by Sandra Heath
As the bell tolled sadly, Sarah sat before her mirror tying the black ribbons of her bonnet. She looked angrily at her reflection. Her wardrobe may have been expensive but it was incomplete, for there was no mourning gown. Many long moments of discussion with Janie had produced this odd combination of a dull donkey brown gown and a black straw bonnet. There were no black gloves, no black stockings, and no black mantle.
“My amber pin, Janie. I think I shall wear it.”
“Oh yes, miss, it will look well with the brown gown.” The maid took the lid from the porcelain dish, but the brooch was not there. “It’s gone, miss....”
Sarah took the dish and stared in dismay. “But where could it be? I’ve not worn it since the day I arrived!”
Janie’s eyes were large. “Oh, miss, I swear I put it there!”
Sarah smiled gently. “I know you did, Janie. Please don’t be upset about it.” She glanced at the floor, half hoping to see it there, but the carpet had been freshly brushed that very morning.
“But, miss, someone must have taken it then.”
The words fell awkwardly in the room. Uncomfortably Sarah stood. “No matter, the pin was of no great value.” But she was more upset about the disappearance of the little brooch than she cared to reveal to the anxious maid.
Along the passageway, Melissa came out of her room on her way to the church. Janie had just opened the door for Sarah and they stared at the apparition of elegant mourning which rustled toward them. Melissa was clad from head to toe in black crepe and her face was hidden by a thick black veil. The scent of musk hung in the air as she passed without speaking.
Janie caught her mistress’s eye sadly. Miss Sarah was the chief mourner. In fact, she was the only person to have even known Betty, and yet Miss Melissa was sweeping to the church as if attending a royal funeral. It was not right.
The bad weather had persisted all week, but now the rain had dwindled to a fine drizzle which was blown damply through the air by the wind. Sarah looked down from her window as Melissa emerged from the doorway of the house, carefully rearranging the black veil. The ash tree scratched at the window as if it had fingers, and Melissa heard it, glancing up quickly and seeing Sarah’s face looking down. But Melissa did not seem to be looking at Sarah; she was looking at the branches of the ash tree. She hurried across the courtyard and across the street. Sarah watched her open the lych-gate and go up the pathway between the yew trees in the churchyard. Now she would go down herself.
Paul was waiting in the entrance hall. “Where’s Melissa?”
“She has already gone to the church.”
He did not look pleased, for it was more fitting that the entire party from the manor house should go to the church together. But Sarah did not care what he felt or how he thought, for her single week under his roof had only increased her dislike of him. He obviously still held her completely to blame for the scandal at Rook House; she was convinced too that when he looked at her he saw only Stratford’s daughter. She felt that daily he became more averse to her, although in what way she could not really say; it just seemed that each day he found it more difficult to be even passingly polite.
As she put her hand on his arm to walk to the church she wondered yet again if she should write to her father, for even the prospect of Rook House with all its unpleasantness was preferable to Mannerby. At least at Rook House the resentment and dislike were not so very personal and close as they were here.
Martin was waiting by the gates, cap in hand. He was going to the funeral and was waiting for Janie, who walked behind her mistress. His smile faded as he observed Sarah and he looked at her in a way which made her feel uncomfortable. Instantly she wondered about her clothing, horribly aware of the dreadful mixture of donkey brown and black. Was it so bad that even Martin noticed it?
The street was muddy and puddles rested in every crevice. Paul guided her carefully through the water and then they were at the lych-gate. The slow clip-clop of the hearse could be heard and Sarah stopped, turning to look down the street as the black carriage came slowly up the hill, drawn by two dark horses with plumes on their heads. The driver cracked his whip slightly as they struggled at their slow pace. The plain coffin was unexpectedly adorned by a huge wreath of white velvet lilies which bobbed heavily in the glass-sided hearse, protected from the drizzle.
Sarah stared. Who had sent such an expensive wreath? As the hearse stopped by the lych-gate she saw her own little bouquet, a small bunch of snowdrops she had gathered that morning in the kitchen garden. Beside the monstrous wreath it looked pitifully inadequate. The hearse creaked as the pallbearers lifted the coffin.
