Gypsy Heiress (9 page)

“Oh, no,” Ellen cried.

I felt her arm come around my waist.

“Poor, poor little boy,” I whispered.

Robert made a restless movement with his hand. I could tell that this was a memory on which his mind never lingered. He said, “It was a scandal, and a slur on the family, and a black mark on the honor of the name. So Alex and I heard for years from Vincent’s mother.”

“But surely,” I said earnestly, “you couldn’t be blamed for the things that your parents did!”

“But then you didn’t know Vincent’s father, the Right Honorable William T. Randolph,” said Robert curtly. “On the day we arrived to live at his home, and every Sunday thereafter he took us to the big, dark vault of his family chapel and made us kneel on the flagstone floor from dusk until midnight. I was four then, just turned four. I remember how tall Randolph looked to me, blond with that exquisite, controlled face, the replica of Vincent. Like some wrathful archangel, telling us to pray that our souls wouldn’t decay, as our parents’ had done. Then he’d lock us in and it would be quiet, and black, and cold. Alex wrapped his jacket around me and set me on the pew. For hours, he’d tell jokes and stories, to keep me from being afraid…

“And Sunday chapel was only the beginning. I was spared the worst of it. Alex saw to that, though it made things harder for himself.” He made an impatient gesture. “Why am I telling you little monkeys all this? Oh, yes. Vincent. Why don’t I like Vincent? That’s a hard question, isn’t it? He’s such an exemplary fellow, pious, devout, mannerly. All my youth, his parents held him up as the model after whom I should mold myself. It’s a miracle, isn’t it, that I don’t like him?”

I was not supposed to ride that afternoon, for underneath the heavy full skirts of the riding dress were the same bare feet I’d worn since my birthday. There had been no time for the shoemaker to finish the half boots Lady Gwen had ordered for my use. Inside I was glad of it, because the binding pressure of a shoe is intolerable to one who has known the freedom of unclad feet. No use to tell this to Lady Gwen. It would only grieve her terribly to think that I was uncomfortable. I had suggested—casually—that it wouldn’t really be so bad, would it, if I didn’t wear shoes. Lady Gwen had made a face that I’m ashamed to say reminded me of a thorned sheep and said that you might as well show a man your bosom as your naked feet.

The second reason I was not supposed to ride was that Lady Gwendolyn was afraid I might meet somebody, and it would make no good impression if I was jouncing around on the saddle like a hoyden on my first acquaintance with anyone of note. She would arrange a more dignified entrance into society for me.

This was why Ellen and I waited until Lady Gwen left to pay an afternoon visit to the parson’s wife before we rode out and why we took only the loneliest backroads. Ellen has this funny way of grinning and saying, “We won’t want to upset my mother,” which means the same thing as, “Let’s go, she’ll never find out about it.”

Ellen’s mind was so lively that she managed to inject the trappings of an adventure to any outing, and today was no exception. I discovered that it was thought befitting to the station of a young lady that she should ride accompanied at the very least by a trusted family retainer. To me it sounded like the height of splendor to be accompanied by a fatherly groom in dashing livery, but to Ellen it was dull, safe, and confining. She got rid of the well-meaning accompaniment by repeated assurances that we would go no farther than the lime avenue that bordered the south lawn. You might have guessed, though, that when we reached the last of the limes, she turned her mare to the east, smiled at me, and laughed, calling over her back, “This way, Liza. We’re off to hunt for missing treasure.”

Off we set; our only claim to chaperonage was Caesar, Lord Brockhaven’s lion-sized mastiff. Lord Brockhaven had left home early that day, much to the dog’s disgust, so he had been happy to attach himself to us as a diversion from moping around the stables waiting for his beloved master’s return. Caesar was the most intelligent dog of any species I’d ever met, and the most well-trained. Immediately, Brockhaven made it clear to Caesar that I was a friend and since that moment, Caesar had treated me with a dogged devotion. It was Ellen’s opinion that since mastiffs were among the first dogs, probably Caesar’s ancestors had been the prized hunting dogs of Assyrian emperors. Brockhaven only laughed and said that more likely Caesar came from the line of mongrels that hung around the streets of ancient Jerusalem, eating carrion and spreading rabies.

As we hitched past an old slate barn, Ellen pulled her mare into a trot beside Kory.

“We’re off on a mission of mercy,” she said.

“I’m all for mercy! What’s toward, O Noble Companion?”

“You recall, don’t you, about the littlest Perscough boys?”

