The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  I turned my thoughts in another direction. What could I do to make things more cheerful in the castle? I looked to Roland. “Does Rosamund always wear black?"

  Roland nodded. “The poor dear is perpetually in mourning."

  "But why—"

  "She lost her love, her Jeffrey."

  "Yes, I know that. But why does she wear mourning now when she believes her Jeffrey to be always there, with her?"

  Roland looked startled. “Why, I don't know.” His forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I believe she first put on black when Papa paid Jeffrey to go away. She did it then to spite my father. And she did believe he had had Jeffrey killed.” He shook his head. “Such a course was hardly called for. Jeffrey was quite happy to take the money and run."

  "I see.” I hesitated. I did not want my only friend in this place to think me interfering. “I was thinking—perhaps we could get Rosamund some more colorful gowns. They might improve her condition."

  Roland smiled. “That's an excellent idea. She always loved bright colors as a girl. How kind of you to think of poor Rosie."

  I basked in his admiration. “Thank you."

  "But you'd better check it out with Richard,” he continued. “He takes complete charge of Rosie, you know."

  "Yes, I will. Thank you, Roland, ah..."

  He smiled at me. “Come, Vanessa, speak out. You can say anything to me."

  I truly felt I could. “Well, it's your brother—"

  "You must already have observed, Richard is not—"

  "No, I mean Penrose."

  A strange look crossed his face. “Penrose?"

  "Yes. He needs a better example. Should he not be away in school?"

  "He refuses to leave his mother."

  I couldn't help it. I looked at the dowager. “But she—"

  The dowager drew herself up. “I am not Penrose's mother,” she said.

  I was truly confused. “But—"

  "Penrose is Rosamund's son,” Roland said softly.

  Of course, now all seemed clear. Rosamund and Jeffrey's child. That was what had finally unhinged Rosamund's mind.

  "I thought Richard would have told you.” Roland sounded offended for me.

  "Perhaps it slipped his mind.” The words came out of my mouth in a far more caustic tone than I had intended, but my husband had been remiss in a great many areas, and my feelings on the subject were quite tender.

  "Don't be too hard on Richard,” Roland said, leaning across the table to pat my hand. “He has a great many responsibilities."

  I knew this for the truth, but somehow it did not ease my sore feelings. Indeed, in some strange way it made me even angrier. After all, I was one of Richard's responsibilities. So was Sarah. And he was neglecting us both dreadfully. Besides, the news that Penrose was Rosamund's son, though it now made perfect sense, was a shock to me. Why hadn't my husband seen fit to tell me these things?

  I could not think about that at the moment. It was too painful. “Do you think Penrose will be agreeable to our buying Rosamund some new gowns?” I asked, getting back to the subject at hand.

  Roland shook his head. “With Penrose it's hard to say. I'd just ask him."

  "Ask me what?"

  I jumped. Must these people always be creeping up on me? “I was telling your uncle that your mother might like some new gowns."

  To my surprise, Penrose smiled—and it was a genuine smile, not the evil leer he usually affected. “Yes,” he said. “She might at that. I will talk to her about getting some.” He gave me a strange look. “But you must let her pick the colors. She gets agitated if she's crossed."

  "Of course.” I was so gratified by this, my first relatively normal transaction with these people, that I decided to forget about the gory missive lying outside my bedroom door. Perhaps when Penrose saw that I was not like Caroline, when he realized that I genuinely wanted to help his mother, he would come over to my side. For the first time since I'd come to Greyden Castle, I felt optimistic about the future.

  Chapter Nine

  When I returned to my chamber after breakfast, the bird had been removed from before my door. I decided to dismiss the whole incident from my mind. After all, I did not want to disturb the newly found amity between Penrose and myself. We were on our way to accomplishing something good. If I could help his mother....

  Sadly my optimism did not last long. Till mid-afternoon, to be precise.

  I was in the library, before the cheery fire. Creighton had brought Sarah to me, and the child was curled up in my lap while I told her stories.

