Shades of the Past (3 page)

A shiver skimmed along Vanessa's spine.  She could not fathom the man's behavior.  Was it so abhorrent to him to return to Sherringham?

Severing his gaze from his brother’s, the viscount continued on, advancing to where the coffin reposed upon the bier and the canon stood with prayer book in hand, his fingers trembling noticeably.

But the master of Sherringham ignored the cleric and afforded him not a second's glance.  Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a single white rose and placed it atop his aunt's coffin.  Then, sinking to one knee, he laid a gloved hand upon the elmwood and bowed his head.  After a prolonged moment of silent meditation, he rose again to his feet, but not before he leaned toward the casket and pressed a light kiss to its side.

What criticisms Vanessa held of Adrian Marrable dissolved in her heart.  Those around her appeared equally astounded as she.

Turning on his heel, the viscount headed toward the Marrable clan, swiftly closing the distance between them.  Fire kindled in his eyes once more while tension spread along his jaw, sharpening its line. 

As he came to stand before them, he swept his gaze over his brother, his sisters, and their husbands, then glanced past them to the children and Nanny Pringle.  His dark eyes next fell upon Vanessa and he paused, his brows drawing together. 

Heat flushed through her, straight from her scalp to her toes.  He continued to study her, obviously having not the slightest notion as to her identity or why she, a stranger, stood among his relatives.  Oh, why did she agree to Lawrence's request and allow herself to be included where she did not belong?

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes just then, but in the next instant, he broke away his gaze and directed it to Lawrence.

"We will speak later, brother."  His fine rich voice carried back to Vanessa.  "For now, I would know what arrangements remain concerning the interment."

The viscount's expression darkened as Lawrence apprised him of the final provisions for the burial rites.

"You mean to say,
all
the pallbearers are supplied by Mr. Brown's establishment?  Is there not one relation or friend among them to see our aunt to her crypt?"

"Brother"—Lawrence's voice softened to a conciliating tone—"surely you realize, the closest of her acquaintances are older than she.  I did arrange for a number of them to be honorary pallbearers, with Mr. Brown providing alternates to act in their place."

"And are
we
in our dotage?" the viscount challenged, bringing a look of surprise to Lawrence's face.

"It was unclear you would arrive in time, and more, the grieving family is not expected to—"

The viscount stepped toe-to-toe with his brother, standing a full six inches above him and glaring down hard at him. 

"Some things should not be given over to others.  And sometimes it’s best to do the unexpected.  Aunt Gwendolyn deserves our hearts
and
our hands this day.  By God, she shall have mine."

At that, he motioned over the undertaker, and announced that he, himself, would replace one of the pallbearers.

"Adrian, you
cannot
."  Majel bristled.  "It is unbefitting your station.  Think of propriety, brother."

At that he spun on her.  "Propriety be damned!  I shall have my will in this, with or without your approval, or anyone else's." 

He tugged at his gloves, at the same time eyeing Lawrence and Lords Norland and Pendergast. 

"Join me or not, as you will, but my mind is firm.  I shall carry Aunt Gwendolyn in death, as she carried me in life, when I could not bear myself." 

With that he stalked toward the coffin and Canon Greene who stood gaping, his mouth dropped wide.

"I will help you, Uncle!" Geoffrey blurted, breaking from Vanessa's side and slipping between his mother and Uncle Lawrence.  He rushed to join the viscount, crooking back his head to look up at him.  "Please, Uncle, may I help?"

Vanessa watched amazed as the boy waited expectantly, displaying not a whit of fear of his lordly uncle.  Others, much older, positively quaked before the man, she noted, their perceptions obviously far different.  Still, as she watched Adrian Marrable give an approving pat to Geoffrey's shoulder, she could only wonder if the boy's perceptions might be the more trustworthy.

A step away, Cissy smiled proudly at her son, tears rimming her eyes.  She turned her watery gaze to her husband who appeared equally moved. 

"I shall lend my strength as well," Lord Norland volunteered, stepping forward.

Lawrence remained stock-still, coloring to a deep, ruddy red.  A hard, bright anger flashed in his eyes. 

If the brothers shared any similarities, perhaps it was a choleric temperament, Vanessa thought fleetingly.  Yet Lawrence's aspect transfixed her, jarring her back to an incident in Paris, shortly after he arrived.

It had been a trivial matter over a bit of spilled wine.  In truth, Lawrence was the one who caused the mishap.  To her mortification, he exploded in a fit of rage, berating the waiter and making a rude scene in the hotel dining room to the embarrassment of all.  Now as she looked on his mien, so like that night, she wondered that she'd forgotten it. 

