A Midnight Clear

by Lynn Kerstan

  “Nothing more, except the map. Have you a horse and sidesaddle for hire?”

  Wilkens guffawed. “Not likely, m’lord. We’ve a mule what pulls our cart, when he’s of a mind to. If we gots to go somewheres, we mostly walks.”

  “I see.” Fallon had a mental vision of himself twenty years ago, hitching rides on dung wagons and tramping for miles in his worn boots on blistered feet. He knew very well how it was to be poor, far better than he knew how to be rich. “Thank you, Wilkens. I may snatch a nap until the others arrive, so—”

  “We won’t be botherin’ you,” Wilkens assured him, carrying an armload of dishes to the door. “You call down the stairs if you be needin’ somethin’ more.”

  Blessedly alone, Fallon crossed to the window and leaned his shoulder against the casement. His room overlooked the front of the inn, and he could see the tracks of his horse on the narrow, winding path that led to the courtyard.

  Otherwise, the landscape beyond the low stone wall lay pristine as a virgin’s night rail. The pale winter sun shone down from a clear sky, conjuring diamonds in the snowy fields. From the dark branches of trees, melting icicles hung like golden fingers in the reflected sunlight.

  For a few moments he savored the quiet beauty of an English country winter. It reached to places inside himself he had long since forgot in the stifling heat and crowded streets of Calcutta. He tried to relax, empty his mind, and enjoy the peaceful solitude.

  But he could never abide waiting. Before very long, he was pacing the narrow borders of his room and pausing by the window each time he passed in hopes of seeing his curricle appear on the horizon.

  At last he caught a glimpse of something in the far distance—something ominously red, like blood on the snow. It was moving, however slowly, and after a while he could discern a black smudge by its side.

  Probably another of the Wilkens brood, he thought, watching the figure pause and shift the burden from one hand to the other. Soon the black smudge changed sides again, but this time, the figure raised an arm and removed something from its head. Light brown hair gleamed in the sunlight.

  Fallon struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. Jane Ryder! Seconds later he was outside and running down the path. She had resumed her journey but stopped again when she saw him pounding in her direction.

  As he drew closer, he realized that she was wearing a scarlet cape and carrying a small portmanteau. The snow reached almost to the tops of her brown half boots. To his horror, she curtsied as he approached.

  For some reason, that made him angry. “Why are you on foot?” he demanded. “Where the devil is the curricle? The driver? Where is my valet?”

  She dropped the portmanteau and stretched her cramped fingers. “Perhaps with the devil, sir, for I certainly wished them there more than once this morning. Well, not the curricle, which was an innocent bystander. It is currently mired in a snowbank, poor thing, with a broken something-or-t’other.”

  “I see,” he said, not seeing at all. He was too astonished by this extraordinary female who seemed not the least bit put out by her ordeal. Her nose, cheeks, and lips glowed pink from the exertion of her walk, and her hazel eyes positively sparkled. She looked healthy and energetic, like a young doe romping in the snowfields without a care in the world. “You came to no harm in the accident, I apprehend.”

  “None whatever. Which is surprising, because I landed directly atop Mr. Latmore, who is excessively bony. He maintains that I crushed the very life from his body.” She laughed. “It must have been his ghost went on fretting after his demise.”

  In Fallon’s own experience, Latmore never ceased complaining. “He is irritating, I agree, but a skilled valet nonetheless.”

  “So he informed me, although he omitted the ‘irritating’ part. That much I figured out for myself.”

  “Shall we continue on while you tell me what happened?” Fallon picked up the portmanteau she had been carrying, surprised at how heavy it was.

  “Books,” she explained when he looked a question at her. “I never go anywhere without something to read.” She fell in step beside him, practically bouncing as she walked. “What a glorious day. The driver swears a storm is blowing in. He says his knees tell him when the weather is about to change for the worse, but I cannot credit it. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. And, too, he enjoys complaining nearly as much as Mr. Latmore. They engaged in a battle of personal woes the entire morning.”

  They would certainly have something to be woeful about when next he saw them. “The accident?” he reminded her.

  “Well, we had turned off the post road and gone perhaps a quarter mile when the right wheel suddenly broke away. Next I knew, Mr. Latmore and I were tumbled into a gully. When we’d scrambled back to the road, the pair of them began arguing what to do next. The driver wanted to unhitch the horses and lead them to a post house we had passed some miles back. Mr. Latmore insisted that your luggage could not be left without someone to guard it.”

  “Do you mean that sapskull is now standing watch over my shirts and cravats?”

  “Oh, hardly.” She laughed. “You have forgot his poor, broken body, sir. Mr. Latmore proclaimed himself in dire need of a soft bed and a quick infusion of laudanum, which could only be had in a civilized place. Fortunately, he was strong enough to climb aboard one of the horses. I was instructed to wait with the curricle until they sent someone to retrieve your cases. But as you plainly see, I declined the honor.”

  “I should hope so. But cases? I told Latmore to pack only a few necessities.”

  “Your necessities occupy three cases, sir. The driver protested, but Mr. Latmore demanded they be strapped to the curricle. Naturally, the driver maintains that the excessive weight caused the accident, while Mr. Latmore attributes it to the cow-handed imbecile holding the reins. They were debating the subject when last I saw them.”

