The Haunting of Grey Cliffs (17 page)

I leaned back in my chair. I didn't know which seemed more difficult to believe—that Cousin Julia had once been young and beautiful, or that she had allowed herself to be taken advantage of by the earl, who even in his youth must have been quite the roué.

I sat for some time, staring at the faded letters, musing over the vagaries of love, before it occurred to me that these letters presented the perfect motive for murder. He had used Cousin Julia dreadfully and then abandoned her. Could this have turned her mind, finally deranged her, so that she took her revenge by killing him?

The thought was appalling. Cousin Julia a murderer! My mind simply would not accept it. Motive she might—and did—have. And opportunity. But she didn't have the means. The old earl had been a big man, as big as Edward by all reports. And Cousin Julia was a short woman, much too heavy for her height. To imagine her hoisting the earl's body so as to hang it from the chandelier—I just couldn't do it. I might as well imagine spindly Uncle Phillip doing such a thing. It just wouldn't wash.

I got up and tucked the letters away, slipping them atop the canopy of the bed where no one was likely to look until cleaning time. And then I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind.

Still, later that evening when we gathered for dinner, I found myself looking at Cousin Julia through different eyes. She had once been young and beautiful, she had once been caught in the throes of passion. Wrongful passion, of course, but passion nevertheless. I felt a certain kinship to her, a certain sense of her humanity that I had not felt before.

* * * *

The next afternoon Edward visited the nursery, one of his periodic visits that never occurred at prearranged times. The boys looked up when he came in. The twins bobbed their heads and remained silent, but Ned jumped up and went to his father. "Papa, it’s good to see you," the boy said with a formality that nearly broke my heart.

Edward nodded. To my dismay the two didn't even touch each other.

"How are your lessons going?"
Edward asked.

"Very well, Papa. Hester says I'm learning just as I should."

Edward smiled. "That’s good. Hester knows."

During this exchange the twins had remained silent, bent over their slates. Now they raised their heads and exchanged glances. I swallowed. Would Edward speak to the twins or would he ignore them?

I looked at them, their golden heads bent again, their faces wrinkled in concentration as they traced the letters I had given them.

And Edward turned. "Peter, Paul," he said. I warmed to the kindness in his tone. "I heard what a fine thing you did, helping Ned save the dog."

The twins looked up, their faces wreathed in smiles, their eyes shining. "Thank you, Your Lordship," they said in unison.

A shadow crossed Edward's face. "Call me Uncle Edward," he said slowly, his gaze moving to me.

The twins appeared as surprised as I was, but they hastened to say, "Yes, Uncle Edward."

Peter hesitated, then took a deep breath and went on. "Milord, Uncle Edward, could—would—" The boy stopped, plainly nervous.

"What is it, Peter?"

I controlled my elation. If Edward could tell the twins apart, he had been paying them much more mind than I thought. A little prickle of fear followed the elation. Did he know the boys had found the passageway?

But he couldn't, I told myself firmly. If he knew that, he would surely have remonstrated with me.

Peter moistened his lips, sent me a pleading glance, and stumbled on. "It's our—our father, mi— Uncle Edward. We'd like—" Peter looked to Paul, who nodded eagerly. "We'd like to have him stay here all the time."

To my surprise Edward did not frown. His face took on a wistful, boyish look. "I'd like that, too," he said. "When we were young, we used to be great friends." He sighed and shook himself. "But your father's a grown man. I can't keep him here."

The twins nodded and bent again to their slates. Edward sent me a pained look. "But I will talk to him about it."

'Thank you!" The words burst from the twins in unison and they ran to throw themselves onto Edward and give him a great hug. Ned sent me an astonished look and then, not to be undone, hurried to join them.

Looking at my husband, at the happy children gathered around him, I had a momentary vision of a little face—a dark little face topped with black curls, a little girl face. I hugged the vision to me, the vision of
our
child, and smiled.

The next few mornings I was unaccountably ill. I hoped that my queasiness might be caused by my being with child, but it was too soon to know with certainty.

