At the same instant there came a startled exclamation from somewhere in the main chamber of the Long Gallery. Some piece of furniture went over with a crash, and I heard quick footsteps hurrying away.
I knelt beside the sobbing Ginny and drew her into my arms. But her thin body was tense and unresponsive. My opportunity was gone, and I knew I should have to work long and earnestly to recover lost ground.
And who had been the eavesdropper? I asked myself. Who had been listening to every word we said? Was it Rudd, hoping to pick up some tidbit to carry back to his master? Or one of the other servants?
“Look,” I said encouragingly to Ginny, “the ravens have gone away.”
The birds were merely two black specks against the rain-clouds, moving fast. I was glad to see them go. But I could not dismiss the vague unease that clung to me. My own childish fears of the ravens, those half-enjoyed terrors about the birds being portents of disaster, had been re-awakened. A shiver ran through me. Up here in the Long Gallery, now abandoned to the shadows and brooding silence, anything seemed possible. It was a bad miscalculation on my part to have brought Ginny here.
“Let us go downstairs,” I suggested. “It’s cold and depressing, and we need cheering up.”
Going toward the head of the stairs, I saw what had caused the crashing noise. A small gate-legged Jacobean table lay on its side. I left it just as it was—as evidence. But what did it prove?
* * * *
Next day, Jerome made one of his rare appearances at the preluncheon gatherings in Nadine’s room. But he had little to contribute. He spent his time standing at the window staring out, hardly seeming aware of the glass of sherry wine in his hand. These days, I was intently watchful of the relationship between Jerome and his wife. His manner toward Nadine remained as courteous and devoted as ever, but I sensed his disquiet. I suspected that he had joined us this morning only because he felt obliged to do so now and then, and not because it gave him any pleasure.
I was jolted back from my speculations by hearing Nadine say reprovingly, “Ginny darling, I was expecting you to come and see me yesterday afternoon. It was so wet you couldn’t possibly have gone riding.”
“I’m sorry, Nadine,” she mumbled, and a flush rose to her cheeks. She glanced at me, as though unwillingly, then looked quickly away.
“It was my fault, I’m afraid,” I said, coming to her rescue. “I asked Ginny to go up to the Long Gallery with me to look through some of the old games up there.”
Nadine’s green-gold eyes flickered. “You did what?”
“I thought it might be amusing,” I explained. “We used to have such fun up there in the old days whenever it was wet.”
I bitterly regretted the whole episode now. I had achieved nothing with Ginny—quite the opposite— and seemed to have given Nadine further cause for resenting me.
“The Long Gallery is gloomy and depressing,” she said, affecting disgust. “It is certainly no place for Ginny. And why it should enter your head to get out those silly toys and things, I cannot imagine. Ginny is of the opinion she will no longer have need of a tutor after Mr. Smallbridge departs, so she is surely past wanting to play stupid, childish games. If you wish for something with which to amuse yourself, Sarah, then you will find all you require in the way of playing cards and chess and dominoes in the library.”
“Sarah,” put in Oscar, with a malicious grin, “why not ask Jerome to play chess with you? In him, you will find all you need in the way of a partner.”
“Be silent, Oscar,” Nadine snapped, giving her brother a furious look. “If stupid remarks like that are the best you can manage, then I suggest you leave the conversation to others.”
They stared hard at one another for a moment, then Oscar shrugged carelessly. “As you please, old girl.”
I felt chilled. Did Nadine know about the scene between Jerome and me in the estate office? It was my constant dread that Oscar had told his sister what he had seen. The atmosphere of the room seemed suddenly charged with tension, and I know that I was the focal point of it. Even Jerome had given up looking out of the window, and was watching me.
“I really think, Sarah dear,” Nadine remarked in honey-sweet tones, “that you have a rather morbid absorption with the past. At your age you should be looking to the future. However, your recent behavior has made me wonder if you are not determined to end up as an old maid.”
“Nadine.” It was a sharp rebuke from Jerome. “That was most uncalled for.”
