Raven's Bride (22 page)

Her hands were shaking as she took her place at the dinner table. Mr. Melcott, sitting stiffly upright at the head of the table, as he had done ever since Lord Ravensbourne had been arrested, motioned to the servants to withdraw. He turned to Anna, his face full of solicitude. “Your mother has spoken to you?”

Anna raised her glass to her lips and took a sip of wine to calm her nerves. “Yes, she has.”

“And your answer? Will you allow me to take you as my wife, before God and man?” His voice was eager, too eager.

Anna wondered how much his proposal had been prompted by generosity, as her mother evidently believed it had, and how much had been dictated by less worthy motives.

She looked searchingly into his face. The possessive glint of desire and covetousness that she saw in his eyes disturbed her. She shook her head to clear her mind of the evil memories that look held for her, and when she refocused her eyes, it was gone. Mr. Melcott had become, once more, the just and righteous fatherly figure he had always been to her.

“I thank you for your kind offer,” she replied, “but I cannot accept.”

His face darkened, almost imperceptibly, and Anna could sense the black mood that was hovering, waiting to descend over him like the dark wings of a black bat. “You cannot accept?”

“I have already given my word to another.”

“Ah, I am sorry for it.” His voice sounded harsh, like the croaking of an ancient crow. “I gather I am come too late, and that your heart was already taken before you came among us. But I must say, he has proved a remarkably laggard lover to leave you languishing here with nary a visit since you arrived.”

“I was not betrothed before I came to Norfolk,” Anna replied equably, although the tone of Mr. Melcott’s voice was less generous than she would have liked. “Your nephew, Lord Ravensbourne, asked me to be his wife the night before he was arrested. I consented, and the two of us plighted our troth that very night.”

Mr. Melcott took a bite of roast beef on his fork with a distracted air, put it in his mouth, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed it before replying. “I am surprised that I heard nothing of this. Tom obviously did not see fit to confide in me.”

“Few people were told. He was arrested that morning by the sheriff as he was asking permission of my mother. Our joyous mood had turned suddenly sour, and our betrothal no longer seemed important. When he was condemned to death, we had nothing over which to rejoice and any thought of celebration would have been mere vanity. I asked my mother not to mention our betrothal, which his sentence had made a mockery of, to anyone.”

Mr. Melcott turned to Anna’s mother. “And you, madam, were happy to secure such an excellent match for your daughter, I presume?”

Mrs. Woodleigh put down her knife and fork and pushed her plate away, though she had barely touched her food. “I gave Tom my permission. How could I not? He is a good lad.”

“You would not break your vow to my nephew?” Mr. Melcott looked at Anna, his eyes searching her face for answers. “Not even though he has been condemned to death by the justices? Even though he may have to remain in exile all his life, without his friends and family beside him? In poverty and obscurity? Maybe even forced to flee from country to country like a common criminal?”

“No, I will not break my word.”

“You would wed with a condemned murderer rather than be untrue to your betrothal vows?”

Anna did not like the tone of his questioning. “I would,” she said stoutly, more to end the discussion than out of any real conviction.

“I commend you for it. Not every young woman would show such constancy.” But his words seemed to Anna more like an accusation than a commendation.

Without another word, Mr. Melcott picked up his fork and resumed eating. After a moment’s hesitation, Anna did the same. An awkward silence reigned for the rest of the meal.

As was their custom after dining, Anna and her mother retired to a sitting chamber to take a cup of tea, leaving Mr. Melcott to finish his wine and enjoy a cigar, before ordering them the carriage and bidding them good evening.

Scarcely had they taken their first sip when the door opened to admit Charlotte—looking pale, tired and rumpled, but triumphant. In her hand she carried a piece of creamy vellum. Even from where she stood, in a mixture of surprise and fearful anticipation, Anna could make out the mark of the king’s seal, stamped on it with a firm hand.

She dropped her teacup with a clatter, ignoring the hot stream of liquid as it ran onto the thick Oriental carpet, and ran to her cousin. “Charlotte,” she cried, her voice thick with excitement, “you are back.”

