The Whispering Rocks (21 page)

The maid put her arms around her mistress’s shoulders. “Nothing, miss, nothing at all. And don’t worry so. Mr. Ransome will come to no harm.”

Sarah stared away beyond the stables toward the two fast-moving shadows of Paul and Martin as they rode up the incline of the moor. “That’s not what worries me so, Janie. It’s what he might do.”

Janie led her back into the house where the long night’s wait began. Sarah sat by the window of the drawing room, watching the dawn approach, her hands twisting again and again in her lap. She desperately wanted Paul to prove that the stranger was indeed Edward, but now she prayed that Paul would not be the one to find him.

The dawn came slowly, stealing across the eastern skies and spreading from behind Mannerby in a haze of lemon and pink. Sarah watched it dully. Outside in the hallway the grandfather clock ticked the hours away and from the kitchen came the sounds of the maids and the cook beginning to prepare breakfast.
Oh, Jack, why must you be away now! Come back, for I need you so.

Sarah could have wept with the weight of her anxiety, and more than anything else in the world right now she needed Jack’s calming influence, his sensible, cool presence which would set everything to rights. Blankly she stared at a column of thick black smoke which rose away over the moor and vaguely she surmised that it came from Bencombe.

“Come and eat something, Miss Sarah. It will make you feel better.” Janie touched her shoulder, smiling, but her own face was pale and worried as she wondered what had kept the two men out for so very long.

Sarah went into the dining room and sat down. She still wore her dressing gown but did not care; now was not the time to bother about such pointless, foolish niceties.

Marks came in, his face beaming. “They’re back, miss, both of them.”

She closed her eyes with relief and stood, following Marks to the door. Paul and Martin were just riding through the gates and she saw that their faces were black and grimy, that Martin’s leather jerkin was ripped and bloodstained and that Paul’s hair was singed and his coat dusty and gray-black. Janie’s reaction was immediate; she ran down the steps toward Martin, calling his name and weeping. Sarah stood there unable to move.

They dismounted and there was a pungent smell of smoke on the maid’s crisp clothes as she wept her tears of relief. “There, there, Janie, ‘tis all right now. I’m well enough.”

Sarah followed Paul into the house. “What happened? Where have you been?” She touched his arm and suddenly he turned, sweeping her into his arms and holding her tightly. He said nothing but just held her. The smell of smoke was strong. Slowly she slipped her arms around his waist and returned the embrace. He seemed almost overcome by something—but what? His eyes were red-rimmed, both from the smoke and from lack of sleep, but there was something else in his eyes, a hollow look, a tired sorrow.

He put his cheek next to hers, still holding her tightly. “James is dead, Sarah, burned to death.” He released her.

She stared at him. The column of black smoke she had seen. “Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry. Tell me about it.”

He went into the dining room and sat by the table, pouring himself a large cup of black coffee. Sipping it he leaned back in the upright chair, closing his eyes.

“When we left here Martin found the trail quickly and we followed it right up on to the high moor. Then we had to slow down for the trail became harder to follow; the ground was stony and there were fewer discernible tracks. We were to the east of Hob’s Tor when we lost them altogether. For two hours or more we rode back and forth over the rubble of stones and chippings, but without success. We had almost decided to give up searching and come back to Mannerby when Martin saw the smoke. It was coming from Bencombe, we could tell, and the fire was obviously a big one. We rode as swiftly as we could, for the more hands there are to help the better it is. It was the Blue Fox, Sarah, blazing like tinder. God alone knows what happened this time, but the place was alight from cellar to attic, with no hope for anyone trapped inside. It was an inferno.”

He loosened his dirty cravat and poured some more sweet black coffee. “Around dawn the flames had relented sufficiently for us to begin searching. No one knew, you see, if anyone had been in the building. James and his wife had been planning to go to Plymouth and no one knew if they had gone or not. James’s body was found in what was left of the parlor, by the doorway as if he had got that far and then been overcome. We could only identify what was left of him by a ring on his finger.”

Paul’s voice choked a little and Sarah went to him. James Trefarrin had been his lifelong friend, a companion of his childhood, and he had died a lingering, painful death. She closed her eyes, remembering the crude chalk drawing of the blue fox being consumed by flames. But how could this still be Melissa’s work? Her head was spinning. Could it be Edward? She slipped her hands gently into Paul’s.