Paul was looking at the wreath, his eyebrows raised. “Your tribute is very fine, Miss Stratford.”
She flushed, looking away from the coffin and toward his face, feeling that he was being unnecessarily cruel to jibe at her small offering. “I did the best I could, Mr. Ransome.”
“Well, the result is most awe-inspiring.”
She saw then that he was looking not at the snowdrops but at the wreath. “My contribution is the paltry bunch of snowdrops, Mr. Ransome!”
Her voice was as bleak as the weather and she walked quickly to catch up with the coffin. He followed her and had no chance to make good his error. He looked thoughtfully at the cloth lilies and lace on the coffin.... If Miss Stratford had not sent the wreath, who had?
Sarah could feel her face flaming with hurt and anger as she walked behind the coffin. How dared he speak to her like that! She took refuge in her anger to set aside her embarrassment at both her unsuitable clothing and the enormous wreath someone else had placed on Betty’s coffin.
As she stared at the creation of white velvet and lace, instinct told her who had sent it. She turned to look at Melissa but the heavy black veil hid the girl’s face from view. Even so, Sarah knew that those malevolent green eyes were fixed upon her. But why do it? Why do such a heartless, pointless thing?
The slow hymn died away and the congregation sat. The church was packed, for everyone had heard of the little maid’s sad death, and they had all come. The vicar’s sonorous voice began and Sarah clasped her hands in her lap as she sat in the Ransome pew. She remembered how gay and full of life Betty had been, only to lie cold and lifeless in her coffin now…. She swallowed and closed her ears to the vicar, who seemed far off and unreal.
A strange sensation of being watched brought her abruptly back to the present. Each time she gazed around, no one was looking, but she knew that the moment she turned away, those eyes would be staring again. The expression in those prying eyes was one of curiosity, and ... more than that, of wariness; just, she thought, as Martin had looked at her earlier on. Perhaps they were all blaming her for Betty’s death; perhaps that was why they were so cold and unfriendly.
Slowly she began to feel that even the vicar was giving her more attention than was required. As she concentrated on him she saw that indeed he did look at her often. His little eyes were round and each time he looked at her his nostrils seemed to flare with suppressed outrage. She felt more and more confused and miserable. Why was she being subjected to such unfriendly scrutiny by just about everybody in the village? She had done them no harm. Only Paul Ransome seemed unaware of the strong undercurrents in the church as he idly flicked the pages of his prayerbook, staring at the words without reading them.
At last it was all over and Sarah was standing by the freshly dug grave in the churchyard. The coffin was lowered solemnly into the grave and the vicar murmured the words, tossing a handful of earth which pattered on the wooden lid. He glanced up at Sarah as if she was contemptible.
An insane urge to shout at him came over her and she dampened it swiftly, but inside her thoughts screamed at the gathering around Betty’s resting place. Don’t you think I haven’t blamed myself a thousand times? Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? The jumbled thoughts rose unevenly in her and she turned away, running down the path between the damp, dripping yews, and through the puddles in t
he street toward the manor house.
Janie followed, calling her name anxiously, and the congregation at the graveside watched with interest.
In her gentle, pale blue room Sarah lay on the bed weeping; she wept for Betty, for herself ... and for the breaking of her heart over Jack Holland.
Chapter Eleven
The next day was wet and windy. The cold air rushed down over Mannerby from the high moor, and from her window Sarah looked toward the tor, half visible through the cloud which clung around it. It was mysterious, like something seen in a dream and almost forgotten at waking. The ash tree tapped the window and she shivered, moving away to the fireplace.
The flames licked gently around the logs and she held her hands out to the warmth. Janie sat on a stool carefully stitching a tear in one of her mistress’s gowns.
Sarah sighed unhappily and the maid looked up. “Don’t let it upset you so, miss. They’re good folk really. Mannerby’s a kind place.”
“Kind! If this is Mannerby being kind, then I shudder to imagine it when the place takes an active dislike to one! I loathe it here already.”
