Authors: KATHY
Greygallows (30 page)
I flew to the window and then ran back, crumpling the note in my hand. Of course I could
not see anything; he would hardly stand in front of the house waving a lantern. I darted about the room like a mouse trapped in a box. My cloak. I would need my heavy cloak, and clogs ... My jewels too, they were mine by right, if not by law. Clare should not have my mother's jewels.
After all I forgot the clogs. With my cloak trailing awkwardly from one shoulder and the heavy jewel box under my arm, I ran across the room in my black silk shoes and opened the door into Clare's bedchamber. There was a good fire on the hearth, as there always was, whether he was at home or not. I was halfway across the room when I stopped short, as suddenly as if I had struck a solid, invisible wall.
It must be from such moments that the idea of premonitions and ghostly warnings arises. I felt as if I had heard an actual voice cry out, felt a physical hand catch my arm to stop me.
I went back to my room, not in a wild rush, but walking slowly. The note was on the floor where I had dropped it. I picked it up, smoothed out the wrinkles, and read it again.
This was the origin of the warning—no guardian angel or supernatural message, only my knowledge of Jonathan. I did not know his hand, but there was no need for me to question the writing. He had not written this note.
I grimaced as I reread the stiff, florid phrases. No, Jonathan would never have written like this. He would not have mentioned his life being in danger ... why, the words didn't even mean that. They were ambiguous; they might be interpreted as effusive evidence of an ordinary sordid little intrigue.
Another of Clare's tricks, then; and, like his other acts, this could be viewed in two different ways.
It might be a test, invented by Clare's sick jealousy. Would I have found him waiting, if I had gone down into the rain-drenched night answering the appeal from my supposed lover? A shiver ran through me, and I crept closer to the dying fire. Yes, the note could be a test, and Clare's departure, with his hoodwinked friend, a blind to make me feel safe from observation. No doubt he could creep out of the vicarage without waking either of its occupants.
Bad as it was, I preferred that idea to the alternative.
Someone wanted me to leave my husband. It might be Clare himself, it might be an unknown schemer. Huddled by the fire, I tried to reason out an answer, but I failed—not only because I was too distracted to be reasonable, but because there was no clear answer.
Clare had a motive for murder (now I had thought the word). But had he sufficient cause? Assuming the worst—that he had married me solely for my fortune, that he found me repulsive, that he wished to marry Charlotte Fleetwood— would a man like Clare commit murder for such a cause?
I could not believe it. He was capable of cruelty, of injustice, of calloused indifference toward suffering. He had all the weaknesses of his class, but he had its virtues as well. The cold-blooded, treacherous murder of a woman who bore his name and was under his protection ... No, it was not possible.
Nor was it likely that my death was the desired end of whatever plot was afoot. Surely, I thought wildly—surely a murderer is more efficient! The little bottle of laudanum, the rides we had taken together—yes, Clare had had ample opportunity to destroy me without resorting to the clumsy tricks that had been played.
My thoughts went round and round like a treadmill. There was only one thing of which I was relatively certain—only the merest chance had saved me from disaster of some kind that night. The forged note could have no innocent cause, even if I could not guess what the true cause might be.
I felt more optimistic next morning, not because the gray dawn brought an increase of hope, but because my spirits had sunk so low during the night there was nowhere else for them to go but up. I found myself thinking more hopefully of London. The horrors of the metropolis would not appall me so much if I were trying to mitigate them; there might be committees or charitable groups I could assist. I would not be so cut off there. Any other climate, however foul, would be preferable to the actual isolation of winter in Yorkshire. The very sound of the rain here weighed on the nerves, after days and days of it.
Not until then did I notice the silence. The rain had finally stopped.
I rose stiffly and went to the window.
The view from my window made me catch my breath in mingled admiration and consternation. Never had I seen such a sunrise. Above the black-silhouetted shapes of the trees the whole eastern horizon was splashed with color, as if a mad artist had flung the contents of his palette at a vast canvas. A patch of sullen crimson, glowing like a dying fire, a bar of palest green, delicate as a patch of new grass, sable and purple streaks across a lavender band. Low on the horizon, blending with the sullen deep gray of the moorland, lay what appeared to be a mountain range, sprung up overnight. The peaks were ragged and barren, like fanged teeth. Even as I watched, one towering pinnacle sagged and broke, and others rose up in its place. It was a huge, menacing cloud bank, and its somber hues suggested more than the obvious threat of bad weather to come; it was like a celestial warning.
Shivering, I turned away from the window. The room was cold; I had been too preoccupied to replenish the fire. I decided it was not worth the struggle to start it again. Despite Mr. Fleetwood's warning, I must speak to Clare that day. I could not continue in this state any longer.
