“At least your father never saw it like this, Sarah. It would have broken his heart.”
“Papa did not avoid heartbreak by departing from Farracombe,” I reminded him. “Quite the contrary.”
“It was a sad business all around,” Jerome acknowledged. “Your father and my father were not the first men to lose the battle for iron—others before them had tried and failed. I have a feeling deep down, Sarah, that Exmoor will only yield its iron when the time is right. One day, perhaps, new methods and more pressing needs will justify men mining here. But I believe that our present task is to farm, to make the land productive wherever possible. And where it is not possible, to allow the wilderness to remain.”
“So you think my father was wrong to try?” I asked bitterly.
“That is not for me to say. Your father was a mining engineer, Sarah. The Lefevres are farmers.” “But Uncle Joshua thought it was right to mine for iron,” I pointed out. “At least he did until he lost faith in the whole project.”
Jerome glanced quickly at Ginny riding a few yards ahead.
“My father and I do not always agree, Sarah, as I am sure you are well aware.”
Our steep ascent out of the combe was awarded from the plateau by a superb view of open moorland. Today there was no trace of the mists that so often hugged the higher ground. The rain-washed air was sparklingly clear, and the cloudless blue sky soared above our heads. We could see for endless miles over the wild, lonely hills—in one direction to the high tors of Dartmoor, in the other across the glinting Bristol Channel to the dark outlines of the Welsh mountain ranges.
“Shall we be going through Ravens’ Valley?” I asked Jerome, as we paused to give our horses a short breathing space. “I should so much like to see the old hunting lodge again.”
Ginny, whose pony had been contentedly grazing, jerked around sharply in her saddle.
“Oh, please, Jerome—not that way,” she begged.
Her brother’s face was creased into a frown, “The place is never used now, Sarah. We no longer keep it up as we did in the old days.”
“What a shame. I always thought it so fascinating. We often went there, and sometimes we took a picnic tea with us—do you remember, Ginny? When Felicity and I were small we used to pretend it was our own little house, and the grown-ups came as guests to be entertained. Could we not just pass by that way, Jerome, so that I might see it once again?”
“No, no, I don’t want to go to Ravens’ Valley. It’s a nasty, horrid place.” Ginny had turned very pale, and her lips were quivering.
“There’s no need to be so upset, Ginny dear,” I said gently. “The ravens will not harm you. I know they make a horrible croaking noise which is sometimes rather startling, but truly they are more timid of us than we are of them. And they build their nests high up on the rocky ledges, well away from human beings.” I held out my hand to her invitingly. “Come, let us ride past the hunting lodge, and you will see how charming it looks in the sunshine, nestling among the pine trees beside that pretty little stream.”
But Ginny shook her head violently, still tense with fear. Jerome put an end to the matter by saying firmly, “We will go to Riversmeet by way of Haydon’s Barrow.”
I felt greatly disturbed by the incident. As we continued on our way, Ginny happily trotting ahead of us once more, I decided to tackle Jerome.
“If you will forgive me saying so, I do not think you are helping Ginny by pandering to her fear of ravens. They seem to have become an obsession with her. When I was a child I too heard the old legends about the raven being a bird of doom and death, and how they would pluck out people’s eyes. Like most children, I rather enjoyed feeling my flesh creep. But I was never really frightened, because Finchy wouldn’t let me be. She used to treat all such tales as nothing but superstition, something to laugh about. Is that not the best way?”
Jerome turned and gave me a searching look.
“I feel sure, Sarah, that it is merely a passing phase of Ginny’s. However, I am inclined to think now that we made a mistake in letting Miss Fincham go. She would have been a good influence on the child.”
“I entirely agree. Frankly, Jerome, I was astonished when I heard you had pensioned her off. The departure of my parents, with me, meant that poor little Ginny lost our companionship—people who had been around her from the day she was born. But at least she still had Finchy. Could you not foresee what a shock it would be for Ginny to lose her only friend? It’s no wonder her mind should have become so confused. Do you know, Ginny actually suggested to me that the ravens might have been responsible for sending Finchy away? She asked me if I thought they made you do it.”
