Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  I had more cause to wonder that night, when I finally retired to my aerie. Moving up the dark, shadowed stairs, my candle barely making a dent in the inky blackness, I cursed myself for being nine times a fool. Finally I fought the temptation to stare back over my shoulder into the deserted (I hoped) stairwells. With fumbling fingers I locked the door behind me, with fumbling fingers lit the lamp beside my bed. If the ghost of Kathleen Fitzgerald wanted to harm anyone she would go after her usurper at the very least, or more likely her murderer. She'd have no cause to harm a poor Irish lass who was only trying to earn her living.

  I undressed quickly in the chill room, stopping long enough to toss a few logs on the fire before climbing into bed. This time I wasn't such a fool as to extinguish the lamp. I lay back in the soft bed, waiting for my body warmth to penetrate the covers, and stared at the eerie shadows overhead.

  I must have drifted off to sleep, for the next thing

  I knew the fire was almost out and the wick had burnt down low in my bedside lamp. And Kathleen Fitzgerald moaned and clanked and shuddered behind the walls.

  If there is one thing I hate, it is to be awakened from a sound sleep. My rage upon such occasions had cowed even my brothers. Without thinking I reached out for the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a copy of Northanger Abbey, and sent it hurtling against the wall. At the same time I yelled fiercely, "Curse you, Kathleen, shut up!"

  There was a stunned silence, and suddenly I was wide awake and rather horrified by my actions. But no avenging spirit flew through the wall to smother me in my bed or mesmerize me into walking out the windows. After a full minute or two I heard a tentative clank from behind my bed, and a quiet groan issued forth. I reached out and pounded firmly on the paneling with my fist, quite pleased with my daring. "Go away, Kathleen," I said sternly. "I'm trying to sleep." And the shade of Kathleen, whoever or whatever it was, shuffled off into the woodwork, leaving me to enjoy the first good night's sleep I'd had since she'd decided to haunt me.

  November blew into December, and the snow deepened around the unfriendly mansion, piled into drifts alongside the road and gradually filled up the woods around Demonwood. And as the days grew shorter and colder, my life settled into a comfortable pattern. Lessons with Daniel in the morning, rides with Peter in the afternoon while my charge either studied or played outside. And of course, once a week we would all drive over to Stonewalls for tea and the gentle conversation of Peter's mother.

  She never alluded to our conversation of my first visit, and she never sought another tête-à-tête. Instead she smiled benignly upon me, content that I was fulfilling her request. I think it never occurred to her that I might fail to adore her charming, weak-willed son.

  That I might have someone else, someone forbidden, in mind.

  The Riordans were the only people we saw outside of the staff at Demonwood. Oh, to be sure we went to Mass every Sunday, Daniel and I, with a grudging Carpenter to drive us. But we weren't encouraged to mingle with the other worshipers. Indeed, I doubt if it would have done much good—most of them spoke only French. Even Father Lejeune's command of English was limited. The one time I tried to make confession he got hopelessly lost between my sins of the body and my sins of the mind, so that I ended up doing penance for having committed adultery when all I'd done was . . . was imagine. But I suppose one could never be too penitent, and my guilt was so great that I dutifully said all the rosaries he requested, and a few more for good measure.

  The lack of social intercourse was perhaps the only drawback in my new rural life. I missed having females of my age and background around to gossip and dream with. I missed having males to berate and tease, like my brothers. But Daniel was beginning to open up to me, it seemed, and I couldn't have found a more charming and attentive beau than Peter. But all the time I had the feeling I was waiting, waiting .. .

  It was going to be a lonely Christmas without the loud, buoyant crowd of Gallagers to celebrate the season. I had planned the time as best I could—Peter would spend Christmas Eve with us (much to Daniel's dismay) and we in turn would spend the next day with the Riordans and their assorted relations. It would be pleasant, but it wouldn't be the same as family, as I think Daniel knew. He never mentioned his parents or his beloved Aunt Lillian, but I was sure he missed them. I had no idea whether this would be his first Christmas without them, and I was tactful enough not to inquire. But I was determined not to show my loneliness—this had to be a happy season for him.

