Sleep did not come easily these days and my body craved rest. My mind refused to turn off once I climbed into bed. Vanessa and Johnny kept me busy during the day and I was so very thankful for them both. Between long walks through the forest, story time by the fire and schooling there was little time for thinking but anxiety had been building in my gut for days.
At night my mind was free to run wild and no matter how hard I tried to distract myself, I could not escape my overwhelming thoughts.
Were Duncan and Heath all right? Was Deirdre taking good care of my son? Was Duncan even alive? It had been almost five months and still there had been no word from Captain Duff. Had he broken his promise to us? Had he been set upon by pirates? Did my precious letter now lie at the bottom of the ocean?
Bloody hell! The questions taunted me, marching through my head with nonchalant abandon as I envisioning the worst scenarios on a nightly basis.
The muffled squeak of snow being crushed by carriage wheels reached my ears and halted the parade of thoughts. I knew it would be John and yet I couldn’t help my curiosity. I pulled my robe on and tiptoed across the room.
Hoarfrost overlaid my window in feathery strokes like aquatic plants from the sea. A bitter wind whipped the new powder about the yard. Winter was sneaking in and it was too soon. I still hoped to return to Scotland before winter took hold. Sparkling flakes found the spaces around the wooden frame and sifted through, gently floating down to coat my feet in dozens of icy droplets.
I rubbed my feet together and squinted against the swirl of snow. The wall parted for a moment and I found John’s carriage. He sat motionless in the seat, the wind nudging his body back and forth. Finally, he stepped down onto legs that wobbled from drink and hunched his shoulders to the cold.
The winds dispersed the clouds that shrouded the half moon and for an instant his face was clear, his eyes dark with torment, his mouth set in a grim line. Chestnut curls whipped about his head as he swayed next to the carriage, his face turned back toward the stable.
Several seconds passed and I shuffled my cold feet back and forth, vigorously rubbed my arms with my stiff fingers. Where was Rabbie? He was usually quick to appear when John arrived home, no matter what the time. Perhaps the scream of the wind prevented him from hearing the approach of horse and carriage.
As I watched, John staggered a few uneven paces toward the stable. Then he stopped and turned back in the direction of the house. Wind drove the hair from his face, buffeted his body and tipped his frame back and forth.
What was he doing? He must be waiting to see if Rabbie would come tend the horse and carriage. Then his shoulders slumped and his head drooped to one side as he turned and retraced his steps back to the stable. He fumbled with the door for a moment and disappeared from sight as the snow closed in.
I pressed my forehead to the icy pane and strained to see through the churning white. When the snow whirled away again the door swung wide, crashing over and over against the outside wall of the barn. John stood in the doorway, swaying dangerously.
Rabbie appeared in the opening, clad only in undershirt and long johns, his bright hair tufted about his head. His lips moved as he said something to John. John nodded then lurched past Rabbie and into the dark interior. Rabbie stood for a moment watching the storm then reached out and fought with the wind for a moment before closing the door.
A moment later, light flared from the single window as a lamp was lit. I strained my eyes, peered at the small rectangle of light. Someone stood before the window but the roiling snow made the shape barely visible.
I glanced back at the poor horse. It pawed the ground, searched for something to nibble as its white breath was snatched away and scattered upon the driving wind. I knew Rabbie wouldn’t leave the forlorn beast for long in this weather. But what was delaying him?
Several moments passed and the tip of each of my toes grew numb. When I began to shake and my teeth to chatter, I gave up on snooping and scurried back to my bed. I burrowed down beneath the layers of quilts into a cocoon that still contained a remnant of body heat. Rubbing my feet together, the numbness gradually receded to a prickly tingle.
More awake now than before, I resignedly reached out and retrieved my book then pulled the blankets around me so that only my hands and face were exposed. I scanned the page but the thread of the story was unfamiliar. I flipped back a few pages and concentrated on the small print, seeking to immerse myself in the predictable tale.
Again my mind wandered and I found myself thinking of John and Grace.
