The Whispering Rocks (8 page)

Melissa stood by the bed, her whole bearing one of nervousness. Occasionally she licked her lower lip as if it was dry, and her green eyes glanced time and time again at the window. Outside the rain still fell, lashing against the pane. The naked ash tree in the courtyard bowed to and fro outside the window, its branches occasionally bending so near that they scratched at the glass.

“Draw the curtains, Janie,” said Melissa sharply and the maid, who was folding back the sheets on the bed, hurried to the window. Just for a moment Sarah looked out of the window and saw the tor which had caught her attention before. The curtains shut out the wintry scene and the firelight came into its own. Sarah looked at Melissa again and saw the relief which swept over her as soon as the curtains were drawn.

Looking at the maid who was kneeling by the fire, Sarah was reminded of Betty. She tried to force away memories, but to no avail; they crowded into her mind, painful with their freshness. She held her breath, walking to the fire and holding out her hands to the warmth. The tears were determined, but she was equally determined. She did not wish to weep in front of strangers, and especially not in front of Melissa who was so distant toward her.

The silence in the room was oppressive; she must say something to break it. She turned to Melissa. “Miss Ransome, my gown is so wet, perhaps you could find one of yours for me to wear until my own clothing arrives.” She smiled in as friendly a way as she could, but her efforts met with a blank, stony wall of coolness.

Without even a nod of her head Melissa left the room, her skirts hissing like so many snakes. Sarah sighed and turned back to the fire. The maids and the butler had gone and she was alone. She stared around her at the hangings and ornaments.

It was a gentle room, the choice of a gentle woman, she decided, and thought for the first time how quickly she could become at ease in surroundings such as these. Everything about the room was in tune with Sarah’s own taste and character. How strange, she thought suddenly, that she, a stranger, could be so at home, when the daughter of the woman whose room it had been was so obviously ill at ease.

Upon the mantelpiece a small clock ticked quietly in its glass case on which was painted an ornate and incredible dragon. The dragon crept round and round the base of the glass case until its open jaws threatened to devour its own tail. It was a fearsome beast and yet in this room, it was merely decorative. Another Buddha stood on the table by the bed—a small Buddha this time without the shining emerald eyes of the other one, but it too had a head which wobbled when Sarah reached out to touch it.

She jumped as there came a tap on the door and the maid called Janie returned. Janie was a buxom country girl with wide blue eyes and neatly plaited, straw-colored hair.

“Please, miss, I’ve been sent to tell you there’s hot water for a bath if you want one.”

“Oh, yes, please.”

“Very well, miss. I’ll tell the men to bring everything.”

“Thank you, Janie.”

The girl dimpled with pleasure that Sarah had remembered her name. “The master said that I was to attend you, miss, if that’s all right. He said that your maid had ... had—”

Sarah nodded quickly. “Yes, Janie, I’d very much like you to attend me. I’m sure we’ll get on well together.”

The door closed, but soon the men were carrying a hip-bath into the room and a chain of maids came and went with steaming kettles of hot water. Janie stood importantly supervising it all and then shooed them out, closing the door. She dragged a lacquered blue screen around the bath and then helped Sarah to take off her cold, wet clothes.

“Oh, miss, what a mess you’re in. I’m sorry your introduction to Mannerby has been so awful.”

The maid carefully laid the spoiled clothes over the back of a chair, unpinning the little amber brooch on the shoulder of the woolen gown. “What a pretty thing, miss.”

Sarah nodded, taking it from the maid. “It was my mother’s. It’s all I have to remember her by now.”

‘Shall I put it safe, miss?”

“Yes, please.”

“Here, in this little porcelain dish. That’s where old Mrs. Ransome liked to keep her most precious things.”

“Thank you, Janie.”

Sarah sank into the warm, steaming water, closing her eyes with pleasure. How good it felt. She took the soap and cloth which Janie held out to her and washed her arms and legs.

“Are you courting, Janie?” She tried hard to be friendly because she felt so lonely, and missed Betty’s chatter so very much.

“Oh yes, miss. I’m Martin’s girl.”

