by Karen Kay
Then slowly she stepped back toward the picture.
She lifted the candle. She gulped.
The windows suddenly flew open, a breeze rushing in, the candle snuffed out by it and as Estrela glanced toward the window, her hand flew to her mouth.
There, by the window, silhouetted against the moonlight had been a figure, quickly gone now; a figure of a woman, a woman with something in her hand. A knife.
Estrela stifled the scream in her throat and spinning back around she came face to face with, stared straight into the eyes of…
She screamed.
Chapter Twenty
Black Bear awakened to the sound.
He felt beside him. She was gone.
Black Bear shot up and was out of the room, leaping down the stairs, his breechcloth tied haphazardly around him, his bow in his hand, his quiver on his back before even a minute elapsed.
He tore through the house. Where was she? What was she doing alone? And why hadn’t he awakened when she’d left their bed?
He cursed himself a thousand times, an English habit he’d acquired, as he fled through the house. He’d been too exhausted, too spent.
Damn! He’d been taught all his life to sleep lightly, to anticipate trouble. He’d had protecting others trained into him from the time he could walk.
And for what good?
When he’d needed all that training most, he’d slept right through danger.
He shot through the house, checking each room, despairing.
Where was she?
“Your Royal ’ighness.”
Estrela stared straight up into the eyes of the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Gottman?”
“It ’as been a long time since me eyes ’ave be’eld ye, child,” the older lady stated.
“Yes,” Estrela said, holding up the candle which she had relit to see the woman better. “I remember you now. I had thought you looked familiar when we first arrived here.” Estrela’s gaze trailed down from the woman’s face to the knife the older lady still held in her hand.
“Oh, forgive me, Your ’ighness.” Mrs. Gottman lay the knife aside on a nearby table. “There ’as been trouble ’ere this past mont’ and I am nervous in this ’ousehold. ’As been a rash of murders, M’lady, and ye did but frighten me.”
“Murders?”
“Yes, Your Royal ’ighness,” the housekeeper said. “It would seem all t’ servants from t’ old Earl’s ’ousehold are in danger. I be t’ last one now who still lives.”
Estrela stared at the older lady, whose younger image even now kept flashing into her mind. “Then you must have a care,” she said, reaching out to touch the older lady’s hand.
Estrela’s gaze flicked to the painting.
“It was so long ago, it seems,” Mrs. Gottman said, herself staring at the painting. “My, but ye were a pretty child. ’Tis you w’ yer grandfather,” she said and smiled, still gazing at the painting. “T’ King.”
“The King?”
Mrs. Gottman nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Prince Regent, King George the Fourth, God rest ’is soul. ’E ’as been gone from us now seven years.”
“He has? He was… Then that means I am…”
“Princess. Yes, Your Royal ’ighness. Did ye not know it?”
Estrela glanced over to the picture, a painting of a man, portly in his older age, and a young, blond-headed girl. Both smiled serenely, their images imbued with life and color there forever, the older gentleman wearing a jeweled crown and the long, red train denoting his station, the young child dressed in white gown and smiling happily toward the painter.
“I cried and cried t’ night ye left us. Ye ’ad been w’ us since ye were a babe and I remember feelin’ as though me own child was leavin’.”
Estrela glanced again at the picture, then back to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Gottman,” she said, “tell me. Do you remember my parents?”
The older lady smiled. “I remember yer mother well,” she said. “I was then servant in t’ Royal ’ousehold. Princess Charlotte. Stubborn, willful, beautiful. She caught and ’eld t’ eye of Prince Leopold.”
“My father?”
Mrs. Gottman smiled. “Yes. Theirs was a love affair. A true love affair, not one of t’ose arranged things.”
Estrela smiled. “What happened?”
“She died giving birth. It was a boy, a dead baby boy at birth a’ all of England mourned at ’is loss. But then all of England thought that was t’ only child she bore t’at night. No one knew about ye, about a twin. No one knew about ye because—”
The wind howled in through the open window as though in warning. It faded the older woman’s words away and caught Estrela’s attention.
Estrela looked away, then back to the older lady. “Because?” she prompted.
“Because yer grandfather feared fer yer life if it were known ye existed.”
“Why?”
An image of a man flickered across the window, his shadow clear in the early morning dawn.
Both Mrs. Gottman and Estrela gasped.
“Who was that?” It was Estrela who spoke. Mrs. Gottman turned wide eyes to Estrela. “It canna be.”
“Mrs. Gottman!”
“Sir Connie.”
Estrela spun around. No one was there. “Sir Connie?” Estrela asked quickly. “Mrs. Gottman, who is Sir Connie? Was he here?”
“It does na matter. It canna be. Come, Your ’ighness. ’Tis danger ’ere in this ’ouse, in this room.”
She didn’t say anymore, nor did she remain in the room longer than necessary to cover the painting, returning it to its anonymity behind the red curtain.
She ushered Estrela out of the room, and they had no more than entered the sitting room when Estrela turned back toward the housekeeper. “Mrs. Gottman, do you know Sir Connie?”
“Yes, I—”
A window broke.
Someone threw a burning rushlight through the window.
