by Gloria Cook
Restless throughout the tea drinking, Joshua rose sharply with a brusque sigh. Verging on forty years – sixteen more than Tara – he looked older than he should; the consequence of his woes and the overuse of brandy and wine. In his youth he had been called a carousing stag; now he could be termed a spent old dog. Grey was stippled through his dark hair and heavy lines pleated his eyes and mouth. He had often been clad in serviceable attire and gardening boots but since the blight he invariably presented himself as a none-too-well-turned-out gentleman.
‘If you’ll excuse me.’ He addressed Tara only. His educated voice, once kindly and slightly drawling, was frosted with the dissatisfactions of his life.
Michael merely nodded. The brothers had never been close and didn’t bother to communicate now. He got up in his careless manner, a polite smile on his long, studious face. ‘I too will take my leave, Tara. Thank you for the tea.’ In crisp steps he reached the door before Joshua did.
‘Can you not stay?’ Tara aimed the question at Michael. ‘Rosa Grace will be brought down shortly.’
‘Huh!’ Joshua strode past Michael and left the room. He tolerated the little girl’s presence in his home but the only input he’d had in her life was to insist she be given a floral name, as society might expect of him as her supposed father. Her tinkling voice, pattering feet and fair looks, so like her mother’s, seemed to increasingly irritate him.
Tara was offended by what she saw as an insult to her daughter but she was glad Joshua had gone.
‘I can hardly stay now,’ Michael said, and she could see his relief. ‘It wouldn’t look right if the uncle stayed and not the father.’
Tara was dismayed at his protest. Michael cared for Rosa Grace, as he did his two older daughters, but he merely saw them as pretty young beings to be allotted only momentary indulgence.
‘You are Rosa Grace’s father. It seems I have to keep reminding you of that.’ Tara’s dark-blue eyes glinted with accusation.
‘I’ll never forget it is so,’ he replied, not without impatience. Tara was of a pleasing gentle disposition, intelligent and still quite fascinating, and with a flawless, pale-skinned, fair beauty that made her wholly desirable, but she was in danger of turning into a nag. He kept up with Rosa Grace’s progress and enjoyed a few moments with her now and then, making an effort when his three girls joined together for special occasions like birthday parties, but children, and people in general, held little appeal for him. It would be different if Rosa Grace had been a boy, his son set to inherit the squire-ship, it would amuse and motivate him about Poltraze’s future rather than its past.
Anyway, he liked to come and go as he pleased, preferring long hours in his own company. Today, he was eager to reach a new interest. A few weeks ago while out riding through the woods he had emerged by the gatehouse. The gatekeeper’s wife had been outside and he had halted to pass a word with her for she was a comely, curvaceous woman with a certain gleam in her eye. She had offered him a drink of porter and he had quickly found she was well versed in the art of lovemaking. The follow-up encounters had been equally as exciting. Her passion was of a distinctly improper sort, she did and said things Tara had no knowledge of and wouldn’t dream of doing if she did, and he couldn’t stay away from her for long. The fact that the gatekeeper didn’t mind because he was conducting an affair of his own with a parlourmaid meant Michael didn’t have to skulk about and it made it all fantastically wicked.
Watching Tara’s finely shaped face fall, he gave way to guilt. He had a fond devotion for her. She treated him with care and respect, unlike his bitch of a late wife, who had berated him for not being ambitious and for choosing to shun a high social life. Tara did not deserve her empty marriage and her stifled life. ‘A few minutes, then,’ he offered. He closed the door, unaware that a footman was obscured behind a giant-sized fern on a side table in the corridor.
When Michael had gone and Rosa Grace had been taken back up to the nursery, loneliness fell on Tara like a shroud. The bleakness of her life seemed to grow with every passing day. Michael would not return and join her tonight. They had grown apart in much the same way as many married couples seemed to do, but she would never regret their affair. If not for him she wouldn’t have her wonderful child – Joshua had never consummated their marriage. Rosa Grace was all she had. She had lost her close friend Amy Kivell to adventure. She missed Amy so much and envied her, travelling the colonies, sharing the long-held dream of her husband, Sol, while she didn’t really have a husband at all. She would never know the love of a soulmate as Amy did.
