The Whispering Rocks (2 page)

He removed his coat and placed it around her shivering shoulders, glancing up the hillside to see that Hermione’s mount was coming down toward the bridge. Sarah’s eyes bore a haunted look as she saw the splash of purple moving relentlessly nearer.

This was the end of her then. She would have to return to Longwicke—to the advances of Squire Eldon, who had made no secret of his intentions. There was nowhere else in the world for her to go except whence she had come. She swallowed. The tale of today’s exploits would be the delighted talk of the drawing room this afternoon, and would be whispered about over dinner. She had by her actions made her father look foolish, a laughingstock, and had played straight into the hands of Lady Hermione and cousin Edward.

Edward would make his protests loudly, and with justification, and her father would almost certainly be forced to pay attention. Unexpectedly she smiled, wiping her face with a muddy hand which left a streak across her white cheek. Well, she certainly was a poor judge of character, for she could hardly have been more wrong about Ralph Jameson.

Lady Hermione drew her mount to a standstill, her little eyes fixed on Sarah’s odd appearance. This was all very interesting. How wise she had been to come looking for Stratford’s brat. And here she was—with Jack Holland, of all men! What had been going on? She noticed the resignation on Sarah’s face, making her look like a whipped dog. It seemed too good to be true. Hermione leaned forward.

“Whatever has happened, Mr. Holland?”

“Miss Stratford had rather a nasty fall from her horse. It was fortunate that I saw her and hurried to help.”

Sarah blinked, her lips parting. He was not going to tell anything! Her dull eyes brightened and hope struggled back into her. She loathed the prospect of marriage with her cousin Edward, but she was frightened by the thought of returning to her previous life. She wished desperately that she had never come to meet Ralph, and now it seemed that Mr. Holland was giving her a second chance. Jack felt her back straighten a little and saw her raise her head. A little of her former self reemerged and he liked what he saw.

Hermione, meanwhile, was gaping at the gray mare. A fall? From that? One might as well tumble off a sofa! She sniffed, her mouth sliding sideways disbelievingly. There must be more to it.

Jack maneuvered Sarah toward the mare. “Pray continue with your plans, Lady Hermione. I’ll accompany Miss Stratford back to the house.”

He spoke politely, but Hermione realized she was being dismissed. Her eyes hardened. She had never liked him, for she had never been able to get the better of him. He rode so high in the land, had so much influence at court and was so close to the Regent. He was accepted by all the best clubs and his yellow phaeton was one of the finest sights in Hyde Park.

He was everywhere, did everything, and knew everyone who was anyone. He had vanquished Edward at the gaming tables, and had beaten him too in a horse race of some importance the previous season—and what was more he chose to remind everyone of the fact by bringing that cursed bay stallion with him to Rook House.

And why, after all this time, had he suddenly decided to accept an invitation here? Bitterly, Hermione thought of her brother-in-law’s delight at discovering that the great Jack Holland was at long last honoring Rook House with his presence. She cursed the all-consuming ambition of Stratford to be one of the inner circle of gentlemen surrounding the Prince Regent.

Stratford was one of the richest men in England, so why had there to be a need to bother with people like Holland? Hermione felt as if her mouth was filled with vinegar as she stared at Jack. Only his influence at court gave him any consequence, she thought furiously, for he was a man of little true breeding. Her blue blood was all she had left to flaunt before him, and she did so, often. But now she decided prudently to leave, because for her purposes it was better that Sarah should return to the house with Holland, alone, and in such a state of disarray!

Hermione turned her horse and smiled unpleasantly; very well, she would go back to join the hunt—and spread the tale of what she had come upon in the woods. The smile became feline. Aye, she would spread the scandal thickly, with perhaps the merest soupçon of a raised eyebrow. All was fair in love and war, and Hermione considered herself most definitely at war with Sarah—and with Jack Holland.

Jack recognized the expression on her face. Ah well, there was little he could do to prevent what she now intended, but he would do all in his power to keep the real truth from the sour old harridan and her avaricious son. He lifted Sarah on to the broad back of her mare and then mounted himself, leading both horses slowly away from the bridge.

Hermione watched until they were out of sight before riding back to join her companions who still hunted noisily over the surrounding countryside. In her mind she turned over what she had seen, drawing from it every tiny vestige of scandal, and choosing carefully what she would say. She must take care with this, for Stratford was perverse enough to take his daughter’s side, especially if Holland’s name was mentioned. And that would never do. Deep in her schemings, Hermione rode back up the slope.