  She was listening quite contentedly, and I was feeling the glowing warmth of motherhood. At last things were going in a better direction. It looked as though I might be able to deal reasonably well with Richard's relations, and Sarah was clearly beginning to like me.

  Then Gerson came to the door. “You have visitors, Your Grace. The vicar and his sister."

  There was something about Gerson's expression that indicated to me that the visit would not be a pleasant one. I straightened my shoulders. “Of course, Gerson. Better have a maid take Sarah back to the nursery."

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  I kissed the child. “I'll send for you again, when the visitors are gone."

  She wrapped her little arms tightly around my neck. “I don't want to go, Nessie. I want to stay here with you."

  "That's not possible,” I said, prying at her fingers. “The visitors will not be interesting to you."

  "I want to see my father,” she insisted, far too loudly for my comfort.

  "Your father is away from home now, Sarah. You know that."

  "I want to see him!” Her voice was still rising, and I realized quite abruptly that I knew much less about bringing up children than I had supposed. I tried to recollect how Papa had raised me. Firmness, I thought. Firmness was the key.

  "Sarah,” I said. “Listen to me. If you want to see your father, you must learn good manners. You return to the nursery now as a proper young lady should, and you may come down again later, when your father has returned home."

  "Do you promise?” the child demanded.

  "I always do what I say I shall,” I returned, and my air of injured dignity was only half assumed. I was not accustomed to having my word doubted by anyone, least of all a five-year-old.

  For a moment the child stared at me, and it was plain that promises to her had not always been kept. “I'll go,” she said finally. “I'll be waiting for you to send for me."

  "And I shall.” I gave her another kiss and watched her walk out, her small hand in the butler's. Then I took a deep breath and prepared to meet the vicar and his sister.

  The vicar was a short man, round as a ripe apple, but his face was not as cheery as his shape might lead one to suppose. Above his plump and ample body, his wrinkled and lugubrious face looked like some kind of caricature by Hogarth.

  Accompanying him was a woman wearing the most outlandish bonnet I had ever seen. It looked big enough to hold a picnic lunch for a dozen people and was decorated with artificial flowers in every shade of the rainbow. The woman beneath it was nondescript except for her eyes. They were very black and darted incessantly around the room. I recognized the type—a gossipmonger whose stock in trade was little bits and pieces of others’ private lives.

  I immediately determined that I should give her no new stock. I put on my sweetest smile. “Vicar, do come in. How kind of you to call."

  His smile was warm and friendly and quite took me by surprise. Two days and nights in Greyden Castle and already I was surprised by kindness, but I pushed that from my mind as the vicar spoke.

  "It seemed only fitting, Your Grace, you newly arrived and all. It's my duty, you know, to call on new parishioners."

  "Yes, of course. Do sit down. Gerson will be bringing tea."

  The vicar selected a comfortable chair close to the fire. His sister took a lyre-backed chair and sat down, erect as an army officer on review. She coughed and favored her brother with an
accusing glance. “Oh, ah, Your Grace,” he said. “This is my sister, Cressadine Varish."

  I nodded. “I'm pleased to meet you. Miss Varish."

  "Yes,” she said, giving me a slight nod. “You poor child. It must be just dreadful for you here."

  I knew her type well—this was the direct frontal attack—but I also knew how to withstand her assault. I put on my most innocent look. “Well, I do miss my papa.” I glanced at the fire. “And I must admit that I didn't expect the castle to be quite so cold and dark."

  Miss Varish's lip curled. “There's no need to pretend,” she continued in a low raspy voice that grated on my already overworked nerves.

  I feigned amazement. “Pretend, Miss Varish? I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "Certainly the man must have told you.” One pencil-thin eyebrow arched superciliously.

  I was fast losing patience, and my temper, fiery in the best of times, was rapidly reaching the boiling point. “It is difficult for me to tell,” I said in my haughtiest tones, “which man you refer to. And as for telling me, there are any number of things I might be told."