How was she to abide this lonely evening, when she would have to dine alone yet again? It wasn’t worth the effort to change her dress but she would have to go through with the social nicety. She didn’t want to upset the servants’ routine and cause more unease in the house. Michael grumbled about the miserable atmosphere. He swore the house exuded feelings of its own, and that in the last few days it had taken to brooding again. Poltraze was not a glorious piece of architecture. Pre-Tudor in origin, graceless extensions had been tacked on during each change of style. Before Tara became its mistress it had been gloomy, and like many old structures it was said to be greatly haunted. Tara didn’t doubt there were ghosts. She had seen and heard many inexplicable things herself. Now gloom lurked again from its many rooms to the picture gallery and the Long Corridor; everywhere. The five years of Tara’s marriage, the young Queen Victoria’s reign, had seen modernizations, tiled floors and walls of bathrooms, and trompe l’œil effects that simulated more expensive materials to give false grandiosity to glass, walls and fireplaces. The new comfort and brightness had been fleeting. Tara found her home a cold, lacklustre prison.
She went to her bedroom to idle the time away until her maid came to her. The lanterns and the fire kindled under the plaster mantelpiece cast a rosy glow and appealing shadows but did nothing to dispel her melancholy. She stared at the bed that Joshua had forsaken and felt cheated and angry. She had been a mere pawn in their marriage, arranged by his controlling, amoral father, Darius, and his second wife, her Aunt Estelle, for the fortune settled on her. Darius Nankervis had not known the truth of Joshua’s sexuality. He would have destroyed him if he had. Soon after Tara’s wedding, Darius and Estelle had suffered a horrific death in the west wing, burning in their bed; Joshua now occupied the rebuilt suite, his lover using it arrogantly, at will. Now Michael, to whom she had turned after she witnessed an encounter between Joshua and Laketon Kivell and learned the truth of Joshua’s reluctance to be intimate with her, had forsaken her. Tara made few snap decisions but she made one now. Her affair with Michael was over. He could go his own way. If only she could do the same.
What was stopping her from getting away from Poltraze and starting a new life with Rosa Grace? She paced back and forth on the Persian carpet. There was no one here she would miss. She felt hollowed out and it was time she did something about it. She had always been loyal to duty but she was beyond that now. Joshua was unlikely to insist she stay, in fact he’d probably welcome her permanent absence and not really care what people thought. He didn’t seem to care about anything any more. He had once been proud to show off his gardens to the gentry, but since exalting Laketon Kivell as his aide he had jealously kept them to himself, or had that been the controlling Kivell’s decision? The gardens were a wasteland and the house was increasingly suffocating and morbid. It was not a place to bring up her daughter. Joshua had always been generous to her. If she could persuade him to settle an allowance on her, enough to live in a suitable house in a pleasant spot, with a maid, cook-general, gardener and nursemaid, she and Rosa Grace would do very well. It wasn’t easy to gain an audience with Joshua. She would write him a letter and get her maid to pass it to his valet. A new life for her and Rosa Grace raised her hopes and put a lift in her step. If Michael objected, too bad, he had taken too little interest in Rosa Grace for his opinion to be considered.
She went to the window and pulled aside the drapes and lace, aim
ing to capture a hint of freedom. Lights from the downstairs rooms and the lanterns outside the front door lit up a section of the lawn below. Halfway down the sweeping green began an avenue of towering conifers, casting shadows, which unlike those in the room threw foreboding murkiness. A small movement among them made her gasp. Somehow she knew it wasn’t one of the dogs or a groundsman, or anyone else who had the right to be there. She pressed her face to the cold glass to make sure she wasn’t imagining a presence.
