by Sandra Heath
Sarah stared past him at the window. The setting sun glowed like a halo over the summit of Hob’s Tor. “I wonder what happened? Why did he do it?”
Paul stood and poured himself another glass of brandy. “We’ll probably never know. A quarrel most likely.... The quarrels of lovers can be devastating.” He stood next to her, gazing out of the window too. “If the whispering rocks spoke a language I could understand, then they could tell what happened.”
“The whispering rocks?”
With his glass he gestured toward the tor. “Out there, on the tip of Hob’s Tor. Those rocks are called the whispering rocks because of the strange murmuring sound the wind makes around them. It’s uncanny, just as if the rocks were talking quietly together. It’s all superstitious nonsense really, but at times like this it’s almost possible to believe in it.”
“Why do you say they could tell you what happened to Melissa?”
“Because the Green Pool lies at the bottom of Hob’s Tor; the rocks tower immediately over it. It’s a quite horrible part of the moor really, and it has always been shunned by the local people. That’s why James Trefarrin will have difficulty finding enough men to help him to go after that man who is stealing his sheep. No one wants to go anywhere near the place.”
“Because of Mother Kendal and her coven?” Sarah broke in. “Oh, I’ve heard enough to guess the rest now, Paul. The nurse was teaching Melissa her craft, wasn’t she? That’s why your mother dismissed her.”
He nodded slowly. “Mother Kendal practiced the black arts, Sarah, and Melissa helped her. I don’t know what terrible things my sister may have done and I’ve no wish to know. She was at one time set upon an incredibly evil path under the influence of Mother Kendal ... but we put a stop to all that. There’s said to be a cave up there; Melissa told me of it once. I haven’t seen it and I know of no one else who has, not even Martin, who knows every inch of the moor. No, the vagabond who is stealing sheep cannot be anyone who knows the reputation of the place or he wouldn’t choose Hob’s Tor to make his den.”
Sarah stood. “Paul, perhaps he’s the same man, the one with the red horse—”
He shook his head. “I’d thought of that, but the thief is a small fellow, thin and bony.”
“Like Armand?” She looked at him.
He nodded slowly. “Yes, like Armand—and the Frenchman would have no fear of Hob’s Tor for he was one of them.”
“One of the coven?”
“Yes.”
Sarah thought of the strange, intense eyes of the little Frenchman and she shivered. Yes, she could well imagine him practicing unholy magic.
There came a hurried knock at the door and Marks came in, his face at once both excited and anxious. “Mr. Ransome, sir!”
“Yes? What is it?” Paul turned, frowning.
“There’s been a horse left behind the stable block, sir—”
“Well? Why bother me with such a trivial matter at a time like this?” He spoke sharply, irritated by such apparent foolishness.
“It’s not just any horse, sir. It’s a chestnut stallion, bright red and big, like the one—”
Paul left the room abruptly, and Sarah followed him.
The stable block was humming with interest, the lads standing in groups and the yard left unwashed for the moment. The Turk stood tethered to a rail, half groomed, a fact which would have infuriated Paul normally but which now passed unnoticed.
The double gate which led out on to the lower moor was open, and Martin stood there holding the reins of a great chestnut stallion. Sarah recognized it immediately.
It pricked its ears as Paul hurried over to it. It was truly a splendid creature, in its way every bit as fine as the Turk, and obviously very highly bred. Its coat shone and it had been groomed well, but the saddle was rough and functional, not seeming to match the style of the horse. There was nothing to identify either horse or rider.
Paul patted its neck, smiling at Sarah unexpectedly. “He’s clever, this man. He knows that all we have to help identify him is his horse, and by leaving the animal on our very doorstep he’s telling us that we’ll never catch him and that it would be pointless even to try.”
Sarah’s hazel eyes moved from the arched neck of the horse to Paul’s face, and she knew that he was right. “But James Trefarrin saw him. Could he not give a good description?”
