The husband I knew was a good man. A little brooding, perhaps, occasionally a little sharp of tongue. Yet essentially a good man. It must be so, I thought, feeling a twinge of uncertainty. For surely Papa would know, and just as surely, he would never have let me marry the man had he felt otherwise.
Chapter Four
The sideboard was amply supplied. Food of all kinds lay there, ready to my palate. At least, I thought, with a resurgence of my ill temper, I should not starve to death in this desolate place. But, though I filled my plate with this and that and took my place beside my husband at the table, I found that my usual hearty appetite had deserted me.
Even the sturdiest soul may have difficulty swallowing steak and kidney pie when she finds she has married, in addition to the man she loves, a household of most peculiar relations—all of whom seem to hold her in the deepest aversion.
Richard filled my cup with more chocolate. “You must eat heartily,” he told me. “The castle is always on the cold side, even in the spring."
I nodded, determined to be cheerful. “I shall order some warm stuff for some new gowns. No doubt there's a dressmaker in the village who'll be glad of the business."
The dowager snorted. It was a rude sound, most unladylike. Richard ignored it, and following his pattern, so did I.
But I would find that the duchess could not be ignored. She did not intend that we should escape her censure. Not then. Not ever. “Warm clothes won't help you,” she said, fixing me with a baleful eye. “They didn't help her."
A chill crept up my backbone. What was this awful woman talking about? And what did she mean by speaking about Caroline in such a tone?
I glanced at my husband for support and was surprised to see on his face a look of such fierceness that it almost made me move away from his side. “Mother—” he began.
"She might as well know it,” the duchess declared, returning his look with one equally fierce. “She's not welcome here."
The harsh words were uttered in the coldest tones. I could not help myself, I shivered again. My temper had never been such as to take insult lightly, as Papa had more than once regretfully informed me, so I faced my mother-in-law with all the severity I could muster—and it was considerable. “I do not know,” I said, “why you dislike me. I have only just arrived here. You have had no opportunity to know me yet. I came here your son's wife. Why do you not welcome me as most mothers would?"
From the doorway came a harsh caustic laugh. I knew before I turned that the youngest Greyden male stood there. He was still dressed completely in black, as Rosamund had been.
"Being Richard's wife,” Penrose said, “will not make the dowager care for you. Now or ever. On the other hand, if you were Richard's enemy—"
"Enough,” said my husband. He fastened his eyes on the youth. “Treat Vanessa with some respect. She is not her sister."
This last remark startled me. Was everyone treating me so rudely because they supposed me to be another Caroline? Well, if that was the case, I should have to disabuse them of such a foolish notion. Perhaps if I practiced patience. But, unfortunately, that was not one of my natural attributes.
Still, I put on my friendliest smile. “I really am very different from my sister,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “And if you give me a chance, you will see that for yourselves."
The duchess did not bother to look up from her plate. It was obvious to all that she did not care what I did or said.
Well, I would have to give her time. I would exert myself to be pleasant. Surely after a while they would all realize that Caroline and I were as unlike as sisters could be.
I turned again to Penrose. I would start with him. “Does your sister like to arrange flowers? Perhaps we could go for walks together. She must be lonely here, so far from everyone."
Penrose laughed. I cannot, to this day, forget the harsh abrasive qualities of his laughter. “Rosamund is never lonely,” he said. “She has her Jeffrey."
I so forgot myself as to say, “Surely you don't believe that—that—” Words failed me. I could not go on.
His eyes laughed at me, cruel, piercing eyes. They searched my face for weakness. “Believe that his spirit accompanies her? Why shouldn't I believe it? She does."
I mustered all my resources. I reminded myself that I was a grown woman. I was Richard's wife. “But she is—ill. She needs help."
Penrose's face changed. From being sarcastic, it became twisted and violent. “Rosamund is saner than most people,” he proclaimed, “and she is not going anywhere.” He turned angry eyes to Richard. “I warn you—"
"Penrose!” Richard's voice rose only slightly, but it was enough. The youth lapsed into sullen silence. “You know quite well,” Richard continued, “that Rosamund will remain here. I have no intention of sending my sister away from her home. And that is not what Vanessa had in mind."
"Indeed, it is not.” I hurried on, intent on making myself clear. “I would never advocate sending her away from her home. I only meant that perhaps some fresh air and sunshine, and the company of another woman might be beneficial to her."
Penrose smiled, a smile of pure evil. “The company of your sister was not."
At that my temper, which I had been struggling to subdue since Richard left me the night before, broke completely loose. “How dare you?” I cried, leaping to my feet with such vengeance that my chair hit the stone floor behind me with a sharp report. “How many times must I tell you? I am not my sister!"
There was silence in the room. My violent outburst seemed to have stunned them all.
Finally Richard got to his feet and set my chair upright. He put a steadying hand on my arm. “Sit down, Vanessa. Calm yourself."
"Calm?” My voice was going higher and higher, and so was my temper. I tried to curb it by counting all the way to one hundred, but while I counted, I could not prevent myself from thinking.
