Echoes in the Darkness (12 page)

“He must get them to trust him,” I said, giving the matter some thought. “Something about him convinces them that they will be safe.”

We sat on the low wall that ran parallel to the bay and, although his mind did not stray far from the probable fate of the missing girl, we chatted companionably. He was surprisingly well spoken. He told me, in the open, confiding manner I would come to associate with him, that he had a private tutor and that he was to go away to boarding school in the new year. I cast a quick glance back at the tiny cottage that was his home and tried to compute the two circumstances. Boarding school and private tuition required money, and I could not see any outward evidence that Tristan’s family were in possession of such a commodity.

“Will Miss Eleanor come again soon?” Tristan asked with a wistful look in the depths of his eyes. “My mother says she is a very busy lady, but I do miss her when she doesn’t come often. And I haven’t seen Bertram in an age.”

“Do any other members of Miss Eleanor’s family come to visit you, Tristan?” I asked. I had already learned that he had no father. Perhaps his mother was a former family retainer? That would explain why Eleanor came to visit this lowly cottage.

“The older lady—the one my mother calls ‘her ladyship’—she came once when I was ill. She said she would send for the doctor and, when he came, she gave him money to get me to the hospital. She told my mother she must let her know if there was ever anything more she needed.” He pushed the lock of dark hair that flopped onto his brow back with an impatient hand. It was a familiar gesture, and one that made me study his face closely. The resemblance was there, of course, although muted. I should have seen it before.

When Tristan’s mother appeared in the doorway and called him in to dinner, I surveyed her carefully. I judged her to be in her mid-forties. She was a stout, little woman with a frizz of grey hair and a plain but kindly face. “I hope he’s not been bothering you with his chatter, miss?” she asked me, and I assured her that, on the contrary, I had enjoyed talking to her son. Tristan shook my hand formally, and professed a hope that I would come again. I said I would.

As I made my way back to Athal House, I pondered the mystery that was Tristan. He was a Jago, of that there could be no doubt. But whose son was he? The image of Tynan being unfaithful to Lucy actually made me laugh out loud. That left one of the younger generation. But what could possibly have attracted Eddie or Cad, both so charismatic and good-looking, to Tristan’s mother? Surely either Jago brother had only to snap his fingers to attract any woman into his bed? It was a puzzle that my mind returned to now and then over the ensuing days, but one to which I could unearth no obvious answer.

* * *

Christmas was a few short weeks away, and bright red berries, crisp wintergreens and first white snows festooned the landscape with their festive colours. The winter sun turned the daylight silver-blue and made gossamer cobwebs into crystal jewels. Tynan leaned heavily on his stick as we strolled together around the frozen lake.

“I have heard tales of your homeland.” I looked surprised because I had always been deliberately vague about where I was from. “Of the beauty of Hungary, but also of some lawlessness,” he said quietly. His eyes scanned the grey horizon where sky and sea merged seamlessly. “In particular, I have heard some lurid stories of a man named Takas.” I stiffened warily, but he continued without appearing to notice. “A notorious Hungarian bandit leader. I think you would call him a
betyár.
Have I said that correctly?”

I nodded. I had no desire to deceive this man who had shown me nothing but kindness. “Why are you telling me this? Are you asking me to leave?”

“You could not expect me to admit you into my home and my family without making some enquiries,” he said in his gentle way. “You have hidden your tracks well, my dear. But I have some very persistent sources. You might find it helps to tell me it all.”

“Very well.” I drew a ragged breath. “My real name is Judita Takas. Liviu Takas was my father. I took the name Varga because it is common in Hungary, and I thought it would not draw attention to me.” The truth had haunted me for so long that it was a relief to finally say the words aloud. “When I was fifteen, my father was killed in a bloody encounter with soldiers who were attempting to capture him. He knew his reign was coming to an end and, before his death, he bequeathed all his goods—including me—to his second in command. That man, Sandor Karol, is more brutal and feared than any other
betyár.
He inherited my father’s criminal empire, and also tried to stake his claim to
me,
even though my mother protested that I was still too young. To escape him, we left our home on the southern Hungarian plains and went to live in Buda. But my mother became unwell.” I bit my lip at the memory. “And she died soon after our arrival there. I went to work as a maid to a rich family—”

“You? A maid?” He interrupted, raising an incredulous brow. “Did the family concerned not question how one so beautiful, and so well educated, came to be in such a lowly position?”

