"Pam! What happened to you? Where have you been?" Hetty yelped.
"I was so foolish as to ignore George's advice that the storm would start up again. I went out to look for a maid who…who wandered away. Something frightened Blue Lady, and I took a tumble. Nothing serious, Hetty."
Pamela answered hastily, not looking at George but hoping his expression would not give her the lie, and that he would not contradict her openly.
"Yes," he agreed smoothly. "And we are both soaked and mud all over. Women! Stand here and gab while we both take cold too."
"No, you must both go and change at once, of course. Run up, Pam, do. It would be dreadful if you fell ill. But I must say you would deserve it. Imagine, running about looking for a servant girl in this weather. I suppose that is where Vyvyan is too? And you, George! I should have thought you would have more sense."
"No such thing," George protested. "Do have more sense. Went to look for Lady Pam."
They were both trapped in their lies. Pamela could not refute George's remark.
"Then you are just as silly anyway," Hetty said with a sharp touch of spite. "Pam's the same kind as Vyvyan. Nothing ever happens to them."
Having had the last word, Hetty shooed them out with irritated cluckings. George held the door politely for Pamela, and allowed her to precede him up the stairs. Just before they separated, he smiled at her.
"Very clever, what you said. No need to alarm Hetty."
"That's all very well," Pamela snapped, "but I would like to know why you did go out, George."
The fair brows lifted slightly, changing George's usually amiable expression to one of icy hauteur. "I could ask the same question, but I think it well for you to attend to your affairs and leave mine to me."
"You lied to Hetty."
"So did you!"
"My reason for doing so was obvious," Pamela said desperately, seeing her advantage evaporating. "St. Just might want to know your reason."
"I hope he will not, but if he does, he will have a right to ask," George replied nastily.
"Well, he will know nothing about it, if—" The expression on George's face now brought a tide of color up Pamela's throat, until her cheeks were flaming. Nonetheless, she continued as steadily as possible, "—if he does not ask me about my meeting with the witches. You did not see them, George. Perhaps I only imagined it."
The contempt and distaste faded from George's face, leaving his expression more than ordinarily blank.
"Think you're a cursed fool," he remarked blandly, "but your business, not mine. Can't keep him from knowing you were out. Grooms will talk, you know. I won't tell him more than they will. Suit—"
The remainder of his sentence was drowned in a new crash of thunder. George shrugged and walked down the hall. Pamela was left biting her lips and wondering if she had fallen into another trap. George's ready agreement seemed too easy, but twist it as she would, she could find no purpose in it.
She could not really concentrate on the problem, however, because of her anxiety over St. Just's safety. The storm had reached a second pitch of intensity very little less than its original outburst. The wind was screaming like an enraged giant, the hidden caves booming with the rush and recession of the water, the rain falling in sheets. Sarah, who came to undress Pamela and see that she took a hot bath, seemed uneasy.
"Will he be safe?" Pamela could not help asking, her eyes turning to the shuttered windows, which, even with that protection, rattled under the impact of the wind.
"I am sure he is sheltered, sure he is protected. I am sure."
Pamela choked back tears. Sarah's words sounded more like a prayer than a reassurance. "Maybe I should leave this house at once," she said. "I have done nothing but add to his troubles." She shivered uncontrollably, although the bath water was still hot.
Sarah held out a large towel as Pamela stepped from the tub, but she did not wrap her in it immediately. First she ran her eyes over that magnificent figure.
"Too late," she said. "Master Vyvyan has seen what he wants, and he is not the type to give up or forget. If you went now, God knows what desperate things he would do to get you back. Master Vyvyan is not always so reasonable as he should be. There is passion in both lines of his blood. The late earl and my lady were neither of them mild."
"You must stop talking and thinking this way, Sarah," Pamela said quietly but with determination. "St. Just has a wife, and I do not take leavings from someone else's table. I have only stayed this long because I cannot bear to leave while St. Just is in danger."