“The description James gave could fit a thousand men, Sarah. Tall, well built, and dressed so fashionably as to be conspicuous on Dartmoor. But even with that we can find no trace of him.” He patted the horse once more and turned away to go back to the house.
He stopped by Sarah. “He’ll get away with it, you know. He’ll go free even after murdering Melissa.”
Chapter Seventeen
Nothing was discovered during the ensuing weeks about the identity of the stranger who had been seen with Melissa. Paul’s attempts to trace him through his horse led nowhere, and after a while there seemed little point in continuing. Melissa’s lover would remain an enigma. And of Armand there was no trace; and no one ventured near Hob’s Tor again.
For Sarah, life was strange without the oppressive presence of Paul’s sister. She found herself half expecting the girl to walk in at any moment, or to come riding down from the moor as if nothing had ever happened. But Melissa did not come.
And Sarah began to enjoy life at Mannerby, for she found the people so changed now. They were friendly, smiling at her often, and they were more than willing to pass the time of day in chat if she went for a walk outside the grounds of the big house. Even the vicar beamed at her, welcoming her to his church every Sunday and graciously bidding her farewell after each service.
Some months after Melissa’s disappearance, news spread across England of a great English victory at a place called Waterloo. Napoleon had been vanquished and sent into exile, and England toasted her hero, the Duke of Wellington. Throughout July the land echoed and re-echoed to the sound of triumphant bells, pealing endlessly to celebrate the victory. In London preparations were made for festivities such as had never before been witnessed; and in Mannerby a puppy named Wellington sported a large white ribbon.
The news reached Mannerby only days after London had heard. A tired horseman spurred his horse along the road from Plymouth, shouting and waving his top hat before he had even reached the first cottage in the village. He told the news over and over again before digging his heels into his mount and galloping on to tell the news to Bencombe.
The bell in the church tower rang for two days with few pauses, and Sarah laughed to see the vast quantities of ale which was carried to refresh the men who pulled so hard upon the ropes. A contest developed, for over the moor came the sound of Bencombe’s bells, and it became a matter of honor that Mannerby’s bells should peal for longer than their rivals. Paul sent out three bottles of his finest cognac when Mannerby was victorious.
After the initial furor and excitement, life settled back into its normal leisurely pace, but there was a jauntiness and air of cheer as a fierce national pride asserted itself firmly in every heart.
One warm, bright day Sarah took a walk in the kitchen garden. She wore a dainty gown of blue-and-white-striped silk, and Janie had labored for hours with the thick, black hair to produce a tolerable duster of Grecian curls. Sarah was determined to be cheerful on such a beautiful day, for she was at last coming to terms with herself. She knew that she meant nothing to Jack Holland and that she must forget him, since he had obviously forgotten her. It was a bitter pill, but one she must swallow.
During the hours of daylight she succeeded in forgetting him; but at night, when she slept, he filled her dreams, and she sometimes awoke knowing that she had been crying. But today ... today was not a day for thoughts of unrequited love. Sarah breathed deeply of the warm perfumed air, sniffing the fragrant herbs and the delicious smell of baking drifting from the kitchens.
The garden was springing to life. In the courtyard at the front of the house the tardy ash tree had at las
t unfurled its leaves, and its eager twigs were beginning to stretch out toward the window again. The lilac tree which grew in the shadow of the ash had blossomed profusely with pale, mauve-blue flowers, and from her room at night Sarah could smell the heavy sweet scent on the cool air.
From the kitchens came the sound of singing as two maids went about their tasks, and Sarah heard Marks’s low voice shushing them from time to time—but to no avail, for they were soon singing again. It was that sort of day, lighthearted and determined to shake itself free of winter.
Sarah stopped in the shade of a tall poplar tree, glancing up as the breeze rustled the large, flapping leaves. The grass looked inviting and she sat down, putting out her hand toward a cluster of shriveled daffodil leaves, the flowers having long since disappeared.