  For the most part gifts were no problem. I had put the long evening hours to good use, and made a shirt for each of my brothers and crocheted new shawls for my five sisters-in-law. Three of them were pregnant and the other two likely to be soon, so I decided against anything close fitting. Another shawl would do for Mrs. Riordan, and Peter would have to settle for embroidered handkerchiefs. I had no intention of encouraging him with anything more personal.

  Daniel was my hardest subject, and it took me days until I hit upon the perfect present. I sent Peter into Lyman's Gore to purchase a small set of snowshoes— no longer would he have an excuse not to go out in the rapidly deepening snow. I tempered the present with a package of sweets I knew were his special delight, and began to look forward to Christmas with a little more equanimity and a little less trepidation.

  "We still have a bet, you know," I reminded Peter as we made our way through the silent, drifting snow up toward Perry's Ledge. Despite its gloomy history we had made it one of our regular destinations, preferring it for its seclusion and rather frightening beauty. The path through the woods was oddly free from drifts. And I deliberately shut my mind to the thought of poor Kathleen with her newly pregnant body tumbling down that cliff.

  "What bet?" he demanded, flashing his winsome smile. "I don't remember making any bet with you."

  "The first day we met," I prodded him. "On the train. You bet me that Maeve and Connell would return home by Christmas."

  "Oh, that bet! But I believe I said that Connell would return home, not necessarily Connell and Maeve. If I know Con he'll ditch that parcel of women as soon as he can." He smirked at me. "And I remember your forfeit. You should have reminded me sooner and I would have done something about it."

  "What would you have done?"

  "Written Connell, begging him to return by Christmas," he replied shamelessly. "I couldn't imagine a better present from you than a kiss, even at the price of having my worst rival present."

  "And I can't imagine a better present from you than a trip back to Cambridge with Daniel," said I blithely.

  "I don't remember Daniel being part of the bargain."

  "I didn't know Daniel at the time. All you have to do is persuade Maeve . . . and Mr. Fitzgerald to let me go. I'll take care of the rest."

  "I'm sure you will. Have you heard from any of the travelers? They still might be planning to return for Christmas."

  Smiling, I shook my head. "They don't plan to return till April at the earliest. I received a long, newsy letter from Lillian yesterday."

  "Ah, yes, dear Lillian. And how is she surviving without her precious child?"

  "She's fine." I ignored the sarcasm in his voice as I kneed Moon Maiden onward. "She loves Florence and might very well stay on when Connell and Maeve leave for Paris."

  "I find that hard to believe," he observed cynically. "Since she was fourteen years old and their mother died, Lillian has clung like a leech to Connell and then to Daniel. Con had the good sense to separate her from the boy before too much harm could be done, but I don't expect she'd willingly leave his side. For all her soft bland exterior Lillian has all the determination of an Irishwoman when there's something she wants."

  "She says she has several very interesting beaux, including one rather dashing British colonel," I defended her. "Besides, what has she ever done to make you dislike her so?"

  His face took on a grim, bleak look before he ducked it against a sudden gust of wind. "Let's just say she . . . interfered with my plans once too often. We
've never been close; not since she caught me skipping lessons one day with Father Lejeune and tattled to my father. I've never forgotten the hiding I got that day, and I've never forgotten who I had to thank for it. Mealy- mouthed bitch."

  I cleared my throat ominously. "I happen to like Lillian. And she happens to like me. So I'd prefer it if you wouldn't malign her to my face."

  There was genuine surprise in his warm brown eyes. "She liked you? I must say I'm amazed. She usually goes after Con's women with claws unsheathed. Kathleen had a hell of a time with her. Fortunately poor Maeve is able to hold her own."

  "I am not Con's woman!" I repeated with great resignation. "I wish I could convince you of that."

  "Well, darling Mary," he smiled, "if you're not he's an even bigger fool than I thought him."

  I leaned down and patted Moon Maiden's silky, smooth neck, partly to hide the flood of color that washed over my face. "Why do you think him a fool?" I found myself asking.