Sarah's eyes flicked at Pamela, flashing that odd, bright green, then were discretely lowered.
"Then stay until after Midsummer Eve," she said soothingly. "I never meant you to be Master Vyvyan's leman," she added with a grim smile. "That wouldn't suit him. Only that while you were here, he wouldn't act foolish."
The old-fashioned word "leman," more delicate than "mistress" because it had been so long out of fashion, amused Pamela. She wondered if the word was really current in Sarah's vocabulary or whether she had used it to spare what Sarah considered high-born sensitivity.
In fact, Pamela was so diverted by thinking of the difference between what the lower classes thought the nobility was like and what it really was, that it was some time before she began to wonder what Sarah meant. If she did not intend that Pamela should become St. Just's mistress, just what did she intend? Where did that leave Hetty?
A shudder of fear had actually shaken her before Pamela rejected the notion that physical harm was intended. The servants all believed that Hetty was in love with George. Sarah intended to spy on them until she had evidence for a divorce. Pamela smiled sadly to herself.
It was safe to make no protest. Hetty might indeed be trapped by a clever servant, but not George. His name brought back her original source of disquiet. Should she break her word and tell St. Just of his behavior? The grooms would back her statement that he left the house before she did, but what did that mean? She had told him about the pregnant maid; he could say he had also gone to look for her.
A blast of wind, which shook the house, struck. One fear replaced another, and Pamela paced the floor restlessly. Would there be a St. Just to tell anything to? Pamela stuffed her fingers in her ears to deaden the sounds of the storm. The violence that ordinarily excited her so pleasurably now brought her only pictures of St. Just swept from his horse, battered on rocks, or unconscious and drowning in a flooding gully. She understood all too vividly how and why Mrs. Helston feared the storm.
"My lady."
Pamela jumped under the hand that shook her shoulder, pulled her hands free from her ears, opened her eyes, which had been screwed shut, and turned around. The sullen, dark face that she had last seen over the witch Potten's shoulder stared back at her.
"My lady," the young woman said calmly, "her ladyship would like you to attend upon her in her room."
"Attend upon her" was language one used to a servant. Hetty had never used those terms before, and Pamela suspected she had not used them this time either. She had probably said, "See if Pam can come to me now," but this girl wished to reduce Pamela to her own status. Pamela's brows went up, her eyes flashed their danger signal. Then she remembered that Mary had tried to save her when the witches attacked.
"You keep bad company, Mary," she said quietly. "Apparently you had sense enough to realize that what your companions were doing this morning was both wrong and dangerous to them. Since you took no part, I will smooth the matter over as best as I may, but I must tell your mistress to keep better track of you. Lady's maids cannot wander about whenever they like."
"I don't know what you mean, my lady. I have not been out of the house at any time today."
The sullen face was utterly blank. Had the girl shown surprise, been anxious or fluttered, Pamela would have wondered if she should have trusted her eyes under the circumstances. She could have believed that she had seen wrong or misinterpreted a family likeness. What she saw in the maid's face,
however, was not innocence but a contemptuous security that was as good as a confession.
Actually, Pamela had not intended to say anything to Hetty. She did not think Hetty would care that the maid was a witch—she certainly had not minded the information that her groom was related to the People. Furthermore, providing proof of her accusation would be difficult, because she did not wish to tell Hetty of the murderous attack upon her. There were, however, other tacks one could take. Pamela walked into Hetty's room fully determined to tell a lie in a good cause.
"Really, Pam," Hetty whined as she entered, "you know I do not like to remind you of your position here. I wish our relationship to be that of friends. But when I am completely neglected, when the meanest servant girl is set above me in importance, I feel I must say something."
"I did not mean to neglect you, Hetty," Pamela said, thoroughly mortified.
