The Clergyman's Daughter (21 page)

When she looked out, the corridor was empty and quiet, so still that she might have thought she had imagined those footsteps, were it not for the glow she could see reflected ahead of her on the grim portraits and shining white walls of the picture gallery at the end of hall, a circle of amber lamplight that sunk jerkily out of her view as the person she was following descended the grand staircase. After a moment’s hesitation, Jessica flew silently to the top of the stairs. In her haste she bumped into a console table where someone had set out a great kissing bough to be hung in the morning, and one of the apples was knocked loose from the basket of evergreens and mistletoe and fell with a thump to the floor. Jessica froze, clutching her candle. Certain that she had alerted the person she pursued, she listened painfully, but the only sound she heard was the rustle of her satin bed gown about her trembling knees. Taking a deep breath, she continued more slowly along the gallery, and with trepidation she peeked over the rail.

From her vantage point she had an unobstructed view of the main hall with its pillars and statues and archways opening onto the various salons and dining rooms, all distorted and unfamiliar at this foreshortened angle, in the shifting light. But she had no difficulty recognizing the top of Claire’s red head as, with a quick glance to either side, the girl—who, damningly, still wore her
eau-de-Nil
dinner dress despite the lateness of the hour—ducked into the unobtrusive green baize door that led to the back of the house, the kitchens and cupboards and pantries, and from thence out to the service yard—and the stables.

As the door closed on Claire’s lamp, plunging the great hall into near darkness, Jessica groaned aloud. So Mason had been right, after all…. Not for one instant did she try to delude herself that Claire’s ultimate destination might be the kitchen, perhaps for a cup of warm milk to help her sleep. Oh, no, the girl was sneaking out of the house like a scullery maid, creeping off to the dark, earthy seclusion of the stables to meet her lover, the Irish groom with the bold blue eyes—and if Raeburn ever found out about this vulgar little intrigue, he’d strangle her with his bare hands.

Jessica, shivered at the thought of Raeburn’s wrath. She had been its victim on one far-too-memorable occasion, but she knew that the violence he had shown her that day by the roadside would be as nothing compared to the rage that would erupt should he discover his beloved little sister rumbling about in the hay with a servant….

Abruptly Jessica broke off that train of thought, disgusted with herself. Why was she automatically assuming that Claire’s relationship with Fred O’Shea had already gone too far? No matter how the situation might look, she knew her sister-in-law better than that! She had only to look in the girl’s warm brown eyes to read the innocence that still shone unsullied there. Claire was ripe for a flirtation, of course, and, like Andrew before her, willful enough to act rashly out of defiance of her oldest brother’s steadfast refusal to admit that she was fast becoming a woman, but she had far too much inherent integrity to embark on a sordid affair just to spite Raeburn. By condemning her on circumstantial evidence, Jessica was wronging the girl, behaving as badly as Flora Talmadge had when she spied on her and Andrew, as badly as John Mason was behaving now.

Jessica shivered. Oh, God, John Mason! It was disaster enough that he had discovered her secret identity, but still she did not feel as threatened by his attempted blackmail as he had obviously expected she would. In fact, she admitted ironically, she had almost felt relieved when she realized that disclosure was inevitable. Painful though unveiling would of necessity be, that pain might prove strangely cathartic, cauterizing her wounded heart, and in any case she would endure whatever punishment Raeburn meted out because she knew she justly deserved it for the suffering she had caused the man she loved. No, in this respect Mason had grossly underestimated her, for she was a grown woman who had outfaced enemies far more dangerous than he—and besides, she added drily, she had lost her good name years ago.

But Claire…. Claire was still little more than a child, vulnerable, an unmarried girl with the extremely frangible reputation peculiar to all virgins. If Mason found proof—not just suspicion, for he would not dare risk Raeburn’s ire without evidence—that Claire was consorting with Fred O’Shea, he could destroy her. At all costs, Jessica must prevent that from happening.

Bunching up the hems of her robe and gown in one hand, Jessica raised the candlestick high and scampered down the stairs.

When she stepped outside and saw the stable, the wide, whitewashed door was slightly ajar, and on the frozen ground outside, the light from Claire’s lamp made a slanting yellow streak that wavered and stilled as someone hung the lantern on a nail. Cold began to seep through the thin soles of Jessica’s slippers, and teeth chattering, she pulled her robe closer about her. She blew out her candle and depended on the chill illumination of the crystal-bright stars overhead to guide her as she sidled silently toward the door, still praying that she was mistaken in her errand.