His quick defense of me brought tears to my eyes. In a daze I heard Nadine’s voice, tight with anger.
“If you are unwilling to do your duty, Jerome, I shall not neglect mine. Sarah has stubbornly refused a most acceptable proposal of marriage, and—”
“No more, Nadine.”
A battle of wills raged silently across the space between them. It was Nadine who finally gave way.
“Heavens, what a ridiculous fuss about nothing!” she said with a false little laugh. “My husband insists that you are in no need of guidance, Sarah, so naturally I shall offer you none. Now let us talk about something else. You know, it is such a beautiful day I think I shall spend a little time in the orangery after luncheon. Ginny, you may come and read to me.”
Without glancing in my direction, Jerome returned to his stance by the window. I knew that, had he not been in the room, I would have spoken up and defended myself against Nadine’s attack. But in some strange way Jerome’s presence inhibited me.
* * * *
For once, I was glad to be riding alone, without Ginny. I deliberately chose the morning, when she was at her lessons, and headed directly for Ravens’ Valley.
As I climbed up to the high moor, leaving Farracombe Court behind, I experienced a lightening of my spirits which was growing familiar. The house oppressed me, but up here I felt an exhilarating sense of freedom.
It was a brisk day of chasing clouds. The endless purple sea of heather swirled and tossed in the silky wind which caressed my cheeks. A pattern of sunlight and shadows raced across the rolling moorland, rippling down into the combes and up again, without pause. Here and there sheep grazed peacefully, but when Keffel and I drew near they lifted their woolly faces and bleated resentfully, bundling away in an absurd display of fright. Once, upon the far skyline, I spotted a small herd of wild ponies, their heads down in the wind. Sensing our presence the shy creatures went galloping off, gliding in silent unison to some more secret fastness of the moor.
A shallow gully opened before us, leading gently down through a grove of stunted oak trees to Rock-ham Combe, where my father had made his first attempt at mining, before the feverish search for iron ore moved elsewhere. Now, Exmoor had almost reclaimed its own, and the hand of man seemed no more than a scratch upon the surface, already healed over with bracken and tall wild grasses. The abandoned huts at the head of the mine shaft were falling apart stone by stone, and the water wheel leaned at a recklessly drunken angle.
Memories. And a heart filled with anger because my father’s life had been thrown away, his abounding energy and enthusiasm allowed to run to waste. I lingered there for a while, holding Keffel in check. Then, resolutely, I made for the high ground again, back to the wind and the wide sweeping views, but watchful for the boggy patches where sphagnum moss spread its yellow warning trails between the tussocks of deer sedge.
At length, approaching the farthest limit of Lefevre land, I came to the Valley of the Ravens.
It was a wild and remote place, a lost valley, a scree-strewn cleft of steep, unscalable rock where vegetation clung tenuously. It was here among the high crags that the ravens built their nests. I could see some of the great birds soaring lazily in the upward currents of air, their plumage a gleaming black against the scudding white clouds. The ravens’ very grandeur, their unchallenged mastery of the air, made them somehow awesome, and I had to steel myself not to be touched by the same fear of them that had infected poor Ginny.
The hunting lodge lay in the she
lter of a clump of pine trees which grew beside the rushing stream. For some reason quite unknown to me, it had been built in the style of a Swiss chalet, its roof low-pitched and overhanging, its chimneys squat and square.
I found the path I remembered and began to descend. As I drew closer, the neglect of the lodge became apparent. Tiles had slipped from the roof, and window shutters hung loose from their hinges. I dismounted and tethered Keffel to a tree. But for a moment I lacked the courage to go forward. Now that I was here my pulses beat fast and there was a choking tightness in my throat.
What did I expect to see when I peered in through the grimy windows? What did I hope to see? Was Cynthia right—had my sister used the lodge as a trysting place with Ned? If so, would I find some clue to then- disappearance?
But I was becoming confused in my mind. I did not believe that any such relationship had existed between Felicity and Ned, so it was impossible that they would have come here to meet in secret.