I kept alert, not going to the courtyard or anywhere else alone. But nothing unusual happened. The boys had become great friends and I was heartened by their camaraderie. But I was so torn over my feelings about Edward that I could not really enjoy the boys' triumph.

* * * *

Several nights later, I lay in bed awake. Over and over, I examined every single piece of information I had about the old earl, about his mysterious death, about the people who might have caused it.

Robert was hasty, a man given to quick forbidden pleasures, but I could not imagine him taking his father's life in that premeditated way. A quick blow in anger, perhaps, but not this calculated pseudo-suicide. There was no reason for it.

Cousin Julia had good reason. The passion of her letters still lingered in my mind. But all my original reservations concerning her remained, too. The physical aspects of the act still seemed beyond her. Unless she had someone to help her.

There was Uncle Phillip, of course, though I couldn't imagine the two of them ever working together. I even looked closely at Uncle Phillip's possible motives. But what had the old bumbler to gain? The earl's death had brought the tide to Edward. If he died—I shivered— the title would go to Ned. Should something happen to Ned—God forbid—the earldom would be Robert's. Uncle Phillip was a little strange, and why anyone should
want
to summon the devil was incomprehensible to me. But to imagine that bumbling old man had planned a murder—it was just too much.

And that brought me back to the one person who was left—Edward. The man slept peacefully beside me, his thigh pressed against mine. I wanted my mind to stop its mad racing, to refute my suspicions of the man I loved, but everything seemed to point in his direction. He became the new earl. He had hated his father. He was out of the castle when the horseman tried to run me down, when the shot whistled past my ear. And most damning of all—he knew my fear of horses.

Edward stirred in his sleep, throwing an arm over me. And deep inside me I thought I felt the stirrings of new life. Great tears coursed down my cheeks. Was the child I hoped I carried begotten by a murderer?

* * * *

I slept, finally, exhausted by the turmoil of my thoughts. When I woke the room was dark—and I knew instantly that something was wrong. Automatically I felt for Edward, but the bed beside me was cold. Edward was gone.

My seeking fingers encountered a piece of paper. Holding tightly to it, I groped for the candle and struck the flint. I held the candle close to the note, trying to make out the letters.

The script was bold and black. I did not recognize the hand. But the words sent terror to my heart.

"
I want the letters," the note read. "Bring them to the priest hole tonight.
Or
tomorrow you will be a widow."

My hand shook so that I could scarcely see to tell if that was all to the message. But it was. There was no signature, nothing more.

An icy chill crept over me. Edward. Where was Edward?

The note quivered in my hand. A widow, it said. That meant the writer had Edward.

But how? How could anyone take my husband from beside me while I lay sleeping? Surely I would have heard them.

I could not let anything happen to Edward. And yet—Edward was the only one who knew my fear of horses. Edward had supposedly been gone when the attacks on me had occurred. And—most damaging in my mind—Edward had made light of my concerns and suspicions over his father's death.

But why should he wish to lure me from my bed? Any night he could have disposed of me as I slept— helpless—beside him. My heart beat faster. I had just realized what anyone must. A wife found dead in her bed must cast suspicion on a husband. But one who has wandered off, gotten immured in an ancient priest hole—I trembled so that the note fell from my fingers.

Then I forced myself to think. If the murderer was not Edward, and I did not take the letters to him, my husband would die. And if the villain actually was Edward, I would die. I stared Death in the eye, there in my cold bed, and I found Him not so terrible. Dying could be no worse than living without Edward.

And so I rose, pulled on my dressing gown and slippers, and retrieved the letters from the canopy, tucking them into the pocket of my robe.

Chapter Seventeen

Lighting a fresh candle, I set out for the gallery. But as I neared the nursery I was overcome with tenderness and a desire to see the children one last time. So I crept in to have a quick peek. They slept, their faces angelic. I kissed each smooth forehead, and over Ned I whispered a little prayer that morning might find him still with two living parents.

Then, clutching my candle, I made my way to the portrait gallery. The hall was black and my candle's light feeble, but still I kept going. Edward was my life. One way or another, I must be with him.