  Miss Varish raised the other eyebrow. Her temper, it seemed, was no stabler than mine. “Really, Your Grace—"

  I almost expected her to say “my girl” and grab me by the ear as Vickers had so often done, but just then Gerson came in with the tea tray, and I busied myself with pouring and serving. When that was accomplished, I leaned back, sipped my tea, and smiled. “You were saying.” I nodded to Miss Varish.

  She gave an aggrieved sniff and rattled her cup against her saucer. “I have come offering help,” she said in plaintive tones. “And you pretend that you need none."

  "Oh, no,” I said, with an innocent look. “I do need help."

  Her eyes gleamed like a hawk's before it pounces on the prey. “Tell me, my dear. Let me help you."

  "Oh, that would be most kind,” I gushed. It was not good of me, I know, but I have always abhorred gossips, such mean people, always trading in the world's misery, and I badly wanted to give this one a good set down.

  She leaned forward eagerly, almost forgetting her tea. I knew she was ready to snatch up each tidbit and even readier to enlarge and elaborate on it before making her next stop.

  "Who,” I inquired in my most dulcet tones, “is the best dressmaker in the village?"

  For a moment my words did not seem to register. Then her expression hardened. “Dressmaker?"

  "Yes, I find I need some new gowns, something on the warmer side. Castles are such chilly places, don't you think?"

  Evidently she could not believe her ears, for she repeated the word once more. “Dressmaker?"

  "That's right. Sarah needs some new clothes. And so do Rosamund and the dowager."

  "How is poor dear Rosamund?"

  I sipped my tea and pretended ignorance. “Poor dear? Rosie is fine."

  Miss Varish shook her head. “There's no need to pretend with us, my dear. Everyone knows about poor Rosamund. Such a tragic tale. Tell me, how do you deal with such a person?"

  "I deal with her as I should any human being.” My temper was still rising. What an obnoxious woman the vicar's sister was! But I must remember that I had a position to uphold.

  Miss Varish sipped her tea and nodded sagely.

  "Sometimes these people must be sent away. For the good of the family."

  Rosamund had not exactly endeared herself to me, but the thought of sending Richard's sister to a bedlam was appalling. “No good is served by such an action,” I said firmly. “Rosamund is quite happy here, and we are happy to have her."

  While his sister stared open-mouthed, I turned my attention to the vicar. “I wish to do my share of work in the parish. You must notify me when there are things to be done."

  The vicar nodded approval over his cup. “Of course, Your Grace. There is one thing that comes immediately to mind."

  I hadn't expected him to ask favors so soon, but I had offered. “Yes? What is it?"

  "You could perhaps persuade His Grace to return to Sunday services."

  "Richard has—” I caught myself as Miss Varish leaned forward again—"Richard has just been telling me how much he enjoys your sermons."

  The vicar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His sister cackled. “I wonder he can remember. He has not been to services since she was found."

  The vicar frowned. “That is not entirely accurate, Cressadine. As I recall, the duke came for several Sundays after—after—"

  "After she was killed,” finished his sister. “But he hasn't been there since."

  The vicar nodded. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you can discover why."

  Miss Varish snorted. “Discover? Why it's plain as day. He didn't like the things folks were saying.” She drew herself even more erect. “It ain't Christian, him not putting down that ferocious animal."

  "Mercury is gentle,” I said. “He would not hurt anyone."

  Miss Varish's eyes gleamed with delight. “If that is true, then someone else, some person killed her."

  I shivered and was glad I had been safely in Wiltshire at the time. I had no doubt she would gladly have pinned the crime on me. I had never once supposed that Caroline's death was other than an accident, but Cressadine Varish had other ideas—and she had no doubt spread them far and wide.

  The vicar frowned. “Really, Cressadine, that is enough. Her Grace is new here. You must give her time to settle in."

  "Time will not change this,” Miss Varish said, waving her tea cup for emphasis.

  And indeed it would not. Not as long as she was going about adding fuel to the flames.

  "People will continue to talk as long as he keeps the horse,” she went on.