Cynthia had made another suggestion. Jerome, she had pointed out with sly amusement, was very much a man and his wife a permanent invalid. Wasn’t it only natural that he should make the same use of the hunting lodge as his Lefevre ancestors before him? A romantic retreat, she had delightedly called it. A love nest.
With sudden determination I hurried up the shallow flight of steps to the veranda and tried the front door. I had not expected to find the lodge unlocked, but to my surprise the door yielded. I pushed it open gently and stepped inside.
My entry raised a swirl of dust which caught my throat and made me cough, the sharp sound echoing back at me. I remained standing just inside the door, listening. The lodge was shadowed, silent, the brooding silence that knew only of events long past. A broken shutter banged in the wind. This lodge had not been used for years. It had not even been entered for years. Dust lay thickly on the pinewood floor, disturbed only where I myself had trodden. A film of dust clothed the naked bodies of the fat little cupids carved into the newel posts of the stairway. The window hangings, rich red velvet once, were limp with damp and looked sadly attacked by moths.
So Cynthia had been mistaken about Jerome. I experienced a sweeping sense of gladness. My tread was light as I mounted the stairs and made a tour of the gallery, glancing into the upper rooms. Everywhere the scene was the same, forlorn and abandoned.
About to go downstairs again, I paused, aware of a slight feeling of unease. Then I saw what caused it. The motionless figure of a man blocked the doorway, silhouetted against the daylight.
“Who—who is it?” I whispered fearfully.
“It is I—Jerome! What are you doing here, Sarah?” My fear vanished instantly. But I felt confused and embarrassed, not knowing how to reply to his question. Jerome remained where he was, not moving a step. After a few moments’ hesitation I descended slowly to the foot of the staircase.
“It’s just that—well, I was out riding and I realized that I was quite near here. So I thought I might as well come and have a look.”
Jerome stepped across the threshold and glanced around, as if reminding himself of something long unseen. There was a frown of distaste on his face.
“What was the real reason, Sarah?” he demanded.
“The—the real reason?”
“It was no idle chance that brought you in this direction. You deliberately set out for Ravens’ Valley. I saw you.”
“You mean you followed me?”
Jerome was not in the least repentant. “Yes, I followed you. And I want to know what made you so determined to come here.”
“Perhaps—perhaps I wished to discover why you were so anxious to avoid the lodge the other day, when we rode over to Riversmeet Hall.”
“But there is something more, Sarah. I can sense it. I am determined to know, so you might as well tell me now.”
I hesitated. “Cynthia Westbrook believes that Felicity and Ned Tassell used to—”
“To meet here? I know, she told me the same thing. But, Sarah, you do not accept that those two were lovers—or have you now changed your mind?”
“No,” I said fiercely. “I have not.”
“Then it follows that your motive for making this journey today has nothing to do with Felicity. So let’s have the truth.”
I knew Jerome would not be satisfied until I had told him everything. I swallowed nervously.
“Cynthia suggested that the lodge might still be used—as it was in former days ...”
“And you came here out of morbid curiosity to see if she was right?” His eyes narrowed swiftly. “Who, from the depths of her fertile imagination, did Cynthia think the man might be?”
I could not answer him. I felt a flush sweeping from neck to brow, making my whole face burn. Jerome stared at me in silence for a few moments, then said incredulously, “Me? Cynthia suggested that I was using the lodge for secret assignations?” Suddenly his voice dropped. “Well, now you know for yourself that she was wrong.”
I nodded miserably, staring down at my feet.
There was a long silence. Then I felt Jerome’s fingertips under my chin, tilting my head so that I had to meet his eyes.
“Would it have distressed you, Sarah, to discover that I was behaving like my forebears?”
“It—it is no business of mine how you choose to behave,” I faltered.
“That is not answering my question.”
I averted my face, glancing past him through the open doorway. I saw that he had tethered his horse beside mine. They stood close together, nudging one another, seeking companionship in this lonely valley. Then I heard a raven croaking, and the harsh, unlovely sound brought me back from the dreamlike wandering of my thoughts. Jerome had no right to press me so relentlessly.