“Martin? Oh yes, I recall. He’s the one who lives in the gatehouse.”

“Yes, and he looks after the courtyard and outside of the house, tends to the garden, prunes the trees, and so on.” Janie was obviously very proud of her young man.

Sarah smiled. “I wish you happiness then, Janie.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and went, pulling the screen around again to keep out the drafts which seemed able to creep in anywhere at will.

Sarah set down the soap at last and lay back in the bath, soaking deliciously in the water. She heard Janie brushing the clean gown Melissa had at last sent in—and then suddenly the maid was looking round the screen again. “Is this yours, miss? I found it on the floor just by the door.”

Sarah stared at a heavy signet ring which the maid held in her hand. She took it, turning it over so that it caught the light of the fire. There was something familiar about it.... Her brows drew together, puzzled. Of course! It was the design on the front: a rook with outstretched wings—such as was found all over her father’s house. But what was a woman’s ring with her father’s crest on it doing here at Mannerby? She turned it again and saw that there was an inscription on the inside:
My love is as endless as this ring. Edward. 1814.

Janie suddenly clapped her hands and laughed. “Of course, how silly of me. It’s Miss Melissa’s ring. She brought it back from London last autumn.”

Sarah gave the ring to the maid. The ring was Melissa’s? Edward had given a ring to Melissa Ransome? Everything began to fall neatly into place as Sarah watched the dancing flames in the fireplace. Melissa was the woman Edward loved, the woman he wished to marry and would have married had it not been for Sarah.

Her head ached with the effort of coping with this new development. So much had happened already today without still more. What a terrible quirk of fate that she should have been sent here of all places. Was that, then, why Paul Ransome was so cold and distant? No, on second thought, Sarah began to doubt that Paul could know of his sister’s affair with Edward Stratford. For surely he would never have allowed Sarah to come to Mannerby if he had known.

She stood as Janie brought a warm towel for her. Oh dear, why had her father chosen this of all houses? Practically any other place in England would have been preferable to Mannerby House.

Melissa’s odd behavior toward Sarah continued. Not once was she openly hostile, choosing to be bright and charming when her brother was near, and then sinking into a sullen, unfriendly silence when he was not. Nothing Sarah said or did could break that silence, and after a week Sarah was feeling inclined not to bother with her. She could so easily have told the girl the truth that she did not want to marry Edward, that indeed she did not even like him, but Melissa’s behavior made such a confidence impossible.

Sarah was now convinced that Paul Ransome knew nothing of his sister’s love for Edward, and she had no wish to precipitate any crisis by anything she said. Paul was as distant and cool as he had been from the outset, and nothing would have made Sarah go to him with her complaints.

So Melissa was free to carry on with her subtle goading, safe in the knowledge that her victim’s pride was a sure protection against Paul’s being made aware of what was going on. Sarah was left only to marvel that an exquisite girl like Melissa Ransome could fall in love with a lout like Edward Stratford. Unkindly she decided that it could only be because of the fortune he might one day inherit.

No letter came from Rook House. And, more important to Sarah, she heard nothing from Jack Holland. Two days after her arrival she wrote a small, sad little note to Liza, telling her of Betty’s death. The letter had been sent as it was, complete with the marks of Sarah’s tears, for she could not think of Betty without weeping. But at least she no longer had to rely on Melissa for her clothes.

The coach had at last arrived and she had her own wardrobe again. Janie had as little idea of fashion and etiquette as Sarah, and so from the first day Sarah’s hair had merely been brushed loose and then tied back with a ribbon. Gone were the delicate Grecian tresses, which Melissa’s maid managed so well and about which Janie had no idea. Melissa had been slyly delighted with her rival’s appearance, for Sarah no longer looked the belle of Society.

It crossed Sarah’s mind several times to write to her father, explaining the situation and asking him to take her back; but each time she decided against such a course. Why should she allow Melissa to win, for win she would if she succeeded in sending the enemy scuttling back whence she came.

Seven days after the accident, Betty was buried. It was a single funeral, for they still searched the length of Hob’s Brook for Armand’s body and for that of his horse. But there was no sign of either.

