Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  Heart thrashing, Nora stood frozen, her shoulder pinned to the canvas where she’d struck it and tipped it askew. Slowly she mastered her breathing, caught control of her shaking hands by fisting them in her skirts. Then she turned and righted the painting on its easel.

  ‘‘Jonny, please come here.’’

  The boy set his charcoal aside.

  ‘‘Tell me what you see,’’ she urged in a trembling whisper when he stood beside her. Then she remembered he would tell her nothing. She draped an arm around his shoulders and struggled to remain calm. ‘‘Look at this painting. Do you see anything but your uncle Grayson?’’

  Without hesitation he shook his head. His bright blue eyes brimmed with questions. She smiled down at him, hugged him tighter.

  ‘‘Does the face remind you of anyone besides your uncle Grayson?’’

  Another shake of the head.

  She had to be sure, had to risk upsetting the boy in order to understand fully what had just happened. ‘‘Other than the fact they were brothers, does this picture remind you very much of . . . your father?’’

  His small chin lifted against her side, prodding her ribs as he gazed steadily up at her. He shook his head.

  ‘‘Oh, Jonny . . .’’ What are we to do? Wrapping her other arm around his slight frame, she pressed him to her and held on tight.

  Grayson fled down the corridor, blind to all but the taunting, damning image burned into the corneas of his eyes.

  When Nora unveiled the portrait, he’d seen his own likeness for the briefest instant. Then it was Thomas filling his view—Tom with his limbs flailing, his lips stretched in horror and the sea raging beneath him.

  It hadn’t been a mere illusion, could not have been slanting sunlight working with his state of mind to transform one image into another. He had seen his brother’s face on that canvas, distinct and indisputable.

  He forced his feet to move, dragged one after the other until he reached the stairs. As he groped his way down, he struggled to draw breaths through the choking mire that clogged his throat. He could swear the gargoyles carved into the newel posts snickered as he passed. What in this forsaken house didn’t mock him, didn’t accuse him of the most unforgivable of crimes?

  The clunking of his boots on marble told him he’d reached the hall. The front door—escape—awaited mere paces away. But the hellish images chased him, and the faster he went the clearer it became that there was no escape.

  Gravel shot out from beneath his feet and pelted the flower beds as he strode the pathway around the house. The same instinct that had sent him galloping across the moor earlier now brought him stumbling over the cobbles in the stable yard, groping his way to the wide double doors of the main entrance. He tugged at one of the handles, only to have the door stubbornly refuse to open. He backed up and kicked the door in.

  ‘‘Get me a horse,’’ he shouted to the dust motes inside. His demand met with the agitated snorts of the horses. ‘‘Devil take it, does anyone hear me? Have you all gone daft? I said I want a horse. Now!’’

  He stood panting, chest heaving, pain slicing at his temples. The scents of damp hay and dung stung his nostrils and prickled his throat. Just as he was about to shout again, a voice drifted down the line of stalls.

  ‘‘I hear you, sir. I haven’t yet finished brushing Constantine down. Will another do?’’

  ‘‘Just bring me a horse and make it fast. I don’t need a damned saddle.’’

  Edgar, one of the groom’s young assistants, came out of Constantine’s stall, holding a brush. He eyed Grayson with a puzzled expression, and seemed about to question his command.

  Grayson forestalled him with a simmering glare and a terse, ‘‘Do as you’re told.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ The young man set the brush down and trotted up the aisle into the tack room. Within moments he’d harnessed a roan gelding and was leading him to Grayson.

  It was then he heard Nora’s shouts.

  ‘‘Gray! Don’t leave. Please, we need to talk.’’

  Framed in the open stable door, he saw her running down the path, a flurry of muslin, petticoats and streaming hair. He didn’t want to see her; couldn’t face her just now. Snatching the reins from the groom’s hand, he led the horse outside to the mounting block, ignoring Nora as he climbed onto the horse’s back.

  She came to a halt, bending at the waist to catch her breath. Then she moved quickly forward and caught hold of the bridle. ‘‘Don’t run off again like you did this morning.’’

  ‘‘Stay away from me, Nora.’’ He clucked to the horse and tried to swing its head around to loosen her grip.