As she approached the half-opened door she could smell the penetrating, but not altogether unpleasant, odor of hay and dung wafting out warmly, and tilting her dark head against the damp wood, she listened carefully. She could just make out the sound of a horse nickering sleepily inside. With sinking spirits, she also heard the barely concealed amusement in the groom’s rich brogue as he declared complacently, “Well now, me darlin’ girl, and I thought you told me you’d not come.”

“I—I shouldn’t be here,” Claire admitted nervously. “If anyone finds out…. Oh, Fred, you’ll lose your position!”

A shadow moved across the beam of light, the distortion giving the silhouette of O’Shea’s well-built body a height it lacked in fact, and Jessica could see that the man was standing with hands on hips, apparently facing the besotted girl. She had no difficulty visualizing the cocky smile that must be lighting his handsome face, the glint in those engaging eyes that were startlingly blue under curly black hair.

“Now, now, love, and who’s to find out about us?” she heard him reassure softly. “Tomkins? That bandy-legged old rooster sleeps like he was rocked in the arms of Blessed Mary Herself….”

“B-but the other grooms might—” Claire ventured hesitantly, and O’Shea snorted.

“Don’t worry about them. They’re all tucked in their beds like the good Christian souls they are, and even if one of them saw us, he’d keep quiet. There’s not a lad among them who’d dare cross me….” There was a moment’s pause, and Jessica could see the shadow on the ground move as if he reached for something, but after a second he stood straight again and continued quietly, soothingly, in a tone he might have used to gentle a skittish filly. “Don’t be like that, Clairie. Be…friendly to me. We have hours to get to know one another. There’s none to see us or hear us, no one to make a fuss because His Lordship’s dainty sister is dallying with a stableboy.”

“But I’m-not—not dallying!” Claire gasped, obviously shaken and bewildered. “N-not the way you mean! How dare you say such a thing to me?”

O’Shea’s voice grew harsher, more impatient. “Isn’t that why you’re here, girl? Haven’t you come to me because you fancy a little tumble with a real man, not one of them fine lords with their fat bellies and soft white hands?”

“No, of course not!” Claire declared. “I’ve never—I would never—”

Jessica’s relief at the girl’s gullible innocence was quickly superseded by fear when she heard terse anger creep into the groom’s tone; clearly he thought that he was being teased. She noticed inconsequentially that his brogue faded as his wrath increased.

“Well, then, milady,” he mocked curtly, “perhaps you’d best explain to me exactly what it is that brings you to me in the middle of the night. I’m only an ignorant Irish peasant and I’d hate to think I misunderstood.”

Claire stammered unhappily, “I—I came because you a-asked me to. I never thought…. I—I thought you were my…friend, that you wanted to talk, the way f-friends do. Living out here in the country, with Aunt Talmadge in charge, I don’t have many other friends, except for Jess, and she’s always occupied with one thing or another around the house, and for weeks now, since the day you rode out with the two of us t-to gather holly, it seems as if you’re always busy too, that there’s never any chance for us to…to chat.”

O’Shea’s voice was grim and disbelieving. “You’re saying you came out here to…talk, is that all? What about the time we discussed running off to Scotland?”

Scotland! Jessica repeated, shuddering. So Claire’s clumsy questions about Gretna Green had had a point, had they? Had she actually led a servant to believe that she would
elope
with him? The girl’s stupidity was almost criminal—and yet she seemed to be perfectly sincere when she said, “But, Fred, that was just a joke, wasn’t it, like the time you showed me the cartoons about Graham? I—I enjoy your jokes. I like the way you make me laugh.”

After Claire’s ingenuous statement, a long and ominous silence stretched between the couple just inside the stable door. Jessica, her fingers and toes growing numb in the frosty air, listened warily. She considered breaking in on them, if only for the redolent warmth of the stable, but she admitted that as long as Claire seemed able to deal with the situation, she was extremely reluctant to make her presence known, lest she precipitate a scene that might alert other members of the household to the girl’s gross indiscretion. If only Claire would make her excuses to O’Shea and retire to her quarters, where Jessica could deal with her privately….