“The daffodils were not at their best this year, I fear.”
She looked up to see Paul standing there. He had just returned from exercising some of the horses and was dressed in his shabby working clothes. He wore no hat and his sandy hair was blown backward and forward by the breeze. He nodded at the flowers again. “This part of the garden is usually covered with them, but this year there were mostly leaves and very few flowers.”
He watched her as she turned to look at the flowers again. The sun shone on her hair and the blue-and-white gown suited her well. She looked beautiful and carefree, but he remembered what Janie had confided to him. Janie was worried because her mistress cried in her sleep as if her heart was breaking, and occasionally called out the name of Jack Holland. Paul sighed. The man was not worthy of her, and never would be.
“Do you like flowers, Sarah?” He did not want to think further of her unspoken feelings for Holland.
“Oh, yes, I do. They remind me of my childhood.”
She ran her fingers over the leaves, remembering how as a child she had walked barefoot through fields of daffodils.
‘There is a stream near here which is always covered with irises, and it was as golden as ever last week when I rode past. Would you like to go there?” He felt awkward.
She stood eagerly. “I’d love to, Paul—really I would.”
He smiled. “When would you like to go?”
“Now,” she said firmly. “For it’s a lovely day and perfect for such an outing.”
He hesitated, taken aback. “But that’s a little short notice. I have things to do—”
“Oh, Paul, work can surely wait an hour or two. Please take me now.” Her hazel eyes looked up at him appealingly.
He could not refuse her. “I’ll have the pony and trap made ready.” He turned away and then looked back. “You’re right. Work can wait for an hour or two. I shall tell Marks that we wish to take a picnic with us.” He smiled, pleased with his decision, and then walked off whistling.
And so it was, an hour later, that a pony and trap set off at a spanking pace down the village street, skimming lightly along toward the woods. Sarah tied the pale pink ribbons of her flowery bonnet beneath her chin and sat back to enjoy the ride. The pony’s mane flew in the breeze and its hooves clip-clopped loudly on the hard track. Through the woods they went, the hoofbeats muffled now by the thick green moss, and the sunlight dappled by the cobweb of branches overheard. There was no sign of the mysterious stranger who had been here those weeks before, and Sarah did not even give him a thought now.
The trap splashed across a tiny stream and set off down a narrow side track. The smell of the woods was strong and pricked Sarah’s senses pleasantly. All around were the heavy white heads of hawthorn, their perfume sweet and fresh, and the pale faces of late windflowers lingered in the cool hollows. The trees were becoming more and more sparse and the track left the wood at last and wended its way through a small, quiet valley. High banks topped with hedges obscured the view until suddenly the banks fell away and Sarah could see the fields on either side.
Her lips parted with sudden delight, for there they were—the irises. They covered every inch of the meandering banks of the stream—tall, stately spikes of golden yellow among crisp green foliage. Paul turned the pony and trap through an open gateway and the wheels seemed to submerge in the tall grass.
He helped her down from the trap and began to untie the hamper of food. He spread a cloth upon the ground beneath a shady willow tree and sat back to watch Sarah beside the stream. She was lost in poignant memories of her childhood as she gathered an armful of the irises, burying her face in them.
Paul’s voice startled her as he called. “Come on, or I’ll forget that I’m a gentleman and will begin to eat without you!”
She walked back to him, and sat down, putting her huge bunch of flowers to one side and laughing as the cork of a wine bottle popped loudly. He grinned at her. “I thought that this feast should be washed down by the finest wine from the cellars—and we must not forget to toast the Duke of Wellington. It must be all of twelve hours since last we drank that noble gentleman’s health!”
The wine was cool and a little dry, with a bite which was pleasing, especially with the wondrous fare the cook had packed away in the hamper. I could remain here forever, she thought as she leaned back against the willow tree, sipping the wine. She realized with a jolt that it had been some time since she had even thought of her father, of Rook House, or of her cousin Edward. Why had she heard nothing?