As the bell tolled sadly, Sarah sat before her mirror tying the black ribbons of her bonnet. She looked angrily at her reflection. Her wardrobe may have been expensive but it was incomplete, for there was no mourning gown. Many long moments of discussion with Janie had produced this odd combination of a dull donkey brown gown and a black straw bonnet. There were no black gloves, no black stockings, and no black mantle.

“My amber pin, Janie. I think I shall wear it.”

“Oh yes, miss, it will look well with the brown gown.” The maid took the lid from the porcelain dish, but the brooch was not there. “It’s gone, miss....”

Sarah took the dish and stared in dismay. “But where could it be? I’ve not worn it since the day I arrived!”

Janie’s eyes were large. “Oh, miss, I swear I put it there!”

Sarah smiled gently. “I know you did, Janie. Please don’t be upset about it.” She glanced at the floor, half hoping to see it there, but the carpet had been freshly brushed that very morning.

“But, miss, someone must have taken it then.”

The words fell awkwardly in the room. Uncomfortably Sarah stood. “No matter, the pin was of no great value.” But she was more upset about the disappearance of the little brooch than she cared to reveal to the anxious maid.

Along the passageway, Melissa came out of her room on her way to the church. Janie had just opened the door for Sarah and they stared at the apparition of elegant mourning which rustled toward them. Melissa was clad from head to toe in black crepe and her face was hidden by a thick black veil. The scent of musk hung in the air as she passed without speaking.

Janie caught her mistress’s eye sadly. Miss Sarah was the chief mourner. In fact, she was the only person to have even known Betty, and yet Miss Melissa was sweeping to the church as if attending a royal funeral. It was not right.

The bad weather had persisted all week, but now the rain had dwindled to a fine drizzle which was blown damply through the air by the wind. Sarah looked down from her window as Melissa emerged from the doorway of the house, carefully rearranging the black veil. The ash tree scratched at the window as if it had fingers, and Melissa heard it, glancing up quickly and seeing Sarah’s face looking down. But Melissa did not seem to be looking at Sarah; she was looking at the branches of the ash tree. She hurried across the courtyard and across the street. Sarah watched her open the lych-gate and go up the pathway between the yew trees in the churchyard. Now she would go down herself.

Paul was waiting in the entrance hall. “Where’s Melissa?”

“She has already gone to the church.”

He did not look pleased, for it was more fitting that the entire party from the manor house should go to the church together. But Sarah did not care what he felt or how he thought, for her single week under his roof had only increased her dislike of him. He obviously still held her completely to blame for the scandal at Rook House; she was convinced too that when he looked at her he saw only Stratford’s daughter. She felt that daily he became more averse to her, although in what way she could not really say; it just seemed that each day he found it more difficult to be even passingly polite.

As she put her hand on his arm to walk to the church she wondered yet again if she should write to her father, for even the prospect of Rook House with all its unpleasantness was preferable to Mannerby. At least at Rook House the resentment and dislike were not so very personal and close as they were here.

Martin was waiting by the gates, cap in hand. He was going to the funeral and was waiting for Janie, who walked behind her mistress. His smile faded as he observed Sarah and he looked at her in a way which made her feel uncomfortable. Instantly she wondered about her clothing, horribly aware of the dreadful mixture of donkey brown and black. Was it so bad that even Martin noticed it?

The street was muddy and puddles rested in every crevice. Paul guided her carefully through the water and then they were at the lych-gate. The slow clip-clop of the hearse could be heard and Sarah stopped, turning to look down the street as the black carriage came slowly up the hill, drawn by two dark horses with plumes on their heads. The driver cracked his whip slightly as they struggled at their slow pace. The plain coffin was unexpectedly adorned by a huge wreath of white velvet lilies which bobbed heavily in the glass-sided hearse, protected from the drizzle.

Sarah stared. Who had sent such an expensive wreath? As the hearse stopped by the lych-gate she saw her own little bouquet, a small bunch of snowdrops she had gathered that morning in the kitchen garden. Beside the monstrous wreath it looked pitifully inadequate. The hearse creaked as the pallbearers lifted the coffin.