She gripped the curtains. There was a figure, definitely someone there, a man. She let the curtains fall so she was only looking out through a wedge. Well set and tall, the trespasser was still. Apparently, he was just watching the house. Sense told her to ring and order the intruder dealt with, yet she peered and tried to make out more about him. He stepped away from the bushes and her heart leapt in worry he might see her, but she held her course now she could see him better. He wore a gentleman’s clothes. Perhaps he was an acquaintance of Joshua’s. Joshua had not long left the house and she’d assumed he’d gone straight to Laketon Kivell, but this man could be waiting for him. He might be a new lover. No, that couldn’t be so. Joshua quarrelled with Laketon Kivell but he was nervous, even afraid of him. She had overheard him grovelling for understanding and forgiveness on more than one occasion. He wouldn’t foolishly take another lover.
Tara tightened her brow. The stranger seemed familiar somehow. Then she knew why. He was a Kivell! Easy to tell for they all shared the same strapping dark looks. This man was not one she thought she had seen before. Even Laketon Kivell, who dressed rather like a fop and behaved above his station, did not own such fine attire or show such a definite touch of authority. The man came forward again, as if flaunting his trespass. He lifted his chin and Tara knew he was staring straight up at her. She shot back, a hand to her mouth. She had seen his face quite clearly and he was very much like the rogue Titus Kivell. Memory of that evil individual brought her to abhorrence. The stranger must be a Kivell relative from somewhere but why was he lurking about Poltraze? If he had wanted to see Laketon he would have gone to his cottage in the grounds.
She rang the bell and a short time later heard the dogs barking and the shouts of the footmen and grounds staff. Returning to the drawing room she waited for the report. Her thoughts wandered to Titus Kivell’s widow. She had known Sarah Kivell briefly. As a girl, Tara had met Amy in a quiet place on the downs and sometimes Sarah had accompanied her. Sarah too had lost her only friend when Amy left. Sarah was a tragic figure but a proud one too, refusing the help Tara had offered through Amy. Tara compared her life with the bal-maiden’s; she had a privileged life with all the necessities and comforts but she was nearly as miserable as Sarah.
The report was a long time coming. The ageing butler entered on an important glide. Upright, thin and disagreeable of countenance, he intoned, as if he had dipped his tongue in vinegar, ‘The dogs picked up a scent but I’m afraid the intruder managed to slip away, ma’am. The men are stationed in the grounds for the night as a precaution.’
‘Thank you, Fawcett.’ Tara dismissed him with a swish of her hand. She loathed the sanctimonious shrew-like flunkey. All the servants were aware of the true nature of their squire’s interests but all except this horrid smirking little man were wholly respectful towards her, obviously sympathizing with their mistress, who treated them well.
‘Shall I order word be sent to the master, ma’am?’
Tara withheld eye contact with him for a moment, but she could well imagine his hard eyes twitching and the raising of his superior nose. Fawcett would know where the squire was and why. The servants had been ordered never to disturb him while he was not in the house. Fawcett would enjoy his master being embarrassed. In a glacial voice she replied, ‘As everything is under control the squire need not be informed until the morning when he is in the steward’s office.’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ Fawcett withdrew and closed the door after him without the slightest sound, but Tara felt there was a triumphant simper in his action.
‘You’re certainly one individual I won’t miss,’ she seethed. She returned to her room and the window.
The intruder had successfully stolen away, an easy task for a cunning Kivell. Their line led back to nobility, long intermingled with the lawless. Living under their own rules, the land they dwelt on belonged to them. During the last few years they had branched out from their close-knit community, Burnt Oak, to seek respectability in the ever-expanding world. Many businesses in Meryen were now owned by a Kivell. The locals had begun to marry into the family, but others complained they were covetous and planned to take over the entire village.
The village … Tara turned away from the window and sank down on the couch. In her hopes to get away she had forgotten her duty to the inhabitants of Meryen. Little would have been done for the poor labouring classes in recent years if she hadn’t persuaded Joshua to provide a doctor and a school, and some land to build other public buildings. She had set up a number of charities which drew scant support from among the neighbouring ladies now that Poltraze had lost its past glory and boasted no up-and-coming men of importance. Without the poor would almost certainly be abandoned altogether. The sick, the young and old would suffer if she went away. She had a duty to them, but her first duty was to Rosa Grace.