  Fallon, furious at the treatment accorded this slip of a girl, resolved to discharge the men without a reference. “They should have taken you with them to the post house.”

  “I’d not have gone, sir. Indeed, I was supremely glad to be rid of them both. The driver will see your curricle repaired, but we cannot expect it to arrive today. Meantime, I took the liberty of opening your cases and have brought along a few items you may need. Actually, I started out carrying two cases, but was forced to abandon one along the way. A year in London with so little exercise has turned me up soft.”

  Hardly that, he thought, more than a little impressed with this unusual female. He’d never met anyone like her. And he was not at all sure how to deal with her, which made him excessively uncomfortable. In her company, words seemed to stick in his throat. “I am used to traveling light,” he said to no purpose whatever. “You needn’t be concerned on my account.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” she said immediately. “You aren’t paying me to take care of you, after all. But it was no trouble to add your shaving kit, shirts, and a dressing gown to my own case. I was unable to find a nightshirt.”

  Because he always slept in the altogether, a fact he wasn’t about to confide. “Thank you,” he said, relieved to see the inn directly ahead. “You must be tired and hungry. I shall have a meal and a hot bath sent to your bedchamber. It is rather small, I fear, and somewhat primitive.”

  She stepped into the paneled vestibule and gazed around with obvious pleasure. “How very lovely. This building must be hundreds of years old.”

  Rollin Wilkens darted from the taproom. “Foundation was laid in 1570,” he announced proudly. “Mrs. Wilkens has just prepared a venison stew, milady. We’ll take good care of you.”

  Fallon handed him the portmanteau and watched Miss Ryder follow Wilkens up the stairs. Then he wandered into the taproom, where a mug of ale was quickly put in his hand.

  All his plans had unraveled, except that Jane Ryder had managed to arrive intact. Bu
t she would require the afternoon and evening to recover, which made their trip to Wolvercote out of the question. He could, of course, go there on his own. That was certainly the most practical thing to do. But he accepted a refill of ale and remained on the bar stool, the muscles in his body taut as bowstrings.

  Wolvercote. Alone.

  He could not make himself stand up and go.

  JANE DECLINED Mr. Wilkens’s offer of a hot bath, as she’d had one before daybreak that very morning. A pitcher of water, basin, and sponge did well enough, and she was soon working her way through a large bowl of venison stew and chunks of toasted bread-and-cheese.

  Less than half an hour after entering the small bedchamber, she wrenched her hair into a tight knot and snatched a final look in the small mirror on her dressing table. Neat and respectable, just as she ought to be. But her plain, long-sleeved dress of hunter green kerseymere was new, and she’d had few enough new dresses in her lifetime to relish the pleasure of wearing one.

  She felt exhilarated from her walk that morning, nearly as charged with energy as Fallon always seemed to be. A year spent mostly in Eudora’s overheated house had been rather stifling, although she was certainly grateful for a safe roof over her head, regular meals, and congenial company. If she caught herself wishing for more, a mental kick sent the intrusive thoughts skittering away.

  And now for Lord Fallon, whose arrangements for this journey had gone badly awry. He was displeased, she knew, and impatient to get on about his business. She checked her new watch, which showed a little past one o’clock, and decided they had almost three hours before sunset. That should be enough time for a preliminary look-in at Wolvercote.

  She had not reckoned on the complications.

  “One h-horse?”

  “I’m afraid so. Forgive my abominable planning, Miss Ryder. I have wasted your time and spoiled your Christmas holiday. When the driver returns with the curricle, I shall instruct him to carry you back to London with all due speed.”

  “I don’t mind walking to Wolvercote, you know.” She glanced at the crude, pencil-drawn map spread before him on the bar. “Is it a terribly long way?”

  “Three miles, I believe, but you cannot be permitted to walk such a distance.” He regarded her speculatively. “Could you remain aboard my horse without a sidesaddle while I walk ahead, holding the reins?” He brushed a drop of ale from the map. “Unless you’d be willing to ride double, but I suppose—”

  “Then it’s settled!” she interrupted before he could talk himself out of the obvious solution. “We should leave immediately, sir, if you wish to accomplish anything this afternoon. I’ll retrieve my cloak and meet you at the stable.”

  Chapter 6

  FALLON GUIDED Scorpio through a copse of oak and up a steep rise, only to see yet another bare snowy hill on the other side. According to Rollin Wilkens’s map, they should long since have arrived at Wolvercote.

  A sudden rush of cold wind lifted the capes of his greatcoat, and he glanced up to see puffy white clouds chasing across the pale winter sky. Like rabbits scurrying for cover, he thought, wondering if they marked a consequential change in the weather.

  But Jane Ryder, bundled in her heavy woolen cloak, did not appear concerned. She sat perfectly at ease in front of him, studying the map and apparently oblivious of his arms wrapped around her or his thighs rubbing against hers in rhythm with the horse’s gait.

  He had been decidedly aware of her, though, since tossing her onto the saddle and mounting behind her. Of course, he’d not been this close to a woman in more than a year, which doubtless explained why all the blood in his body was uncomfortably lodged where it ought not to be.