A shadow crossed his face, and I saw his mouth tighten. I feared he was going to upbraid me for implying that Ginny had no one left who cared for her after Finchy went. But Jerome let that pass.
“We must sincerely hope,” he said, “that things will improve for Ginny now that you are back, Sarah.”
* * *
Chapter 6
Another half-hour’s riding brought us to Riversmeet Hall, in its sheltered valley where three rivers come together. The house had been built a century ago in the classical Queen Anne style.
Richard Westbrook, who seemed not yet accustomed to the dignity of a knighthood, himself came running down the wide sweep of steps to greet us. He recognized me instantly.
“I say, Sarah, how nice to see you. Cynthia will be delighted when she knows Jerome has brought you along with him.”
While the two men went off to discuss their business, Ginny and I were conducted to a small drawing room where Cynthia Westbrook was practicing the piano.
“Sarah, darling!” she exclaimed. “What a perfectly lovely surprise. And dear little Ginny! I was thrilled to hear that you were back at Farracombe, Sarah, and I have been simply longing to see you again. Things there are sadly changed, are they not? I have hardly cared to visit with my mama these past few years, for it is such a gloomy house—not at all as it was in the old days. But now that I am married and such a close neighbor, and now you are there once more, everything will be different.”
Cynthia might look more mature, I reflected, in her elegant muslin gown trimmed with ribbons, her dark hair fashionably styled in a soft fall of curls, but she prattled just as much as ever. Being nearly four years older than I, she had been rather more Felicity’s friend than mine.
“You must tell me all about yourself, Sarah dear,” she ran on. “Richard and I are scarcely back from our honeymoon, you know. We went to Switzerland— Lake Geneva, and Lucerne and Zurich. Originally we had planned to return home about a month ago, but I so longed to see the French Riviera, too, and dear Richard hardly needed any persuading. He spoils me quite dreadfully, of course.”
I could well believe it. Cynthia was very petite and fragile-looking, with velvety brown eyes that could gaze at a man with appealing helplessness.
“I am delighted to hear that you are so happy, Cynthia,” I told her.
“Happy! Oh, my dear Sarah, I cannot tell you how thrilling it is to be married—” She broke off, glancing at Ginny. “My pet, you must think this grown-up talk dreadfully tiresome. I will ring for a footman, and he shall take you over to the stables and show you our new foal. It is such a sweet little creature.”
Ginny went off meekly with the footman, resigned to being dismissed. The moment the door closed behind them Cynthia turned back to me, her eyes sparkling at the prospect of a cozy feminine chat.
“Were you forced to leave a suitor behind when you came to live at Farracombe, Sarah?”
“No,” I said, “there was no one. I had my father to nurse through a long illness.”
“Oh yes, of course—how sad!” She paused, very briefly, then continued, “What of the young men around here? There are several quite eligible ones, you know.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, you should! I really do most strongly recommend the married state to you.
It is only when one is married that one can fully understand what adorable creatures men are. Nothing is too good for me, in darling Richard’s eyes. We are planning to have the entire house done over. At first he was a little doubtful about having the dark old paneling covered up, but I soon made him agree that we must be up-to-date. Oh, it is such fun! I laugh sometimes now when I remember how jealous I used to be of Felicity, because she was in love and I was not.”
“Felicity!” I exclaimed, catching my breath. “With whom was she in love?”
Cynthia looked surprised. “We know who it was now, do we not? That young man—what was his name? Ned Tassell. Naturally, I tried to coax it out of her, but Felicity simply refused to tell me, and no wonder. Obviously, she was too ashamed.”
“But she did admit to you that she was in love with someone?”