But the enactment of such a prudent sequence of events seemed doomed from the beginning, for suddenly the groom growled, “So I make you laugh, do I? The rich, exalted Lady Claire Foxe thinks the Irish stableboy is beneath her notice, just someone to tease, like a dog….” Before Claire could respond, he swore crudely and declared, “Well, my fine lady, I’ll make you laugh, all right. When you’re lying beneath me, I’ll make you laugh and cry or anything else I damn well please. I’ll make you beg me to take you. I’ll make you….” His voice trailed off deliberately, and suddenly the little shaft of light from the doorway blazed clearly as he lunged out of its path.

From inside came shuffling sounds of straggle and the thud of a body wrestled to the packed earth floor. Claire squealed gutturally, and her frightened, almost childish whimper stabbed at Jessica as Lottie’s cry would have done. Galvanized into recklessness, Jessica wrenched open the heavy wooden door and plunged inside.

After the darkness outside, she was momentarily blinded by the bright lamplight, and blinking hard, she stumbled forward and collided bruisingly with a wooden partition, striking her cheek hard against a peg hung with tack, knocking down two bridles and a long leather crop whose loop wound snakelike around her bare ankles before she could trip out of the way. Disoriented by the blow, as her eyes adjusted to the light she reeled in confusion, first noticing the double row of narrow whitewashed stalls where sleek horses, roused from sleep by the commotion, shifted about nervously. Then a flutter of bright blue and the rending sound of silk attracted her, and she ran down the aisle to an apparently empty stall where behind a bale of hay she found two figures twisting and flailing wildly on a heap of sweet-smelling straw.

Claire, pinioned beneath O’Shea’s muscular body and writhing frantically to keep his knee from between her legs, spotted Jessica first. She gasped hysterically, “Help, for God’s sake—” before her words were crammed back into her mouth by the groom’s work-callused hand. Intent on his purpose, he did not become aware of Jessica’s presence until she leaped at him and began pummeling on his shoulders. When he rocked back in surprise, heedless of her own safety she grasped the neck of his coarse woolen shirt and jerked with all her strength, almost strangling him as she dragged him away from Claire.

“Mother o’ God!” he choked at this unexpected counterattack, and swearing crudely, he twisted round to defend himself against Jessica’s battering fists. She slashed at his face with her nails, and he reached up brawny arms to capture her wrists and hold them out of range. In the process his rough fingers caught the sleeve of her robe and ripped it half out of the armhole, revealing the satin bed gown beneath.

As he turned on Jessica, cursing her, he lifted himself completely from Claire, who rolled free of him and staggered to her feet, gasping. “Oh, Jess,” she wailed, too caught up in her own fright and despair to notice that her rescuer might still be in peril. Miserably she pulled the edges of her torn bodice together over her breast. With trembling fingers she tried to brush away the bits of straw and dirt that clung to the dress. “If you hadn’t come, he—he was going to—”

Sternly Jessica calmed herself. She eyed the groom with contempt as she said grimly, “I know what he was going to do.” Impatiently she tried to pull away. “Let go of me, O’Shea,” she grated.

“And let those sharp little nails of yours get at my eyes?”

He chuckled drily as he steadied himself. “Do you take me for a bedlamite?”

Jessica shrugged as nonchalantly as she could with her wrists still restrained. “I can’t see what harm you think I can do you—although it’s obvious you must be suicidal, to risk Lord Raeburn finding out what happened….”

“Now, now, Mrs. Foxe,” he cajoled, watching her out of glinting blue eyes that narrowed assessingly as her struggles stilled. For a moment they seemed at an impasse; neither spoke, and the only sound was Claire’s labored breathing and the blubbery snorts of the horses as they settled down once more. Then he released Jessica’s hands and planted his fists firmly on his hips, in that swaggering stance he had affected before. His mouth turned up in a sardonic grin, and when he spoke, she noticed that his brogue had returned thicker than ever. “Is it sure you are that you’re knowin’ the truth of what happened, darlin’ Mrs. Foxe? What if I were to tell you that Her young Ladyship asked me to meet her here, cool as you please—”

Claire squawked in protest, and Jessica declared scornfully, “O’Shea, if you think you can get me to believe blarney like that, you’re a fool—and if you plan to tell your Banbury tale to the earl, you’re a damn fool, or else just plain mad!”