“What can I say?” she whispered.

He smiled, touching her dark hair softly. “It was good to come back here and find you waiting for me. You know, do you not, that I—”

She looked beyond him, startled by the sight of a large traveling carriage swaying through the open gates and into the courtyard outside. “Look.” She went to the window and saw the carriage lurch to a standstill. The footmen hurriedly clambered down and opened the door, lowering the folding steps.

From inside came a tall, angular woman, dressed entirely in unrelieved black. She stared for a moment at the house and then climbed down and stood on the ground, brushing her heavy skirts. Even through the windows Sarah could hear her booming voice as she ordered the footmen hither and thither. Like an enormous black crow she swept up the steps toward the door of the house, and out of Sarah’s sight.

“Who is she?”

“That is my Aunt Mathilda.”

Sarah’s heart fell. What a terrible woman she looked. Paul smiled and put his arm around her shoulders.

Mathilda stood suddenly in the doorway, her sharp eyes on Paul’s arm. “It seems high time that I arrived here, high time indeed!”

He moved away quickly. “Aunt Mathilda, why did you not send word that you were coming?”

“Sending word to you seems to have little effect, Paul. I didn’t think it necessary.”

“What do you mean by that?” Paul went to her and kissed her cheek, but she moved away as if angry. He looked surprised, but did not pursue the matter. “You are too late for the funeral, you know that?” he said gently.

“I know, I know. Can’t abide funerals. Never could and never will. Especially—” She drew herself together and sniffed. “Well, my nephew, what has been going on here, eh? Your letter concerning Miss Stratford told me vague outlines, but no more.”

Wearily he raised his hand. “Aunt, please, not right now. I’ll tell you when I’ve had a good rest and a wash.”

“When
you’ve
had a good rest? I’ve been traveling for two days!”

“Aunt Mathilda, look at me. Do I normally spend my time looking in such a state? Things have been happening here, far too many of them to explain now. Please bear with me for a while longer, and I’ll tell you everything.” He took Sarah’s hand and led her forward. “Sarah, this is my Aunt Mathilda. Aunt, this is Miss Stratford.”

Mathilda raised a silver lorgnette and surveyed Sarah, raising an eyebrow as she saw the smoky marks Paul had left when he embraced her. Her foot tapped with displeasure. “Paul, I don’t know what it is that you do, but the women who come into contact with you seem to be sadly lacking in any sense of propriety. First Melissa, and now Miss Stratford.”

She lowered the lorgnette. “Very well. I see that I must wait to be told anything. Have you bothered to have rooms prepared for me?”

“Yes, Aunt. Melissa’s rooms have been prepared for you.”

“I will go to them now. Miss Stratford, please be so good as to come with me. It is not seemly for a young lady to be wearing only a night robe at this hour of the morning, and moreover to be alone with my nephew in such a state of undress.”

“Undress!’’ Sarah felt a flush of anger sweep through her.

Paul touched her arm, smiling. “Go with her, Sarah. Don’t bother to argue, for it is a fruitless labor with my aunt.”

“What did you say, Paul?” Mathilda leaned forward but did not catch his words.

“I said that she should go with you, Aunt.”

Mathilda’s black skirts rustled as she swept from the room, and, with a sinking heart, Sarah followed.

Mathilda went into Sarah’s rooms and stood waiting. “Now then, Miss Stratford, I can see that I have much to do. I am somewhat disturbed to find you like this. My nephew should know better. But still, no doubt all is not lost, and I can salvage something of your reputation.”

“My reputation? There’s nothing wrong with my reputation!” Sarah felt the anger returning. What on earth did the woman think had been going on here?

Mathilda ignored the protests. “Where is your maid?”

Janie crept into the room, having quickly changed into a clean apron after her encounter with Martin. She had met Mathilda before. “Yes, Mrs. Ransome?”

“Ah, yes—Janie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ransome.”

“Well, Janie, your mistress must be dressed. And please, see that the gown you choose is, er, demure. I don’t like these modern fashions which reveal everything and leave nothing to the imagination. My nephew’s imagination was always more than active anyway.”

Janie blinked and looked at Sarah, whose stormy face was a sight to see. “Yes, Mrs. Ransome.”