“Oh yes! After all, I was her best friend, wasn’t I? She confessed it to me when I taxed her—and she admitted that the man was just as passionately in love with her as she was with him. But she remained adamant about keeping his identity a secret. I used to puzzle quite frantically about who her lover could be. I went through every possibility in my mind, from Lord Baynton’s youngest son, Ralph, to that handsome young Dr. Fletcher in South Molton. I even wondered if it could be Jerome’s brother-in-law, Oscar Medwyn. I know that Felicity liked him—and wouldn’t any girl? He’s so devastatingly attractive, isn’t he? But of course I realized at once that it couldn’t be Oscar, because there’d have been no reason for keeping it such a deep dark secret. There was nothing in the world to prevent them making a match of it. In the end, I decided that Felicity must have been having an illicit affaire with a married man. So thrillingly romantic! You can imagine how shocked and disappointed I was to discover the real reason for all that secrecy. Whatever could Felicity have been thinking of to elope with someone like that—the nephew of a coachman?”
While she was chattering on I experienced a curious pang of jealousy that my sister had confided more to Cynthia about her secret feelings than she had ever done to me. But I thrust aside the sense of hurt. Perhaps if I kept Cynthia talking—no difficult task—I might elicit some fragments of information that would carry me a stage forward in solving the mystery of Felicity’s disappearance.
Warily feeling my way, I began, “I assure you, Cynthia, I was every bit as surprised as you, for Felicity never gave me the slightest hint that she cared for Ned Tassell. Indeed, she used to laugh about the way he mooned over her.”
Cynthia giggled. “How cunning she was! To think they must have been meeting secretly all the time, without anyone ever suspecting the least thing. As a matter of fact, Sarah, I believe I know where they must have kept their lovers’ trysts—in that old hunting lodge, on the Farracombe land. I even suggested as much to Jerome once, when I happened to be dancing with him at the Clayton’s New Year’s ball. But for some odd reason it made him very angry, and he said I was talking absolute nonsense. Jerome was really rather rude to me, and I’ve only lately decided to forgive him.”
I recalled Jerome’s curious manner this afternoon on our ride here. It looked as if his avoidance of the hunting lodge was not merely on Ginny’s account. I wondered what it was about the place that upset him.
“I suppose—” Cynthia went on, as though picking up the thread of my own thoughts— “I suppose you know the scandalous history of that hunting lodge?”
“No, I—I don’t think so.”
“Oh, my dear, the Lefevre men have not always been the pillars of virtue that history records, it seems. The place was called a hunting lodge largely out of politeness. Tobias Lefevre, who built it—he’d be, let me see ... Joshua Lefevre’s great-great-grandfather, I suppose—used it for quite a different purpose.”
“Different purpose?” I asked stupidly.
Cynthia gazed at me with wide, delighted eyes. “It was used as a romantic retreat. A love nest. And I gather that some of his descendants have not been averse to putting it to the very same use. What could be more convenient than to have a little place like that hidden away on the moor, miles from Farracombe Court—with one of the servants riding over occasionally to keep it in order!” She giggled again. “Who knows, perhaps even to this day, Sarah! After all, Jerome is very much a man, and with his wife an invalid ...”
“Oh no,” I said, feeling a deep sense of shock. “No, I am sure not.”
At that point Ginny returned to the drawing room. Cynthia rang the bell for tea to be brought, and presently the two men joined us.
Watching the loving glances that passed between Sir Richard and his bride, I couldn’t help remembering another scene of marital devotion I had witnessed only a few evenings before. I was still of the opinion that it had been a performance. I still felt convinced that what bound Jerome and Nadine together was not a bond of love, but something quite different.
As we rode back to Farracombe I remembered, without enthusiasm, that this was the day Mr. Smallbridge had been invited to dinner.
I was dressed and ready to go downstairs when Nadine’s maid came to my room with a message that her mistress would like to see me. I found Nadine with her jewel box open on her lap.
“Ah, Sarah, I see you have put on your mulberry velvet—an excellent choice. I was wondering what you would wear tonight. Let me see—I think this would do nicely.” She held up a string of silver filigree beads. “Here, try these on.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Nadine.”
“You want to look your very best this evening, do you not?”
“Is there some special reason why I should?” I asked coolly.