* * *

For a long while Sarah did not speak as she looked ahead at Jack’s straight back. She owed him much, for he had not only saved her from Ralph’s advances, but also from Lady Hermione’s spite. Why had he bothered with her? He had hardly spoken to her until this day.

They reached the edge of the woods and were looking up toward Rook House with its mellow stone walls and square towers. The reeds of the moat swayed, although the water itself was invisible from where they were. The rooks which gave the house its name wheeled above the roofs, excited by the hunt.

“Mr. Holland.” Her voice was husky with the cold so she cleared her throat and repeated, “Mr. Holland.”

He turned to look at her. Would nothing dim her beauty? Even the fall into the stream had done little to spoil her loveliness. Her hazel eyes were large as she spoke again. “Mr. Holland, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Sarah, I think I’d so much prefer to hear my first name upon your lips. ‘Mr. Holland’ sounds so stiff and formal. Please call me Jack.”

Wariness crept into her eyes. After her experience with Ralph she trusted no one.

He smiled then. “Don’t look like that, for I mean you no harm. It’s just that I abhor being called ‘Mr. Holland’ by one whom I admire and like.”

“Until this moment you have shown no inclination to either liking or admiring me, Mr. Holland. I’m deeply in your debt and the feeling is very uncomfortable.” There was an edge to her voice.

“That’s the spirit, Sarah. Trust no one in this life and you’ll do well enough.” His voice bore a wealth of feeling.

She shivered, her teeth beginning to chatter again. He kicked his heel and the horses moved off toward the house.

Sarah’s maid Betty halted in horror when she saw her mistress’s bedraggled appearance.

Like a little sparrow she hurried forward. “Oh, miss!” Her London accent was more pronounced than usual as she unhooked and unbuttoned the riding habit which was so utterly spoiled. “Whatever’s ‘appened to you?” She fussed around busily, her little face bothered. She was only Sarah’s age but she bustled around her as if she was a generation older. Even as a mere maid she knew more of the ways of the gentry than did Sarah, and so she felt that she must guide and protect her all she could.

“I met with an accident, Betty. Mr. Holland rescued me and brought me back safely.”

The deft fingers paused ominously. “An accident, miss? Mr. ‘Olland?”

Sarah bit her lip. Perhaps it was best to continue the story invented by Mr. Holland for Lady Hermione’s benefit, but, oh, how good it would be to unburden herself to Betty, whom she liked. “Yes, my horse threw me and I fell into a stream. Then I had to wade through mud to get out.” Well, at least it was half the truth!

Betty carefully hung the riding habit on a hanger, tutting as she looked at it. Perhaps it could be saved, if care was taken—she would see to it personally. She took her mistress’s turquoise robe and held it before the fire to warm, glancing now and then at the shivering figure in her white stays and undergarments.

Feeling the constant glances, Sarah raised her eyes. “What is it, Betty? What’s bothering you?”

The maid stood there awkwardly. “P’raps it’s not my place to say, miss, but—”

“But what?”

“Well, it’s Mr. ‘Olland being the one to bring you back.”

“It’s as well for me that he was there.” Oh, how true that was!

“Yes, miss.” There was a noticeable lack of conviction in the maid’s voice.

“What is it about him in particular then? He was the perfect gentleman.”

“ ‘E’s got a name, miss, an awful name.” Betty’s eyes rolled dramatically.

“That hardly surprises me. He’s handsome, wealthy, and unmarried. He’s bound to possess a reputation for something or other.” Sarah smiled. “Most probably for women!”

Betty’s smile was weak. “That’s as may be, miss, but ‘e’s s’posed to be more evil than that.”

“Evil?”

“Yes, miss. Things ’ve ‘appened—all sorts of goings-on. There was ‘is wife—”

“He’s married?” Sarah was startled by this revelation.

“ ‘E was, miss, but she’s dead now, poor soul. And it’s the way she died! Being left alone in that great big ‘ouse for month after month, and ‘er so ill. It weren’t right. An’ all the time ‘e kept ‘is mistress in a fine ‘ouse in London. Shameful it was, right enough.” Betty finished her speech with flourish.

Sarah felt somehow that she should defend him. “If his wife was ill then surely she had to remain behind, and, anyway, most men keep mistresses, do they not?”