I removed my wrinkled dress and washed it in icy water before assuming my warmest frock, a gray wool trimmed in white, which I had not worn much because it was like one of Miss Fleetwood's favorite dresses. My fingers were so stiff I could scarcely manage the tiny jet buttons that ran from the throat to the waist. All the comfort of the house, with its blazing fires, all the balmy summer days were forgotten; I would never think of Yorkshire as anything but bitter cold.
Some of my courage evaporated in the cold. I had meant to ring for Betty, but could not bring myself to face her smirk. There was no point to calling her, I argued with myself; I could not order her to pack, since I did not know when we were going; and I would not give her the satisfaction of asking her for information my husband had not given me. So I sat in my chair with my cold hands wrapped in the folds of my skirt, and I waited.
It was almost noon before I heard the sound for which I had been waiting. I went to the window. Clare had returned. He was on horseback. I wondered what had become of the carriage.
He came directly upstairs. I was ready for him; and if my heart was beating too fast, the folds of the shawl I had wrapped around me concealed its agitated flutter.
He did not look at me, but cast a disapproving look around the room. Admittedly it was not in good order.
'Call your maid,' he commanded; and when Betty had come, he ordered her to straighten the room and pack my trunk.
'Shall I build a fire, my lord?' she asked, with a humility she had never shown to me.
'Certainly. The room is freezing.'
'When are we leaving?' I asked.
'This afternoon, I hope; if not, early tomorrow morning. I am waiting on some business matter which must be transacted before I go.'
His manner was odd; if I had not known him better, I would have thought he was embarrassed. Despite the conciliatory, almost gossipy, tone, he still avoided my eyes.
Suddenly he gave an exaggerated shiver.
'You should not be sitting here, it is too cold,' he said, bending down to examine a dust spot on a low table. 'Will you not come down, until the room is warmer? We are dining early today. The meal will not be up to Mrs. Andrews' standard, but the inconvenience will not be for long, I hope.'
'Very well,' I said, wondering; decidedly, he was ill at ease. Perhaps this was his way of telling me he was sorry and ashamed. I did not expect a formal apology, certainly not in front of Betty.
He accompanied me to the parlor, but did not speak again. The silence grew awkward. I asked after the Fleetwoods.
'Oh, yes. They left early this morning. Traveling conditions are bad, but Jack would go; he will hear no arguments when he has made up his mind. Even though the chaise he had hired from Ripon broke down upon arrival, he was determined to go. So I sent them in the carriage.'
'Oh, that is why you came back on horseback. But then with the carriage and the coach both gone, how will we travel?'
It was an idle question, intended to express interest and a willingness to be agreeable.
'Why must you always question my actions?' he demanded angrily.
'I did not mean—'
'Very well, very well. I—I spoke hastily. The carriage will be back before we must go.'
'Then you don't mean to leave today? From Ripon it is—'
Clare flung down the newspaper he had been looking at.
'By God, this incessant questioning—'
'I am sorry.'
'I know what I am about,' he said more gently. 'Try to credit that.'
'I do. I am sorry.'
A servant came to announce dinner. Clare relapsed into silence, and I did not break it; my efforts at casual conversation had not been strikingly successful. He took the newspaper to the table with him—an act of discourtesy which was not like him—and he read it throughout the meal. It was, as he had predicted, a miserable affair; without Mrs. Andrews' supervision, the cook had taken little trouble. Yet Clare, the most fastidious of men, munched his way through underdone roast and scorched potatoes without comment.
I went back upstairs after dinner. The fire was burning brightly and the room was pleasantly warm now. My clothes and belongings had been tidied away and my trunk, bound with cord, stood in the middle of the carpet. I lay down for a rest. My nights had not been peaceful.
When I awoke it was growing dark. I had dreamed of departures and journeys; I woke with the rumble of wheels still in my ear, and thought what a vivid dream it had been. Then I realized that perhaps the sound had been real. If the carriage had indeed returned, Clare might wish to leave now, late as it was.
I went to the window and looked out. I saw no carriage, but saw something else that made the thought of a night journey even less appealing. It was snowing—great, slow, lazy flakes now, but the skies threatened more. The wind that seeped in through the edges of the window was bitter enough to burn the skin.
I rang for Betty, and then went to get a shawl.
She was slow in answering; I rang again. As I waited, my annoyance increased. The girl's behavior was becoming intolerable. I gave the bell rope a sharp tug.
It came off in my hand.
I stared stupidly at the brocaded strip. Everything seemed ominous to me that day, but this incident was especially frightening; it was a symbol of my isolation. Clutching the bell rope, I ran to the door and threw it open. The sight of the quiet hallway reassured me; then I realized the house was abnormally still. I went along the hall to the stairs and looked down.
