Miss Ryder's Memoirs (7 page)

“And I suppose you have every intention of spoiling her,” I snapped, plagued by the knowing look in his eyes. “Well, you’ll catch cold at that, my dear sir. She’s something of a prude, and certainly not anyone to tolerate the slightest indiscreet move on your part.”

“I’m well aware of it.”

“Ha! You’ve done nothing but make up to her since you arrived.”

“I’m well aware of that, too.”

I refused to be drawn by him, since I was convinced he meant only to tease me. It might have been a good time to ask him what he was up to, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Certainly he wouldn’t have answered me honestly. With a shake of my riding costume’s skirts I jumped up and glared at him. “I’m off for a ride, then. Don’t bother to see me to the stables. You will want to change and spend some time with Mama, making yourself agreeable to her.”

“Yes,” he agreed as he rose. “That’s precisely what I intend to do.”

“Robert has obviously fallen into bad company.” I turned to leave him, only to feel his hand on my arm. Surprised—nay, shocked—my eyes flew up to his. He considered me for a long, intent moment while his hand remained warm on my flesh. A rueful smile formed at the corner of his wide mouth.

“Later,” he murmured.

“Humph!” I retorted, and stalked off.

Chapter 5

That evening at dinner it seemed to me that there was nothing so smug as Sir John, with Mama smiling warmly at him and Amanda hanging on his every word. I did not lend myself to this oozy scene. Amid their gaiety, I was solemn, busy with my own thoughts. If he chose to believe I was bored with his conversation, so much the better.

After dinner we played at cards until the tea tray was brought in. Mama and I were winning, but it only seemed to agitate her. Usually she found a hand at whist relaxing, though I could remember several occasions on which this wasn’t true, especially right after my father died. She would be gazing at her cards when suddenly her head would snap up and she would stare straight at the fireplace, or at a panel on the wall or a window covering. And she would mutter to herself.

Well, let me be entirely truthful. When she muttered, it was not to herself. This is a rather difficult thing to admit, but my mother talked to ghosts. And not just since my father died, actually. There had been earlier occasions when I had come upon her in some dark reach of the house, earnestly speaking to . . . a blank wall.

My mother was not mad. She had simply developed a rather unique conception of religion. Her inspiration came from our country church, by way of her own idea of the hereafter. She believed that we were all surrounded by the dear departed all the time and that you could speak to them and they would hear you.

We have all done it, in a way. Consider: you are in the sitting room doing a little repair work on a bonnet whose ribbon has become frayed. If your mind happens to wander off to your dead Aunt Sophy, you might, if you are so inclined, think something like, Dear Aunt Sophy, I do miss you. Those plum cakes you used to make were so exquisite, and you were always so kind to remember me on my birthday. In Mama’s case, she simply said these things aloud.

When he was alive, my father made it quite clear to Mama that she must curb this kind of behavior when other people were around. Mama herself didn’t understand this; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk with ghosts. However, Papa was the one person in the world she really wanted to please, and she ordinarily behaved acceptably. She had not, for instance, embarrassed us before Cousin Bret.

Her little quirk only became problematic, really, after Papa died and she took to believing that he spoke to her. Now I was alarmed to see her slip into an absent reverie right in front of Sir John. I gave her a nudge under the table, and I saw Amanda grab hold of her wrist.

Sir John pretended that nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It was his turn to play a card, and he went straight ahead and tossed it onto the table, assuming, I suppose, that such a movement would draw Mama out of her unnatural preoccupation.

Nothing of the sort!

“Yes, Harold, I am well aware of it,” she said, still staring at the empty grate. Harold was my father’s name.

“Mama, it’s your turn,” Amanda whispered urgently, poking Mama in her side.

But Mama was not to be deterred from her little conversation. “He seems a nice lad, and obviously well-enough-to-do,” she explained to my father. No one around her doubted that she was speaking of Sir John; Amanda flushed an alarming shade of crimson. “Well, of course Robert has not always had the best judgment in his friendships, but I’m sure this time is different.”

“Would you like another cup of tea?” I asked the baronet. Amanda was speechless. Making a great rattle with the cups and saucers was no trouble for me, but it failed to rouse Mama from her trance.