  ‘‘No.’’ She dug in her heels and held fast, knuckles whitening around the leather straps. ‘‘Not until you explain.’’

  ‘‘You can’t understand.’’

  ‘‘I’ll toss the portrait in the hearth if you want. Just tell me why it upset you so.’’

  ‘‘You can burn it or tear it to pieces. It won’t change anything.’’ His voice eased a fraction. Despite what his eyes had told him, he knew she hadn’t painted Tom. Couldn’t have painted Tom. Never mind that she’d never met him. Gentle Nora would never do such a thing. He’d known that even as he had stood gaping at the portrait.

  The alternative had been too ghastly to contemplate. Too . . . impossible. Yet he could not but believe that what he’d seen was a message from Tom himself, an admonition from the grave.

  He sat atop the gelding, head bent and shoulders bunched, palms pressed to his forehead. Guilt burned his gullet while a relentless, throbbing pain threatened to tear his skull in two. Nora was talking, pleading, her voice a distorted echo in his ears. Nausea roiled, threatened to rise.

  Unable to stand it a moment longer, he swung down, landing hard on his feet on the cobbles. Nora jumped back with a startled cry, but came just as quickly back to his side.

  Her hand closed on his arm. ‘‘I can help you if you let me. If you’d only—’’

  He spun away, glaring out over the green-carpeted paddock, seeing in its gentle tufts and hillocks the waves and rocks that had swallowed his brother. ‘‘You can’t help me. Destroying the painting can’t help me. I’ll be damned just the same.’’

  ‘‘That isn’t true. It can’t be true.’’

  That fragile show of faith set off a tempest inside him. He whirled, lurched, caught her wrists as she attempted to back away. ‘‘Why didn’t you listen to the truth when you heard it?’’

  ‘‘I never heard anyone speak the truth. Not about me and not about you.’’

  Such guileless trust undid him. He thrust his face in hers, his features clenched in painful knots. She shuddered but stared back as if daring him to say the worst. So be it. ‘‘They spoke the truth. At least about me.’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe it. I never will. Your brother’s death has left you distraught. . . .’’

  ‘‘It’s because of me he’s dead.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Do you believe he could have fallen from that cliff by accident? He knew every inch of Blackheath Grange like the back of his hand. He could have maneuvered up or down that headland with his eyes closed. We’d done it a thousand times as boys.’’

  She went completely, utterly still. ‘‘What are you saying?’’

  His hands fell to his sides. He raised his face and spoke to the clouds scuttling overhead. ‘‘Thomas was pushed.’’

  Mute, she gaped, the whites of her eyes gleaming around irises gone deadly black. It was her very silence that challenged him, defied him, to finally speak the truth. All of it.

  ‘‘My brother is dead by my hand. Can I make it any plainer? I sent him over that cliff.’’

  The color leached from her face.

  ‘‘Tell me now how you feel about your husband. Will you defend me to the gossipmongers? Will you write your mama about how wildly happy we are? Will you welcome me into your bed at night—me, with my guilty heart and my murderous hands?’’


  The silence stretched, filled with the ironic gaiety of birdsong. He shut his eyes and listened to the crashing hammer of his heart. Why had he done that? Why hurt Nora so irrevocably? To ease his guilt? It hadn’t worked. No, God, he only felt more alone, more desolate.

  Of its own volition his hand came up. ‘‘Nora . . . forgive me. . . .’’

  A cool breeze skimmed his fingers. He opened his eyes and saw her retreating back, her fluttering hair, her skirts swirling around her ankles. He heard her muted footsteps as she ran toward the house.

  ‘‘There you are, dear heart.’’ Nora tucked the coverlet beneath Jonathan’s chin and leaned to kiss his forehead, hoping he wouldn’t feel the trembling that hadn’t subsided since her encounter at the stables with Grayson.

  Her wrists still bore the faint imprint of his madness. His . . . derangement. She couldn’t call it anything else. He’d seen something in her portrait that simply wasn’t there. Had reacted irrationally to something altogether imagined. He’d confessed . . .

  Suppressing a shudder, she cupped Jonny’s cheek in her palm. As much as she might wish herself away from this troubled house, this turbulent marriage, she was at least glad she was here for the boy. Someone had to keep him safe, and if not her, who?