She was not troubled by the reminder of her position but because Hetty usually was so careful not to hurt her feelings. She, on the other hand, had become so involved with St. Just and the life of Tremaire that she had begun to regard Hetty as a casual encumbrance to be sloughed off on George whenever possible, instead of her main purpose for being there. Part of her reason for going out this morning had, in fact, been a desire to avoid Hetty's conversation.
"Well, I do not know what you did mean, then," Hetty snapped. "After the terrible fright I had last night, I wake up to find you gone. Don't tell me you rode out for exercise."
"No, of course not. I did tell you. A maid had been—"
"So I have heard, and from everyone in the house. For heaven's sake, Pam, what does it matter? What if a maid does run away? Perhaps she became homesick, or quarreled with another of the maids, or did not like her work."
"She is a foundling. This is the only home she has ever had, and she had nowhere to run off to. There seems to be more in it than a simple running away."
"I have heard that too—all about it. Really, now, who can believe such nonsense? No one is going to kill a newborn baby at the dark of the moon and drain its blood or render its fat, or anything else. Not in this day and age. And even if they did"—Hetty's voice rose suddenly with hysterical overtones, and her face turned red and ugly as some excitement gripped her— "even if they did, what affair is it of yours? What difference does one feeble-minded, unfathered brat more or less make? There are too many of them in the world as it is."
"Hetty!"
"You are as crazy as Vyvyan! You are! He was always involving himself with the slaves—just as if they were people like us. I tell you, if they wish to chop up their own children, it is their affair, not ours."
When the initial shock of hearing Hetty profess such unchristian sentiments had passed, Pamela began to wonder how she had learned the fate planned for the maid's love child. As far as Pamela knew, only St. Just, Sarah, and herself had discussed it before she mentioned it to George this morning.
Probably Hayle and Mrs. Helston guessed. The other servants were frightened, knew the maid was involved with the witches, but did not realize in what way she was involved, or their panic would have been greater. George had had no time to talk of this to Hetty. That left only Hetty's maid. That meant that Hetty probably already knew the maid was a witch and did not care.
"Whatever people's condition," Pamela said collectedly, controlling her revulsion at this new aspect of Hetty's character, "it is against the law to abduct maids and murder children, and I feel obliged to uphold the law. It is true, however, that you have been neglected, Hetty, and I am sorry. But how could I know your maid would be out this morning?"
The countess's eyes slid away from Pamela's suddenly; her color receded, then returned higher than ever as she looked into Pamela's face again, most innocently.
"Mary? But Mary was not out this morning. She sat up with me most of the night and then slept on the sofa in my room. She was there when I woke."
"But I saw her with my own eyes. She was with Potten's wife, and they st—" Pamela clamped her teeth hard into her lips. Hetty was the last person to tell what had happened.
"They what?"
"Stole away when they saw me coming," Pamela completed.
"Then you could not have seen them clearly," Hetty insisted. "You must have been mistaken about Mary. I know you were, because she did want to go out this morning. That was why I was so cross with you for being away. Mary wanted to go to the witches' meeting and could not, because she would not leave me alone."
"What?"
Hetty's face had turned to stone. "You do not believe me, but my life is in danger. Mary says the coven has been asked to 'hex' me. I am not afraid of that, of course, but if they do, some peasant with a sick cow or ailing baby might…might try to please them by eliminating me."
Could the death that was planned be Hetty's? But St. Just had received the pentacle. And the maid had been with the witches that morning. Pamela's own eyes and Mary's manner confirmed it. Then Hetty was lying.
Hetty? Lie for a maid? Because the maid and her companions had been instructed to kill the "other woman"? Hetty was no jealous wife, but she meant to remain the Countess of St. Just. Hetty could not! Would not! Pamela drew a deep breath as her reason conquered her fear and revulsion. Hetty was certainly innocent of any attack upon her; it was Mary who had tried to prevent the other witches from harming her.
"Whatever is wrong with you, Pam?" Hetty asked crossly. "You have turned quite green."