“I believe I will,” the baronet said.

“A splendid idea,” Amanda gushed, recovering herself. “That was milk and two sugars, was it not?”

He agreed that it was, but he never took his eyes from Mama. She had ceased talking and was listening with an earnest countenance, occasionally nodding or frowning. After some time, she said, “Oh, don’t leave,” and then looked crestfallen. Her attention never did return to us, though. As if the hand were finished, she pushed her cards toward the center of the table and rose.

“A lovely game. We must certainly play again. If you will excuse me, Sir John, I’m a trifle fatigued. The girls will entertain you.” She walked off in a daze, rubbing one hand softly against her brow.

Sir John was on his feet, a polite expression on his face. No one said anything after the door closed behind her. Amanda looked as though she wished to hide under the nearest chair. After a moment I cleared my throat and said stoutly, “You must forgive Mama’s inattention. Ever since Papa died, she has been a little distracted.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Amanda agreed. “Poor lamb. She was so exceedingly devoted to him that it has ‘distracted’ her a little, as Catherine says.”

Sir John resumed his seat and gathered up his cards. Without a word he shuffled the deck and glanced kindly at each of us. “Shall the three of us have a hand at loo?”

Which was the essence of good manners, I supposed, but I knew he was storing it all up in his mind. For whatever purpose. Who would not?

Sir John said good night to my sister very prettily, taking her hand between both of his and lifting it to his lips. I could have sworn that he winked at me when he was kissing her plump little fist, though, which served to confuse me more than ever. One thing I did decide was that he was trying to hoodwink us all in some way or other, and I determined to keep a vigil again that night, especially since I was certain he had gone out the night before, when I’d been too exhausted to do more than fall into my bed.

My method of spying was simply to place myself right around the corner from his room. I dragged a covering from my bed and made myself as comfortable as possible, wishing that I dared to light a candle and read for the duration. Fortunately, the floor is not comfortable, and I knew I would rouse easily with the slightest sound. To be ready for immediate action, I wore my riding clothes, hoping that I would not be called upon to saddle Lofty myself, as I was not particularly quick about it and had never done it in the dark.

The first several hours of my vigil were spent in fitful sleep. Around two in the morning I was awakened by a sound in the hall, but it came from another direction entirely. Both Mama’s and Cousin Bret’s rooms were in the facing wing and it could have been either of them, needing to use the water closet in the night. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep again I heard the door at the head of the stairs creak. I leapt to my feet and poked my head around the corner to see who it was.

Too late. The door was already closing behind the midnight adventurer. I had to make a quick decision about what to do, and I decided to see whether Sir John was still in his room. Since the only view I had through the keyhole was a black emptiness, I tried the door. He hadn’t locked it and, with great caution, I turned the handle, inching it around until I could feel it would swing clear. Even though I got a wider perspective on the room, I couldn’t tell if the baronet was in his bed. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, but there seemed to be mounds of bedclothes in the four-poster. With the curtains draped along the sides, it was impossible to be sure if there was a body in the bed or not.

Did I dare walk across the floor to his bed to check? My courage nearly failed me. What if he was there and awake? I had made almost no sound opening the door, but he might be suffering from sleeplessness, or be an extraordinarily light sleeper. Hadn’t he mentioned being able to distinguish all sorts of noises in the hall on his first night? I braced myself and moved silently across the cold floorboards and the Axminster carpet in my bare feet. I made not the slightest whisper of sound.

And yet when I came close enough to see if he was in the bed, a hand of gripping strength caught my arm, pulling swiftly downward so that I was forced to my knees. A whimper escaped me and I found my arm abruptly released.

“So it’s you again,” he grumbled. “What did you have in mind this time, my dear?”

“My arm is going to be bruised. You couldn’t possibly just ask who was there, could you? I shall have marks on my arm for a week.” My mutterings were more hysteria than anger. He had frightened me by his abrupt and decisive movement.

“How was I to know it was you?” he retorted. “It might have been an assassin, ready to plunge a knife into my heart as I slept.”

