Joan Wolf (18 page)

They arrived at Hawkhurst House to find Giles Gregory on the point of departing. He had been in town since May, he told Laura as they returned into the house and sat in the gallery. He had not been at the Rayleigh ball last evening; he and the Marquis traveled in different circles.

They conversed generally for a short while and then Jane said with her usual directness, “Have you heard these rumors about Lord Dartmouth, Sir Giles?”

Giles looked startled, as well he may. It was a subject Laura had always refused to discuss. “Yes,” he said, “I have.”

“Well, we’re trying to get to the bottom of them,” Jane went on briskly. “Perhaps you could help us.”

Giles looked at Laura. “You were attacked, Laura,” he said gently. “Have you told Lady Wymondham the whole?”

“Yes, I have.” Laura returned his look steadily. “Someone damaged the wheel of my phaeton; someone tampered with my boat; someone shone a mirror into the eyes of my mare. But that someone was not Mark. We are trying to find out who it was.”

“I know you are fond of him, Laura,” he said even more gently than before, “and there is no doubt he is a brilliant young man. But I have been worried about you ...”

“No need to worry, Sir Giles,” said Jane.
“I
am looking out for Laura. I am very happy to see you. I wish to ask you a few questions about your sister.”

Giles went very white. “Jane!” Laura protested.

“I’m sorry if it distresses you to talk about her,” Jane went relentlessly on, “but under the circumstances it is necessary. You see, we think these attacks against Mark stem from the death of your sister.”

Giles turned pain-filled blue eyes on Jane. “Attacks against Mark?” he said faintly. “It is Laura who has been attacked, Lady Wymondham.”

“No.” Jane was decisive. “Laura was only a way to get to Mark.”

“But why?” Giles almost whispered.

“That is what we don’t know. Now, Sir Giles, tell us: did your sister have anyone who might have cause to hate Mark for marrying her?”

“Not any more than other girls who choose one suitor over another. Caroline
chose
Mark, you see. He was not a husband she had forced upon her.”

Giles was looking distinctly shadowy about the eyes and mouth, and Laura intervened. “That is enough, Jane. I’m certain if Giles could help us he would.” She firmly changed the conversation, and in five more minutes Giles took his leave.

* * * *

Their investigations seemed to be getting them nowhere, yet Laura remained convinced that the answer lay with Caroline. That night she and Mark went over it all again. “If there’s any clue, it must lie at Castle Dartmouth,” Laura said finally. “She didn’t go anywhere else after your marriage. But I’ve lived there for over four years now; if she had left a diary or something, I would have come across it.”

“Actually, she did leave Castle Dartmouth once,” Mark said slowly. “Just before her death, in fact. She went up to London for a week to do some shopping.”

“Mark! She must have met the saboteur while she was in London.”

“Perhaps.” He rubbed his eyes. “God, Laura, this whole story sounds like something out of Mrs. Radcliffe. It’s unbelievable.”

“Nevertheless, it is happening. Tomorrow I’m going down to Cheney House and take the place apart. We were there only two weeks after our marriage. I didn’t even use all the drawers in the bedroom.”

True to her word, Laura descended upon Berkeley Square the following morning. Lady Maria had a breakfast engagement, but she told Laura to go ahead and search wherever she chose. Laura was alone. Matthew had developed a fever and Jane did not like to leave him, so David had dropped her off before he went up to Tattersall’s. He was to call for her on his way home.

She found it in the first half-hour of her search. It was in the desk in the Countess’ bedroom, pushed all the way to the back behind stacks of engraved writing paper. Slowly Laura drew out the small leather-tooled book, and when she opened it and saw the handwriting, her heart gave one hard jolt and then began to race. Mark’s name leaped out at her almost immediately. Slowly she took the diary to the window seat and began to read.

The entries started in January of 1815, several months after her marriage. Laura’s initial excitement began to give way to deep depression as she read. Caroline meticulously recorded all the minutiae of her days, but made no mention of what was going on in her mind or heart.

It was the entry of September 4 that riveted Laura’s attention. The neat, precise handwriting had degenerated into a scrawl. On a page by itself Caroline had written: “He has come back and it has started all over again. Oh, God, what am I to do?”