Lord Pendergast's voice drew Vanessa's attention as he argued a point with his wife.  He then spoke briefly with Lawrence.  Though a muscle continued to twitch in his jaw, Lawrence acquiesced and, together, they strode toward the others and relieved two more of the pallbearers.  Majel watched, fury in her face.

Reopening his prayer book, Canon Greene began reading the Twenty-third Psalm as he led the small procession up the mausoleum steps.  Cissy and Majel now also followed, leaving the children to their nurses’ care.  Accompanied by Mr. Brown, they trailed at a respectful distance behind the coffin and its bearers.

"We must wait now," Nanny informed Vanessa, nodding as the others disappeared inside the mausoleum.  "It is Marrable custom for only the family and necessary attendants to enter the crypt during interments.  It is a most private time, of course."

"Of course," Vanessa echoed, noting the mourners remained essentially where they stood, breaking into clusters and murmuring quietly among themselves. 

Nanny, meanwhile, moved off to gather the wildflowers sprinkled over the lawn, white corn-daisies and purple heartsease.  Vanessa strolled close behind, lest Nanny wander too near the promontory's edge.

Twenty minutes elapsed before anyone issued from the mausoleum.  The Pendergasts first appeared, followed by the Norlands with young Geoffrey at his mother's side.

Descending to the bottom steps, Majel, who had presided as Sherringham's official hostess these past days, addressed the crowd, extending her gratitude for their presence.  With that she instructed the servants to distribute the family's gifts of mourning gloves and scarves to those who had come up from the village and not yet received them.

Ensconced in their carriage once more, the Pendergasts led the entourage back to the mansion while the villagers disbursed across the green and down the road.

Happily, Geoffrey quickly rejoined Vanessa for it took considerable effort to persuade Nanny to abandon the unpicked flowers and return to their carriage.  At last, bouquet in hand, Nanny climbed heavily into her seat, situating herself across from Nurse Ridgely and Baby Bea.   Without pause, Geoffrey and Vanessa followed.

As the driver snapped the reins and the horses pulled away, Adrian and Lawrence Marrable emerged from the mausoleum's great bronze doors.  Lawrence stilled his step and looked straight toward her, but in so doing, drew his brother's gaze.  The viscount followed Lawrence's line of sight, finding Vanessa at its end. 

In the crisp autumn air, she went inexplicably warm as Adrian Marrable’s dark eyes fastened on hers.  Instincts deep within knelled their cautioning bells.  But of what they warned remained unclear.

Vanessa shook away her sudden unease.  There was nothing of which to be concerned, she chided herself, aware of her racing heart.  In roughly four hours' time, she would board her train and depart Sherringham and this man forever.

Vanessa revisited her bedroom long enough to remove her cloak and bonnet, secure her trunks, and refresh herself. 

She splashed her face with cool water, smoothed her hair into place, and made a quick assessment of her appearance in the full-length mirror.

She grimaced at the pallid-looking creature staring back at her.  Lord, it was a wonder someone hadn't attempted to carry her off to the crypt this day, mistaking her for one of the departed.

The dull black bombazine of her mourning dress siphoned all color from her face, while her hair improved matters little, its mass swept back into a chignon at the nape of her neck.  Only the fringe of honeyed curls framing her face added any color.
 

Very little color, Vanessa decided, pinching her cheeks and biting her lips to bring out a blush.  

As she adjusted her skirts and the soft bustle gathered at the back, a knock sounded at the door.  The maid, Mary Ethel, entered in the next breath, her hands clasped before her. 

"You wished to see me, madam?"

"Yes, Mary Ethel."  Vanessa smiled, pleased the girl had come so promptly.  "I must leave for Hereford Station no later than three o'clock.  Mr. Marrable has arranged for a carriage, but my trunks will need to be carried down and loaded before then."

Vanessa crossed the room to where her luggage stood to the left of the door.  "As you see, there are three pieces. The men will need to take particular care with the two marked Breakables.  Those contain my photographic equipment and chemicals."

Mary Ethel nodded attentively.  "And what of the box, there by the bed?  Should the men take that as well?"

Vanessa looked to the sizable square box sitting on the floor, V. G. WYNTERS stenciled on the sides. 

"No.  It holds my undeveloped plates.  I'll return later to carry it down personally."  She smiled.  "That way, should anything break, I can only blame myself."

Mary Ethel again nodded her understanding and turned to leave.  With a start, Vanessa remembered Lawrence's handkerchief and called to the maid.  Producing the linen from a hidden pocket in her skirt, she gave it over.

"Please see this is laundered and returned to Mr. Marrable."

"Yes, madam."  Mary Ethel eyed the embroidered initials adorning the handkerchief then, with a courteous bob of her head, withdrew.

Vanessa skimmed a glance over the room, wishing she could have visited under happier circumstances.  The guest bedchamber, like so much at Sherringham, was a gem.  Aside from centuries-old furnishings, it possessed the most charming of windows—a six-lobed rosette, filled with mullioned glass and bearing a heraldic device.
 