Sarah said nothing. Mathilda obviously had it into her head that there was something going on between her and Paul, and instinct told her that Mathilda’s mind, once made up, could not be easily changed.

Eventually a gown was selected, but not before Mathilda had tutted with disapproval over the array of costly creations hanging in the wardrobe. “Miss Stratford, I would wish to write to your father about your clothing. It is hardly suitable for a well-brought-up young lady. You have a father still living, I understand.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ransome. Sir Peter Stratford.”

“Oh, you’re
that
Miss Stratford.” The lorgnette was produced again and Mathilda perused her charge with fresh interest.

Paul’s footsteps were heard outside the door and he knocked. Sarah opened her mouth to speak but Mathilda was first. “Come in, Paul.”

“Aunt Mathilda, I just came to say that I’m going to my rooms to rest. Forgive my sad lack of manners, but unless I sleep I shall be unbearably rude to someone.” His warm brown eyes rested on Sarah, taking in the gown which his aunt had decided was “suitable.”

“You should rest too, Sarah, for I doubt if you slept last night either. Oh, by the way—” He held out a crumpled letter. “This has just arrived from Holland by messenger. He’s finished his business with the French horses in Plymouth and will be back here sometime tomorrow.” He gave her the letter and then closed the door again. They heard him walk heavily along the passage toward his own rooms.

Mathilda was looking at the letter with interest, but did not comment on it.

“Well, Miss Stratford, I too shall go to rest. You and I will have much to do shortly before you’ll be fit to—” She did not know quite how to finish her sentence and so instead went to the doorway, drawing herself up with a deep breath. “I cannot imagine what your father was thinking of, child, sending you down here unattended.”

“I was not without a chaperone. Melissa was here.”

“Ah, yes. Melissa.” Mathilda lowered her eyes and for a moment Sarah thought she could see tears shining in them, but then Mathilda sniffed and looked at Sarah. “I’ll see you when we dine, Miss Stratford.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ransome.”

The following day Sarah took refuge from Mathilda in the kitchen garden. With a heavy volume of Shakespeare under her arm she slipped from the house and went to her favorite place beneath the poplar tree.

As she sat down she closed her eyes. She had not slept well, her dreams being disturbing, restless, and worrying. Ralph’s handsome, false face had peered at her from the dark night, and she had heard Betty’s terrified screams as Hob’s Brook swept her away.

A coffin adorned with a huge white wreath had stood in a dark, musty church, and beside it lay the battered body of Kitty. High on the moor, in a deep green pool, Melissa’s hand beckoned through the long night. In her dreams Sarah had been dressed in white, a wedding gown ... and standing by the coffin, and Kitty’s black-and-white body, was her bridegroom.

Edward’s painted face had been smiling as he waited for her, and there was blood on his hand as he held it out toward her. With a cry Sarah had woken, her whole body damp with perspiration and her heart thundering in her breast. The dream fled with her awakening, but she knew that it hovered outside the window, waiting eagerly for the return of sleep when she would be powerless to resist.

Sarah opened the book, sighing at the fanciful thoughts of nighttime which seemed so ridiculous in the brightness of the day. From the house she could hear Mathilda’s voice calling her name, and she sat further back in the shadows beneath the tree. Paul’s aunt had swooped upon her new charge like some great vulture—dominating, correcting, and disciplining until all Sarah could think of was escape. Only the fact that Mathilda obviously had good intentions kept Sarah silent, and as yet respectful, but how much longer she could behave so meekly was a matter of conjecture.

After breakfast Paul had taken his aunt into his study and there had told her all about Melissa—all, that is, except the witchcraft. It was then, just before Paul had ridden to Bencombe to see if there was anything further he could do there, that Sarah had slipped out of the house and into the sanctuary of the garden. And here I shall remain, she thought firmly. Anyway, Jack will be back today....

The sun was already hot. The moor was shimmering in the haze and in the purple distance Hob’s Tor seemed to hover as if free of the earth. The heat was so great that the rocks on its summit looked almost liquid. The heavy leaves of the poplar tree hung limp in the still air, and in the courtyard the ash was silent. The lilac tree sent its perfume through the air to blend with the scent of the herbs in the garden. The day was sweet.