Laura went very pale as she stared at those words, and then slowly she turned the page. The next entry was dated London, September 18. It read: “There is nothing to be done. For me, nothing. I have before me no escape, no hope, no prospect of peace. I love him. God help me.”

That was all. Except that Caroline had gone back to Castle Dartmouth and on October 2 she had killed herself. Tears were running down Laura’s face and she sat for quite some time by the sunny window, her face bent over the tragic little book.

Then she rose, wrote a note, went downstairs, and told the butler to summon a hackney for her. “Have this note delivered to Lord Dartmouth at the Admiralty,” she instructed the butler coolly, “and tell Lord Wymondham when he calls that I have gone back to Hawkhurst House in a hackney.”

“Very good, my lady,” said the bulter impassively. In five minutes she was in the cab and on her way home.

* * * *

Laura was in her bedroom waiting for him when Mark arrived back at Hawkhurst House half an hour after she had. “Did you find something?” he asked almost before the door had fully closed behind him.

“Yes,” she said, “a diary. She must have pushed it into the back of the desk drawer and then forgotten it. She was ... upset.”

Laura’s voice sounded thin and strange even to her own ears. “Did she say who?” Mark asked sharply.

She shook her head. “No. But perhaps you might guess.” She handed him the small leather-bound book. “The last two entries,” she said. “All the rest is useless.”

Mark opened the book and read. “God,” he said. “The poor girl.” He was very pale. He gave Laura back the book as if he couldn’t bear to hold it.

“Evidently she did not see her lover at all after her marriage until September 4, when he came back. Evidently they also resumed their affair.” Laura was forcing herself to speak calmly and logically. “That is why she killed herself, Mark, because she was still in love with this unknown man.”

“But if she loved this other fellow, why the devil did she marry me?” he cried in frustration.

“Obviously because she couldn’t marry
him,”
she answered. “Probably he was married already.” She leaned a little toward him. “Think, darling. Did anything happen in the beginning of September that year? Did any new people come into the neighborhood?”

“Let me look at that diary again,” he said, and held out a hand. Laura gave him the book. “Let me try to remember,” he muttered as he flipped through the pages. “All right. On September 3 the Countisburys had a big party. I remember that. They had a house party of people from London, and Mr. Hamilton was among them. I remember we talked about trying to get around Croker. He is the First Secretary of the Admiralty and has little use for hydrography. I was certain that when I was offered the Turkish survey it was largely due to Hamilton’s influence, and so I remember that party very well.”

“Yes. Caroline notes the party as well. But she doesn’t seem to have met her lover at that time. The note that says he has come back refers to the day after the party.” She pointed to the relevant entry. “See.”

“No,” said Mark. Laura looked up at him. All the blood had drained from his face. “No,” he said again, but this time in almost a whisper. “It can’t be.”

“What can’t be, darling?” She stared at him in fear, at his dreadful white face, his dark, horror-filled eyes.

“The day after the Countisbury party,” Mark said hoarsely, “Giles came home.”

There was a moment of silence. “No!” Laura had her hands straight out in front of her, as though she would physically push the dreadful words away. “No, Mark, it can’t be!”

There was sweat on his forehead. “He went over to the Continent soon after we were married,” he went on steadily, his voice in direct contrast to his shaking hands. “He came back the following summer, soon after Waterloo, but he stayed in London. I remember thinking it odd he had not come home in time for Robin’s christening. He arrived in Dartmouth the day after Lady Countisbury’s party. I remember Caroline teasing him about having missed it.”

Silence fell and they stared at each other with horror-filled eyes. “If it’s true, it accounts for a great deal,” Laura finally whispered. Her lips felt stiff.

“Yes, it does.” He looked very dark under the eyes. “It accounts for the kind of despair that would drive her to kill herself.”

“Yes.” Laura’s eyes were almost black. “What she must have felt.”

“What Giles must have felt,” he said somberly.

Laura’s breath sucked in with an audible gasp as full realization hit her. “It was Giles,” she said. “Giles who has been arranging the accidents, spreading the rumors.”