If only there had been the opportunity to photograph it, and so much more at Royal Sherringham.  The preparations surrounding the funeral had left little time.  Then, too, there were the arrangements she’d had to make pertaining to her own immediate future.

Her future. 
What lay there
? she wondered, then put the thought aside.  For now, she must attend to the present and see through the funeral feast before taking her leave.  The future would be upon her quickly enough, wherever it led.

Quitting the chamber, she made her way along the vaulted passageway of the Upper Cloisters.  Its ribbed ceiling soared overhead while large
Gothic windows arched along the right wall, overlooking an enclosed courtyard.  Classical busts rested on pedestals between each window.  Despite the mix of styles, the ecclesiastical tone prevailed.  She'd not be surprised if a long-robed monk appeared any moment from an adjoining corridor.

  Vanessa smiled at the thought as she came to a flight of stairs and turned onto them.  They reminded her of turreted stairs of centuries past, the stone steps twining narrowly downward.
 
Presumably, this section of the Sherringham owned a great age.  How old, she could not guess, though Geoffrey claimed Sherringham had its beginnings as a border castle on the Welsh Marches.  Before that, he divulged, wide-eyed, the place had been the site of ancient Druid worship and ritual.

That thought sent a decided chill sledding through her.  Gratefully, she reached a landing just then.  Passing through an arched portal, she entered a long, broad gallery.

Here the decor changed dramatically, dispatching all thoughts of monks, border lords, and Druid priests.   Crimson-colored damask covered the walls, rising above milky-white paneling, trimmed with gold.  Overhead, ornate plasterwork festooned the ceiling with gilded circles, trefoils, and medallions. 

Midway down, the gallery opened onto one of Sherringham's two grand staircases leading to the ground level.  Vanessa began her descent, pleasuring in the journey as ever she did.  The elegant staircase turned back on itself several times, while tapestries and paintings graced the walls.  A huge glass lantern hung suspended in the stairwell on a heavy bronzed chain, all of uncertain age and undoubtedly precious.

However far back Sherringham's history truly reached, Vanessa knew that, early in the last century, its owners had enthusiastically embraced the Gothic Revival movement.  For more than a hundred and fifty years, the viscounts had restored, refurbished, transformed, and added to Sherringham with a zealous passion.  She imagined it cost them a staggering fortune.  Perhaps, several.

The stairs brought her to a large chamber at the front of the manor house, adjacent to the entrance hall.  A second grand staircase flanked the opposite side, in a similar chamber.  In truth, the rooms and doors along the front of the manse aligned in such a way as to provide an extended perspective in either direction. 

Vanessa glanced into the entrance hall and observed the activity there where a number of the guests mingled and conversed.  Recognizing none of them, she began to withdraw her gaze.  Just then, the heavy front door opened wide and Adrian and Lawrence Marrable appeared. 

Vanessa's limbs momentarily froze as they entered, and she found she could do no more than stare.  The others stared too, pausing in their conversations.  One-by-one, they offered reserved, though polite, acknowledgment of the viscount's presence.

He acknowledged them as well, with equal restraint, his bearing aristocratically remote, unapproachable.  A near tangible tension crackled about him, and she thought of a panther caged.

Vanessa continued to watch, fascinated, as he removed his overcoat and hat and gave them over to the footman.  She saw now that Adrian Marrable possessed a wondrously thick mane of hair.  Saw, too, how his profile was perfectly straight and his eyes deep-set, bordered with long black lashes.

She transferred her gaze to Lawrence as he, too, divested himself of his outer garments.  Curiously, he neither looked nor spoke to his lordly brother, nor anyone else in the hall.  Instead, he strode unsmiling from view. 

Before Vanessa could dwell on it further, a movement caught her eye.  A stout man with balding pate left his place by the portal and approached the viscount, causing him to turn in her direction. 

Recovering herself, Vanessa quickly moved off before he could catch sight of her or entrap her once more with his dark, possessive gaze.

She headed toward the Grand Saloon, expecting the preponderance of the funeral guests to be gathered there.  Entering, she found herself more than correct.  A crush of people filled the room, overflowing the furniture and standing about in small clutches.

She searched for a familiar face, realizing it likely to be a futile gesture.  She knew scarcely a soul.  Most of the guests had arrived only yesterday and were primarily distant relatives and acquaintances of Lady Gwendolyn from years past.  Most of her more recent friends, those whom they'd visited during their extensive travels, were wide flung and naturally unable to attend.

Vanessa glimpsed Cissy and Majel moving through the room, speaking individually with the guests and receiving their condolences.  Recognizing no one else, Vanessa threaded her way slowly through the body of people, making her way toward the immense bay window on the opposite side. 