  Perhaps they would, but I did not intend to urge Richard to put down a beautiful gentle animal to satisfy this dried-up stick who battened on other people's misery. I contemplated telling her so in no uncertain terms, but I remembered my position in the community and replied more moderately. “I am sorry, but I cannot suggest that the animal be destroyed."

  "Good for you,” said the vicar, ignoring his sister's dark glance. He smiled at me good-naturedly. “You must be patient, my dear. People do talk, but it blows over eventually.” His eyes grew cloudy with sympathy. “The duke is a good man. There's hardly a soul in the county who hasn't known his help. They should all be grateful to him."

  Miss Varish sniffed. “That hardly excuses murder."

  "Cressadine!” The vicar seemed to swell, and his gentle voice turned to thunder. “Let her who is without sin cast the first stone. It is not up to us to judge. Only the Lord knows what drives a man to do the things he does."

  My heart stood still in my breast. For a moment I thought it might never beat again. It sounded—could I be imagining it? It sounded as if the vicar suspected Richard of killing his wife!

  Finally I found my tongue. “You do not mean—you cannot really believe that Richard had anything to do with Caroline's death?"

  The vicar looked uncomfortable. As a man of God, he could not lie. “My dear, no one knows. But if in a moment of anger the duke—” He paused and swallowed. “We all know how great the provocation could be."

  He put down his cup, pulled out a huge white handkerchief, and mopped his brow. “She was a wicked woman. A Jezebel. I'm sorry to say this, Your Grace. I know she was your sister, but she was very bad. The parish had never seen her like."

  I could not contain myself any longer. “The fact that my sister was the talk of the parish is no reason to suppose that Richard killed her. If she was as bad as you say, there must have been many who wished her harm."

  "Quite so, Your Grace.” The vicar got to his feet and wiped his brow again. “This is an unseemly subject.” He glared at his sister, who remained strangely quiet. “We should not be discussing such things. I meant this to be a friendly, welcoming call. And now"—he wiped his brow yet again—"we must be going, Your Grace."

  I could not leave it like this. I blocked the vicar's way to the do
or. “Surely you cannot believe—you know Richard very well. He's a kind, generous man. You yourself told me how much he's done for the people of the parish."

  The vicar nodded. “Indeed, he has. But many people have short memories.” His sister paled, and I wondered what Richard had done to help her. “But others have more gratitude.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “The truth is several people have been to the magistrate to ask him to bring charges, but he refused to listen to them."

  I could not believe it. Richard's friends and neighbors, people who had known him for years, actually thought him capable of committing murder.

  The vicar edged toward the door. “We really must be going,” he said.

  I decided to put a good face on things. “Of course. Please come again.” What inanities politeness compels us to utter! “I shall talk to the duke about coming to Sunday services. And do let me know what I can do to help."

  "Yes, yes.” The pair made their exit in nervous haste, and I sank back in my chair. Things were getting more and more tangled. A little gossip was one thing, but people pressing the magistrate to bring charges—that was serious business indeed.

  I sat there for some time, sipping lukewarm tea and trying to think of something I could do. But I was no closer to a solution when Roland appeared in the doorway. “There you are,” he said. “I hoped I might find you here.” He scrutinized my face. “Vanessa, you are looking pale. Whatever is wrong?"

  I put down my cup. “I have had a visit—from the vicar and his sister."

  His smile was comforting. “No wonder you look ill. What did they have to say?"

  I sighed. I was glad to have Roland to talk to, but it was hard repeating such terrible things. “Miss Varish believes the stallion should be put down. And when I said he was gentle, she suggested that some person had killed Caroline."

  Roland shrugged. Evidently this was not news to him. “Cressadine Varish is the scourge of the parish. She will accuse anyone of anything."

  I was beginning to feel better. Roland was so sensible. “I thought as much and did not pay much attention to her,” I went on. “But then the vicar began to talk as though Richard had done this thing. He said people had been to the magistrate, urging him to bring charges."