by Anne Stuart
Chapter Five
I had many strange dreams that night. At first I was alone on a train, traveling farther and farther into a snowy oblivion. There were no conductors, no trainmen, no porters. I struggled with the windows on the coach, thinking I could escape that way, but they were firmly fastened. I ran down the aisle and tried the doors, but they were locked. And staring at me malevolently through the glass partition was Mrs. Carpenter, grim amusement written on her stern New England face. As I was beating on the door, begging her to let me out, two hands reached for my shoulders and turned me around to face the dark, tormented gaze of Connell Fitzgerald. And I watched him, mesmerized by those eyes, waiting for him to kiss me again; trapped by an inertia I was both powerless and loath to break, until I realized that I was awake, and standing by my bed was a small, pale little boy with Connell Fitzgerald's dark eyes glowing into mine.
"Good morning, Daniel," I said softly after a moment. Light was streaming through the many windows of the room. "I must have overslept. How nice of you to come wake me up."
I sat up sleepily and he jumped back, as if he was afraid I might bite him. "Mrs. Carpenter sent me up. She told me I had to come." His voice was low-pitched and sullen, and those brilliant eyes in his pale, thin face darted nervously around the room. He was definitely not a beautiful child—his mother's spectacular looks had passed him by entirely, and the only resemblance to his handsome father were those dark, despairing eyes. His ears stuck out from his closely cropped brown head, his transparent skin was dusted with tiny freckles, and his clothes were of a neatness and propriety seldom seen on a child his age. The wary expression on his anxious face touched me to the quick, and I wanted to reach out and comfort him, protect him from whatever demons had been tormenting him. And demons, human or otherwise, had certainly been at work on his fragile well-being. Of course I did no such thing.
"I didn't want to come," he continued more boldly, his eyes flashing like blue fire. "I don't like it up here. Why are you sleeping here?"
I felt an irrational twinge of relief. It was the room that frightened him, not me. "Mrs. Carpenter put me here. I suppose we're both dependent on what Mrs. Carpenter thinks is right. What don't you like about the room?"
He stared at me as if I were simple-minded, a look of contempt that brought his father back to me with unpleasant force. "It's haunted, of course. You should know that. Mrs. Carpenter said you were no doubt a superstitious fool like all the other Irish and it wouldn't take long for you to get the wind up. Are you frightened?"
"Devil a bit," I replied cheerfully. "It's a little drafty for the likes of me but apart from that I'll get used to it in time. And I imagine there's a lovely view from up here."
"I.suppose there is," Daniel acknowledged grudgingly. He moved away from the bed toward a wail of windows and looked downward, and I noticed again with increased surprise that I had never seen a cleaner child. I swung my feet out of bed and with enormous willpower prevented myself from swinging them right back in. It was desperately cold in the room, and it wasn't yet December. Bravely I left the bed and padded barefoot across the chill wood floors to the windows beside Daniel.
It was a revelation. All my fears, my doubts, my rages vanished as I viewed the landscape. A stark green and brown and white wilderness lay around me, lightly dusted with snow, tall majestic mountains on every side and not another house in sight. The bright blue dazzle of a lake shone with reflected sunlight, the clouds scudded along in the brilliant blue sky, and there was nothing I wanted more than to run outside and dance. If this was the land of Connell Fitzgerald's Demonwood I could be very happy here.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Daniel inquired in a small, proud voice.
"That it is, me lad," I replied devoutly. "Now if I could just get warm . . ."
He turned his sober face to me. "If you like I'll build up your fire. It should take some of the chill off the room. Or perhaps you'd prefer to dress quickly and come down for breakfast. The dining room's quite warm." He looked at me askance. "But I forgot. It probably takes you an hour at least to dress. It takes my Aunt Lillian that long, and my mother even longer."
"Well, I'm not one of your frail, hothouse flowers," I answered firmly. "I can dress faster than anyone I know. If you'll be so good as to leave the room, young Daniel, I'll be ready in five minutes flat."
"Shouldn't you call me Master Daniel?" he asked, jealous of his dignity.
"Well, now," I considered it, "I might, but then you would have to call me Miss Mary, and that gets a mite formal. How about Cousin Mary and Cousin Daniel?"
"Are you my cousin?" he asked incredulously, obscurely pleased by the thought.
"Third cousin once removed, or is it first cousin three times removed? Something like that. So maybe we'd better just call each other Mary and Daniel and have it go at that."
"All right," he agreed solemnly. "Mrs. Carpenter didn't explain that you were family," he added accusingly.
"Well, I'm not completely sure that she knows," I pointed out. "Now be off with you before I freeze to death—I'm just a poor city girl, not used to your rough climate."
Seeing the house in the daylight did little to change my initial impression. For some reason the very newness of the place created an aura of blank, impassive malevolence, an aura I couldn't shake off. Each floor looked the same as the next one, except for the main floor. Here an attempt at individuality had been made—there were some lovely rare pieces of furniture among the new and expensive stuff, the gaudy gilt trim had been applied with an even more lavish hand, and some of the family portraits on the walls had added a note of disapproving humor. Young Daniel led me through the house, oblivious to his surroundings, and I hoped I would soon have the same oblivion. I devoured a huge, well-cooked breakfast that was at variance with the unpalatable stuff Mrs. Carpenter had sent up the night before, and sat beneath that lady's beady little eyes, determined not to let her unpleasant face spoil my appetite. I leaned back in my elegant, uncomfortable chair, replete for once.