Charlotte collapsed into the nearest chair and waved the paper in the air. “I have it. I have it. Tom is pardoned. Anna, my dear cousin, pour me a cup of tea, if you will. I am parched to death. I have traveled night and day to get the good news to you.”

Her heart singing for joy, Anna embraced her cousin and read, with greedy eyes, the paper Charlotte held out to her. Just as Charlotte had claimed, the king had granted Lord Ravensbourne a full and free pardon for any involvement he had had, accidental or otherwise, in the death of Squire Grantley. Upon payment of a fine of five pounds to the parish, he would also be forgiven for the fire in the prison stables he had set while escaping. He was free to return home on the instant.

Mrs. Woodleigh, her face showing her pleasure, hastened to pour a cup of tea for Charlotte from the pot at her elbow. With trembling hands, Anna took the tea over to her cousin, who drank it thirstily.

“Charlotte, you are a wonder,” she said, words spilling out of her in her excitement, as she danced about the room, reading the pardon through over and over again, and hardly daring to believe the good news it contained. “You are the best sister and the best cousin anyone could ever hope to have. But, please, tell me all about it. How did you get the pardon? Why did it take you so long? Was the king not willing to give it to you? Did you have to go beg it from the queen? Does Lord Ravensbourne know yet that he is no longer in danger? When will he be coming home again?”

Charlotte handed her empty cup to Anna, with a mute plea for it to be refilled. “I left London as soon as the letter was in my hand, and did not stop on the road for longer than it took me to change horses. Tomorrow morning I shall send a messenger in search of my brother, and he will be home again within a month.”

“Charlotte, this is such wonderful news.” Anna clapped her hands together with joyous excitement. “See, Mother? Everything will work out wonderfully. There was no need to worry.”

Mr. Melcott’s voice broke in over the hubbub. “My dear Mrs. Woodleigh, what has been worrying you? Nothing too serious, I trust? For indeed, I fear I have news that will not please you.”

Anna turned to see him standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light like a bird of ill omen. She felt a chill run through her body and edged slightly away from him, closer to the fire.

Mrs. Woodleigh gave her gentle smile. “My worries are not serious any more. Dear Tom has received a pardon from the king. Charlotte has only just now brought it in with her. Isn’t that good news?”

“I am pleased Charlotte has finally obeyed my commands to return home,” Mr. Melcott said from his stance in the doorway, directing a chilling look at his niece. “I am only sorry she has wasted her labor.”

Charlotte held up the precious document. “On the contrary, uncle, it was time well spent. I have the pardon, as you can see.”

He heaved a gusty sigh. “It is a pity it came too late.”

“Too late?” Anna and Charlotte both spoke at once.

Mr. Melcott reached into the pocket of his fustian suit and withdrew a paper of his own. “I received this just now from Holland.”

“What does it say?” Charlotte demanded.

Mr. Melcott reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles, which he placed on the end of his nose with a deliberate gesture. “It is a letter from a friend of mine, a silk merchant in Amsterdam, who has been kind enough to write to me about some business he wanted to transact to our mutual advantage. Now where was the relevant passage? Ah, yes, here it is. ‘I consider it my bounded duty to you, my friend, to relate to you to story of your scapegrace young nephew, who you desired me to look out for some time past. He did not prove to be amenable to our way of living, indeed, our sober life struck him with remarkable repugnance, even though he could have profited mightily from his acquaintance with me. I was thus unable to be of any assistance to him, and, as God is my witness, scarce wanted to, as his lifestyle was equally repugnant to me as was mine to him. His time was spent in riotous living, showing his disrespect to God, and to his own self, as he was made in God’s image. Still, as he was your nephew, I was sorry to hear of his death, and wish for your sake that it had happened in a less public and disgraceful manner…’”

Mr. Melcott’s voice trailed off with emotion and he coughed into his handkerchief before resuming again, in his normal voice. “So you see, my dear niece, your efforts were in vain, as I had warned you.”