Mark was staring blindly at the carpet and seemed not to hear her. “It makes sense,” he said at last, answering her. “He had the opportunity. He knew your habits.”

“But, Mark,” she said in great bewilderment, “he wanted to marry me, once. How could he want to hurt me so much?”

He looked up, his attention arrested. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

“Oh, it wasn’t a grand passion, I don’t mean that. When I saw where he was heading, I let him know I wasn’t interested.”

“And then you married me.”

“Why, yes, but...” Her voice trailed off and she stared at him.

“How Giles must hate me,” he said dully.

“When I think of it,” Laura said very slowly, “he has always downgraded you. He did it so gently, so mournfully, that one hardly noticed what damning things he implied. He always insisted that you were a brilliant young man. His theory was that being sent to sea so early had hardened your character.”

Mark rubbed his forehead as if it were aching. “I wish it had,” he said. “Christ, Laura, what a damnable situation.”

“I know. We can’t expose him. There’s Robin.” She went, if possible, even whiter. “My God, Robin. That means that Giles may be ...”

“It alters nothing about Robin,” he said strongly. “He is who he is. But you’re right, no one must ever find this out.” They sat in silence for perhaps five minutes, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Then Mark said, “I may have an idea. I have to think about it for a bit.”

“Can I help?” she ventured.

He didn’t smile, but his features seemed to soften. “You already have,” he said. “You always do.”

“What about Jane and David? They know I went to Cheney House to search for a clue. What shall we tell them?”

He stood quietly for a minute, thinking. “Don’t tell them anything yet. I’m going into London to call on my solicitor. When I get back, I may have a way to handle this situation.”

“All right,” she replied, and watched with troubled eyes as he walked out of the room. She shut her eyes and wished desperately that Robin was there so she could hug him.

Chapter Twenty-four

The afternoon dragged interminably for Laura. She gave out that she had a headache and hid in her bedroom. She was afraid to see Jane, afraid to see anyone. Her initial horror had given way to a feeling of sick dread. What was going to happen to them all?

It was almost six o’clock when Mark finally returned. Laura saw him on the drive from her bedroom window, talking to David. The two of them turned and walked up to the house together, still deep in conversation. They disappeared into the side door of the house, and Laura began to pace her room. The few minutes before Mark appeared seemed like an age, but when finally he arrived at her door, she forced herself to take a chair and sit quietly waiting for him to speak.

“I talked to Murray and I think I know how we can handle Giles,” he said, taking a chair across from her. His shoulders were slumped with weariness, his face was still and old beyond its years. “I shall have to have it out with him, of course.”

Laura’s hands clasped together so tightly that the knuckles showed white, but her voice was quiet and calm. “He’s dangerous,” she said.

“I know. David will come with me—as a bodyguard.”

“Have you told him?”

“Only some of it. I told him that Giles was the saboteur, that he hated me because he blamed me for Caroline’s death and because he blamed me for marrying you.”

She thought for a moment, her brow puckered. “But, Mark, if he is supposed to have loved me so much, why would he try to hurt me?”

“Because, Laura, he is not completely sane.” His mouth twisted. “God knows, that at least is true. His mind is certainly a little unhinged to have caused him to want revenge as he did.”

“He must have been tormented by guilt,” she replied somberly, “and to escape from blaming himself, he blamed you.”

“Caroline must have been trying to escape as well; that must be why she married me. And I failed her.” His head was bent and Laura slipped out of her chair to go and kneel in front of him.

“This tragedy was not of your making, darling,” she said.

He looked down into her upturned face and held her hands tightly. “I didn’t help.”

“I doubt if anyone could have. It was her own guilt and horror that destroyed her. It wasn’t you she couldn’t live with, it was herself.”

He drew her against him and held her tightly, his eyes closed. “My little love,” he said at last, shakily. “Always so calm and sweet and
sane.”
After a while she felt his hold on her relaxing, and she sat back a little on her heels.

“What are you going to tell Giles?” she asked.

“I’m going to tell him we found Caroline’s diary. I’m going to tell him it reveals their incestuous relationship. I’m going to tell him I have lodged it with my solicitor, to be opened in the event of either of our deaths under suspicious circumstances.”