The Whispering Rocks (6 page)

“Oh, Betty, you tell me! I’ve no idea. I doubt if I ever shall. Just make certain that I wear my mother’s brooch—the rest I’ll leave to you!”

Betty took the amber pin from the dressing table and looked at it, frowning. “Sir Peter won’t like you wearing it; he says it’s not grand enough for his daughter.”

“It embarrasses him because it was his only gift to my mother.” Sarah took a perverse pleasure in wearing the brooch before her father.

Betty grinned and chose a dress, and soon Sarah was ready to go down the stairs for her final breakfast at Rook House. How she loathed these meals and having to sit with her father and his guests; at least during the hours between she could hide herself away. But soon it would all be over and she would be on her way to Mannerby. She sighed inwardly, remembering Paul Ransome’s savage whispering the day before.

The chatter in the dining room died away as she entered. She moved to the long side table and took a plate from the warming tray, inspecting the vast selection of dishes which steamed invitingly. As she lifted a heavy silver lid, the strong aroma of kedgeree drifted upward. If there was one thing Sarah could not bear, it was the smell of fish first thing in the morning. With a clatter she dropped back the lid to seal in the smell, and the sound was like cannon fire in the polite room. She closed her eyes, cursing her gaucherie which made into a nightmare even a small task like choosing her breakfast.

Edward was naturally delighted at this further exhibition of his cousin’s unease in her new surroundings, and he tried to catch his mother’s eye. But Hermione was busy with a full plate and ignored her son for once. Shrugging, he applied himself to his own meal, glancing now and then at his reflection in a huge mirror on the wall. The way he patted his bright golden curls was so narcissistic that Sarah wondered if he could ever manage to fall in love with someone else.

She walked toward her seat, not bothering to look at anyone. She inclined her head coolly to the butler who hurried to pull out her chair for her.

* * *

The carriage which was to take her on her journey rumbled to the front of the house, stopping beside the moat, the horses stamping and snorting in the crisp winter sunshine. Sarah watched, noticing that storm clouds were once again looming on the horizon. Two horsemen rode slowly up toward the house and she soon recognized one as Paul Ransome.

It was not long before he was shown into the dining room, where he took a seat and poured himself some black coffee. Edward paused in the act of touching his curls again, his eyes widening as he saw Paul’s reflection in the mirror. He turned swiftly. “Oh, I say, Ransome! What brings you here? Er ... how’s Melissa?”

Paul seemed surprised. “She’s well enough, thank you.”

Hermione glared ferociously at her son and he colored, continuing with his breakfast in silence. Sarah watched with interest. What had her cousin said that was so reprehensible? Hermione looked ready to strangle him.

Sir Peter breezed into the room complete with new ebony cane from Bond Street, smiling benignly at his assembled guests. He was in an excellent mood and inclined to be garrulous, and soon the room was noisy with small talk. Hermione seemed almost relieved at her brother-in-law’s presence and Sarah noticed how quickly Edward finished and took his leave.

Conversation drifted on, but Sarah suddenly paid attention as she heard Paul speak to her father. “They’ve found Holland, by the way. Or perhaps I should say that he turned up. He walked into Boodles club as large as life—caught them all on the hop.”

Stratford nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. “I dare say. Well, now we’ll see how much influence he really has! I shall watch events with great interest.”

Most of the guests murmured agreement, for everyone was curious to know exactly how far Jack could go. Sarah stoically continued with her breakfast, pretending to be unconcerned and unaware of the glances she once more attracted at the mention of Jack. The toast was suddenly like cardboard in her mouth, and the apricot preserve tasteless. Oh, Jack, Jack ... She bowed her head to stare at a slice of toast. She must be honest with herself, she thought, for she was more than halfway to being in love with Jack Holland. And what a hopeless love it must be, for a man like that would never, never do anything but toy with her.

The breakfast table echoed with derogatory remarks about their recent companion. Not one spoke up in his defense, but she noticed the dry expression on Paul Ransome’s face as he watched them. He said nothing at all, merely sat back to watch. It seemed to amuse him to be a spectator at this particular theater.