Of all the rooms she'd been privileged to see at Sherringham, the Grand Saloon was her favorite.  More than any other, she wished she might have photographed it, for words simply could not capture its breathtaking beauty as adequately as a lens.

What most won her heart and awed her to speechlessness was the extravagant, lacelike plasterwork that erupted over the ceiling, encrusting it with a profusion of decorative webbing and motifs.  Even the towering bay, with its double row of traceried windows, rose beneath a canopy of the riotous, petrified lace.

Vanessa came to stand there now and look out on the formal gardens, in the last of their bloom.  Surely, there was an enchantment cast over Sherringham, for even in the short space of a week she'd felt its unmistakable pull.  Indeed, not for the first time this day, she must wonder how Lady Gwen could have borne to leave the place, not once to return. 

She refocused her thoughts and concentrated on the shrubbery without, clipped to interesting shapes.  But instead of greenery, her mind's eye beheld the image of dark, magnetic eyes.

"My dear, there you are!" a high, familiar voice trilled. 

Just to her left, a round little couple rose from the settee and hastened to join her at the window.  Vanessa had overlooked Mr. and Mrs. Billingsworth, though she'd been informed of their arrival early this morning.

"Dear Vanessa, how are you bearing up, poor girl?"  The woman patted Vanessa's hand, her eyes filled with compassion.  She chattered on without drawing a breath.  "Such tragic news, and we all dined together just last month in Yorkshire."

"Just last month," Mr. Billingsworth echoed, shaking his head gravely.

 "Gwendolyn seemed in the bloom of health, positively robust.  Didn't I say so that very night, Mr. Billingsworth?" 

"Indeed, sweeting, that very night."

"And now she's gone and all so quickly," the woman wailed dramatically.  She stopped abruptly and darted a look around.  "Why, my dear, you appear quite alone.  But of course you are, with our Gwendolyn gone.  How foolish of me.  You simply must lunch with us.  We insist.  Don't we Mr. Billingsworth?"

"Actually, I'd hoped Miss Wynters would do me the honor of dining with me," a deep, rich voice sounded directly behind Vanessa.

She spun on her heel, gasping her breath as her eyes collided with those of Adrian Marrable.  She felt instantly swallowed by his ebony gaze.  A cautioning alarm warned once more from deep within, but now it clanged like a deafening bell.

"You
are
Vanessa Wynters are you not?  My aunt's companion?"

Vanessa nodded, unable to coax a single word from her throat, afraid it would come out a miserable squeak if she did.  The man positively towered over her, a dark, impressive figure.  Again she sensed the tension enveloping him, palpable and barely leashed.

He studied her closely.  "Forgive me.  We have not been introduced.  I am—"

"The panther," she murmured, the words slipping past her lips before she could stop them.  Heat shot to her cheeks as she stood in utter shock of herself.  She cleared her throat.  "I—I mean, I recognized the coat-of-arms on your carriage, the black panther.  You are Viscount Marrable." 

Maybe God would be kind and open a wide crack in the floor for her to jump in, she thought wildly.  She was about to die from acute mortification anyway.

The viscount tilted his head and gave her a quizzical look.  Vanessa felt herself shrink under his penetrating stare, causing him to loom even larger before her eyes. 

The side of his mouth twitched.  "I've only arrived this hour, as you are obviously aware.  My brother's wire was rather terse, as those things tend to be.  I regret I know almost nothing of my aunt's passing.  I am told you were with her at the time."

"Y-Yes," Vanessa managed.  "She died in my arms."

At that, a servant appeared at the door and announced the luncheon was served. 

The viscount proffered his arm.  "I shall be interested in learning all you can tell me of my aunt's last hours, and anything else you might offer."

Vanessa found she could not decline.  Had he not exhibited a fine devotion to Lady Gwendolyn, despite his lateness to the service?  Surely, she could answer his questions before she departed Sherringham. 

Laying her hand atop his arm, Vanessa allowed the Viscount to escort her from the room. 

If startled looks followed their withdrawal, she remained wholly unaware of them, for Adrian Marrable had trapped her in his midnight gaze once more, and she found she could look upon no other.

As Lord Marrable conducted Vanessa through the great double doors of the banqueting hall, she pulled her gaze from his and transferred it to the immense, medieval-style chamber, wholly dissimilar to the saloon.

The ceiling arced two stories high over a space seventy, perhaps eighty, feet in length.  Enormous triple windows filled one wall, glowing with stained glass, as did a row of smaller trefoil windows above them.  Oak paneling warmed the remaining walls while elaborate, carved woodwork crowned the doors.  Pennants, antlers, and huge bronze chandeliers further enhanced the decor, lending it a masculine air.