“Measles,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. The day before they were stricken they were playing pirates, and guess what was the booty? An old Chinese lacquer box of their mother’s that had been a birthday present from one of her cousins, and that she had always declared she detested. Well, as it happened, the boys forgot it in the woods. It was a couple of weeks before Mrs. Perscough discovered it missing and, instead of being indifferent to its loss, as the boys thought she would be, with typical motherly perversity she had the house turned topsy-tipsy to look for it and went on and on about how it was a gift from her dearest cousin and how valuable it was and so on. You can see that it’s imperative that the box be found, returned to the house, and planted ingeniously under a tumbled cushion in an antechamber before it’s been discovered that the boys ever had it out of the house! Since they’re not well enough yet to travel out of doors, I’m to find the box. They’ve even provided us with a treasure map.”

The lane had narrowed to a wide, uneven cowtrack, bordered on two sides by a deep, quiet woods. Honeysuckle flowed across the track like tendrils of fog and wood pigeons cooed among the branches. We slowed to a walk and studied the crumpled scrap that Ellen had drawn from her reticule.

The map was a funny little diagram, with many scratchy lines and Xs and box-shaped buildings with chimneys giving forth a screw of smoke. Edgehill faces to the east, but the map had marked it facing west and there was an ink blot and lopsided star below that located the lacquer box by an area titled “Palace of the Dead Arches (ruin).”

Ellen chuckled at my expression. “Never fear, I know the place well. It’s an old Roman villa on the hill crest. It was burned down more than a thousand years ago by the Saxons, or the Jutes, or whoever. All that’s left is rubble, but you can see one of the mosaic floors and the line of a wall. People used to go up there for picnics. That’s all stopped now, though, since Isabella’s older brother died there. Come to think of it, he would be your cousin!”

“How did he die?”

“In a word—he was eaten.”

“That was three words,” I pointed out in an unsteady voice. We passed Caesar, digging in a foxhole beside the track. “What ate him?”

“A large—thing. They never found out for sure and as I understand it, th-the er—body was so mangled that they wouldn’t have known it
was
Frederick except that there were the remains of the red coat he was last seen wearing.”

The air changed as we entered the deep woods, the fresh smell of spring giving way to the dank, fertile odor of the deep forest.

“We’re going right to the spot, are we?” I made my voice tremble as if in terror and was rewarded with a laugh.

“Oh, Liza, you’re a p-peach. Whatever did I do before you came to Edgehill? Have no fear. The creature hasn’t been heard from since, aside from a few farmers saying they’ve heard howls late at night. You know how country people are!”

We rode without talking. The spongy forest floor cushioned the hoofbeats of our horses and above us came the eerie whistle of the breeze and creak of sawing branches. Many trees were still bare of new yearly growth, and the limbs speared the sky above the path at sharp, jutting angles.

Ellen’s face was deadly serious when she spoke again. “To be perfectly honest—no, I shouldn’t tell you this, probably. I don’t know. But then you might hear it from someone else sometime and… the truth is, Liza, there was a rumor at the time that Frederick’s murder was done by Lord Brockhaven.”

My hands clamped on the reins so forcefully that Kory jumped and lifted his forelegs from the ground in protest. When he had grown calm, I said, “That doesn’t surprise me a bit. I’ve always suspected that Brockhaven could eat someone alive.”

Ellen giggled. “I meant that there were some who thought he ordered Caesar to do it. Brockhaven had not only dog, but motive, you see. Today must be your day to see the family linen aired! Would you like the story?”

“I have the feeling that I’d better. The more I know…”

“Quite! The whole story centered around Isabella, or at least, it might have. Before she married Vincent, she was the belle of the county. No, more than that. She took the season in London and was an enormous success there too. Men were mad after her! Duels were fought over who would lead her out to dance. Poems were written about her hair. She was courted and sought out and admired—you can’t imagine what it was like. She was the
rage.
She could have had her pick from half the eligible bachelors in the kingdom, and who do you think she wanted? Brockhaven! It’s not to wonder, really, when one considers. He’s wild and a little crazy and cruel and tender and handsomer than… well, you know how handsome he is. Isabella’s parents were horrified! This was before Brockhaven came into the title and his income was minimal—not near enough to support Bella, who’s renowned for her extravagance. Besides, Brockhaven’s reputation was enough to set your hair on end. Isabella’s family wanted her to take Vincent, who was just about your model suitor. Elegant, attractive, very upstanding, and most of all—
rich.
”

The lane met a slow stream bordered with a ribbon of green algae, and we crossed single file over an arched bridge carved with stone elves spewing fruit from grotesquely open mouths. About us were an ancient stand of oaks, gnarled and massive, their trunks circled with shelflike growths of toadstools.

“Whatever her parents might have thought,” Ellen continued, “Isabella did everything
but
have a ring put through her nose and command Brockhaven to lead her around like a tame sow. Then, that September, the parson caught Isabella and Brockhaven together in the muniment room, of all places, at Chad, and they were doing a lot more than kissing, let me tell you, because the parson had a
fit
! The servants all heard him yelling, so the story was well spread by nightfall and everyone expected to hear their engagement announced the next morning. But the next morning, Frederick was found eaten.”