She put down her cup with a crack and all heads swung toward her. She wiped her mouth daintily with a clean napkin and then stood, the butler not reaching her chair in time to prevent her from dragging it backward loudly. She surveyed the sea of faces before her. “Mr. Holland is in trouble because he came to my defense, and it shames me to hear you all talking about him in this way.”

“Sarah Jane!” Her father spoke sharply, his eyes warning her to be silent.

“No, Father, I’ll say my piece. It’s not right that—”

“Sarah! That’s enough!” Sir Peter’s dreadfully quiet voice silenced her abruptly.

Paul Ransome watched her, and as she walked from the room he was the only one to stand politely.

Within an hour she was watching the final trunk being strapped to the back of the large traveling coach. Paul was talking to her father, and his companion held the reins of the two horses.

Suddenly the straps holding the last trunk snapped and it fell to the ground with a crash, startling Paul’s black stallion, which jerked nervously. The man who held it spoke soothingly, and Sarah realized quite suddenly that he was French. He was small and dark-skinned, with a mop of curly brown hair and eyes which were almost unnaturally bright. Golden earrings glinted as he dismounted to steady the worried animal.

Sarah did not look back at the house as the carriage swayed down the driveway. She snuggled down in the warm blankets which had been spread over her knees, and wriggled her toes against the earthenware bottle of scalding water which rested at her feet. Betty sat opposite, leaning forward sharply as she remembered something.

“Liza! I forgot to wave to Liza.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll understand how excited you are.”

Betty looked relieved. “Do you think so? That’s all right then. I’d ‘ate for ‘er to be angry with me.”

The coach swept out through the stone pillars flanking the end of the driveway. On the top of each rested a carved rook, wings outstretched, beak open. Sarah glanced up and on impulse put her tongue out at the uninterested, unconcerned birds.

“Miss Sarah!” Betty smothered a giggle.

Sarah smiled, but the smile faded as she caught the stare of Paul Ransome, who had witnessed the entire incident. She conquered the impulse to put out her tongue at him too—but it was with great effort, a very great effort!

The storm Sarah had seen approaching was not long in breaking. Only a few hours after the coach had left Rook House the deluge began, and the journey to Dartmoor was accomplished through the worst of England’s weather. The rain streamed down in torrents, pitting the already poor roads and turning some into rivers of mud. The carriage sank axle-deep sometimes, and Sarah and Betty had to stand out in the downpour while the men freed the wheel. Sarah’s morale descended with the rain. Was this a portent of the coming weeks at Mannerby?

The horses hung their heads low as they plodded along the muddy tracks which were beginning to climb now toward the distant outline of Dartmoor’s peaks and tors. Sir Peter’s coachmen were cold and miserable as they sat in their exposed position, and the Frenchman did not look as if he was enjoying the journey, for he seemed nervous and taut. Only Paul seemed unconcerned by the inclement weather, for his face brightened with each step which took him closer to his home, his beloved village of Mannerby.

The wind whined through the bare branches of the silver birch trees which lined the roadside and a new coolness crept into the air from the high moorland ahead. Sarah rubbed the misty window of the coach and looked out, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Rivulets of rain ran down past her staring eyes, distorting the countryside, bending and reshaping it until she turned her gaze away. What use was there in looking out? It was like looking upon some landscape from Hell—a Hell flooded instead of burning.

The coach lurched unexpectedly to a standstill and she gripped a strap quickly to prevent herself from falling from the hard seat. The coachmen’s anxious voices could be heard, and the shadowy shape of Paul’s black horse passed the blurred window.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted, his horse slithering to a stop on the treacherous surface.

“It’s that stream ahead, sir. ‘Tis too deep. The coach will either flood or float away. Or turn turtle!” The coachman’s tone was doom-laden.

“It’s Hob’s Brook. It rises high on the moor and always floods swiftly when there’s rain. Unfortunately there’s no other way to Mannerby. We shall have to cross here.”

“But, sir, the coach cannot ... and what about the ladies?”

“I’ll consult them now. Armand, take the reins for a moment.” He dismounted, handing the Turk’s sticky reins to the Frenchman, who looked thoughtfully back at the rushing, angry waters of the normally peaceful brook.

The door of the coach opened and the rain blustered in. Betty pulled her blanket more tightly around her knees, her teeth chattering. Paul looked in, his top hat glistening and his sandy hair wet and clinging to his face.

