Echoes in Stone (5 page)

The rain still spat in fits and bursts against the window, but he had to get out of this place. Away from her. A long, cold ride across the moors would shake the ache from between his legs and cool his rising ardor. Time he took control back from the little miss who sat there playing at being so coy.

“If you’re finished toying with your food, I’ll be off now,” he said, rising and tossing his napkin down beside his plate. “Be in my study in two hours. In the meantime, I grant you permission to visit my daughter, so long as you say or do nothing to upset her. I will not allow anyone, even her aunt, to cause her distress.”

With that, he turned, leaving Jessa sitting at the table, speechless. Round one to him.

8.

…the devilish glimmer of laughter in Lily’s emerald eyes…

“I’M SORRY, MISS PALMER, but the Captain sends his apologies.” Mrs. Penrose stood in the doorway of the nursery, where Jessa had returned after breakfast. “He won’t be able to meet you today. Or for several days, likely. He’s been called away. Something to do with one of his businesses.”

The coward. Was he avoiding her? Did he think if he put her off long enough, she’d give up and go away? Clearly, Lily had taught him nothing about the stubbornness of Palmer women. At the same time, the tension eased from Jessa’s shoulders, relieved her interview with her dour host would be delayed. The man unnerved her, leaving her feeling off balanced, edgy. At least his absence would provide an opportunity for her to delve further into Holly’s true circumstances.

The letter she’d received, so long after Lily’s death, troubled her. When had it really been written? Had someone, cleaning Lily’s rooms after her passing, found it and posted it? If that was so, why hadn’t they enclosed some sort of explanation? Why only enclose the vellum miniature, with Lily’s haunted eyes?

“I’d like to see my sister’s rooms,” she said. “I’d like to see her things. Perhaps there’s some trinket or memento I could take home—some remembrance of her.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Penrose said. “All of Lady Tremayne’s clothing was given away to the church in the village. What jewelry she had belongs to the Tremayne family, though there isn’t much of it. Whatever else she had was stored in the attics. It wasn’t much.”

“Were there any diaries? Letters?”

“I oversaw the cleaning of her rooms myself, Miss. “‘Tweren’t nothing like that in her rooms. Lady Tremayne wasn’t the sentimental type, to keep that kind of thing.”

Jessa sighed in frustration. “I’d like to send a letter to let my family know I arrived safely. How do I go about sending one from here?”

“Just put it on the salver in the front hall, Miss. Mr. Evers will take care of it for ye.”

“Is that the way all the mail goes out? If I took it into the village, could I post it from there myself?”

Mrs. Penrose furrowed her brow. “Well, of course you could, if you didn’t mind the trip. But why would ye wish to do that, miss?” The housekeeper smiled. “If ye be worried about Mr. Evers seeing a letter to a suitor or some such, ye needn’t worry. He’s is a fine one for keeping what’s private, private.” She chuckled. “Don’t ye be concerned, Miss. Lots of letters go out of here, but Mr. Evers ne’er will say a word to the master.”

Winston Evers. The captain’s man. Jessa had yet to meet him. If anyone might know how Lily had managed to send a letter five months after her death, he would be the one.

DASH TREMAYNE WAS often on Jessa’s mind in the following days. He intrigued her. Alarmed her. An enigma wrapped in a strangely enticing package. She was woman enough to admit she found him compelling in ways she’d never before considered.
Was this what Lily felt? This humming, buzzing distraction? Was this what drove her—and Mother—to destroy all our lives?

Her experience with men was limited. Papa, of course, until his death. Her godfathers, Luther and Uncle Stan. But no man near her age. Growing up as she had, in a school for girls, her only exposure to boys occurred during occasional trips into town, or at carefully chaperoned dances, or a few shy conversations with them after church.

Her mother’s—Marguerite’s—frequent illnesses, shaped Jessa’s life. She’d learned to be quiet when Marguerite couldn’t tolerate noise. Obedient when Marguerite wouldn’t tolerate rebellion. Marguerite’s needs had come first in the household. Then it had been Lily’s needs.