"Shall we start lessons?" Daniel asked in his solemn little voice.
"Oh, not today," I protested with deliberate indolence. "I think we should get to know each other a little better first. Why don't we go for a walk—it's stopped snowing."
"Aunt Lillian thinks the winter air is bad for me," he murmured. "And I'm behind in my studies."
"Cold air is bracing," I replied firmly. "And we can go for a nature walk and discuss the various trees and plant life we can find. You get bundled up and I'll meet you by the front door in ten minutes." *
"But I don't want to go outside."
"Why ever not?" I questioned, willing to discuss the matter reasonably. "When my brothers were your age there was no keeping them inside on a day like this. All six of them would pile out the door before my sainted mother could say a word."
"You have six brothers?" he breathed, fascinated in spite of himself.
"That I do. And every one of them a hell-raiser. I think, Daniel, me lad, that it's about time for you to raise a little hell yourself."
"I wish I had even one brother," he said wistfully.
"Well, you might someday."
"No, I won't. Not ever. My mother said it nearly killed her to have me, and she'd never go through that torment again."
I stared at his plain, unhappy little face, so unlike the flamboyant beauty of his mother or the cynical attractiveness of Connell. "Well," I said after a moment, "she may change her mind. And then again, she may have no say in the matter. I think we'll spend some time on biology later on."
"I heard her tell Aunt Lillian that even if there were accidents she could see to it that there'd be no more little monsters to interfere with her life."
I was shocked to the depths of my Catholic soul. I had heard of birth control methods, and even, to an extent not shared by Father McShane, approved of them. Poor Pauline and her perennially protruding belly would be enough to change the mind of any woman. My dear cousin Maeve, however, was obvious
ly referring to abortion, and although I could sympathize with some poor woman's needs, it still festered in my mind as little more than murder. And that her son should hear her . . . J
"Well," I said again, "then I guess you might not have any brothers and sisters. But you already have tons of cousins."
"I do?" He brightened visibly.
"In Boston. If you learn very fast, and do just as you're told, perhaps I can persuade your father to let you come to Boston with me for a week and you could get to know them. There are twins just about your age."
He nodded avidly, looking more alive than he had all morning. "I'll go get my coat," he said hurriedly, and sped from the room.
"I wouldn't raise his hopes like that if I were you," Mrs. Carpenter's cold voice came from the far doorway. I jumped, startled, and wondered how long she'd been standing there.
"Why not?" I rose. "I think it's an excellent idea— the boy doesn't have enough outside influences."
"Miss Lillian thinks he has far too many," she replied slyly, pursing her narrow lips. "He's a delicate boy—too much excitement isn't good for him. I doubt he'll ever be well enough to go jauntering over the country with you."
"Then how do you expect he'll be able to go to school next year?"
A cold smile flitted across her deceptively cheery face. "Why, I don't expect him to be able to go away to school at all. Nor does anyone who knows him. You're a last-ditch effort, and it will do no good. Even his father has come to realize that Daniel is much too scared of his own shadow to be able to live a normal life."
"There's nothing wrong with the boy!" I said hotly. "Nothing that a little fresh air and sunshine and companionship won't cure."
"Do you really think so?" she asked scornfully, and I wondered what lay behind her antipathy. "We'll see, miss. We'll see."
We went for quite a hike that day, Daniel and I, partly to prove to myself he was as sturdy as any other little boy, partly to give us a chance to get to know each other without the shadow of Mrs. Carpenter's disapproval hanging over us. From the moment we walked out the massive oaken door I wanted to get as far away from that cold, unfriendly place as my legs could carry me. And Daniel, for all his initial objections, had the energy of any nine-year-old, and I soon found myself trailing behind him in a grim effort to match his sturdy little legs.
There was only a thin crusting of snow beneath our feet, and my stout brogues made their way through it with little difficulty. I started out our hike with a vague effort at pointing trees out to him, but when I referred to an aspen as an oak and a beech as a maple, Daniel kindly relieved me of the responsibility for identifying them.
"It's hard to tell them apart when they have no leaves," I excused myself.
"That's all right, Cousin Mary," he said grandly, obviously delighted to have been proven more knowledgeable than his teacher. "After you've been here a while you'll know the difference with your eyes closed." We had come to the edge of the pine forest, and Daniel suddenly shied away nervously, like a skittish mare.
"Let's go back, shall we?"
"But why?" I peered through the dark trees. "It looks like fairly easy going once we're in there."
"I don't like the woods," the boy said nervously. "That's how our house got its name, you know. Demonwood, like the forest around it. This leads up to the cliff . . ." he stopped suddenly, afraid he'd said too much.
"The cliff?"
"I want to go now!" he shouted, and pulling the hand that had rested so trustingly in mine, he turned and ran from me back to the house, ignoring my calls.