“So we are still pretending, are we, Sarah? Oh, my dear, there is no need. We all of us understand.”
I was annoyed, and didn’t try to hide it.
“I really must insist, Nadine, that I have no interest whatsoever in Mr. Smallbridge. In any case, I would not accept your offer. Just because I am not wearing mourning for my father—at his specific wish—it does not mean I feel free to adorn myself with jewelry. But thank you all the same.”
She dropped her gaze contritely. “I apologize, Sarah. It was thoughtless of me. Let us choose something altogether simpler. A little cameo at your breast, perhaps?”
“No, thank you, Nadine—nothing.”
She shrugged, her lips twitching with amusement. “On second thought, perhaps you are wise. I am sure you need no adornment in that young man’s eyes. You will do perfectly well just as you are.”
I went down to dinner in a depressed mood. I could not understand why Nadine seemed to think I was interested in the curate. But whatever the reason, I was determined not to be pushed into any closer association with him.
Everyone was present except Uncle Joshua. As the only guest, Horace Smallbridge was seated on Nadine’s right, and I was placed next to him. Throughout the meal he insisted on paying me flowery compliments, while Nadine smiled upon him with approval.
Later, when we were all assembled in the salon, I did my best to avoid Mr. Smallbridge by sitting with Thirza on the sociable. But he would not be thwarted.
“Miss Haddow,” he murmured, leaning across to me, “I very much hope you will honor us with a song at the pianoforte, I feel certain you have a most delightful singing voice.”
I shook my head. “I fear my voice is by no means exceptional, Mr. Smallbridge. In any case, I have neither played nor sung for a very long time.”
He assumed a crestfallen air, and Nadine, who had been watching us from her sofa across the room, called to me, “If Mr. Smallbridge is asking you to sing for us, Sarah, then pray do so.”
“I regret that I am too much out of practice, Nadine.”
“Nonsense, I am sure you will perform most beautifully.” She glanced around at the others. “Sarah shall sing for us, shall she not? Jerome, you must insist.”
I looked at Jerome, entreating him to take my part. But he declined to become involved, saying, “It is up to Sarah to decide for herself.”
Mr.
Smallbridge and Nadine continued to urge me, and wearily I gave way. It seemed easier than to make a big point of refusing. I choose the wistful little song “Barbara Allen,” which had always been a favorite of mine. Mercifully, I found that my modest talent had not quite deserted me. But my performance in no way deserved such extravagant applause, which I found most embarrassing.
“Bravo, bravo,” cried Oscar, coming over to the piano. “I say, Sarah, I went to the Royalty when I was in town. They were doing such a jolly show—one of those operettas, you know. It had some capital tunes. D’you know any of them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Pity. Something else, then—something catchy we can hum to.”
I gave them a rendering of “Strawberry Fair” while Horace Smallbridge stood attentively on my one side, and Oscar on the other. But it was of Jerome I was most aware. He stood alone at the far end of the room and appeared to be listening politely. But his somber features gave nothing away, so that I could not tell whether he approved of my singing or not.
Suddenly, and shatteringly, it came to me that above all else I longed to win Jerome’s approval. The realization made my fingers falter on the keys and I had to discipline myself to complete the piece.
When I had done, to another shower of applause, Nadine reminded Ginny that it was long past her bedtime. “You should know that yourself, dear, without needing to be told.”
“I’m sorry, Nadine.” She rose at once and made a swift round of good nights. I saw my chance to escape and seized it.
“If you will excuse me, Nadine, I think I’ll go up, too. I have rather a headache.”
She glared at me angrily, and I knew that she would have something to say later about my behavior. But I was past caring. It seemed unbearable to go on a moment longer suffering the unwelcome attentions of the curate, while Jerome stood there looking on, saying nothing.
Ginny had gone upstairs ahead of me, and when I reached the upper hall she was just emerging from her father’s sitting room after bidding him good night. She walked with me to my bedroom, following me inside.
Valley of the Ravens Page 7
