by Janet Woods
‘My apologies.’ Gerard shuddered as he subsided back into his chair. ‘I cannot bear to think of her suffering. I was hasty in my judgement.’
A grin curled his way. ‘You’re often hasty.’ Draining his glass, James rose from the chair and casually held it out to be refilled. ‘If you intend to kill the marquis in a sword duel you must develop a thicker skin. Although you’re now as skilled as he with the sword, you’re easily goaded into anger. It expends itself in energy, and you lose the edge over your opponent. The marquis has no such failing. He’s calculating. He’s quick to find an opponent’s weakness to exploit, and fights to kill. Remember that.’
‘He sent his dogs to murder me whilst I slept, then scuttled off abroad.’ Gerard grimaced in disgust. ‘That sounds more like a coward’s way than a man who’s confident he can beat me at swordplay.’
‘I admit he’s not fought with swords for some time, preferring the pistol of late. I should imagine he’ll be honing his skills at the Paris Academy. Remember, Gerard, the man is full of trickery.’ James poked a bony finger into his chest. ‘You made him look a fool in public, he’ll never forgive you for that.’ James grinned as he lazily scrutinized Gerard from head to toe. ‘At the risk of sounding indelicate, I’ve noticed Willow occupies much of your time. Far be it for me to interfere between husband and wife, but you have the look of a man whose balls are pickled in perfume at the moment.’
Gerard nearly choked on his drink.
‘Spend your afternoons indulging in another type of swordplay unless you intend to make her a widow. I guarantee, it will be time well spent.’
She would not like it. Hearing the rustle of her silken skirts as she paraded past the open study window Gerard allowed his glance to linger on her charms for a brief moment. She was clad in a pale grey pleated gown over a blue quilted petticoat and stomacher. Her straw hat was adorned with a posy of striking red poppies. Matching ribbons fluttered in the breeze. She’d have red ribbons tied around her stockings, he imagined. A smile played around his mouth. She might invite him to undo them with his teeth, like she had the day before. Then again, she might leave her stockings on.
His mouth grew dry at the thought and his groin tightened. She became more innovative each day, and he was fast becoming besotted with her. It would be hard to forgo the sensual delights of their afternoons together, but if that’s what it took… ? He regarded James’ advice with the seriousness it deserved, having a great respect for his skill. If there were faults in his temperament, faults that would rob him of the edge with the marquis, they must be eliminated.
‘When do we start to work?’
‘Sunday’s as good a day as any.’ James dashed his glass of madeira into Gerard’s face.
Incensed by the action, Gerard’s hand shook with rage as he reached for his short sword. It had hardly cleared its scabbard when he froze. The tip of James’s sword, which had been safely sheathed a moment before, pricked blood from the centre of his chest.
James’s eyes were deadly and unwavering, leaving Gerard under no illusion that he was staring death in the face. Opening his hand, he let his sword fall to the floor.
Although James grinned, his eyes remained lethal. ‘That was wise,’ he said softly. ‘Never allow temper to push you to a rash action. A little wine in the face does not kill. A sword does. If you draw your sword, make sure you have the advantage. You may not be given a second chance.’
The sword was withdrawn and returned to its scabbard, the voice became laconic, the eyes faintly amused. ‘Thus endeth your first lesson.’
Gerard had gone to Sheronwood with Robert Bascombe. Jeffrey and James were out riding along the beach, Lady Edwina was resting, and Sapphire was cloistered with Ambrose in the drawing room.
Gerard had been most apologetic when he’d left, explaining that he’d offered Robert Bascombe the management of Sheronwood estate, and he need to be made familiar with the house and grounds before the Saturday hiring fare. He’d been apologetic, but firm. Her soft, lingering kiss had drawn a response from her husband, but not the response she’d wanted.
‘Tonight,’ he’d whispered, his mouth drawing from her depths a promise of passion, and leaving it trembling on the brink of discovery. ‘I’ll come to you tonight, my love.’