During the five months I had been in their employ, I had only glimpsed the husband and wife together a half dozen times. It had been during rare family meals when the atmosphere had been most uncomfortable and Grace refused to meet her husband’s imploring glances.
She spoke distractedly to the children and smiled weakly at them but her eyes would not alight on her husband’s pained face. She did however take an interest in me, asking me probing questions about my past, my husband, my experience with children and she drilled me on how I spent the days with her children. My answers seemed to appease her and in her distracted way, I felt that I had gained her trust.
Little Johnny, carried the conversation at these dinners with ease, blissfully unaware of the tension between his parents. Vanessa, however, was not spared by the innocence of her youth. Her sad gaze moved knowingly from her mother’s distant eyes to the torment that darkened the eyes of her father.
My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by an eerie cry. It came from outside, but I could not tell if the sound was animal or human. I closed the book, marking the page with my finger and strained to hear, but the howl of the wind was all that met my ears. I listened to the storm for a moment then opened the book again. At the same instant the strange sound cut through the wind once more.
What the devil?
My feet contracted in protest as I crossed the icy floor. I peered out into the dark. Swirling snow blotted out everything. Then the storm heaved a sigh and during the lull, the stable emerged.
Silhouettes darted back and forth in front of the stable window. The mare still stood, imprisoned by the straps that secured her to the carriage. Her head hung and as the storm blew out its fury, her mane and tail slapped about against her body.
I stared in puzzlement at the pitiful animal. Why hadn’t Rabbie unhitched her yet? That was entirely unlike him. John must have had something very pressing to discuss with him. I felt a flutter of worry in my belly as the odd cry again rose above the storm.
Chills, that had nothing to do with the cold, crept down my spine. Was a coyote moving in on the trapped mare? But the yip of a coyote was higher.
I drew my robe close about my body then pushed up on the window frame. Ice encased it and it would not budge. I grasped the wood more firmly and shoved up again, my arms quivering with strain. With a splintering sound, the ice released its hold and the window groaned open.
I gasped as the tempest boiled into my room, stole the breath from my lungs and molded my nightclothes to my body.
Once more the unearthly cry tore through the night and ripped through my open window. And, suddenly, I knew what it was.
Rabbie!
His anguished voice, cracking with adolescence, knifed through my chest.
Lord God! He’s hurt!
I sped from the room, down the stairs, through the dark house to the back door.
The frozen ground bit at the soles of my bare feet but I hardly noticed as I slipped and slid toward the stables. I wrenched the door open. The wind jerked it from my hands to crash against the outside wall. What I saw struck me blank with disbelief.
John stood by Rabbie’s bed, his back to me. His pants were crumpled on the floor around his ankles. He leaned forward, his buttocks pale in the lamplight. Rabbie was sprawled face down on the bed in front of him. With one hand, John pinned Rabbie’s shoulders. With the other, he pulled at Rabbie’s long johns.
Rabbie struggled wildly, his face
mashed into the pillow, both his hands behind his back, frantically holding the waistband of his underwear.
“Christ John! No!” Rabbie’s voice was raw from his frantic pleas.
My mind could not comprehend what lay before me. But Rabbie was in trouble and that’s all I needed to know. Darting to my left, I reached into a stall and grabbed the smooth, cold handle of a pitchfork. Without hesitation, I turned and ran at John. When the prongs pierced the white of his behind, he yelped and fell forward across Rabbie. Tossing the pitchfork aside, I grabbed John’s shoulders, hauled his long frame from my friend and shoved him to the floor.
Rabbie leapt from the bed, shoulders heaving, blue eyes wild with shock.
I found his icy hands and entwined them with my own as we both stared down at John. He peered up at in bewilderment, his eyes bleary with drink. Then he snatched pitifully at his breeches, all signs of grace and refinement gone. He scrabbled desperately, but his pants remained snagged around his ankles. I watched silently and as I began to understand what had almost happened, I felt sick to my stomach.
The secret had revealed itself.
John gaped up into Rabbie’s white face and his dark eyes glistened with tears as Rabbie stared back down, his eyes clouded with disgust.