I allowed a slight smile to peep through at his words, but I shook my head. “I made sure I was very good at my job but remained unobtrusive, so no one ever asked me any questions. I knew Sandor’s men were searching for me, and when they tracked me down, I was forced to leave. I have been running from him ever since. Now and then, he has come close to finding me. He was on his way to Paris when I left.”

He did not express any opinion, merely watched my face thoughtfully. “Who was your mother? You have clearly been raised a lady, and your English is nearly perfect. How did she come to marry a Hungarian brigand?” he asked at last.

“She was the only daughter of an English vicar, and she was travelling across Eastern Europe with him. They were set upon by my father’s
betyár
gang and my grandfather was killed. My mother was very beautiful.” I felt my lips twist bitterly. My mother and I had both learned the hard way that beauty was not always a desirable commodity. She never complained to me, but I had often felt the weight of my mother’s pain. “And, for that reason, my father spared her life. He kidnapped her, became obsessed with her.” I drew a deep breath. If I was telling the truth at last, I must tell it all. “But they never married.” I turned to face him. “There you have it, all of it. My mother and I travelled with my father and his gang. I was the tie that bound her to him. She could not escape and risk his revenge on us both, so she stayed. As strange as it may seem, toward me my father was kindly, cultured and intelligent. And, despite everything, I think my parents actually grew fond of each other. Unconventional though it was, I had a happy childhood. But the reality remains. I am the bastard daughter of a notorious criminal, sought now by another ruthless murderer, a man who will stop at nothing to get me back. I shamelessly took Eddie’s offer of protection, knowing that I could never marry him. Knowing that my presence might bring Sandor to
your
door. Hardly the sort of credentials you want from a house guest, one who has, moreover, been befriended so generously by your wife and daughter.”

“Does Eddie know
any
of this?” Tynan asked, and I shook my head.

“No one knows. Only my friend Magda in Vienna. And now you.”

“Then I see no reason why anyone else needs to learn of it,” he said. “When he returns I am sure you will think of a way, if you must, to break off your engagement that will allow Eddie to save face.” Taking my arm and leaning heavily on his stick, he led me back across the lawn toward the house. “Or you may choose to stay here anyway and allow me to deal with this Sandor Karol. I am not without power, you know.” His words demonstrated how little he had understood of my plight. I did not believe anyone could “deal with” Sandor.

“Eddie doesn’t love me, you know.” I was anxious for him to hear the whole story now.

He smiled. “I do know. At least, I know that he does not love you in the way a man should love the woman he chooses to be his wife,” he told me, amusement tingeing his cultured tones. “I may be an invalid, but I still know about the goings-on in my own family. I can see that Eddie depends on you, and that his life is richer for your presence. That is not sufficient reason for marriage, as I am sure you are astute enough to understand. I am well aware, however, that, among my children, it is not
Eddie
who would be hurt most by your departure.”

We paused just in front of the house and I gazed up at the beautiful facade. Athal House was a testimony to Tynan’s love of beauty, demonstrating to the world that this man had the soul of a poet and the eye of an artist. The inevitability of my forthcoming departure stung. I had never allowed myself to grow close to anyone until I met Eddie. Now, without warning, I had grown to love his family. I should have trusted my instincts and remained alone, because now I did not want to leave this place.

“It cannot have escaped your notice that Cad has a reputation for wildness, Miss Varga.” The words came out of the blue.

“It has not, but what Cad does is not my business, my lord.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “It is true that he has taken great delight in sowing his wild oats.”

It was not an expression I knew, and I felt the frown that wrinkled my brow. “Are you trying to tell me that he is to become a farmer?”

Tynan laughed and shook his head. “I am making a mess of what I
am
trying to say, so I will keep quiet on the matter. Will you do one thing for me, Miss Varga?”