“If it was Lord Brockhaven that did it, then why Frederick? Why not—the parson?”

“Exactly! It would have been more in character! Yet rumor said that Brockhaven ordered Frederick’s death to be rid of the fellow so that Isabella could claim her brother’s property. Let me tell you, Liza, that if ever there was a man that Brockhaven would have been happy to murder, it was Isabella’s brother, Frederick. If you think that Alex and Vincent don’t cheery well together, then you should have seen Alex and Frederick! Freddy was that loathsome type of man who whips his horses bloody, and slaps the laundry wenches if his collars don’t come out snowy white, and pulls the whiskers out of poor old marmots he catches in the woods.”

“He sounds terrible,” I said, looking down as Caesar shot past at a gallop.

“Oh, the veriest blackguard. Even so, Isabella was very fond of him for some reason that no one can ever fathom. She wasn’t a bit happy about his being eaten, and it might have been that she suspected Brockhaven for plotting it that caused her to accept Vincent’s suit. No one really knows what happened between Alex and Bella, but regardless, one year later, Isabella was wed to Vincent. They’d only been married a matter of months when the previous Lord Brockhaven and his three sons were killed in that dreadful boating accident and Brockhaven got the title
and
money. That was the last rumor about Alex as murderer you ever heard! Society couldn’t wait to fawn and toady and cringe at his feet like an overpampered dog pack. I’m not saying that Alex didn’t cast a cynical eye at human nature before that, but after…” Ellen snapped her hand expressively to show it was futile to describe in words the depths of Lord Brockhaven’s contempt for his fellow creatures.

With sudden drama, the path emptied into a sun-flooded meadow, and sleeping under Apollo’s fiery ball was the roofless remains of an ancient villa. Heaps of masonry rubble dotted the ground and broken colonnades jutted upward from a snarl of vine and weeds. A pair of wood pigeons had been feeding near one of the low chipped walls, and they exploded into the air with a roar of feathers as we slid off our horses.

Ellen pulled away the brush to show me the designs inlaid on the remaining patches of a mosaic floor, and I saw a pheasant, one gangly foot lifted to scratch his head, and ten yards away, Pan’s face bearded in drooping leaves.

It was a wonderful place to explore, the stuff of legend and dreams. In spite of the painful secrets I had learned that day about my guardian, I was able to rest my mind in this peaceful haven. Here, it was easy to look once more through the awed eyes of a child.

As it happened, the lacquer box was easy to find. The boys had hidden it inside an arched dent in the pockmarked wall and there it had remained, undisturbed save for a light speckling of mud, splashed up, no doubt, from last week’s rain.

I could see that Ellen was anxious to take it to the Perscough boys and put their fears to rest, so I told her to go on, since I hadn’t intended to accompany her there anyway. I would stay and enjoy the quiet of the glen.

Ellen rode off with a comic flutter of her handkerchief as farewell, and I settled into the feathery shade of a walnut, taking off my bonnet to rest against the tree’s gray-ribbed bark. The Romans had introduced these trees to Britain, so my father said, planting them for the nuts as well as beauty, and it was pleasant to sit under this one and wonder if it had grown from the direct line planted two thousand years ago to grace the villa’s garden. Absently, I crushed the leaves from a fallen twig and rubbed the juice over my skin, as Grandmother had taught me as protection against the sun. I closed my eyes, deep breathing the thick, nutty bouquet of walnut. It had been a long time, so it seemed, since I had lain out of doors in the heart of a forest, and I fell to sleep at once, as though cradled in my mother’s arms.

I awoke suddenly, but not quickly enough to catch the memory of the sound that had disturbed me. A glance around the glen told me that nothing had changed here. Kory was nibbling idly at the new growth of a goat willow about twenty yards from where I lay, and Caesar had settled companionably near, his chin resting on his great paws. They looked peaceful, and yet, as the sleep ebbed from my eyes, I realized that the ears of the animals were erect and intent.

I stumbled gracelessly to my feet and faced the dark, tangled wall of the forest.

“Hello!” I said. “Is anyone there?”

My only answer was the humid breath of the wind.

There was the small scrape of a misplaced pebble behind me. I turned and saw Caesar coming toward me at a slow, stiff-legged pace, the cords on his shoulders taut and his ruff lifted like a porcupine’s quills. Beside me he stopped and stared with me into the green shield of leaves. He had taken a scent. Together we waited.

Suddenly the peaceful glen was ripped by an inhuman, piercing shriek, ragged and hoarse and hungry, that ended on a death-rattle purr. Never had I heard such a bitter, unworldly wail. It came again and went on until the very air seemed to vibrate with torment.