“Rabbie, please, I didn’t mean to. Please, I’m shorry. It was... it was the whiskey. Pleash, you mustn’t tell Grace,” John pleaded, his words badly slurred.
“It was not the whiskey,” a low voice hissed from behind us.
We spun around.
Grace stood in the open door. Her nightdress billowed then alternately pasted itself to her petite frame. Blonde hair snaked about her ashen face, whipped by the wind. “It was not the whiskey,” she repeated.
Her blue-grey eyes glittered with tears and her lips trembled as she whispered, “You promised.”
John lurched to his feet while Rabbie and I watched in stunned silence. Holding his pants together with one hand, he held the other out pleadingly.
“Gracie, please, please, my love, forgive me.” His words ran together and he began to cry.
Grace slowly shook her head, her eyes never leaving her husband. “There’s no room left in my heart for forgiveness, John.” Tears flowed freely from her tormented eyes as she slowly walked toward her husband.
“Please, Grace, I promise,” he cried as he took a step toward his wife.
“You can’t help yourself.” Her voice rang with a note of finality. “But I will not allow you to do this to your family anymore.”
John nodded his head, eagerly agreeing with his wife. “Yes, yes my love, with your help I’ll stop.”
Grace’s face softened. She stared into John’s eyes for a long moment and I could see the love they felt for one another. Then she slowly nodded her head and walked the last few steps to her husband, “Yes, with my help, love.”
Too late, I noticed the gleam of a knife concealed in the folds of her night gown.
The lamplight glinted off the blade of the carving knife as she raised it above her head. Then it arced down, sliced the night air and plunged into John’s chest.
His dark eyes widened in surprise and his mouth fell open as he stared at his wife, his arms outstretched. Then slowly he looked down at the ornate bone handle that protruded from his chest.
In slow motion his legs crumpled and he dropped to his knees. Grace reached out and gently pulled him toward her so that his head rested against her legs, like a small child. Then she stroked the gleaming curls.
“I’m sorry, Grace. I never meant to hurt you.” His voice was thready, barely audible. A crimson stream of blood dripped from John’s chest and stained the hay-strewn floor red around Grace’s bare feet. “I love you, Gracie, forgive me,” he whispered into her legs.
She nodded silently, pale eyes nebulous, as she patted his head comfortingly. “I know, Johnny, and I love you.”
Weakly, he raised his head and peered up into his wife’s face. She placed a gentle finger upon his mouth and traced the contour of his lips as the light faded from his eyes.
“I forgive you,” she whispered.
Then he gradually slipped from her arms and slumped to his side at her feet.
Rabbie started forward but I stilled him with my hand as Grace turned to us. She looked from Rabbie to me, her figure drooped in sorrow.
A horse nickered. The walls shuddered as the tempest pummeled the small structure.
Grace continued to stare at us silently, her eyes distant, focused on something far away that we could not see.
Her voice was throaty and the words caught as she began to speak, “Meara, please love my children as your own. I can see how much they care for you. You alone have managed to bring Nessie’s smile back.”
Tears lodged in my throat as I tried to answer, “But I do love them, Grace. You know that.” Why were we pleasantly talking about her children when she had just murdered her husband? I took a hesitant step toward her but she reached down and wrenched the knife from John’s chest. Her hand shook as she held the bloody knife before her. I thought I might throw up and pressed my hand hard to my mouth as I took a step back.
“I need to know... I need to know that you will take care and love my children, Meara,” she pleaded, one hand extended beseechingly out to me, the other training the knife on my chest.
A heavy foreboding crushed my chest as I nodded silently, unable to speak.
A quiescent veil slipped over her delicate form and she appeared to wilt before my eyes. Then the knife dropped a little as she looked down at her husband. He stared up at her, his beautiful eyes frozen in death. She passed her fingers over his face and closed his lids then bent over to Rabbie’s bedside table and picked up the lamp. With slow deliberation she tossed it just in front of her husband’s body.
The glass chimney shattered. I jumped back and Rabbie caught me before I fell. Hungry flames licked at the dry hay and instantly a wall of fire separated us from Grace.
