The Stolen Bride (25 page)

Sophie would have been pleased to know what was afoot, for she was losing hope. Much of the journey had been passed in silence but occasionally her captor would launch into praise of her dear son John but in a strange way which was not convincing. Did the woman know her son was a maniac, and was she merely try to convince herself otherwise?

Sophie eyed the pistol from time to time, but it was kept close to the woman’s hand and far from her own. There were also the two men on the box to consider.

At the first change, Sophie thought of lunging out of the coach into the busy inn yard. But could she make herself understood quickly enough so that the coach would be stopped? If not, the coach would be away at the first word and mad John would be free to hunt Randal. The woman had admitted that Haven was not her real name, and probably John was not the name of her son. How could anyone find them once they were gone?

When the coach rolled away again, she saw her captor smile very warmly. “I see you truly do wish to help us, my dear. I am so pleased. I will have good news for you soon. You will see.”

Good news? Sophie deeply distrusted anything this woman thought of as good news.

She hoped they would make a longer stop for food, in which case she might be able to raise the alarm, but it did not happen. They traveled straight through. At one stop the woman called for small beer for them both, but it was brought too quickly to serve Sophie’s purpose. She didn’t much like the drink even but was glad enough for something to quench her thirst.

Finally as the coach pulled out of Blackbrook the woman seemed to relax. “We are nearly home, my dear,” she said. “Now I can tell you the pleasant surprise I have for you.”

Sophie braced herself.

“My son is not called John,” said the woman fondly, “but Edwin.”

Sophie waited. The coach rolled on. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

The woman tutted impatiently. “Edwin, my dear. And my name is not Haven, but Hever!”

Sophie let out a little scream. She could not help it. “Edwin Hever’s mother?”

“Yes,” said the lady eagerly. “Your darling Edwin. You see. I said it would be a great surprise. I said you were like a daughter to me and so you are. Ever since Edwin first wrote of your love I have longed to clasp you to my bosom.”

Sophie shrank away from the woman in horror. Edwin Hever had tried to kill her. Did his mother intend to complete what he had left undone? But the woman was still looking at her with that repulsive fondness. Sophie pulled herself together to use it any way she could.

“I am so confused,” she said weakly, and it required little acting. “What of John?”

“Oh, there is no John, Sophie,” said Lady Hever gaily. “Was that not a clever story? I almost began to believe in him myself. I have always been good at making up stories.”

“So he didn’t attack Chelmly,” interrupted Sophie, feeling a fool to have been so taken in. But it had all seemed so real.

“No, but my man did,” said Lady Hever casually. “I am sorry for it, for I hear the marquess is a good man. Lord Randal was the target. He had to die before he could besmirch you. I am most put out that it was so mishandled.” She sat in sour contemplation of the ineptitude of her minions.

And the assassin is still on the loose, hunting Randal, thought Sophie, sitting bolt upright. Not the demented son cowering at home but a hired killer looking to complete his work. She looked more desperately at that tempting pistol. She need to win free and warn Randal of his danger. She stifled a moan of frustration as she saw how impossible it still was.

A glance out of the window showed her they were traveling through open country. Even if she overpowered Lady Hever and escaped from the coach, the two men on the box would run her down in no time.

Edith Hever was too deep in her bitter thoughts to notice Sophie’s mood. Sophie quickly slumped down again and tried to appear calm. She must not raise the woman’s suspicions.

Lady Hever shrugged. “At least now I have you under my wing that man cannot touch you, my dear. Edwin will be pleased that I have kept you safe for him.”

Sophie could feel the hairs on her neck rise. The woman spoke as if her son were still alive. Could he be? No. That at least could not be so.

She forced her mind back to calm. Whatever insanity was going on here, her only chance was to be alert for an opportunity to escape. But she couldn’t stop panic fretting at her as she remembered Edwin Hever’s spittly voice, his hand tight in her hair as he bent her neck back, shouting abuse at her.

“What do you want of me?” she asked and heard the fear in her own voice.