  Mrs. Dorn? The housekeeper held an oppressive influence over Jonny, one Nora could neither explain nor dismiss.

  She kissed him one last time. ‘‘Good night and sleep well.’’

  He responded with a look of such open affection her heart squeezed. It was a look that said he needed her, counted on her not to let him down. She patted his shoulder through the bedclothes, then rose and crossed the room.

  ‘‘Under no circumstances are you to leave him alone,’’ she whispered to Kat, who had arrived along with her belongings from home that morning.

  A maid some five years in the Thorngoode’s employ, the buxom, dark-eyed Kat wasn’t always known for the strictest morals, nor did she typically take pains to hide the evidence of her dalliances from anyone but Nora’s mother. Still, her lusty appetites aside, Kat was honest. In her work she’d never been anything but efficient and conscientious. And through the years she had kept a secret or two for Nora, earning Nora’s trust.

  ‘‘Lock the door behind me and do not open it till morning.’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’

  She found a measure of confidence in the young woman’s steady look. More assurance, certainly, than she felt in Mrs. Dorn’s overbearing guardianship of the child.

  She blew Jonny a kiss. ‘‘Sleep well, dearest.’’

  With solemn eyes he blew one back.

  Mrs. Dorn met her in the corridor as though she’d been lurking. Her stern features drawn tighter than usual, she blocked Nora’s path. ‘‘Lord Clarington is accustomed to sleeping alone, madam. Why lock him in with a stranger?’’

  ‘‘Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Dorn. Kat is wonderful with children. I’m sure Jonny will take to her quite readily.’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid I can’t agree. His lordship is a retiring child. I think it advisable—’’

  ‘‘I am Jonny’s guardian, Mrs. Dorn, and I shall do as I think best.’’

  ‘‘Master Grayson is Lord Clarington’s guardian.’’

  ‘‘And I am Sir Grayson’s wife.’’ The words burned her throat and raised a queasy sensation in her stomach. Had she pledged her life to a madman?

  But her assertion did have the desired effect of rendering the housekeeper speechless. Nora brushed by, making her escape. ‘‘Good night then, Mrs. Dorn.’’

  She retreated to her bedchamber and with unsteady fingers locked the door. Held her breath as she tested the knob to make certain it was secure. Turned to regard the door to the adjoined dressing rooms.

  Fear sent an icy wave through her. There was no key in that lock. But of course there wasn’t—why on earth would a wife need to lock out her husband?

  With the answer knocking a frigid rhythm in her heart, she dragged the chair away from the dressing table and wedged it as tightly as she could beneath the knob. She gave the door a tug. Grayson would pay her no visits tonight.

  Would she lock herself in every night? Deny her husband that which he had every right to demand? A ribbon of heat curled round her belly, squeezed her thighs. His fierce lovemaking had set her aflame. But it had frightened her too. She realized now she had every reason to be afraid.

  But even if she barred him by night, what of the daytime hours? How was she to set about being mistress of Blackheath Grange and caring for Jonny, never knowing what might arouse Grayson’s ire, or when?

  Wrapping her arms across her chest, gripping each elbow until her fingers dug into the flesh, she faced into the room. What must she do?

  She moved to the window and stared out at the stark moonlight, at the silver-tipped trees casting glimmering shadows across the lawns.

  Don’t you long to run across those hills and stand beneath that golden light? she had asked him that day at the National Gallery.

  Are you there waiting for me . . . ? You’re all the gleaming, glorious hope I need.

  Were those the words of a murderer? Could a villain have made her feel more beautiful, more alive, more cherished than ever before?

  Oh, but then he’d attacked that man, that Waterston fellow. . . .

  My murderous hands . . .

  Could a killer’s hands have coaxed such shuddering, vibrant responses from her body? From her heart?

  Her raised fist slammed the window frame, rattling the glass. Her fears were like a fist upon glass, pressing to the breaking point.

  ‘‘Take Jonny and steal away.’’ The answer was so simple, yet so monumental and onerous she couldn’t help voicing it aloud. Leave her husband . . . and take his nephew with her. Such an act would be considered a crime. Kidnapping. She would become a wanted woman. A hunted woman.