  She gave no sign of noticing, but how could she fail to? On the other hand, what did he expect her to say? “Lord Fallon, I cannot help but perceive that you are exhibiting unmistakable symptoms of lust.”

  “There!” She pointed straight ahead. “Just over that next hill, I believe. Either that or we made a wrong turn early on.”

  “More than likely we did. Wilkens must have assumed I would recognize the landmarks he sketched, but after twenty years, I remember very little about the estate. Shall we return to the inn and try again tomorrow, with a better map?”

  “I suppose so. But after we’ve checked out the hill directly ahead, please. Should the house be only a few yards away, we really ought to have a look at it while we are here.”

  “As you wish, madam.” If an accident and a long tramp through the snow had failed to slow her down, how could he call a halt on the lame excuse of a few clouds and a freshening wind?

  As she predicted, the next hill was indeed the one that overlooked Wolvercote Manor. He reined to a stop and gazed down at the house where he’d been born.

  It was much as he remembered—enormous, impressive, and incredibly ugly. A patchwork mansion, assembled in bits and pieces over the centuries, it staggered across the landscape in drunken decay.

  At the far left, from his perspective, were the remains of a fallen-in Norman castle. Most of the stones had been used to construct the medieval manor alongside, which melted into a rambling Elizabethan wing. Attached to that was a huge Bathstone block with wide marble stairs mounting to the elaborate entrance doors. Successive marquesses had added more rooms, always working left to right, and the result was a sprawling maze without a center.

  Like the Fallons themselves, he thought—reeling carelessly through history, never looking back or ahead. After seven and a half centuries, since the Conqueror awarded this large tract of land and an earl’s belt to a minor lordling who had saved his life, the family legacy had dwindled to this—a moldering manor house and a damnably reluctant heir.

  He had understood what awaited him for as long as he could remember. No one told him. No one spoke to him at all when he was a child. His mother died early on, his father ignored him, and the indifferent servants came and went. But he knew, and prepared himself. He set his goal right up next to the North Star, where he could see it in his imagination when he looked skyward at night.

  Then, of course, he took himself to India, where he hadn’t time to look anywhere but straight ahead.

  If the magic of his dream had dissipated, his commitment remained unaltered. It gave him a future to reach for and something of value to care about. Now everything he had worked for lay within his grasp. Wolvercote was spread out before him, waiting to be reborn.

  He wanted suddenly to turn away. A cold sensation crept up his spine. Once he set foot in that house, he would be enslaved beyond redemption. Or perhaps he already was.

  Jane Ryder had been silent all this while, as if sensing his need for reflection. She would make the ideal traveling companion, he thought, were she not so disturbingly female. He urged Scorpio down the hill and made a hurry of dismounting.

  Miss Ryder swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground before he could assist her. “While you unlock the door,” she said a trifle breathlessly, “I’ll find a place out of the wind to tether the horse.”

  “Fine.” He untied the saddle pack, which contained the candles and tinderbox they would need, and located the heavy ring of keys his solicitor had provided. “We’ll not stay long.”

  By the time she returned, he had lit a pair of wall sconces in the entrance hall and prepared a brace of candles for each of them to carry. Strangely, he had felt nothing when he came through the door. Wolvercote was only a big, dark, ugly house, no more a home to him now than it had ever been.

  Demolishing it would be a pleasure.

  Jane Ryder tossed back the hood of her cloak. “My heavens,” she said, brushing cobwebs aside as she made a circuit of the entrance hall. “Half the spiders in England must have taken up residence here.”

  “Not to mention rats, mice, termites, and, quite possibly, bats.” He grinned at her startled reaction. “Far better company than
my father used to keep, I assure you. But I expect you know more about him than I do.”

  “Possibly. Do you wish to leave now, or shall we go exploring?”

  “We might as well make a quick round of the rooms that were in use the last few years. There aren’t many, I understand, and all are in the west wing.”

  He led her along a dim passageway that put him in mind of an underground tunnel. It used to be lined with portraits, he remembered, but most had been stripped from the water-streaked walls. Probably his father had sold them, although why anyone would pay for the likeness of a Fallon defied explanation.

  For the next half hour, they wandered through a succession of filthy rooms, stirring up clouds of dust and sending rodents and insects scampering for cover. Miss Ryder, her face and hair glowing in the candlelight, was a silent, comforting presence at his side.

  In one large room where the windows had been boarded over, he recognized the heavy canopied bed that once stood in the master’s bedchamber. His father must have decided to move downstairs, closer to his precious gaming room.

  Nothing had been disturbed. The mahogany wardrobe was crammed with dusty clothing, and the drawers of a standing chest held stockings, cravats, and nightshirts. In the dressing room, shaving gear and brushes were spread out on a table.

  He ought to feel something, gazing at the last few things his father had touched. Some sense of loss or regret, perhaps, or even the contempt he’d once held for the man who preferred dice and cards to his family. But this was a stranger’s room, the death chamber of a diseased old man. It meant nothing whatever to him now.

  “Some things are better forgot,” he said, striding quickly to the door.