“Don’t be frightened, dear,” said Lady Hever soothingly. “You are free of those who would force you into a loveless marriage. I have you safe. I know you are dutiful—how could Edwin’s choice be other? If I had told you at Stenby Castle who I was, you would have felt obliged to stay behind and submit to your family’s dastardly plans. Now, however, you are free. Edwin’s home is your home and we can stay there forever... Well, not exactly Edwin’s home,” she said bitterly. “They took that from me. But I have made Glebe House almost the same. You will see.”

Sophie decided she had to try to make this madwoman see sense, but carefully. “I did not plan to marry Edwin,” she said straightly.

“I know,” said Lady Hever. “He wrote that your family opposed the match and you would not go against them. Though he did hope to persuade you in the end, naughty boy.”

Naughty boy. That man had been attacking women for months during the spring and tormenting Jane with lewd whisperings. Sophie swallowed the words that would do more harm than good.

“Lady Hever, they are bound to come after me,” she said.

“You need not fear,” said the woman who seemed to see everything through her own distorted vision. “They will not know where you are, you see. If they begin to wonder about Mrs. Haven of Stone, they will not find her there. They will never think to look for Lady Hever.”

Sophie feared that was true. No one had ever suspected this interpretation of that awful night, or that the uninvited guest at Stenbywas Edwin Hever’s mother. She began to be afraid again. Lady Hever might not intend to kill her but people could disappear. Could it happen to her? Could she spend the rest of her days locked away with Lady Hever and her dreadful son’s memorabilia?

No, she told herself strongly. Randal and David would turn England inside out until they found her.

As if she picked up on the thought, Lady Hever said dreamily, “If they come close we can always move. As long as I have dear Edwin’s things it is home. I have them all, you know. His chapbooks and toys, all his clothes since he was a baby.... We will never be lonely with all Edwin’s things and each other.”

Suppressing a shudder, Sophie looked desperately out of the window again. As soon as they reached any sign of civilization she was determined to throw herself from the coach, no matter how dangerous that would be.

Her very life and Randal’s depended on it.

Randal and his companions were thundering after them, following the trail of the coach. The groom, Kelly, had left word as promised and the coach had been noted on these quiet roads—by an ostler at an inn, by harvesters in the fields, by a doctor making rounds in a gig. Occasionally they chanced a shortcut. Expert hunters all they took hedge and fence in flying leaps and even thundered through crops, for they would return later to compensate and time was of the essence.

The prime blood horses, however, could not make the whole journey and they had to stop to hire new, less speedy ones. At the Golden Hart, Randal asked about a coach with an old lady and a young, the younger being pretty, with short auburn curls.

“Ay, milord,” said the ostler. “One such passed through an hour or so ago.”

With this news the pursuit became more pressing. The coach was still far ahead and their pace would now be slower.

 

Sophie was still waiting for the coach to pass through a sizeable community when it turned in between stone pillars and she felt sick despair. This must be Glebe House. What would happen to her here? Despite Lady Hever’s words, Sophie feared her intention was much closer to the Indians’, who were said to burn a man’s wife with his body.

Though she knew it would be wiser to appear compliant, she resisted when Lady Hever tried to draw her out of the coach. Eventually the woman had to call for help to drag her.

“What is the matter with you, dear? This is Edwin’s home. You have nothing to fear here.”

It looked like Edwin Hever’s home, thought Sophie hysterically. Had it been chosen for that reason? It was bleak and slightly misproportioned. The door had been painted a strange shade of brown which was completely wrong with the gray stone. The flowers planted near the drive were straggly because the trees had been allowed to grow to shade them.

Sternly she suppressed both hysteria and panic. Her only chance was to keep calm and be alert for the first opportunity to escape.

“I am sorry,” she said as if terrified. “For a moment I thought you had brought me back to Stenby.”

This bit of nonsense was accepted without a blink. “Of course not, dear child. Now come inside and you shall sit in the parlor in Edwin’s favorite chair while we have a supper. I know you must be hungry.”

So Sophie found herself sitting in an uncomfortable wing chair which still held faintly the smell of lavender water. She remembered that Edwin Hever had been wont to drench himself in the stuff. In fact, it had betrayed him in the end.