It had been Jessa who’d been sent off to school because Lily needed her parents’ undivided attention. During brief visits, she’d always been relegated to the shadows by her older stepsister’s vivid presence.

Lily, with her bold looks, her bright laughter, her flirtatious ways. Jessa’s ordinary looks couldn’t compete with Lily’s creamy skin, her gold-flecked green eyes, or her fiery red hair. The boys at church stopped noticing her at all in their efforts to impress Lily.

Jessa was the quiet sister. The young men preferred Lily’s feminine, temperamental willfulness. Lily’s passion. Jessa shuddered. Better to be the quiet spinster than to end up as Mother had, with her endless grief. Or worse, to end up as Lily had
.

Dash had obviously been as drawn to Lily as the village boys had. But something must have gone wrong. Why was he was so angry at Lily, so bitter? What had she done to provoke him? She’d been dead for six months, and he still harbored his hatred for his late wife. Now he projected that same hatred onto her. How long before he twisted Holly with his loathing of his child’s mother?

Jessa had no idea how long her reprieve from dealing with Dash’s animosity would last. Whatever time she had would be best used with Holly, judging how far his unhealthy influence on her niece extended. What kind of life did she have, such a bright little girl in such a dismal house? Did the imperious captain ever even bother with her? The child had lost her mother. Did he understand the affect losing a beloved parent had on a child?

During the days of Dash’s absence, Jessa gathered up her niece each morning, exploring the common rooms of the massive house with her. Holly enjoyed playing hostess to her Auntie Jessa.

Most of the rooms looked unused. Abandoned. A layer of dust lay on the top of the piano in the music room. Holly had banged happily on the keys, though the instrument was out of tune.

Although the sun had come out, they fared little better in the gardens running along the back of the house. Because of the rocky terrain, the gardens were small, but at one time must have been lovely. But everywhere, there were signs of neglect. Paving stones had shifted, making the walkways treacherous. The dry fountain overflowed with leaves. Weeds all but choked out any blooming plants. It was if the lack of love and care in Dash and Lily’s relationship had spread itself over the house, cloaking everything in a miasma of decay.

On her third day there, they found the portrait gallery in an upper hall. Holly dashed up and down, sliding on the marble floors, her childish laughter echoing off the walls. Jessa followed, keeping an eye on Holly’s antics while admiring the Tremayne ancestors.

Though Dash was far away, it was as if his stern eyes still watched her from the painted canvases of his ancestors. The same thick black hair and silver eyes repeated through the generations. She shuddered. What must it have been like for Lily to live under the constant glare of those eyes?

Holly had stopped her play, staring up at a portrait at the far end of the hall. Jessa hurried to the child’s side. Rapt blue eyes, swimming with tears, looked up at the painting.

“Holly, darling, what is it?” Jessa knelt beside her niece, wrapping her arms around the shivering child.

“Mama got hurted like Papa.”

Jessa’s hand flew to her mouth, hiding her gasp of horror from Holly. Who could have done something so vicious?

Uncharacteristically for a redhead, Lily adored wearing red. In this case, the painted gown was satin. The artist had skillfully caught the shimmer of it. It clung to her curves, the plunging neckline hugging the ivory crest of her breasts. The painter had caught . Her lips were full, almost as red as her dress, and wet, as if she’d just taken a sip of wine. Or had just been kissed. Her hair hung loose; the wavy length of it sprang out in a nimbus of flames around her.

Jessa breathed shallowly, mentally cataloging the details in order to avoid the reason for Holly’s tears.

Someone had slashed through the canvas, leaving a jagged tear. Lily’s face now bore a scar.

A scar that exactly matched the one that marked Dash Tremayne. Jessa recalled his words the first time she’d met him. The night he’d mistaken her for Lily.
Afraid I will carve your pretty face to match my own?
Had he done this, carving Lily’s painted face when her death put her beyond his reach?