  Peter sighed. "Because after Kathleen died he decided that all women were whores, and then he married poor little Maeve and proceeded to make her just what he expected her to be."

  I had known Maeve and her reputation far longer than my companion had, but tactfully I refrained from mentioning it. "So you're saying that Maeve is a whore?" I asked limpidly.

  "Damn it, no!" He whirled around, startling his horse. "She was fool enough to fall in love with Connell, and he's turned her into a cold, broken-hearted woman."

  There's something touching about a man in love, and I kept my wicked tongue still. Even though I felt a twinge of annoyance that all that devotion wasn't directed at me, I realized I was being a dog in the manger. I didn't want Peter Riordan's hand and heart —at least I didn't think I did.

  "Let's go back," I said gently, breaking into his obviously unhappy thoughts. For once I felt years older than my companion, even though I was at least ten years his junior. I put my hand on his tightly clenched fist, and he grasped it like a drowning man.

  "Sometime, Mary," he said hoarsely, "sometime I'll have to tell you things that will make you hate me. Things that will make you turn away in disgust . . ."

  "Hush, now, darlin'," I soothed him. "You don't have to be telling me a thing. We're friends. Friends accept each other with their faults and their virtues, and there's no need for confessions and explanations."

  "But I want to tell you!" he insisted. "I need to make you understand . . ."

  "Well, then, to be sure," I agreed. "Anything you want to tell me, anytime, I'll be glad to hear. But let's come away now—it's a cold, morbid place here. I can't think why we ride here so often." I stared down the ravine and shivered.

  "You're right," he agreed with more life. "Let's get away from here and never come back." And he started off through the dark, threatening woods at a fast trot, leaving me to struggle behind him with mingled concern and irritation.

  Chapter Nine

  It snowed and snowed the entire week before Christmas, and Daniel and I were housebound and wild with anticipation and frustration. Even my charge greeted the advent of Peter's presence on Christmas Eve with enthusiasm, and we set forth for Mass in surprisingly high spirits. The sun had finally appeared that morning, leaving a world covered with three feet of freshly fallen snow. The half moon was shining brightly down from the sky, lending a silvery glint to the fields and woods as we sped along to the tiny church, and for the first time in many months, since my parents had died and I had first laid eyes on Connell Fitzgerald, I felt at peace with the world.

  The church was jammed with people, and Peter greeted Father Lejeune like the old friend he was, bearing with good humor his remarks on Peter's lack of piety and fidelity to the mother church.

  "But just think, Father, of all these sins I'll be busy atoning for. Isn't penitence a delight in the Lord's eye? Think of all the delight I'm bringing Him, then."

  "You're a blasphemous young man," Father Lejeune admonished him cheerfully. "Come and see us more often. You never can tell, you might even enjoy it."

  Peter smiled, but the smile was a little stiff. "I'll come back, Father. When I feel I've the right to come back."

  The rotund little cleric immediately caught the seriousness of Peter's tone, and answered with equal solemnity. "You've always the right. Maybe now more than ever, my son."

  But on the ride back through the deep, clean snow he seemed to throw off his pensive mood, and the Christmas carols he led with his melodious tenor were the buoyant, joyful ones, full of peace and goodwill. And Daniel and I, soprano and alto respectively, joined in with fervor and some not altogether unsuccessful attempts at harmony, so that we arrived back at Demonwood an hour later winded and hoarse and laughing.

  But even the warmth of the holiday season failed to lighten the cold dark of the house. The servants had been given the night off, of course, but awaiting us was a cold collation of sliced turkey, ham, and beef, cheeses, fruits, breads, and desserts—enough for an army. But by that time the three of us were so hungry we felt we could easily devour the entire spread, and we set to with a will.

  Carpenter had cut us a small pine tree and set it up in the book-lined library, the only room lacking the oppressive elegance that permeated the house. A warm, crackling fire was blazing merrily in the hearth, and while Daniel and I began the pleasant chore of trimming the tree with our homemade ornaments and the elegant crystal decorations that Maeve had sent, Peter busied himself with making a hot rum punch.