  And yet . . . contrary to everything logic told her, the very notion of never seeing Grayson’s face and never again knowing his touch left her as desolate as an empty canvas.

  But what other choice? Her husband was . . . he was . . .

  Surely mad. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, then just as quickly dropped it to her side. She swallowed, blinked back tears and stood up straighter. Jonny needed her resolute and in control.

  ‘‘Papa will know where to send us. He can ensure no one ever finds so much as a trace—’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  The word filled the air and vibrated like an organ note against the ceiling. Nora jumped, then spun to face the room. Her nerve endings tingling, she searched the shadows for the source of the strangely musical voice.

  ‘‘Who’s here?’’

  ‘‘Don’t run away. Stay and be brave.’’

  Nora knew that voice, was certain she’d heard it before. Seeing no one, she stumbled backward, shoulder blades hitting the window. Groping for balance, she gripped the curtain, only to tear it from the rod. Flowered silk rained down, half covering her. She clawed it like cobwebs from her face.

  ‘‘Kat? Mrs. Dorn?’’ But she knew neither of them occupied the room with her.

  A few feet from the locked door, a glimmering radiance that had nothing to do with moonlight or the table lamp unfolded from the shadows. Nora’s instinct was to run, but astonishment held her paralyzed. The shimmer grew, elongated, took form. Human form. A head, shoulders, arms, the flowing lines of a gown.

  A lavender gown.

  Recognition sapped the strength from her knees. She sagged to the floor. ‘‘I’m going mad as well. . . .’’

  Behind the figure the door was still visible, obscured as though by a veil of cloud. Elegant if insubstantial features softened to a smile. ‘‘You aren’t mad. Not in the least.’’

  A transparent person telling her she wasn’t mad— surely proof she was.

  ‘‘What do you want with me?’’ Nora clutched the skirt of her gown, nearly renting the fabric as waves of incredulity made her dizzy. ‘‘Wh-who are yo
u? What are you?’’

  The image, as solid now as Nora herself but still glowing as if the sun shone full upon her, smiled again. ‘‘I am a woman who once lived here at Blackheath Grange. That is all I can tell you. The rest is for you to discover.’’

  ‘‘Discover what?’’

  ‘‘The truth.’’

  ‘‘How?’’

  ‘‘By searching, of course.’’

  Nora started to protest, but the woman held up a hand to silence her. ‘‘Do not run away, Nora. Do not give up so easily. The people here need you. Desperately.My . . .’’ She paused and clasped pale, slender hands at her waist. ‘‘Your husband’s nephew . . . his father as well.’’

  ‘‘Jonny’s father?’’ Fascination overcoming a portion of her fear, Nora pushed to her feet and eased away from the window. ‘‘Thomas Lowell is dead. How can he possibly need me? What can I or anyone do for him now?’’

  ‘‘Free him from this place. Set his spirit to rest.’’

  ‘‘His spirit . . .’’ she whispered more to herself than to her otherworldly visitor. ‘‘He haunts this house. He’s been haunting Grayson.’’ Yes, for Grayson had seen his brother’s image in the portrait she painted. . . .

  She shook her head. ‘‘There are no such things as ghosts.’’

  A pair of shimmering golden eyebrows arched delicately but nonetheless emphatically. ‘‘Are there not?’’

  Nora scowled as disbelief warred with the evidence standing before her eyes. Who was this woman, and why had she been manipulating Nora since before her wedding, albeit within the guise of her dreams? Was tonight another attempt at manipulation, and would it lead to yet another travesty, such as when Grayson hit Mr. Waterson?

  ‘‘Your riddles grow wearisome. If there is some truth I must know, tell me what it is. Tell me and leave me in peace.’’

  ‘‘I cannot.’’ Those exquisite lips again curled in a smile, one Nora found eerily familiar. ‘‘The wounds at Blackheath Grange are scored too deeply for mere words to heal them. You must find the truth that will free you all. You must see it with your own eyes, know it, believe it with your mind and heart and soul.’’

  ‘‘And if I cannot?’’ A sudden bleakness made Nora shiver. What was it this apparition demanded she learn? Whether or not her husband had committed murder? Was that a truth she wished to know? ‘‘What if I cannot believe as you say I must? What if there is always doubt?’’