Her heart was sore and burdened as she wrote the letter to her husband.
Three
‘Hello, Sarah, I’ve come back for you.’
Titus was there in front of her. Just as Tabbie had predicted, he had come. He was strong and forceful, in clothes of leather and fine linen, but he was not young again. He was as she’d last seen him, his long black hair touched by silver, his striking swarthy face scarred like a warrior’s from fighting, fights he had mostly instigated himself. The breath clamped inside Sarah’s lungs and her insides iced through with fear. Her work apron and croust bag fell from her hand. She was on her way to the mine and had been looking all around, as she’d done for the last week since Tabbie’s vision, in case Titus appeared somehow. Now he had and he was inches in front of her. A moment ago there had been no one ahead. He had materialized out of nowhere.
A bitter wind had been plastering her skirt against her legs and tugging on her bonnet, but now it dropped away and the cold dawn sky was suddenly friendly with warmth, the dull grey changing to tints of roses. She had no idea why this should happen and she was still afraid, yet she wanted to stay and gaze at the man she had loved so much. She had felt more than infatuation for Titus. He had been the love of her life.
Titus was smiling as with affection but his smiles could not be trusted.
‘A-are you going to hurt me?’ To be actually speaking to him brought her to panic. She tried to back away but her feet were like blocks of lead.
‘Hurt you, Sarah? Why would I want to do that?’ His deep gravelly voice was gentle, beguiling.
‘I was told you would come back for revenge.’
‘Revenge, my darling? On you, you mean? Why would I want to hurt you? You’re my darling girl. I’ve come back to love you, Sarah, like I should have before. Come to me.’ He beckoned with his hands and big coaxing smiles. ‘Let me hold you, Sarah. I’ve missed you so much. Have you missed me?’
‘Yes, Titus,’ she admitted. It was hopeless to say otherwise. ‘More than I’d ever thought possible.’ It was foolish to respond to him. She feared him and she didn’t trust him yet she longed to go to him. Panic shot into her like darts of burning liquid. Her legs were moving, but she wasn’t walking of her own conscious will, she was being propelled by some strange outside force straight towards Titus.
His muscular arms were outstretched towards her and the tips of his rough fingers were beckoning to her. He was smiling at her so tenderly. His dark eyes were like the softest velvet. She felt blissfully happy because this was what she had wanted more than anything. Going to him was the right thing to do. He would never hurt her again. ‘I’m coming to you, Titus.’
‘
Good girl. Let me hold you, Sarah.’ His voice floated to her as if on waves of silken love. ‘Let me love you. I so want to love you.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Her heart overflowed with dizzying joys of rapture. All along he had loved her and now she would be his in the way she had always wanted. This was what heaven was like. She had been wrong to believe she would never be worthy to go there. Real love was wonderful and untainted and she was worthy to receive all heaven had to offer. She peeled off her bonnet and shawl. As if she had reached some magic zone her drab dress metamorphosed into a shimmering gown of silver tissue and her long black hair sparkled with gems, rippling down her back and lifted by the breeze like a bridal train. On bare feet she was walking on soft luscious green grass scattered with rose petals. Titus was now in white and bathed in a golden peace. He had come back to her purged of sin and evil and at last she was to receive his devoted eternal love. ‘Titus …’
‘Sarah, my only love …’
A sound deafened Sarah’s ears and shattered the heavens. The light vanished and darkness swooped down from the sky. Winds lashed from all directions and howled about her head and pounded on her body, pushing on her as if to press her to the ground. Shadows formed in a dark inky avalanche behind Titus, great chasms of black shadows, but of a living substance, with writhing, hissing serpents and creeping, twisting vines. Vile winged gargoyle-like shrieking creatures flew out of the shadows and with talons as sharp as daggers snatched at her hair and ripped off her gorgeous dress, leaving her in the tatters of her own shift. She screamed to Titus to help her, imploring him with splayed hands. The ground beneath her feet was oozing a freezing, lumpy tar-like substance and her flesh was being slashed by razor-sharp stones. She was leaving a stream of blood behind her. ‘Titus, help me! Help me!’