The people in this impossible household had been uniformly rude to me—a stranger in their midst. Where I should have expected welcome, I had received insult. Not one—for a moment my mental tirade paused, and I remembered a kiss that had stirred my senses. But that, too, I reminded myself, was an insult. A kiss from my husband's twin—about whose existence he had conveniently neglected to inform me.
Then there were the circumstances of my wedding night. To leave me to spend my wedding night all alone—and without so much as an explanation. Now, when his nephew offered me insult, my husband wanted me to stay calm!
I was about to burst forth with some words unsuitable for a lady's tongue, when from behind me came Roland's smooth voice. “So, I see she has a temper like Caro's."
The shock of this hit me like a bucket of cold water. How could I ever expect to win these people over, to persuade them that I was not like my sister, if I let my temper so easily erupt? I swallowed hastily and reconsidered what I would say.
"I am not like Caroline,” I repeated in as moderate a tone as I could manage. “And, given half a chance, I shall prove it to you."
The dowager looked about to make another disparaging remark, but from the hallway came a childish voice. “I want to see her!” It was evident from the tone that Caroline and I did not have all the temper in our family. “I will see her,” the child cried. “She's my new mother."
This last warmed my heart, and I half turned in the chair, expecting the onslaught of a small body. Some childish hugs and kisses such as the village children had often given me would be tonic for my aching heart.
But the child Sarah did not run into my arms. She went straight for her Uncle Roland and climbed up on his knee. To my surprise I saw that she, too, was wearing black. I swallowed my disappointment and smiled at her. “Good morning, Sarah."
"Good morning.” She cocked her head to one side and stared at me. “I was right. Your hair is not like carrots. But it is a funny color."
Beside me I felt Richard stirring. He must not reprimand the child over me. “Yes,” I said quickly. “It's red."
> "My hair is like my mama's.” She twisted and looked up at Roland as she said this. Perhaps he was the one who had told her so. He smiled at her warmly. Well, at least there was one member of this incredible household who knew how to respond to a child.
"You're right,” I told her. “Your mama and I were sisters."
Sarah nodded. Evidently someone had already told her this. “I wish I had a sister. I'd like someone to play with. Creighton isn't any fun."
Thinking of my escapades with poor, long-suffering Vickers, I swallowed a smile. “Perhaps you and I can do some things together."
The child's eyes—eyes so like Caroline's—widened, and she tossed her curls in that way her mother had had. “Why?"
The simple question left me momentarily speechless, but one thing was eminently clear. Richard had been right about it. This child was sadly in need of a mother.
I took a deep breath. “We shall do things together because I am your new mother. And I care for you.” I tried to remember the pursuits of five-year-old girls. “Have you a doll baby?"
Something flickered in Sarah's eyes. I thought it was eagerness, but I could not be sure. “No,” she said, her tone so like Caroline's that it was uncanny. “Babies are an awful bother."
How could Caroline have told her own child such a terribly hurtful thing? “That is not true,” I said firmly. “Babies are quite the most wonderful thing ever. A gift from God. We shall have babies here, I expect. And I will need you to help me with them."
"You will?” The child's eyes lit with excitement, and she clapped her little hands.
"Of course. You will be the big sister.” And, I vowed silently, she would not be the kind of big sister her mother had been. “In the meantime,” I continued, “your father will get you a doll baby, and I will show you how babies are cared for."
Through this whole exchange the dowager had continued to eat. Now she took the last of her chocolate and left the table, as silently as if the rest of us did not exist. No one else appeared to find this at all unusual, but I had no time to speculate on the dowager's nonexistent manners.
Though what I had said to Sarah had been spontaneous, occasioned by her strange remarks, I fully expected to give Richard children, many children. In my innocence then, I saw them running and laughing through the castle's gloomy halls, bringing joy and cheerfulness into Richard's life.
I turned to my husband. His expression was inscrutable, and I recollected that it was perhaps premature to speak of children when our marriage had not yet been consummated. “You will get Sarah a doll baby, will you not, my love?"
"If you wish it, Vanessa.” His eyes did not change. They did not warm when he looked at me. In some strange fashion they seemed to shut me out. Another shiver threatened to overtake me. Richard was my rock. In this strange household he was the only one I could trust. So why did he look at me as though—I could not finish the thought.
I was being foolish. My husband cared for me. He just seemed distant because of all the animosity in this household. I bristled to think of the way his own mother treated him. Would it not be natural for him to learn to withdraw into himself, surrounded as he was by those who gave him no honor, no love?
That was going to change. Richard now had me for a wife, and his life would be better for it. I would see to that.
As I glanced up at them, Roland smiled at the child on his knee. My mind went again to Richard's strange behavior. Why was he so cold to his only daughter? Could he be the sort of man who only valued sons? But that did not seem like the Richard I knew.
I wished I had Papa there to give me the benefit of his wisdom, and in a way I did. I knew exactly what Papa would say. “When you want the answer to a question,” he had often told me, “the simplest thing to do is ask straight out. Nine times out of ten the person'll be glad to tell you."