The first object my eyes fell upon was Clare. He did not see me at first. I had the idea that he had just come in from out-of-doors. His face was flushed, as if with cold, and he kept rubbing his hands together. I shifted my weight; a board creaked underfoot, and Clare started, with a harsh, indrawn breath. He looked up.
I don't know what he saw. It may be that I myself looked spectral, with my pale face and dark hair floating bodiless in the shadows that blended with my gray gown. It may be that he saw, or sensed, something else. Whatever it was, the effect was frightful. He staggered back several steps, the color fading from his cheeks.
Glancing nervously over my shoulder—and seeing nothing but the alternating shadow and light of the hallway—I descended the stairs more quickly than I had meant to do.
'Where are the servants?' I asked. 'I rang for Betty
I held up the bell rope. Clare had recovered himself; except for that strange habit of avoiding
my eyes, he seemed quite as usual. He took the rope from my hand and looked at it.
'Frayed,' he said, tossing it onto a table. 'The servants are a lazy lot; that ought to have been seen and mended.'
'But where are they?' I asked, glancing into the open doorway of the parlor. The rooms were brightly lit and almost too neat, like the stage setting for a play after the actors have gone.
'I sent them away.'
'What?'
'Come in and sit down by the fire,' Clare said. 'You were asleep and I didn't like to waken you; but I thought you knew I had planned to leave today. I keep only a skeleton staff here when I am away; there is no point in paying for services which are not required. Mrs. Williams is in her rooms over the stable, but the inside staff has gone off.'
Stupidly I followed him into the parlor and watched as he went to the sideboard and poured out some wine.
'The carriage has returned, then?' I asked, trying to sort out the flood of questions that came to my mind.
'What? The carriage ... yes, yes, it is here. Only—I stepped outside just now, and I really do not like the look of the weather. It would be better to wait until morning. Do you not agree? Do you not think we would be unwise to risk traveling now? You will not be uncomfortable; Mrs. Williams can help you tonight, if you need a maid, and I will see to your fire. It will be quite like an adventure.'
He came toward me, holding the wine glasses, and offered me one. I stared at him in amazement.
His eyes shifted away from mine, and there was the strangest little smile on his lips.
I took the glass. He drank his wine quickly and went back to the decanter.
'Drink it,' he said, over his shoulder. 'It will warm you.'
I took one sip. It was enough.
There was very little time, and no potted plant—the conventional receptacle for unwanted beverages—anywhere within reach. Needs must, as the old saying goes. I lifted the cushion on the sofa where I sat and tipped the liquid down into the crack between back and arm. When Clare turned, I was holding an empty glass.
My feelings were really rather pitiable. I could not swear that there had been anything in the wine except the fantasy of an overwrought imagination; disposing of it had only been a precaution, which could do no harm—except to the sofa—and might do considerable good. Supposing there had been something in the drink. I did not know how the additive was meant to affect me. Arsenic, if I remembered correctly, produced agonizing pain and considerable internal distress.
I was very near the point where terror runs over into hysteria; for an instant I was tempted to fall to the floor and die with theatrical anguish. Watching Clare drink wine as if it were water, and he an explorer lost for days in the desert, I controlled myself. It could do no harm to simulate drowsiness. Laudanum would produce that initial effect, and laudanum was a drug I knew he possessed.
'I am really too drowsy to sit up any longer,' I mumbled. 'If you will excuse me...'
'Shall I call Mrs. Williams?'
I think I knew, then. False, false—every word, every look shrieked of lies. He had no intention of summoning the head groom's wife from her snug quarters, so safely distant from the house. He would delay and make excuses until I was too sleepy to care, and then...
'No,' I said listlessly. 'I am too tired for anything but sleep; I just will lie down as I am. We are leaving early?'
'At dawn.'
He did not even turn to bid me good-night. His fine white hand, reaching again for the decanter, was trembling visibly.
I went slowly up the stairs. Once inside my room, I flew into action. The cloak, my jewel box—and now I remembered the clogs. I tied them on with hands that felt as if all the fingers were thumbs. The soft hiss of falling snow outside did not daunt me; any atmosphere was preferable to the poison in that house.
I was about to rise from the bed, where I had sat to tie my shoes, when I heard the sound at the door. I cursed my stupidity; of course he would come to make sure I was sleeping. One quick glance assured me that the cloak, flung over a chair where Betty might have left it in readiness for the journey, concealed the jewel box. I threw myself down on the bed, dragging the folds of my skirt down to cover the clogs, as the door started to open.