From somewhere near the stairs, Mrs. Penrose called her. Her reprieve had ended.

Dashiell Tremayne had returned.

9.

I can’t say I knew her as well as some other men might have…

JESSA’S STOMACH STILL churned with the shock of the ruined portrait as she rapped on the study door. She steeled her nerves to confront her niece’s father. She refused to think of him as her brother-in-law. By all accounts, he’d been a very poor husband to her stepsister.

He’d been reasonable enough when they’d breakfasted together, but how much of that was an act? Then he’d disappeared for days on some mysterious business.

He threatened to carve Lily’s face. Then I found her portrait destroyed. He confessed to killing her.

Holly. Nothing mattered but that she convince him to let her take Holly away from here. The door opened to reveal a stranger.

“Good morning, Miss Palmer. I don’t know if you remember. I am Evers, Lord Tremayne’s manservant.” The man sketched a bow, then held back to door to allow her entrance.

“Yes. Evers. I remember.” She glanced around the room, but didn’t see Captain Tremayne. Her reprieve would last a few more minutes.

This was her first chance to study the man Mrs. Penrose had described as “his lordship’s right hand”. An impoverished relative, dependant on the generosity of his cousin. Did his sense of indebtedness ever weigh on him?

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, near enough in age to the captain, though his face was far less harsh. With his fashionably cut blond curls falling over his forehead and his attractive blue eyes, he’d have been welcomed in any London parlor. He wasn’t as tall as his master, but shared a similar breadth of shoulders. Just the sort of man Lily always had buzzing around her. Had he fallen under her spell, as so many others had?

“His lordship send his apologizes for the delay. He’s only just returned and is freshening up. He requested some light refreshment. Please, do help yourself while you wait.” He gave another half tilt of his head to her by way of a bow, then crossed to the French doors behind the desk, to close the draperies there.

“Oh no, if you please,” Jessa said. “I know there isn’t much light out there today, but I prefer to see what little there is of it.”

Evers finished closing the draperies, then turned back to her. “I’m sorry, Miss Palmer, but his lordship has a preference for darkened rooms. I’m sure you understand his reasons.”

He moved in front of the desk and leaned on back on it, his hands clasped in front of him. The casual gesture, from a servant, startled her. “You are a woman who prefers openness and sunshine, I presume?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “You cannot have been happy here these last few days. I noticed you took Holly out of doors at every chance.” He gave her a pitying smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised you are still here. As you can see, Holly is a lively, happy child. Well cared for. You need have no further concern for her well being.”

Jessa gasped at his temerity. He must have learned his arrogance from his master. She took a deep breath before speaking. It wouldn’t do to let him see her irritation.

“I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, Evers. I’ve been quite happy here, getting to know my niece. I believe she’s been glad for my company. I think she’d very much enjoy a visit to my cottage in Littleton-upon-Puddling.”

Winston’s false smile faded. “He won’t let you take her, you know. Holly belongs here, where she is safe. Protected.”

“What does she need protection from?” Jessa was growing exasperated with the not so subtle suggestions she leave. First Mrs. Penrose, now Winston Evers. “As far as I’ve been able to tell, the only thing my niece needs protection from is a smothering mausoleum of a house and a father who is either drunk, angry, or absent.” Jessa shook her head. “No, Evers, I won’t be leaving until I can take my niece with me.”

“I guess there’s no point in trying to convince you to go, then.” Evers sighed. “And now, if you will excuse me? His lordship will be with you shortly.” He nodded once again, then closed the door behind him, leaving her alone in the semi-dark room.

A fire burned in the fireplace; a lamp glowed on a side table near the burgundy velvet sofa. The coffee table held a mid-morning tray of cakes, scones, and clotted cream. Jessa wasn’t surprised to find a dish of the Gillyflower apple butter. They’d been available at every meal she’d been served. They reminded her too much of her uncomfortable encounter with her host over breakfast. Since that first morning, she’d not tasted it.