  The tree-trimming was a lengthy and argumentative process—the placing of each piece involved much discussion and experimentation. When the tree was finally completed to our satisfaction and the myriad of tiny candles lit, we curled up in front of the fire and proceeded to distribute our small tokens to each other. To my surprise Daniel had even managed an offering for his old enemy. We all made much of each other's choices, and the feeling as the three of us gathered around the fire in the warm, cozy room was peaceful and friendly and relaxed.

  "I guess I lost my bet," Peter remarked lazily as he admired my handkerchiefs. "Who would have thought Connell would be such a fool?"

  "Hush," I hissed sternly, gesturing to Daniel's recumbent form.

  "The boy's been asleep for the last half hour," he answered. "I may not care for the lad but I'm not totally devoid of tact." He took a deep drink from his hot punch, and a potent concoction it was. "But still, I must say it surprises me that Connell hasn't found some excuse to return to Vermont. He never could stand much of Maeve at one time."

  "Peter," I said with the beginnings of anger in my voice, "I wish you wouldn't be wrecking Christmas with your nasty insinuations. I've only met Mr. Fitzgerald three times in my life, and the man made it very apparent that he didn't even like me." Except for that kiss, my treacherous mind remembered, and could feel my cheeks burning in the glow of the fire.

  "Did he now?" Peter sat up straighter, looking much impressed. "Then this is more serious than I thought. Connell usually charms all women with complete impartiality. If he didn't charm you there must be even more behind it all than I thought."

  "Damn it!" I cried, losing my temper. "Why do you insist that the man has any interest in, me? I'm not so irresistible, you know."

  "That's where you're wrong, darlin' Mary. I find you completely irresistible, with your black hair streaming down your lovely white shoulders and those witch's eyes. And I know Con well enough to be sure he would agree." He leaned back and sighed. "It's just as well that he's not coming back early. When it came to both of us wanting the same woman I never stood a chance. Until now, maybe."

  A particularly nasty thought entered my mind, and once there, I couldn't dislodge it. "You aren't," I asked with ominous stillness, "by any chance courting me to get even with Connell, are you?"

  He looked profoundly shocked, and I regretted my evil suspicions. "If you think that, my girl, then you haven't looked in a minor recently. You're the purest, loveliest thing that's set foot in this house for many a month . . ."

>   "I have no doubts I'm the purest," I replied wryly, smoothing my green velvet skirts around me. "But the loveliest I'll take leave to doubt. Maeve is my cousin, you know. I've seen her all my life."

  "But you're more beautiful," Peter insisted, presumably having been blinded by his lethal punch and the sweetness of the night. "You've a softer look to you, a warmer, gentler expression . . ." He rose on his knees and leaned toward me, a determined expression on his face. "Oh, Mary . . ."

  "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," a light, high voice lilted from the doorway. We both jumped, startled out of our firelit reverie, to see my cousin Maeve herself standing in the door, a breathtaking vision of loveliness in pale blue velvet trimmed with ermine, her pretty face smiling with what seemed to be innocent pleasure. I knew that look well. She'd had the exact same expression on her face when last I'd seen her, and I had the uncanny feeling we'd called her up like an evil faerie at the christening feast. At that time she'd been watching the hired boy get the tanning of his life from her slightly drunken father, and all for a misdemeanor she herself had committed, and then blandished the poor simpleton into taking the blame for. An unpleasant chill ran down my spine at the sight of that lovely, smiling face.

  And then her husband appeared behind her, a head taller and much broader, his face and expression in the shadows. "I won," Peter whispered in a voice filled with both triumph and despair, and leaned over in front of them and kissed me full on the lips.

  There was nothing I could do, short of struggling, and I was determined not to present such an undignified picture. The situation couldn't have been more compromising, and I cursed a fate that always presented me to Connell Fitzgerald in another man's arms. Torn between tears and laughter, I wished more than anything I was a thousand miles away from this god-forsaken house with those haughty, handsome people staring down at me.

  When Peter finally released me I rose from my seat on the floor with great dignity, brushed off my skirts, and advanced to greet my cousin.