Chapter Six
I toiled my way back to the house very slowly, preoccupied with all the new ideas and emotions that had assaulted me in the last twenty-four hours. So caught up was I in pondering Daniel's strange, terrified behavior that I didn't hear the horse until it was almost upon me.
"Good morning to you, Mary Gallager," Peter greeted me from astride a tall, rangy gray mare. "And how are you enjoying your new job? I saw your little student take off like a bat out of hell a few minutes ago."
"Something frightened him," I confessed unwillingly. "I haven't the vaguest idea what. I suggested we walk in the woods a bit . . ."
"That explains it right there. Of course the little coward would run. Not that I can really blame him."
"Why is he a little coward? What is there about the woods?"
"Ah, you haven't heard of the ghosts of Demon- wood? The forests around here are haunted, my girl. There are parts of these woods that have never seen the sun, never been trod on by human feet."
I looked back at the dark brooding pine forests that had seemed so welcoming from my attic windows and shivered. "What of it?" I demanded with false courage. "I'm sure the same can be said of most forests in North America. What's special about this one?"
Peter smiled down at me, his brown eyes warm and confiding. "I'd love to take you through there and show you just what haunts Demonwood. Are you game?"
Among my many faults, superstition could be accounted a major one. I hesitated, wishing I could decline Peter's kind offer. But I knew I would never be able to help Daniel conquer his fears if I didn't conquer my own, so meeting that limpid gaze firmly, I acquiesced with only a slight quaver in my voice.
As our horses picked their way delicately along the path I could see he was right about the lack of sunlight in the woods. Astride an exceedingly beautiful, high-strung mare with the fanciful name of Moon Maiden, I followed Peter's broad back through the forest, the only sound the creaking of the pines and the faint whoosh of their branches as they reached desperately toward the sunlight. I peered nervously through the tree trunks, searching for some sign of life in this still, dead place, but I was rewarded with nothing more than a few rabbit tracks in the thin layer of snow.
We were climbing steadily upward, the horses plodding dully along. Several times I started to speak, to ask Peter exactly where we were going, and several times I subsided into silence. I wondered where Daniel had run to—there had been no sign of him when we arrived at the stables seeking a mount for me. Robinson, the sullen, attractive groom, had merely cast a bored glance at me when I'd questioned him, his span- 'iel's eyes running over my rounded body in a manner that made me feel decidedly uncomfortable. Perhaps Daniel was hiding somewhere in the sterile newness of the house, perhaps he had run in the opposite direction—down the road toward town. Perhaps . . .
"We're here," Peter spoke suddenly, and I drew to a halt beside him, my eyes staring across the magnificent panorama that even bested the view from my room. The range of mountains was snow-capped and overpowering in the distance, and the few ribbons of clouds in the bright blue sky were a perfect contrast.
"It's lovely," I breathed, entranced. "What's so terrifying about this place?"
Peter snorted. "I should have known you'd feel that way—romantic young lady that you are. Look down."
I did, and my sudden start must have communicated itself to Moon Maiden, for the skittish creature reared back, and it was only with a great deal of strength that I kept the horse under control, preventing both of us from tumbling down that narrow, treacherous cliff.
"It's rather steep, isn't it?" I said after a moment. "I still don't see what there is to frighten people."
"It's called Perry's Ledge," Peter said in a hushed, oddly exhilarated note. "It was from this very spot that Connell's first wife Kathleen jumped—or was pushed."
There was a long silence. "I didn't know he'd been married before," was all I said after a moment.
"Aren't you shocked?" my companion demanded, a nervous twitch marring his pale, handsome face. "You look as if I just told you this was a picnic spot. Can't you feel the aura of death and disaster about the place?"
"Now who's sounding like a romantic young lady?" I demanded in a cheerful voice, doing a magnificent job of hiding the very real distress I had felt upon hearing Peter's macabre news.
"It might interest you further to know that there was a great deal of talk at th
e time. Talk that Connell threw her down from here in a black rage. And he gets black rages, believe me."
"Why on earth was he supposed to have done that?" I questioned mildly.
"For the same reason husbands have been killing wives since the institution of marriage was invented. He thought that she was unfaithful to him."
"Then why hasn't he murdered Maeve yet? I somehow get the impression that she hasn't been the soul of fidelity."
"Because he never loved Maeve—he never expected anything of her but an heir. An obligation she fulfilled. That's what made Kathleen's death doubly sad . . ." he let it trail, knowing my curiosity would get the better of me.
"Why?"
"The main problem between Kathleen and Connell was her apparent barrenness. Perhaps she wouldn't have died if he'd known she was finally pregnant."
I couldn't keep the expression of sick dismay from my face any longer. "Are you trying to make me believe," I asked coldly after a long pause, "that Connell is a ruthless murderer? A man who killed his wife and unborn child? I thought you two were friends."
"We are. And I'm not trying to convince you of anything. I simply thought you should be warned."
"Why?" The question hung in the chill autumn air.
"Because I care about you, Mary Gallager, even though I scarcely know you. Connell's women haven't been known for their luck. And I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."