Rabbie pushed me aside and leapt forward, trying to step around the flames. He reached out for Grace but pulled his fingers back as the flames leapt up. He looked wildly about and grabbed a horse blanket from the wall of a stall. As he batted at the flames, I raced across to the water trough and filled a nearby bucket. Icy water sloshed over the sides onto my bare feet as I staggered back, the pail banging against my leg.
The flames darted out and greedily ignited the blanket. Rabbie kept swatting at the flames while I hurled the water onto the fire. It hissed at me angrily and climbed higher, setting fire to Rabbie’s cot and a low support beam.
Rabbie dropped the blanket and snatched the empty pail from my hands. Then he dashed back to the trough and filled the bucket again. But it was soon apparent that our desperate efforts were for naught as the fire spread, fanned by the wind that rushed through the open door.
I covered my nose and peered through the searing flames and smoke. Grace knelt on the floor, John’s body in her arms, her eyes closed.
Rabbie and I were forced to back away and watched helplessly as the flames sped toward us. Acrid smoke drove away the pungent smell of horse and sweet hay.
At once Rabbie turned toward the stalls. The horses charged about in their small confines, their terrified neighs and whinnies suddenly loud above the howl of the storm and the roar of the flames. The black stallion reared up on hind legs, its majestic head banging a low beam.
Rabbie released the door and slapped the horse on the rump. It charged forward but, unnerved by the flames, it turned back. Rabbie hollered and waved his arms until the frightened beast galloped for the door and disappeared in a swirl of snow.
Rabbie opened the rest of the stalls guiding the frightened herd to the door. They bucked and protested, their screams of fear adding to the chaos.
When none remained, Rabbie turned to me. My eyes streamed from the smoke and fought to close but I could not look away from Grace. Her wavy figure lay slumped over the body of her husband and I hoped the smoke had rendered her unconsc
ious for I knew there was no way to save her. The flames blocked us from every angle and I knew this is what she had wanted.
The wind raged behind us and the fire sucked greedily at the fresh air. With ferocious intent, it flared toward us and we had no choice but to flee the collapsing building. The horse and carriage were gone and the rest of the horses were nowhere to be seen.
Rabbie took my hand, his fingers like ice in mine. We heard a roar behind us as we ran from the inferno.
When we reached the house, we turned.
Within minutes the fire engulfed the stables and the building collapsed inward in a shower of blood-orange flames. Aided by the glacial winds, the barn burned to the ground then continued on, behind the stable, consuming the cedar rails of the paddock. It swallowed up the dry brown patches of grass that poked through the snow and raced down the slope toward the partially frozen river.
I wiped the soot from my eyes as the blizzard blew itself out with a last weary breath. We watched the fire fizzle at the water’s edge.
Gradually, I became aware that I could not feel my feet. How long had we stood there? I glanced sideways at Rabbie. The low flames from the smouldering ruins played over his blackened face. His eyes were wide with shock and disbelief.
He had trusted John, looked up to him as a father.
I took his hand and pulled the rest of him into my arms. In a daze, he moved in close and clung to me, his head on my shoulder. I comforted him, as he had so often comforted me, pulling his trembling form tight and stroking his russet hair. Silent sobs racked his body and I cried with him as the sun found its way into the eastern sky.
******
Barely a week had passed since the fire. Rabbie refused to speak of what had happened and I did not push. I left him alone to grieve and come to terms with what John had done.
The children were in shock, though Johnny did not grasp the reality of what had happened. Breaking into animated chatter, he would abruptly cut himself off as he stared at the somber faces. Vanessa was inconsolable and cried frequently. Both children had slept in my bed since the tragedy, cuddled close, riddled by bad dreams. They did not know the morbid details of their parent’s demise and no one would ever tell them. With no need to speak of it, Rabbie and I made a silent pact that John’s secret had died with him. But I knew Vanessa wondered, could see the tortured question in her eyes when she stared out my window at the blackened ruins. Why had her Mommy and Daddy been out in the stables in the middle of the night? But she did not ask. Olga must have known John’s secret but she said nothing and quietly went about her duties, wiping away tears.
Megan Denby Page 35