The candle flickered, its glow so pale in the darkness. I reached the portrait, pulled it aside. The passageway was black as the nether regions, but I had no choice. I swallowed and stepped in.

The passageway was dark as pitch. I inched along, one hand holding the candle high, the other clutching the letters I had put in the pocket of my dressing gown.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, I reached the priest hole. Slowly, my heart in my throat, I pushed open the door. More darkness greeted me. I took a step, peering around me. The dark little room seemed empty. My heart threatened to choke me. Then I heard a groan from the far corner.

Clutching my candle, I hurried across the room. And almost swooned.

Edward lay in the corner, his eyes closed, a red stain on his forehead. Fear brought me to my knees beside him, but it was fear mingled with blessed relief. Edward could not have done this to himself. Edward was innocent!

Quickly I tried to ascertain the nature of his injuries, but the wound on his head was all I could find. As I knelt, bent over him, he opened his eyes. "Hester! Go! Leave me!"

But I could not leave him. My beloved husband. "Let me help—"

Across the room the door thudded shut. The draft from its closing blew out my candle. In the utter darkness I clutched my husband's arm.

"Too late." He groaned, struggling to his feet and pulling me up with him. "Too—"

The door creaked slowly open again. That crazy laughter echoed through the room. "Five minutes." The words sent a chill down my spine. "You have five minutes to make your good-byes."

Uncle Phillip stood in the doorway, the light from his candle revealing the madness in his eyes, the pistol in his hand. He stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"Too bad," he said. "I've no complaint against you, Hester. I tried to warn you away."

"Yes," I said, willing myself to remain calm. "I know you did. But why should you wish to hurt Edward? He has given you a home and—"

Uncle Phillip laughed, the laughter of insanity. "Oh yes, he gave me a home. Just like my brother before him. My dear brother!" His face twisted in rage. "Always laughing at me. But I fixed him." He nodded slowly. "Oh yes. I laced his pudding, his anise pudding, with laudanum. And then, while he slept, I hung him."

The man meant to kill us. It was plain in his eyes, his mad eyes. I faltered, but Edward's arm around me sustained me.

"It was easy," Uncle Phillip went on, his eyes gleaming. "No one suspected me" He laughed again. "All my life people have laughed at me, called me a bumbler." He cackled, shuffling his feet in the old carpet slippers. "I let them. No one suspects a bumbler, you see."

He waved the pistol. "With you two gone, Robert and Ned will have accidents and
I'll
be the earl."

My heart rose up in my throat. Ned! "You would kill a boy?" I asked, my voice incredulous.

Uncle Phillip shrugged. "I mean to be earl."

"It's no use," Edward said. "I've tried to reason with him." The arm he had around me tightened. "Hester, my love. I should never have brought you here." He sighed. "I thought you would be safe."

I turned my face to his. "Edward, don't blame yourself. I love you and—"

Uncle Phillip snorted. "Very nice." He looked at me. "Where are Julia's letters?"

"How did you know about them?"

He chuckled, a sound even more frightening than his laughter. "I watched you. The passageway has peepholes into the rooms. I saw you read the letters. But I couldn't see where you put them."

He frowned. "My greedy brother took her, too. Julia was a lovely young thing then, fresh, beautiful. He used her and threw her aside. But she went on loving him, wouldn't have anything to do with me."

Even in my fear, I felt pity for him. Poor man. He had obviously loved Julia very much.

My mind raced, trying to think of something, some way to save us. In the meantime, I must keep him talking. "Uncle Phillip, it was you! You were the ghost!"

"Of course." He nodded craftily, his pistol never wavering. "Made a good one, too, didn't I? Had all the servants on pins and needles."

"That was you laughing in the passageway the other day."

He smiled, punctuating each sentence with a nod. "Yes, that was me. And it was me on Edward's new horse. And me who shot at you on the cliff. And me who knocked you on the head and left you in the stallion's stall."

Edward's arm tightened around me as the recital continued.

"But you wouldn't take the hint," Uncle Phillip complained. "You wouldn't leave."

"I couldn't," I said simply. "I love Edward. And I love the children."