‘He no longer finds me attractive,’ she said disconsolately to the kitten, which opened one eye then went back to sleep. ‘If I could have found my red beads to complete this ensemble, the outcome may have been different.’ Knowing she was being selfish and vain, she forgot her beads and gazed through the open window at the soft day.
The scent of lilac drifted in the air, and all manner of flying insects and birds were abroad. Dragonflies skimmed above the ducks on the lake, and two red squirrels—looking like marionettes with their jerkily controlled movements, chased each other around the lawn. If there was ever a more perfect day, she’d never seen it.
Her heart lifted. When she’d wed Gerard, she’d never expected to end up in such a perfect place. She loved it here, and what was more important, loved her husband. But, would he ever love her? Fetching the crystal, she focused into its depths and gradually blotted out all extraneous thought. To her disappointment she couldn’t bring him into the sphere. Instead, an image of her mother appeared. She was surrounded with dappled jade light, like sunlight on water. Her hair floated out behind her, her eyes gazed through the green shades to shadowy figures above her. She turned towards her, her movements graceful as if she floated on air, her eyes— ! Her eyes were lacking life!
Giving a frightened cry Willow dashed the crystal to the floor and watched it shatter into gleaming shards. What had she seen?
Bella came running at the sound, staring at her with round sorrowful eyes. ‘What was it?’ She crossed to the maid and took her by the shoulders. ‘What manner of evil did I see in that devil’s plaything?’
Tears gathered in Bella’s eyes and slowly trickled down her cheek. ‘Speak to me, Bella,’ she said, gently shaking her. ‘My mother said you could, if you’d but try.’
‘It… is… the end of the Sapphire’s journey. That is what you saw.’
Sapphire’s journey? Her eyes suddenly widened in horror. ‘I saw her death? If that’s the future one sees in the crystal I vow to God, I’ll never cast my eyes upon one again.’
Unease gripped her when the sound of voices raised in anger reached her ears. Releasing her grip on Bella’s shoulders she rushed to the window. Coming down the carriageway was a group of villagers brandishing cudgels and hayforks. She picked up the remaining pistol of the pair Gerard had given her, hastily loaded it and hurried downstairs.
‘There’s a mob,’ she said when Lady Edwina poked her head inquisitively out of her room, when she passed. ‘Lock your chamber door and stay inside.’ The old lady obeyed with such alacrity that under different circumstances Willow would have laughed to think she’d accept an order from her, without so much as a murmur.
Sending the first servant she saw to the stables to tell Brian to alert her husband, and with no time to secure the house, she sauntered casually through the front door and stood at the top of the steps, her pistol concealed by her skirts. Lodged in her heart, was a forlorn hope that she might be able to keep the mob at bay until the men returned. Logic told her otherwise.
‘What’s the meaning of this intrusion?’
The mob became quiet at the sight of the lone woman standing at the top of the steps.
‘Speak up,’ she said sharply. ‘You were making enough noise a few seconds ago to raise the dead.’ She fixed her gaze on a large, ruddy-faced man at the front of the group. ‘You! What’s your name?’
‘Bellows, missus.’ The man snatched his hat from his head and automatically held it against his chest in a sign of respect.
‘State your business with the earl. He’s resting at the moment and cannot be disturbed.’ She thanked God that Ambrose was in the drawing room. The noise would not reach there to alert him to the danger.
�
��Go on, Bellows,’ someone shouted from the back. ‘You was making the threats and doing all the cussing at the meeting.’
Bellow’s expression became belligerent when someone laughed. The hat was jammed firmly back over his bald pate. ‘Our business ‘aint with the earl,’ he said loudly. ‘It’s with the sorceress. Hand the woman over to us, and we’ll go quietly.’
‘Sorceress?’ Under no illusion to who the man meant, her heart began to race. ‘Who amongst you accuses the Lytton’s of harboring a sorceress?’
‘Nellie Breton denounces the woman called Sapphire.’ There was some pushing and shoving from the back of the crowd. Grinning self-consciously, Nellie came forward to stand next to the man.
‘Nellie is a poor idiot who knows no better.’ She gave Nellie a smile. ‘You didn’t mean to accuse Sapphire of sorcery, did you, Nellie?’