“She was ill, nigh to death itself, an’ still ‘e stayed away from ‘er. It was so cruel, an’ ‘er so sweet a lady.”

Sarah slipped her arms into the warm robe. It was not pleasant to hear such tales of Mr. Holland, for he did not seem a cruel, heartless man and, besides, she had much to thank him for. “Did you know his wife then?”

“Oh no, miss, my cousin Liza was in service there. She told me all about it when she came ‘ere—a great favorite with Sir Peter is my Liza. Anyway, when I saw Mr. ‘Olland’s name on the guest list I was proper put out. I made up my mind to stay right out of ‘is way; it’s not good even to look at anyone as bad as ‘e is.” Superstition oozed from Betty, for she seemed to think that by staying out of his way she broke some enchantment he had cast over her.

“You sound like a page from the very latest romantic novel, Betty. Tell me, your cousin Liza, is she—I mean—” Sarah’s voice trailed away on an embarrassed note and she wished that she had not begun the question. Liza was the name of her father’s poor, disregarded mistress, but how could she ask Betty if her cousin was the same Liza?

Betty colored a little. “Yes, miss. Liza’s Sir Peter’s mistress. Proper furious my mother would be if she knew, ‘cause she’s always looked after ‘er since ‘er own mother died. Still, she’s got pretty clothes now, and lots of other things she wouldn’t ‘ave as a lady’s maid, so I ‘spect she thinks it’s worth it.”

“My father doesn’t exactly maintain her lavishly, does he?”

“Well, she don’t ask for anything and so ‘e don’t bother. Why should ‘e if she’s fool enough— Begging your pardon, miss.” Betty feared that she had gone too far.

“I don’t mind, Betty.” It was true. Any warm feelings she may have had for her father had vanished the day he told her the truth about his entry into her life, that he needed her only to bring Edward to his senses.

“Liza ‘ad to go to the inquest.” Betty was impressed and spoke almost reverently.

“Inquest?”

“Yes, miss, the one they ‘ad ‘cause of the way Mrs. ‘Olland died. They said she’d been poisoned!” This was obviously the maid’s trump card.

Sarah tried not to show how much this shocked her. She sat down before her dressing table. “Then the blame can hardly be placed at Mr. Holland’s feet, can it? You said yourself that he wouldn’t go near his wife.”

“That’s what ‘e wanted them all to think, miss, but ‘e got someone else to do ‘is dirty work. That’s what they say anyway.”

“Oh, that’s enough, Betty. After all he’s my father’s guest and I have no business talking with you like this. I should know better. Now can you take my riding habit to the laundry room and see if you can do anything with it, for I’m bound to need it again in a day or so.”

Alone, Sarah put down the hairbrush she had been toying with and looked intently at the silverwork. What had really happened to Jack Holland’s wife? Could it be as Betty said? She looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw the blatant desire not to believe the story.

Outside the hunt was returning and she forgot the mystery of the late Mrs. Holland as she listened to the chatter and noise of her father’s guests. She stood up and went to the window, hearing Hermione’s studied tinkle of laughter and Edward’s loud guffaw. The hounds were whining and yelping, the horses stamping and snorting, and the thought entered her head that there was a distinct similarity between the voices of the people and the noises of the animals. From the balcony she looked down at the ridiculous figure of her future husband, the Hon. Edward Stratford.

For the moment he had forgotten about his forthcoming nuptials. His full pink-and-white face was glowing from the exertions of the hunt and his carefully arranged Apollo curls were for once ruffled. The spirited red chestnut he was riding shifted suddenly, kicking out with a sharp hoof.

Edward’s tall hat fell forward over his nose and he was forced to put up his hand quickly to prevent the hat from falling to the ground. As he pushed the hat back into place he further ruined the stiff precision of his Apollo curls. He glanced around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed his appearance, but everyone was still full of the hunt. He sighed visibly; one had to be so careful; not a thing must be out of place, not a crease or ripple where it should not be.

He winced as his stays pinched his cruelly restricted waist. Why had it to be de rigueur to look like an hourglass? The chestnut stallion was of a mind to be mettlesome again and Edward was forced to forget his appearance and apply himself to the matter of controlling his mount. Poor Edward, thought Sarah dryly; to keep up with the fashion he strove in every way with his looks, but succeeded only in making himself a rather absurd fop.