Another window broke behind them.
Another flaming rushlight shot across the floor, a wooden floor in a room filled with wooden furniture.
It happened quickly then. The room went up in a blaze. The walls, the floors, even the furniture itself, all wood set to fire as though these things were mere kindling.
Estrela grabbed Mrs. Gottman, who stood frozen and fixed, and threw herself and the older woman to the floor.
“Stay low,” Estrela ordered. “You must not breathe the smoke. We will crawl out.”
“’Tis murder,” Mrs. Gottman cried. “I was t’ last of t’ ’ousehold. A’ now…”
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Estrela said, as though by her will it would not happen. “We will survive. Now crawl with me.”
“No. I canna.”
“Yes, you can.” Estrela placed her arms around the older lady and by sheer will alone, crawled toward the door.
And then it happened.
A pillar broke loose from a wall.
It crashed to the floor, over Estrela, over Mrs. Gottman, effectively trapping them both.
The two lay pinned to the floor, underneath the pillar, while the fire blazed all about them, its flames licking ever closer and closer.
But Estrela could not give up. She would not. If not for herself, then for Mrs. Gottman.
It was in the front of the house, somewhere Black Bear would never have thought to look.
He smelled the smoke, he saw the flames, he heard the screams.
Waste Ho.
He rushed toward that place, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. And reaching there, he almost wept.
Fire raged everywhere.
It looked impossible and yet—Waste Ho was in there.
Black Bear hesitated not even an instant. He rushed upstairs, grabbing his buffalo robe, then back down, out into the morning air, to the side of the house where he had seen a water butt. And there dipping his robe into the water, he waited and paced. Wance, nunpa, yamini. One, two, three.
He lift
ed the robe out of the water and tugging it into place over him; he shot back into the house, back into the room.
Flames darted around him, boards and furniture falling before him, smoke making it hard for him to breathe.
He couldn’t see her through the flames.
He hollered.
She answered back and Black Bear fled toward the sound.
He could see her now. Her foot was trapped, but she wasn’t struggling to free herself; she worked over the pillar that had trapped another, a woman who lay unconscious beneath the weight.
Black Bear ran toward them.
He freed Estrela at once.
“Leave!” he ordered her. “I will help the woman.”
“No!” Estrela cried. “She is an old friend. I will not leave her.”
Black Bear didn’t argue. There was no time. He set to work.
Wood crackled, walls creaked, plaster fell inward, flames whipped all around them.
The older woman awoke. “Go!” she said. “Leave me.”
“Hiya!”
“No!”
The older woman gasped. “I kinna breathe. It is no use. Leave.”
“We have you almost freed,” Estrela cried. “You will leave with us.”
Black Bear at that moment moved the pillar, and Estrela, with a burst of strength, pulled the housekeeper loose. Then Black Bear and Estrela dragged the older woman across the floor.
He spread his buffalo robe around them and getting them all to their feet, Black Bear, holding the older woman up, guided them to a window where, crashing the glass with his foot, he lifted both women through it, jumping through himself last. He hit the ground, rolling over and over in the dewy, wet grass, coming to his knees in an instant.
He crawled over to Estrela, feeling her everywhere, satisfying himself Waste Ho still lived.
He sat back, watching Estrela kneel over the older lady, the lady he now recognized.
Estrela held the hand of the woman, who lay unconscious before her.
“Do not leave me,” Estrela cried over and over. And as though in answer, the housekeeper opened her eyes. She glanced around wildly until, catching sight of Estrela, she smiled. “Doctor,” she murmured. “Important…doctor.”
It was the last thing she uttered, the last breath she took.
And Waste Ho, tears and soot running down her face, howled.
A raven chose that moment to take wing and fly, Estrela unaware of the movement; Black Bear, however, watched its motion, its path, the very flap of its wings, as it, a bird of prey, fled the scene.
Black Bear crouched down low, studying the boot prints left behind in the early-morning dew.
He followed the trail.
So, whoever sought to kill Waste Ho, Estrela, had not lived in this house.
The prints had originated from the bushes at the side of the house. Following them, Black Bear came upon more prints, though the boots were always the same.
One man. One horse.
And small feet.
Had Black Bear been anything but Indian, he would have smiled at this moment. But he didn’t. He merely looked at the ground. This person walked with a limp, something easily discernible from the tracks. The print of one foot, the right, was more deeply embedded in the grass than the other.
This man would be easy to find. It might take time, it might take patience. But this trail, Black Bear could follow.
At last, Black Bear lifted his head, thrusting his chin forward.
And all at once, he smiled.
There were no other casualties in the house fire, though the Duchess of Colchester lost all her linens and fine clothing, which she had brought with her in a trunk.
But no other servant, no other person lay trapped beneath the burning fire. As those in the household, a gathering of thirty to forty people, stood on the lawn, Estrela watched the flames devour the home she had only just remembered.
Black Bear had brought her here to help her remember. His plan had worked. Old images had been revived, the past recollected. But to no avail. As far as she knew, with this fire went all physical proof as to who she was.
She had found it, only to lose it.