She couldn’t, simply couldn’t, stay there. She pushed up out of the chair. “I ... I feel presumptuous sitting there,” she said. “I... I would much rather sit here”—she chose another chair—“and look at it... and imagine him there.”

Lady Hever patted her shoulder. “Ah, dearest daughter. Did I not say we were alike, so sensitive? How many hours have I sat and done exactly the same thing. I remember his interesting talks about all the things he had done and read of...”

Sophie let the voice drone on. Where had the men gone? Were they in on the plot? Was one of them Chelmly’s attacker? If she dashed into the hall would one of them be there on guard? She forced herself to stay still. She must wait for a sure opportunity to escape or lose all.

Then her wandering eyes saw the shrine.

On a side wall hung a portrait of Edwin Hever. It was not very good and looked a great deal more like Shakespeare than the baronet. Sophie suspected the itinerant artist who had executed it had been given instructions to make it so. The heavy frame was festooned with billowing black crape and long ends of it trailed to the ground. In front two crystal oil lamps burned.

“Ah,” said Lady Hever softly, following the direction of Sophie’s appalled gaze. “Is it not a good likeness? I had not a portrait, you know. Mr. Lickmore did it from my miniature with alterations at my instruction.” Sophie looked at the woman to catch what could almost be teasing amusement as Lady Hever added, “I have an even better likeness upstairs. You will be quite overcome, I daresay, to see it.”

A housekeeper brought the supper and laid it out with the help of a maid. The housekeeper was plump and nervous, the maid looked dull-witted. After assessing them as possible allies Sophie did not attempt an escape. Too risky. When she was shown to a bedchamber, that would be the time. She’d climbed out of many a window in her salad days.

After eating the poorly cooked food, Lady Hever summoned the strapping young man who had pushed Sophie into the coach. With him as escort, or guard, Sophie endured a guided tour of what amounted to a mausoleum, and a very dirty one at that. Apart from the little shrines to Edwin in this place or that, the house was uncared for. Cobwebs hung in the cornices and mouse droppings scattered the floor.

A study-cum-library was empty of all but a handful of volumes but they, and the shelves they rested on, were dusted.

“Edwin’s favorite books,” said Lady Hever. “Of course you may read them, dearest Sophie, but you must ask my permission first. I do not like to see his things disturbed.”

As they climbed the wide central staircase, Sophie could see all the rectangles on the wall where the previous occupants had hung pictures. None hung there now.

There were five bedchambers on the upper floor but three were completely bare. One, which she was shown briefly, was clearly Lady Hever’s and contained another shrine to Edwin, built around an ink sketch of the baronet and a collection of baby toys.

“And now,” said Lady Hever almost gaily, “we come to the heart of Glebe House. Dear Edwin’s bedchamber!”

Sophie had to remind herself that Edwin Hever had never lived in this place at all. She wondered if Edith Hever remembered.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room was meticulously clean and looked eerily as if its dead occupant were due at any moment. Shaving things stood ready on a stand, soap and towels close by. The bed was turned back and a night-shirt lay ready. An open book lay facedown on a small table, with sheets of paper and a pen beside it. A heavy brass clock ticked ponderously on the mantelpiece and the room reeked of lavender water.

“You may sleep here,” said Lady Hever reverently, lovingly patting the prepared pillow. A small cloud of dust exposed the pretense of all this. “I would not allow any other, but you have the right.”

Sophie swallowed bile at the thought but reminded herself she had no intention of sleeping in this house at all. She studied the windows and her heart lifted. They were large casements, easy to climb out of, and there even seemed to be a spreading copper beech nearby.

“Thank you,” she said with ringing sincerity. “I will be delighted to have this bedchamber.”

Lady Hever did embrace her then, and Sophie tried her best not to shrink away. “In fact,” she said quickly, “I am very tired. Could I retire now?”

“Of course, child,” said the woman, stroking Sophie’s hair in a way that made her want to shudder. “But first let me show you his dressing room.”