“Anything,” I replied promptly, and the twinkle lit his eyes once more.

“Will you postpone any decisions about leaving until the new year? I would like Lucy to have the family Christmas she craves, and I know she would be saddened if you left us before then. She has grown fond of you.”

“If Sandor should come…” I began.

“If he has the temerity to come here you will leave him to me,” he said decisively. I hesitated a moment longer and then nodded my agreement. Together, we walked back into the welcoming warmth of Athal House.

* * *

The pretty church of St Petroc dated back to medieval times, although, Tynan informed me as we strolled arm in arm down to the village, the saint himself was of even older lineage. Lucy and Cad had walked on ahead of us and Eleanor remained at home, having pleaded a headache. The village below us nestled in the protective embrace of the cliffs, like a land of slumbering dreams. Viscous sunlight penetrated the bruised clouds, and the smoke from a dozen chimneys rose straight and proud, undisturbed by breezes.

The Jago family were not noted for their religious observation, Tynan informed me. Lucy, however, insisted that her family should attend the Sunday service every week so that the locals could not question their devotion. “There were quite enough rumours of ungodliness abounding during my uncle’s time,” Tynan informed me as we stepped through the arched door of the church and into the marble-chilled gloom beyond. There was something about the way the family spoke of Uther Jago that fascinated and, at the same time, repelled me.

The service was long and uninspiring, and I offered up an apology during my prayers for the fact that my attention was distracted by Cad’s long thigh pressed against mine in the tiny pew we occupied. When we rose to sing a hymn, we shared a book. He held it between us, and I was grateful for his upper arm against my shoulder. It was the only source of warmth in the place. He surprised me by knowing the words to each hymn and singing them in a rich, slightly off-key baritone.

When the service ended, Lucy and Tynan paused to chat with the vicar, and Cad was immediately approached by several simpering young ladies. I moved slightly away, not wishing to give the impression that I had any feelings, one way or another, about this circumstance. The day was mild even though an iron-hard frost gripped the ground. Groups of parishioners stood around, ostensibly discussing the service. In reality, most of them seemed to be discussing Amy Winton’s murder and Nellie Smith’s disappearance.

“They say Miller knows full well who did it and, if it wasn’t for the fancy Jago name and his father’s title, he’d be on his way to the gibbet by now.” The man’s voice reached my ears and I stood very still, not wanting to alert the speaker to my presence.

“Well, he was always a wild one when they were growing up,” a woman answered. “Mr Edward was quieter, although he had a temper on him, as well.”

“Rotten through and through, the lot of them,” the first man said briskly. “Oh, his lordship is a fine man, I’ll grant you, and her ladyship, despite her high-and-mighty ways, does plenty of good for the locals. But, between them, their children have made sure the legends are brought back to life. And some of us are of an age to remember Uther Jago, riding around the neighbourhood on that black stallion of his, and we all know what they said about
him.
”

“No, what did they say?” A different voice piped up.

“That he was Arwen Jago born again. Arwen Jago, mind you, was so evil the devil wouldn’t spit on him if he was aflame, so it was said. Aye, and the pattern laid down by time is clear. Arwen came back as Uther. Now Uther is back among us again. And killing a few young girls to keep ‘em quiet once he’s had his way…well, that’ll just be part of the fun for our fine Mister Cad.”

“Now then, less of that talk, if you please. Ladies present!”

“Where? I don’t see any…”

The group drifted away out of my earshot. I began to walk toward Tynan and Lucy, when another conversation made me pause.

“Who is she?” It was a woman’s voice, and I was aware of a group of smartly dressed, middle-aged women standing nearby. I knew instinctively that I was the subject of their conversation.

“Well, they
say
she is to marry Mr Edward. Which sounds better, I suppose, than the truth.” This statement was followed by a slight sniff.

“Rolled up with her, he did, bold as brass and told her ladyship they were to be wed. My daughter’s friend has a niece in service up at the house and she said her ladyship was most put out being as how this fancy bit he had on his arm was well-known in Paris, by all accounts, for being a you-know-what.” I could not see the speaker, but I could picture her lemon-sour expression.