Nellie’s head jerked up and down in assent.
‘You mustn’ t tell lies,’ she scolded.
‘Nellie doesn’t lie.’ She raised her fist on high. ‘The preacher said she brought the raven, and the raven tells Nellie to do bad things.’
A chill ran down Willow’s spine as her mother joined her on the step.
Bellows cried out. ‘There’s the witch. Let her undergo trial by water.’ He waved a wicked looking sickle in the air. ‘I’ll deal with the mistress of the house, her husband ‘aint going to put me off my land with his new fangled notions.’
‘Stand back.’ She brought up her pistol as a cautionary measure, but it was snatched from her fingers by her mother as Bellows took a step forward.
‘Don’t you hurt my mistress.’ The pistol in Sapphire’s hand discharged just as Nellie threw herself at the man. She took the shot in the head and dropped like a stone.
Imbued with false courage from the ale he’d consumed Bellows shouted belligerently before he could be deprived of his sport, ‘She’s killed poor Nellie. Take her. Let’s get it over with before she kills our children. If she survives trial by water, we’ll know who lied.’
Willow’s voice was desperate. ‘Pray, do not do this, nobody survives the ducking pool.’
‘Do not waste your breath, daughter.’ When her mother gazed deeply into her eyes, a great feeling of love and peace stole through Willow’s body. ‘I unwittingly brought evil into your life and it will leave with me. I choose this path and must see it through to the end before I find peace with God.’ Her mother took her in a loving embrace. ‘The trial’s not yet over, but you’ll triumph and your life will be happy. Know that I love you, Willow. Keep me always in your heart.’ Her mother pushed her away. ‘Quickly now, child. Go to Ambrose. He must not be alone at this moment.’
There was a surge of bodies up the steps. Propelled into a wall, a terrible pain exploded in Willow’ s head. The sky became obscured by mist, and the sun faded into darkness.
The garden was quiet when she drifted back into consciousness. For a few hazy moments she thought nothing had happened, until she saw the body of Nellie lying beneath the steps. A circle of red beads glinted on her neck, looking like bright drops of blood. Her heart mourned for the simple servant who’d given her own life to save her from harm.
‘Help me up,’ she said to a servant bending anxiously over her. ‘Then send someone to move Nellie’s body.’
Ambrose was sitting by the open window gazing into the garden when she made her way into the drawing room. She tried to hide her agitation when he smiled lovingly at her. Perhaps Gerard would arrive in time to stop the villagers drowning her mother, despite the horrifying prediction in the crystal.
‘Did you see Marietta? She promised to come for me after her walk in the garden.’
Thank God he didn’t suspect! She managed a smile, even though her head throbbed abominably. Pouring herself a small glass of brandy and water, she slowly sipped it to compose herself and crossed to where he was seated.
He patted the chair next to him. ‘Come sit with me a while, daughter. I have a gift for you.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘You’ve already given me everything I need and value. That’s your love.’
‘You return it twofold.’ His smile brought tears to her eyes. ‘The gift is from your mother.’ He took the small sapphire ring her mother usually wore from his pocket and slid it on to her finger. ‘She bade me to give it to you before she went out.’ His hand closed around hers. She left it there for the comfort it offered. Prickles teased up her back as she realized her mother had known what was coming. Dear God! She couldn’t break the news to Ambrose, not until she was sure. She tried to keep normality in her voice, but choked on it when she asked unnecessarily. ‘How long has she been gone?’
‘For just a moment or two. Marietta wouldn’t leave me alone for long. We’ve vowed never to be apart again.’ His eyes had been closed, now he opened them, and they were filled with such love and joy that she felt humbled by it. ‘Here she is now.’
Relieved beyond belief, Willow turned towards the window. The mob must have thought better of their actions and released her. There was nothing beyond the terrace but an empty garden bathed in sunlight.
She turned towards Ambrose with a puzzled expression on her face. The hand holding hers had relaxed. He was leaning back in his chair, the smile still on his lips. His eyes gazed into the garden, but the earthly light was gone from them. They saw nothing but that which was beyond life.