Janie swallowed and lowered her eyes again, the needle moving busily in and out of the fine cloth.
The ash touched the pane again and Sarah jumped. “Why, oh why, doesn’t someone cut down that dreadful tree?”
“It was old Mrs. Ransome’s favorite tree, miss. She planted it years ago, when she was first married to Mr. Paul’s father.”
“What was she like?”
“A proper lady, miss, sweet and gentle. A Mannerby she was, the last of the family. Mr. Paul wouldn’t cut down her tree, not even when Miss Melissa begged him. But then that was all Mother Kendal’s fault—” The maid broke off in midsentence, her face turning red at having spoken so freely.
“Who was Mother Kendal?”
“Miss Melissa’s old nurse.” Janie continued sewing, but Sarah could see that her hand was shaking.
“And what was the nurse’s fault?”
“Oh, miss—! I shouldn’t have gone talking like that. It’s not my place.”
“But what harm have you done? I know of none. Come now, bring some interest to this miserable January day and tell me about Mother Kendal.”
“There’s not much to tell really. She’s dead now anyway.” Janie glanced through the window at the misty tor.
“You still haven’t told me what she did.”
Janie put down the sewing. “I don’t know much, miss, and that’s the truth. Mother Kendal was a queer old body. We village children were all frightened of her. She had care of Miss Melissa from the time of her birth. A proper country woman, she was, plump and with pink cheeks and a happy smile, but—”
“But?”
“But we were all frightened of her. She had that many dreadful tales to tell, of witches and hobgoblins, and things that would come to take you in the night. Oh, the bad dreams I’ve had on account of her idle talk! Anyway, she frightened Miss Melissa with stories of strange things being seen around ash trees. There were other things too. The upshot was that old Mrs. Ransome found out when Melissa woke up crying one night when Mother Kendal was away. The old biddy came back to find herself without a position at the big house any more. Mrs. Ransome was proper put out, to think that the nurse had been so unfeeling. Mother Kendal was given a pension, for she’d been with the family for years and years, and a cottage over by Bencombe—not far from the tor you see from the window. She died a year or so back.”
“And Mrs. Ransome?”
Janie lowered her eyes. “She died not a month after Mother Kendal was sent away.”
“But Miss Melissa is still afraid of ash trees?”
“Mortal afraid. Well, I was brought to play with her, we being the same age and all, and I know how fearful she was. At nights especially. That Mother Kendal was a wicked woman. Still, when she died, Miss Melissa gradually stopped having bad dreams and things. Well, it only comes now and then, and always with the ash tree. The master was worried about her though, and so he sent her up to London last year, to his aunt. Did her a lot of good, it did. She looked that bright and happy when she came back.”
The maid leaned forward conspiratorially. “To tell the truth, miss, I reckon that she fell in love with some gentleman up there. And to tell you more, I reckon his name is Edward. You saw the ring—”
“Yes, Janie, I saw the ring.” Sarah suddenly didn’t want to talk about Melissa Ransome any more. “I think I shall go for a little walk.”
“In this weather, Miss Sarah? But you’ll catch your death—”
“A good thick mantle and stout shoes and I’ll come to no harm. I’m no shrinking, fainting, London belle. Anyway, a bit of fresh air will make me feel better. If I don’t get out of this house sometimes I’ll become convinced that I’m not a guest but a prisoner!”
“You won’t go outside the grounds?” Janie looked uncomfortable, for she had been told that her mistress must not leave the house and grounds unless accompanied by Mr. Ransome.
“I’ll behave myself, Janie. Oh, I’m sorry. I know you’re only doing what you’ve been told to do. I merely wish to take a little walk. Through the stables perhaps to look over the moor from the back gates. I like it there.”
“I’ll get your mantle, miss. Shall I walk with you, for company?”
“No, Janie, thank you. I’ll be my own company this time.”