“The stream ahead is in flood and the coach cannot pass. You must make up your minds whether you’ll wait here in the coach until the flood abates or whether you’d prefer to be carried across on horseback. Mannerby is barely two miles over that hill beyond the stream.”

He pointed with his riding crop and his heavy cloak dripped over the interior of the coach. There was something in his voice which antagonized Sarah. He was so disinterested in which course they chose, she thought angrily. Perhaps he even hoped they would stay in the coach, for then he would be spared their company a little longer.

She glowered at him stonily. “If we remain here until the flood abates I’d imagine the daffodils will be in bloom before we reach our destination!”

His brown eyes flickered. “Then you had best prepare yourselves to be carried across on horseback.”

“By you, Mr. Ransome?” Her voice was as chilly as the rain.

“Yes.”

“But what of the coach horses? Can they not be unharnessed?”

“Hardly suitable steeds for ladies, Miss Stratford.” He was faintly bored by her questions.

“Horses are horses, Mr. Ransome, and I consider myself quite capable of riding a coach horse!”

“The animals pulling this coach are not in the same category as docile gray mares, madam.”

So he knew about that, did he? She felt the telltale blush begin to creep across her face. “Do not judge my riding capabilities by the tittle-tattle you’ve heard, Mr. Ransome, Tell the men to unharness two coach horses for us.”

“But, Miss Sarah, I can’t ride!” Betty’s voice was horror-filled.

The Frenchman maneuvered the two thoroughbreds nearer. “The ladies can ride with us, Monsieur Ransome.” He looked at Sarah.

Paul nodded. “Miss Stratford shall ride with me.” He glanced with a sugary sweetness at Sarah’s stormy face, thinking that he had put her well and truly in her place.

The man was insufferable! Sarah’s stubborn heart refused to accept his overbearing attitude. “Mr. Ransome, my mind is made up. I shall cross by myself on one of the coach horses.” Her words were evenly spaced and calm, but inwardly she was seething with anger.

He gave up and slammed the door.

“Hateful man,” muttered Sarah, but she was pleased to have needled him sufficiently to make him slam the door in so ungentlemanly a way. Well, her powers of estimation were proving lamentable when it came to seeing who was friend and who was foe. First there had been her father, who was no more filled with paternal love than was a slug.

Then she had made such a dismal mistake with Ralph Jameson, and finally there was Mr. Paul Ransome, who was not at all as friendly and open as his countenance had at first suggested. He disliked her father and yet showed a falsely amenable face to him; then he professed himself only too willing and pleased to give shelter to her when in fact he was outraged at the very request.

“Oh, Betty, I begin to shudder at what Miss Melissa Ransome will be like,” she sighed.

She opened the door and stepped out of the coach—straight into a puddle which lapped eagerly at her skirts and soaked into her crisp white undergarments. Her shoes sucked loudly as she struggled out of the puddle and on to firmer land. Paul’s face bore no expression but she could sense that he thought it served her right for being so obstinate. A coach horse had been unharnessed and the two coachmen exchanged glances as she approached. They were curious to see what happened next.

The Frenchman leaned down from his mount to touch her arm. “Please, madame! Let me assist you across.”

She looked up into his intense dark eyes, suddenly disliking him. “No, thank you. I’m well able to take care of myself.” She moved away from him.

Paul stepped forward and pointed down the track to where the creaming, foaming waters of Hob’s Brook rushed and gurgled across the road. “Are you confident enough for that, Miss Stratford? Set aside all else and speak honestly with me, for I wouldn’t wish any harm to come to you.”

There was no antagonism in his tone, no hint of mockery, and so she answered with equal civility. “I can manage well enough, Mr. Ransome, believe me. But if Armand would help poor Betty—”

He nodded at the Frenchman, and then walked with Sarah to the bay horse, trying once more. “I beg of you—”

“Please, Mr. Ransome! The thought of riding bareback holds no terror for me. Will you help me to mount, please?”

He lifted her on to the broad back of the horse, pretending not to notice the inelegant and unladylike display of ankles, legs and underskirts which were thus revealed. She settled herself as comfortably as possible, watching Armand reach down to pull Betty up behind him. The Frenchman’s eyes swung to her again, strange in their peculiar brightness.