“I have said all I am going to say on the matter, Jerome.”
He turned away from me and began to pace about the room, seeming to examine the intricacies of the carved paneling on the walls. But I felt sure his eyes were not really seeing anything. Presently he came to a halt in the doorway and stood there with his back to me.
“I am a normal man, Sarah, with a normal man’s needs. But these past four years my wife has not been a normal woman. Besides which—”
“Please,” I begged him. “Please don’t go on.”
He turned slowly to face me again, and when his gaze met mine I knew there could no longer be any pretense between us. Jerome had guessed that I loved him, and I could read from the tenderness in his eyes that he loved me.
It was a moment of aching sweetness, of unbelievable joy. Yet I knew that if we were to take one single step more in declaring our love, we should be utterly lost. Jerome and I were not free to love. We would never to free. There was nothing to be done.
At long, long last I heard Jerome take a breath, deep as a sigh.
“It has started to rain, Sarah,” he said, sounding matter-of-fact. “We cannot leave yet”
“Oh, but we must.”
“We will stay for a little while, to see if it clears. You can endure that, I hope?”
The ten minutes we waited together in the chalet were filled with an unbearable tension for me. I was terrified, every moment, that by some careless glance or gesture I might reveal my longing for him too shamelessly.
Yet my heart felt strangely light. Jerome had just admitted to me that he did not lead the life of a celibate, and I could still feel happy. It was not here, not here in the hunting lodge. For reasons that were obscure in my mind that would have distressed me beyond bearing.
Jerome stepped to the door again and studied the sky.
“The rain seems to have settled in. I’m afraid, Sarah, that we’re going to get very wet on the way back.”
“It cannot be helped.”
The horses had become fretful, and they seemed glad when we remounted and started for home. Jerome and I did not speak as we climbed the rocky path leading out of the valley. But when we reached the high open moor, he said abruptly, “I was glad that you refused Smallbridge’s proposal of ma
rriage, Sarah.”
“He should have known better than to make it,” I replied. “I can’t imagine why Nadine ever thought it possible that I would accept him.”
“Marriage to Smallbridge would have provided you with a means of escape from Farracombe,” he said thoughtfully.
“I can leave Farracombe anytime I choose, without needing to resort to so drastic a measure,” I retorted. “But as I have already told you, Jerome, I am determined to stay. Unless-—unless you want me to go?”
There was a long pause, and when at last he answered, his voice was almost carried away by the wind.
“I am thinking of your own good, Sarah. Not of what I want.”
The rain had become heavier, drenching down, and I could feel it soaking through my merino habit to my skin. Black rivulets of water had formed in the heather, squelching under the horses’ hooves as we rode fast for home. I could see the sheep huddling miserably by any rocky outcrop that offered slender protection.
As we came to Rockham Combe, Jerome was ahead of me, leading the way down the narrow track. Suddenly I was startled by a horrible groaning noise that seemed to come from the very ground beneath us. Keffel gave a little whinny of fear, and I pulled at the reins sharply.
“Jerome, what was that?”
He wheeled his horse and came back to my side, leaning across to touch my hand.
“Don’t be afraid, Sarah. It is only a pump down in the old mine shaft. Sometimes, in rough weather like this, the water wheel breaks free and revolves and the rusty machinery starts up for a few minutes. That is what you’re hearing.”
I breathed deeply, trying to calm my rapid heartbeat. But I could still feel my scalp tingling.
“It—it is quite unnerving,” I stammered. “It sounds like some poor ghost imprisoned down there in the bowels of the earth.”
Jerome smiled briefly. “Come, Sarah—let us get on our way. This is no place to linger on a day like this.”
But it was some while before we escaped the noise of the pump. The weird, unearthly groaning seemed to echo across the windswept moor, pursuing us, haunting us. It made me realize how jangled my nerves had become since my return to Farracombe. I was getting as irrational in my fears as poor little Ginny.
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