She gazed at him with great reverence, rejoicing that the strain of his illness had fled his face. ‘I did not think you would leave when my back was turned, Ambrose,’ she whispered a trifle indignantly. ‘You were a good man, and I truly loved you.’ Gently smoothing the eyelids over his dimmed eyes, she gazed into his dear face. It was relaxed in death, each tiny line of tension erased.
‘Go with God, Ambrose,’ she whispered, kissing him gently on the cheek. She did not cry. After saying a short prayer for his soul, she rose from her knees and went to fetch John Grey. There was much to do before she could allow herself the luxury of grieving.
Ambrose was buried in the family crypt a few days later. The tiny village church was packed, for he’d been much loved in the district.
Sapphire had been afforded no such luxury. As far as the church was concerned she’d been proved a heretic by the nature of her death. It mattered not that she’d been denounced by the village idiot, nor that the mob had been stirred to hatred beyond reason by the preacher.
It was strange, they all said afterwards. The witch had seemed to be expecting them. She’d neither struggled nor cried out when they’d dragged her to the ducking stool, but she’d murmured a prayer of repentance.
Although no one in the village would admit it, her death brought no satisfaction. In his cups, Bellows wandered under a London bound coach that same night, and was crushed.
The estate workers turned up for work the next day, and tried to ignore the small procession who buried a coffin in an isolated corner of a field.
The following week, the site was enclosed by a low stone wall and a headstone erected. Those who could read, and were curious enough, waited until the flowers died before they drifted over to read the epitaph on the headstone.
Marietta Givanchy 1709—1755. Beloved mother of Willow, Countess of Lytton.
The stinking, French fishing boat the marquis was on was nearing the coast of England. His arrangement with the fisherman was to be put ashore at the Sheronwood cove just before dawn, then to wait beyond the cove for his signal fire before sending the dingy back to pick him up.
He was taking a risk returning to England, knowing there was a warrant issued to arrest him on sight. It was of small consequence. He had no intention of being apprehended and could live out his life quite comfortably abroad.
He had investments in France, including his chateau, which had once been the childhood home of Marietta Givanchy. It had been given to him years ago by a French duke for services rendered. Situated discreetly in the countryside, there he provided a source of amusement that was much in demand amon
gst the more sophisticated of the French aristocracy.
Of late, the marquis had undertaken practice with the finest swordsmen France had to offer. Now he was going to kill Gerard Lytton. Once he’d gone, it would be a simple matter to dispose of the earl and the younger son.
Four years previously, the marquis had decided to take his daughter to France and auction her to the highest bidder. His sneer now became a scowl. It wasn’t too late to revive his plan.
His eyes narrowed into cruel little slits as he thought of Willow. She was a feisty little thing, just like her mother. The marriage had been a mistake. Either Gerard Lytton had managed to tame her, or he’d fallen under her spell. Whichever, it would be his pleasure to inform Lytton of her fate before he killed him.
Wrapping his cloak around his body, he glowered as he balanced himself on the slimy deck. The girl was shaped in Marietta’s image. For all he knew she could have been fathered by the prince of darkness himself.
He paled as the thought sank into the mire of his mind. That’s exactly what must have happened. Marietta had been impregnated with Satan’s evil spawn.
‘Willow is the daughter of darkness!’ he said out loud, and wondered why he hadn’t guessed the truth before.
Willow would not allow herself to cry. She’d born the grief of her mother’s loss alone, the results of the mob’s action forbidden by her husband to be mentioned again. It seemed unfair for fate to have restored her mother to her, only to snatch it away. Even more unfair was the realization she’d been allowed to experience a husband’s love, and she would never experience it again.
The Lytton household had been stunned by the events that had taken place. The house no longer had a mistress, since she’d been denied the authority by her husband. The house was full of tension. Quarrels erupted as the servants debated the issues. All felt sorrow for their young mistress, but though thinking she was being treated unfairly, none dare speak against her husband.
