entrance, Jeffery could hear people coming and going above. He could also observe much of the basement hallway through an air vent above his door. He could even escape, if need be, for Georges had secretly given him a key. A useful precaution in view of Sir Harry's plans for him.

As he rested on his bed, he reflected on the dangerous trick William had tried to play on Charlie. A fall down the stairway could have seriously injured the boy, even killed him. Like Mary Campbell. Jeffery felt certain William would try again at the next opportunity. That would be after midnight when the house had quieted down. The night footman was supposed to patrol the house until dawn, but he often shirked his duty. A busy spy like William must be aware of the footman's practice and the chance for serious mischief.

As Jeffery had anticipated, the footman left his post at midnight and returned to the basement. Peering through the air vent, Jeffery saw the man walk in the direction of the pantry, then come back with bread and cheese. After visiting the beer cellar, he went to his own room on the other side of the stairway. Within a few minutes one of the maids joined him. Jeffery strained to listen. Apart from the faint sound of lovers' laughter, the basement grew still.

***

At midnight, when the footman had left, William stole down the dark, silent hall of the chamber story, a bundle in one hand, a lamp in the other. Combe Park slept. No one in sight. He quietly let himself into the antechamber shared by Miss Cartier and Charlie. Still no sound. He opened the bundle and quickly donned the costume, then inspected himself in the full-length mirror on the wall between the rooms. Perfect!

A hideous mask, black hat and gown, and long, claw-like gloves had turned him into a witch. The boy was going to get a fright he'd never forget. William glanced at Miss Cartier's door. Another night, he thought, he'd figure out a trick for her too. Clever woman. She had blocked the peepholes. For a brief moment he recalled his pleasure watching Miss Campbell. Bold bitch!

But tonight was the boy's turn. William shuttered his lamp, opened the door, and glided silently to the boy's bed. He felt gingerly for the alarm rope, and tied it up as high as he could reach. Then he leaned over the sleeping boy and unshuttered the light in his face. Charlie woke up dazed. William cackled madly, though he knew the boy couldn't hear. With one hand he turned the lamp toward his ghastly mask. With the other he clawed at the boy's face.

For a moment or two the boy stared blankly, then grimaced and uttered a choked, barely audible cry. William had expected him to leap out of bed and start running. He'd chase him around the room like a scared cat. Instead, the boy stiffened, gagged, and gasped. He couldn't seem to draw air.

William drew back in panic and ran out of the room. The boy was going to die. They would blame him. In the antechamber he tore off the mask, shuttered his lamp, then rushed out the door and down the hall to his room. Still in black hat and gown, he sat on his bed trembling, panting, soaked with sweat. “God damn,” he muttered again and again. “Stupid little brat.”

***

Jeffery peered through the air vent. Nothing stirred. He lit a lamp and shuttered it, removed his shoes, and slipped his key into the lock. The door squeaked open. He crept up the creaking stairs, listening for sounds of alarm. The laughter from the night footman's room continued unabated. Jeffery breathed more easily and climbed the steps faster. At the first floor, he glanced up and down the hallway. It was dark and deserted. He felt his way up to the chamber story.

At the top of the stairs, he heard a door opening. He stood still, then peeked into the dimly lighted hallway. A figure ran toward him, a witch's hat on its head, a long gown flowing behind. As the figure swished by, it came into the flickering circle of light from a sconce on the wall. It was William! Terror etched his face.

When the sound of the young man's footsteps had disappeared, Jeffery stepped out into the hall, debating which room to check. The door to the antechamber between Charlie's and Miss Cartier's rooms stood ajar.

Best to look in on Charlie first. As the footman drew near to the bed and unshuttered his lamp, he sensed immediately something was wrong. The boy lay rigid, stared with a haunted look. His breathing came in short labored gasps. Jeffery hurried through the antechamber, knocked on Miss Cartier's door, called to her, then rushed back to the boy.

***

Awakened by the pounding, still drowsy, Anne heard Jeffery's muted shout, “Charlie's sick!” Alarmed, she threw a robe over her night gown and dashed to the boy's room. Jeffery was seated on the bed, cradling Charlie in his arms, rocking back and forth, side to side, cooing softly over Charlie's whimpering form.

“Young Rogers dressed like a witch and scared the boy,” Jeffery remarked, glancing up at Anne. “Charlie was near choking to death when I got here.”

Stunned speechless for a moment, Anne struggled to gather her wits. “How is he now?” She knelt on the floor near the bed.

“He's still in shock but not, I think, in any real danger.” Jeffery gazed down on the boy tenderly. Anne felt a catch in her throat. How extraordinary! This giant, bare-knuckle fighter was rocking and cooing again. The troubled lines on the boy's forehead seemed to relax. His breathing returned to near normal.

Jeffery must have sensed the wonder forming in Anne's mind. He looked levelly at her. “Charlie's a good boy. Has a hard life in this family. I feel sorry for him.”

Anne met his eye, detected the irony in his remark. The slave's compassion embarrassed her. She averted her gaze, glanced at the boy. “Charlie's still in a stupor. We must not leave him alone, especially in this room. He should be with me for the rest of the night.”

Jeffery carried Charlie into Anne's room. She pointed to her sofa. “Lay him there. I have extra blankets for him.”

As he laid the boy down, Jeffery grimaced. For the first time, Anne noticed the footman's sling hung loose from his neck. “Your arm…” she exclaimed.

He shrugged and put the arm back in the sling.

“You're remarkable, Jeffery. You knew exactly what to do. Charlie could have died.”

“I learned from my mother in Jamaica. She comforted children whom the overseer had frightened.” He was about to say more but stopped, then looked at her in a new way as if assessing her as a woman.

She grew self-conscious, suddenly aware her robe had come loose. She drew it around her and tightened the cord. He gazed at her silently for a few seconds, then bowed and opened the door. “Charlie will be better in the morning,” he said, adding, “but he'll need a few days to recover. He might have nightmares.”

“I'll watch him closely.”

“Latch the door behind me.” He smiled, then vanished.