A short while later, well wrapped in a voluminous mantle and heavy overshoes, Sarah slipped past Marks and out of the house. In the stableyard some of the horses had just arrived back from a canter over the moor. They stood together, steam rising from their flanks, and Sarah could smell that warm horse smell she loved so much. Her glance fell on the Turk, tethered to a rail. Paul Ransome was talking to the head groom, his back turned to the cloaked figure by the gate.
A wicked thought came into her mind, that, had she so desired, she could have taken any one of the horses and ridden out of the gate and across the moor. And a merry dance she could lead Mr. High-and-Mighty Ransome before he caught her! That would certainly be one way of livening up her miserable existence, and of removing the smug, overbearing expression from her host’s face. She smiled to herself at the thought, but then the wind swept its chill breath over the yard and she shivered. Perhaps it was a little cold for such antics.
The church bell struck the hour and she turned to look at the gray stone tower, remembering the funeral of the day before. Had Liza received her letter yet? Sarah imagined her father’s little mistress, reading that her cousin was so tragically dead. Poor Liza, all alone while Sir Peter Stratford entertained his fancy guests in the great rooms below.
She went closer to the gate, unnoticed by the men with the horses. Paul untethered the Turk and a groom led the stallion into his stall to be groomed. The hooves clattered on the cobbles and as Sarah climbed on to the gate to sit for a while the yard gradually emptied as each horse was led out of the cold. A solitary cat slunk across the open space, belly close to the ground, dashing into the nearest stable just as a groom was closing the door.
Alone, Sarah turned a little to look across the moor. The wiry grass rippled as the gathering wind sucked over the sloping land. Far away the tor was hidden in the mist and cloud now, but Sarah could feel its presence, looming high over the rest of the moor. She drew her mantle more tightly around her shoulders, thinking that her desire for fresh air was fast dwindling with each increasingly chilly moment. Seagulls swooped over the moor and she watched them. The sea was far away from Mannerby, and it must be stormy indeed to drive the gulls so far inland.
One gull winged low over her head, gliding on the wind toward some silver birch trees. Sarah’s eyes followed its graceful flight, but then she forgot the gull. A movement of emerald green down by the trees caught her eye. It was Melissa Ransome. Sarah gripped the gate in surprise, for the girl was not alone. She was on her favorite mount, and she was with a man.
Sarah strained to see who it was. She thought for a moment th
at it was Armand. Whoever it was he was small and dark and rode as if part of his horse. He was riding away from Melissa now, back up over the moor in the vague direction of the unseen tor.
Melissa was returning to the house, so Sarah slipped down from the gate, having no wish to come face-to-face with Paul Ransome’s unpleasant sister.
By the time Melissa’s mount reached the gate, Sarah was already back in the house. Halfway up the stairs, she paused to look out of the window at Melissa dismounting in the stableyard. Sarah’s eyes wandered back to the empty moor. Had that been Armand? If so, why had the groom not come back to Mannerby?
Chapter Twelve
Throughout January and well into February, Sarah’s predominant impression of Dartmoor was one of endless rain. Each time it stopped it seemed only to be gathering its forces anew. From her window she could sometimes see the tor with its crown of rocks, but at other times it was so covered in a shroud of mist that it was hidden from view altogether. She spent a great deal of time in her room looking out of the window, listening to the annoying scratching of the ash tree with each gust of wind, and at last she made up her mind that she would ask Paul if the tree could be cut back a little.
The rain gradually flattened the freshly dug earth over Betty’s grave until after a month it was scarcely taller than the grassy land around it. The clean white headstone was washed daily by the downpour and so remained looking as new as the day it came from the stonemason. Sarah’s feeling of guilt became stronger each time she looked at that sorry grave, for it seemed to be accusing her, like a painful wound.
The villagers were no friendlier than before, and of the staff at Mannerby House only Janie was warm and open. Sarah spent more time in her room, for there she was safe from everyone, and more especially safe from Melissa.
She felt stifled: stifled by the weather, by Melissa, by the people of Mannerby, and by Paul Ransome, who would not let her leave the house unless he accompanied her. He was free so infrequently that she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had gone riding since leaving Rook House.