He walked over to Anna on silent feet and picked the pardon from out of her hand. Numb with shock, she offered no resistance.

“This paper is valueless,” he said, his voice a rusty croak, as he folded it carefully and placed it inside his waistcoat pocket. “It was obtained too late. Lord Ravensbourne is dead.”

Chapter Eleven

Lord Ravensbourne is dead. Lord Ravensbourne is dead. Lord Ravensbourne is dead. The thought echoed around and around in Anna’s head, until there was room for nothing else. The room swam in front of her eyes and she could no longer see.

The whirling in her head grew too much to stand. With a moan, she sank to her knees on the carpet, her head buried in her hands, and tears flowing through her fingers.

Beside her, Charlotte made a choking sound and fell back into her chair in a faint.

From the depths of her own misery and despair, Anna knew her cousin needed her help. Rousing herself from her stupor, she rose unsteadily to her feet, fetched a napkin from the tea tray, and laved Charlotte’s face with the water from the pitcher sitting on the sideboard.

Charlotte’s face was ashen—the light grey of snow clouds in mid-winter—and her eyes looked like those of a doe that has received a death-wound. She held out her hand to Mr. Melcott. “The letter. Show me the letter.” Her voice sounded husky with unshed tears.

Mr. Melcott tucked the letter back into his bosom. “There is no need for you to read it. Your brother has died. That is all you need to know.”

“The letter,” Charlotte demanded. Her eyes shot daggers at her uncle, and she raised herself up in her chair as if she would take it from him by force, if she could.

“Please show us the letter.” Anna added an entreaty to her cousin’s demand. She had to see the letter, or she would die another death. She could not let Mr. Melcott hide it from her. “I will not believe it unless I can read it for myself.”

Mr. Melcott shrugged. “If you insist.” He drew the letter out from his waistcoat again and handed it politely to her. “But I must warn you, you would rather not know what it contains.”

Anna unfolded the letter and tried to read it, but her eyes were blurry with tears and the spidery handwriting danced up and down so she could not make out the words. Brushing the moisture from her eyes, she silently handed the letter to Charlotte.

Charlotte read the letter and gave a groan. “It is true. Tom was killed in a duel. In Amsterdam. His opponent ran him through the heart, and the surgeon was unable to save him. He died of a fever a few days later.”

“A duel?” Mrs. Woodleigh’s voice was sad. “And he was always such a kind and gentle boy. I am sorry for his sake.”

Anna felt her heart grow cold. Where there was a duel, there was usually a woman involved. “What were they fighting over?” she whispered, afraid to find out the truth, yet desperately wanting her suspicions to be found groundless.

Charlotte held her tongue and looked away, and Anna felt her heart die a little within her.

She had to know the worst. “Give me the letter.” She gave Charlotte no chance to refuse her, but snatched the paper from her. Her eyes were dry now, from fear and dread. Quickly she scanned the paper until she had found what she was looking for, then she dropped it on the floor, her grief at his death doubled by her knowledge of his desertion.

Lord Ravensbourne had been false to her. The duel he had fought and died in was with the cast-off lover of his new mistress, a notoriously beautiful and dissolute Frenchwoman who had made her home in Amsterdam, and was casting her lures on all male members of the somber Dutch society who came within reach of her talons.

Lord Ravensbourne had fallen under the spell of this enchantress and forgotten his cousin. The dour Dutchman he had replaced had killed him for crowing too loudly over his triumph one evening when he had been in his cups. The duel had been fought that very night—Lord Ravensbourne, by this account, so inebriated he could hardly hold his sword in front of him, and his jealous opponent bent on exacting vengeance and on removing his successful rival for ever.

The whole sordid story was related in every grim detail and with every particular. Her mind in shock, she read it over and over again, her mind dwelling on each word, each line. But however many times she read them, the letters did not rearrange themselves on the page to give the message new meaning. She was forced to accept it as it was.