“Dear heaven, what outlandish novel were you reading when you fell asleep?” I demanded. “We don’t have assassins here at Hastings. Not one of our visitors has ever had a knife plunged into his heart as he slept.”

“What are you doing here, Catherine?”

His voice had softened and I could see his eyes glitter in the darkness. His hand had already returned to rub my wrist, and now it tightened slightly, drawing me toward his bed. I was still on my knees, and this movement brought my face alarmingly close to his. I could feel the warm breath from his lips as he spoke.

“You have the oddest habit of wandering around in the night. Do you take after your mother in that respect?”

“My mother does not wander around in the middle of the night,” I said.

“No? My mistake. Well, if it is not a family habit, please explain what you’re doing here.”

“I was merely checking to see that you were in your room. When I heard a noise on the stairs, I thought it might be you going out.”

“How in heaven’s name did you hear anything on the stairs? Your room is far too distant for you to hear anything but an avalanche on the stairs.”

Since I had no intention of telling him where I had been sleeping, I freed myself from his clasp with a swift jerk of my hand and leapt to my feet. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Catherine, Catherine. Don’t be so hasty. We might have a little interesting conversation, you and I.”

Suspecting him of being a rake, I had no doubt that this phrase was a euphemism for something wholly indecent. My fingers itched to slap him, but his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist again.

“Now, now. You misunderstand me, my dear child. I meant only that you and I should talk. There is something conducive to sharing confidences in the dead of night, where not a single candle burns nor a ray of light pierces the draperies.” His voice was like silk and I felt myself swallow hard. “I was not suggesting something improper. Your brother is a great friend of mine, remember. That is not a friendship I would jeopardize for the kind of accommodation I can so easily find elsewhere."

I drew back sharply from him, though he still retained his hold on my wrist. “I knew you were a rake! From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were the most outrageous creature.”

He laughed. “And from the moment I laid eyes on you, my fair one, I knew you had the kind of fiery spirit that would warm me a little too much for my own good.” He had raised himself up on one elbow. It was plain to me that he had no nightshirt on, and I trembled slightly. “I have no intention of ravishing you, though I don’t say you are wrong about my reputation.”

“Amanda could not be brought to speak so much as a word to you if she knew you were anything of the sort.”

A brief, strange smile gave way to a mock-serious frown. “I know. You won’t divulge my secret, will you? Just at this point in our acquaintance, I fear Miss Amanda would not believe you. It would make you look too much like a spoilsport, since there is no way you could offer proof of such a thing.”

He was perfectly right, though it galled me to admit it. “I’m sure in time you will demonstrate it admirably without my help,” I said huffily. “Please release my arm.”

“Certainly.” Though he loosened his fingers, he did not actually let go of my hand. Instead, he drew it to his lips and kissed the tender skin on the inside of my wrist. A slight suction there caused a most astonishing sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had every intention of pulling my hand away from him, then, but he continued to kiss it, the tips of my fingers, and the back of my hand until I seemed to tingle all over.

Somehow it would have felt rude of me to withdraw it just at that point. With his head bent down and the thick brown hair so close that I could have touched it with my lips, I found myself frozen. When he withdrew and beckoned me to lower my head, I shook it fiercely and backed away from him. With a sigh of regret, he released my hand. I fled from the room. Well, what could I possibly have said to him at a time like that?

Afraid that he would follow me, I hastily gathered my covers from the floor and lumped them in my arms. I raced for my room and closed the door with a decided thump, leaning against it and breathing so hard you would have thought I’d run all the way up the peak behind Hastings in a minute flat. What was he thinking of to behave that way with me in the middle of the night? Or any other time, for that matter? Had he kissed Amanda’s hand like that?

There was something alarming about this man. First thing in the morning I planned to write Robert, asking hard questions about Sir John. If he was a rogue, I wanted to know. Being a rake was another matter entirely. A man of his age and looks and prospects was rather expected to be a bit of a hand with the ladies, but if he treated them dishonorably, that was something different. I only hoped my brother would be open with me about what was going on. As I climbed into bed, I decided to post my letter in town—much safer than having it lie about on the salver in the hall where someone might see and remove it.