Odd, too, she didn’t mourn that loss. No. Not that loss; it was something else.
In remembering, she had at last recalled the presence of a friendly woman in her early life, someone who had been as a mother to her, Mrs. Gottman.
She sniffled and Black Bear pulled her slight body more fully into the warmth of his own. “What did she say?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly in her ear.
Estrela swallowed. “She called out for a doctor,” Estrela answered quietly. “’Tis all.”
Black Bear nodded. “Wanunhecun,” was all he said. “Mistake.” And to the Lakota, who had no word for “sorry”, his expression related all the sorrow that he felt and, oddly enough, gave her all the comfort she needed.
It was enough.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Jolly good to see you this morning.”
Estrela pulled up on her mount this pleasant day in November and smiled. “So nice to see you, too, M’lord.”
Prince Frederick grinned at her as he met her on the pathway at Shelburne Hall, but he really didn’t look at her. His gaze scanned the area around her. And at last, not finding that which he sought, he bestowed his glance upon Estrela.
Nearly a month had passed since that fire at the Earl of Langsford’s estate; nearly a month Estrela fought with herself, with her feelings of guilt over her inability to save Mrs. Gottman. And though she tried to tell herself that there was nothing more she could have done, it didn’t seem to help.
A horse whinnied, breaking into her thoughts, and Estrela glanced up quickly to look at Prince Frederick. She smiled. The man was holding his horse steady with one hand on the reins while he reached up to snatch a handkerchief from his pocket, and snapping the material in the air as was his habit, he brought the kerchief to his face.
“’Tis so hard,” he said, “to find good help these days. I do wish I had a manservant who was as good as your maid. And while we’re on the subject…” he hesitated, as though to inject just the right amount of disinterest into his voice, “…where is the maiden in question?”
“Oh.” Estrela pretended surprise. “You mean Anna?”
“Yes,” he replied, lifting his chin upward as he sniffed the air. “Rightly so.”
“She will be along in a moment. Yet I must tell you that she quite protests my requiring her company today, though she used to join me every day without question. She suddenly seems to believe that her place is in the house, attending to my chambers, straightening my rooms, taking care of my clothes. I’m afraid, sir…” here Estrela gave the Prince a flippant look, “…I’m quite afraid that Anna is turning into a prude.”
“Lady!”
Estrela laughed. “I do believe that Anna suffers from the malady. She seems to believe that just because she is my maid, she is not allowed to enjoy a quiet walk with me, a leisurely ride, a picnic. She seems to believe only her peers are entitled to such things. Why…” Estrela lowered her lashes, “…she may need someone to inform her differently. Someone besides myself, someone—ah, perhaps from the aristocracy. Someone…” she glanced all at once at the Prince, “…like yourself.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Estrela smiled. “Someone like yourself. Will you do it?”
“M’lady. I…well, I…”
“Shh! Here she comes now.”
Anna rode toward them on a hack that looked more nag than horseflesh. The animal’s back was swayed, her coat drab, her eyes glossy and she kept stopping to graze at the lawn while Anna sat quietly atop her, waiting.
Estrela chuckled. “Anna.” She raised her voice to be heard. “Just jiggle the reins and click and she’ll come here.”
“I can’t, M’lady.”
“Of course you can.” Estrela grinned. “Just—”
“I say,” Prince Frederick spoke from beside
Estrela, “may I be of assistance?” He was already trotting his horse toward the maiden, who, wearing one of Estrela’s riding habits, complete with top hat, looked more lady than maid.
The maid smiled at him as he approached, and patting her nag gently on the neck, she welcomed the Prince with softly spoken words that Estrela could not hear. Nor did she wish to listen. It was obvious to her that the Prince and her maid were attracted to one another. What was to become of that attraction depended on the two of them and their ability to battle society’s insistence on the status quo of its aristocracy.
There was little Estrela could do about it besides provide a constant friendship and a willing ear, should the need ever arise.
In the meantime she escorted Anna on their morning excursions where they inevitably met Prince Frederick, Estrela providing the necessary chaperon, although in truth, it was supposed to appear that the maid furnished escort and chaperon for the lady.
It was an odd day for November, but Estrela did not see it. As she rode up ahead of her maid and the Prince, Estrela hardly took note of her surroundings, her mind working over her own problems, which were considerable. But she looked up now and again and as she beheld the countryside more and more around her, her vision began to clear and Estrela suddenly noticed something. There was something unusual about this day.
It wasn’t in the trees; they were still bleak. It wasn’t in the grass, which was most commonly brown or golden, nor was it in the air, still seasonably cool and crisp. It was in the sky, the clear, blue, cloudless sky. The hour was early in the morning and yet the sky, which was normally overcast and dreary this time of year, was blue; even the sun, now risen, was strange for a November day. It felt warm upon her back, an unexpected sensation. And although its warmth was certainly not hot enough to heat the chill in the air, its presence upon her was invigorating.
She glimpsed a man out in the woods as she gazed off to the side, another. Ah, yes. The fox hunt season had begun as of last Monday, the first Monday in November, and as Estrela glanced about her, she saw several more people up and out early this mom.