After all, Melissa was dead and with her died the necessity for Sarah’s marriage to Edward. She paused to consider this, for strangely the thought had not occurred to her before. She lowered her glass thoughtfully, a coldness in the pit of her stomach. Why had she not heard from her father? Did he intend to leave her on Paul’s hands and conveniently forget all about her now that she was no longer of any use to him?
Embarrassment colored her face hotly and she glanced at Paul. Surely the same thought must have crossed his mind.
He felt her eyes on him and looked up, seeing the change in her. “What is it?”
“I—I was wondering why I’ve heard nothing from my father.”
“He no doubt has his reasons—most probably devious ones at that.”
“Yes, but, Paul, there’s no reason for my marriage with Edward now that, now that ...” She could not mention Melissa. “I’ve no illusions about my father and fear that he no longer wants me.”
He sat up. “That’s nonsense, Sarah, and you mustn’t think such things. Of course he wants you. Anyway,” he smiled—”there’s always a place for you at Mannerby.”
She returned the smile. “I don’t think that that would be seemly, Paul. I’ve been thinking about it. The situation is rather, er, lacking in propriety.”
He leaned back again. “I’d already thought of that and so have written to Aunt Mathilda in London. She’s a veritable termagant and led my poor uncle a merry dance during his lifetime, but she will make an excellent chaperone for you. She replied to my letter, saying that she will come, but I must say that her tone was curt in the extreme. I have a feeling that she is displeased with me for some reason. Still, that matters nothing, for I vow that no one would dare to believe any ill of our conduct while we’re under her eagle eye. I still find it hard to believe that Melissa managed to conduct her affair with Edward while living under my aunt’s roof.”
Sarah felt a little apprehensive about being put in the charge of the formidable Aunt Mathilda. She took a slice of the cook’s excellent cake and ate it slowly, staring dreamily over the scene before her. This moment could go on forever, she decided.
Paul sat up and looked at his fob-watch. “We must go shortly, for my work cannot wait any longer. Oh, I almost forgot—we’re invited to the Blue Fox tomorrow, for dinner. A victory feast, James called it, to celebrate Waterloo! Would you like to go?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Then that’s settled. Come on now. We must go back.”
“You’re a fearful taskmaster, Paul, but just this once I’ll forgive you.” She smiled at him.
He paused as he put the glasses back into the hamper, watching her as she g
athered her irises. Perhaps it was just as well that Aunt Mathilda was coming, he thought, for Sarah was tantalizingly lovely and he found himself enjoying her company far too much.
The whip cracked as the pony and trap rattled back toward Mannerby. The pony’s ears pricked as it neared home, and its legs seemed to fly through the air. They clattered through the open ironwork gates into the courtyard, Sarah laughing and holding her bonnet tightly onto her head.
The pony shied at the bright yellow phaeton with its scarlet wheels. Sarah stared at it, and Paul cursed as he brought the dancing pony under control again.
And then she saw him. He stood in the doorway, his copper hair as unruly as ever, his elegant body clothed to sartorial perfection.
As Jack Holland smiled at her, the air seemed to sing.
Chapter Eighteen
She could feel a sudden breathlessness as she looked at him. He was just as her memory painted him, from the lazy way he walked down the steps toward her, to the roguish light in his gray eyes as he reached up to lift her down from the trap.
The irises spilled from her lap as she slid down, her blue-and-white skirts hissing.
“You’re as lovely as ever, sweet Sarah.” Even his voice, each slight inflection, seemed a soothing balm to her. This was what she had longed for, what she had forced out of her mind, until now.... How could she have thought she was over her love for him? How could she have even thought it was possible to forget him, when every sense swam so giddily at his being so near and her lips could not help their foolish smiling. He was all that mattered, all that had ever mattered ... and now he was here.