"I am sorry," Pamela breathed.
If the witches were not supposed to attack her, Mary might have been present for the reason Hetty gave. Hetty would deny Mary's connection with the coven, however, for fear that it might be used as an excuse to dismiss her. Pamela knew she had to be alone to think.
"I suppose I was shaken up by that fall more than I thought," she muttered.
"And I have been scolding you. I am sorry! But that was all that happened? You only took a fall? Nothing else?"
There was genuine anxiety in those questions. "Nothing else happened," Pamela agreed. She would have agreed to anything. To escape was all-important.
"Then go and lie down. You still look very queer." Hetty followed Pamela to the door. "I am sure when you think it over you will realize you could not have seen Mary," she pleaded.
Chapter 13
During the next lull in the storm, St. Just returned, soaked and exhausted. Nonetheless he took the time to walk from stall to stall in the stable, fingering the horses' manes. The condition of Blue Velvet and George's hack drew sharp questions; the answers brought even sharper instructions. Then his hand fell on the bailiff's cob.
"Who's been out on him in this weather?" St. Just snapped.
The grooms looked at one another.
"It's witch weather, my lord," the head groom mumbled at last. "No one of your household has been out."
"Oh?" St. Just drawled.
But the eyes turned to him showed too clearly the agony of conflict between fear and loyalty, and the earl asked no more questions. In fact, his rigid mouth relaxed a trifle, and a gleam, which might have been satisfaction, lit his eyes. He had not found the maid and now had little hope of finding her, but if his suspicions and the little bits and pieces he was adding together were correct, she would be safe enough for a while. Things might work out for the best, after all.
* * * *
Filled with a mixture of fear for St. Just and suspicion of him, Pamela made one more effort to deal directly with the witches. She went to Maud's cottage the day after the storm to appeal for her help. The old woman, still gray-faced and exhausted, let her in and listened to her, but no expression stirred in her opaque eyes.
"You do not understand these things. As for Master Vyvyan, tell him that nothing has changed. Let him mind his affairs and leave the coven to mind its own," was all the response that Pamela received.
In desperation, Pamela transmitted the message to St. Just. He did not fly into a rage, but raised his brows and smiled wryly.
"That means t
hat Maud has her finger in the pie," he said, "and she will have nothing to do with baby-killing, that's sure." Then he shrugged. "I wish I were equally sure that her power over the coven is as strong as she believes it is. Besides, if she thought she was helping—" He stopped abruptly. "Maud has different values than ordinary people. I think I had better continue searching and see if I can find that girl."
Fear immediately overcame suspicion. Pamela urged St. Just most strongly not to ride alone. He laughed with genuine amusement.
"Good lord, do you want to turn the whole coven against me? I am allowed a little license because of my…er…connections. If I am circumspect, no one will trouble me, but if I brought another person into some of the places I plan to go, even Maud would have no mercy on me."
Pamela had not known it was possible to be so sick with worry over someone with whom any relationship was out of the question. One thought steadied her. When St. Just rode in one direction, she would ride in another. She did not know the "special" places of the witches, but it was certain that if she poked her nose into enough nooks and crannies she would strike some at random.
Some of the animosity of the witches was already directed at her. By meddling, she could draw still more attention away from St. Just. It was something to cling to—until she tried to put it into effect. Then she found that St. Just had already taken precautions against another accident befalling her.
Had Pamela been less familiar with the devotion of Tremaire servants to their master, she might have done her pride some damage by wheedling, attempting to bribe them, or flying into a rage. She knew, however, that no protest of hers could move them once they had orders from St. Just. So she merely looked from one groom to the other, her brilliant eyes glowing brighter and brighter and her generous mouth thinned into a tight smile.
When she left the stable, the head groom whistled softly between his teeth. "I wouldn't want to be in his lordship's shoes—not I," he murmured with a deep, heartfelt respect for something he knew he could not handle.
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