I was not sure Richard would be glad to tell me, but at least I meant to try.
Well, I thought, turning my attention to my breakfast, I had been in Cornwall less than twenty-four hours, and already I had several questions that needed answering. First and foremost, of course, was the matter of my lonely wedding night.
I felt my cheeks growing warm as I thought of it. Perhaps Richard had been concerned for me. The trip had been long. I had been tired. Probably tonight—
I had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was staring at me. When I looked up, I caught Roland's smile.
For a moment in my confusion, I imagined that he knew my thoughts, and my blush deepened at the memory of his kiss. Then I recollected myself. I returned his smile with a friendly sisterly one of my own, but I drew my eyes away from his. It was most disconcerting to have the only friendly person in the household so resemble my husband. Roland's kiss had been sweet, but I had no desire to kiss any man but my husband.
Sarah finished the roll she'd been eating and scrambled down from Roland's lap. She ran toward me with that little skipping gait children have. “Will you come to the nursery later?” she asked. “Nurse Creighton will want to meet you.” She wrinkled her small nose. “She knows lots of stories."
"Yes,” I said, longing to hug the child, but afraid to move too soon. “I shall be along to see your nursery later."
She skipped out, and Penrose looked up from his plate. “You will love Creighton's stories,” he said with malicious delight. “Be sure to ask her about the haunting babe."
I looked at my husband, but he did not seem upset. “You know how servants are,” he said with a shrug. “They're given to seeing spirits everywhere."
Now, if we'd been at home in Wiltshire, I'm quite sure I would have nodded in agreement and dropped the matter. But in this castle, whose coldness even then gnawed at my bones, the idea of haunting babes did not seem so farfetched. Still, I did not intend to let Penrose frighten me. He was nothing but a nasty boy. I looked straight at him as I said, “I do not fear ghosts."
He laughed and bit into a roll as though it were a living creature. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But I should stay out of the North Tower if I were you."
My patience, never particularly strong, had been stretched to the breaking point. I no longer cared whether I made a scene or not. I intended to get to the bottom of this frightening thing.
Again I turned to my husband. “Richard, I believe this has gone far enough. However silly the stories may be, I wish to hear them."
Richard frowned, his dark brows meeting in a fierce line. “Very well, Vanessa. If you insist."
I did not like seeing him angry, and for a moment I considered withdrawing my request. I did not really wish to hear any more unsettling stories, but since Greyden Castle was to be my home, I had to be prepared to deal with it. So I said, “Tell me."
"Creighton, Sarah's nurse, claims that a babe haunts the castle. The woman is growing old. She's probably just hearing the usual unexplained noises."
"And the North Tower?” I might as well have all the bad news.
His expression grew darker. “Caroline claimed that it was haunted."
He sighed as though the memory pained him. My heart ached for the man who had loved my sister so.
"At first she liked it there. But then one day she said she saw a ghostly figure, and she refused to use that part of the castle again."
This did not sound at all like my sister. No ghost living—or perhaps I should say dead—would keep Caroline from anything she wanted. I was about to say so when I remembered something else.
Once Caroline had wanted to keep me from a certain place in the woods where she was in the habit of seeing a neighbor boy. So she had told me a frightening story of the witches who made that very clearing the scene of their gatherings—and who were fond of the flesh of young girl children. The ruse had worked, of course. I was too young to understand her machinations.
But I was older now, and wiser, and I was quite sure that Caroline had wanted everyone to stay away from the North Tower. Therefore, she had circulated a story certain to frighten the servants.
It pained me to think of my sister in such harsh terms, but I had always been a realistic person. It seemed that Caroline had not changed. The woman who told her little girl that babies were an awful bother was the same woman who had struck her little sister for smelling her scent bottles.
There was no use my denying the fact. The evidence was everywhere around me. Caroline had deserved every bit of the dislike these people felt for her. And to change their minds about me was going to be quite a strenuous undertaking.
Chapter Five
Several times I was like to choke at the thought of what I had heard that morning, but I forced myself to continue chewing and swallowing. I would show Penrose, and the rest of these horrid people, that they could not frighten me.
When we had finished eating, I said to my husband, “Will you show me my new home now?"
He put down his cup immediately. “Yes, my dear. But since the weather is nice, perhaps you would like to see the outside first."
The prospect of fresh air and sunshine was most encouraging, and I nodded in agreement.
Moments later we stood together outside the great front door. Made of solid oak, it looked strong enough to withstand any battering ram. We walked a way down the tree-lined road, so that I could view the castle as a whole from the distance.
The road slanted downward, so when we paused and turned we were looking up. The castle rose against the blue morning sky. It was built like a great box, with a tower at each corner and a series of parapets running between. There must be walkways up there, I thought, where the old defenders had stood to withstand the onslaught of the enemy.
The stone had darkened over the long years, until the building looked weary and aged. Though the spring sky was beautiful, bright and clear, and the sun was casting dapples on the road at my feet, the castle was grim and foreboding. A frisson of fear skittered over my skin. The place looked a fit home for its strange inhabitants.
The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle Page 4
