The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  She stumbled but regained her footing, then gasped as he pulled a knife from his pocket. “You wouldn’t dare-”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He jerked a kerchief from another pocket, then ripped the cloth in two and held the blade over a flame. Eyeing Caroline fiercely, he sliced into the bite she’d inflicted and bled it into one half of the kerchief, then seized a bottle of gin from a high shelf and splashed some over the wound before wrapping his hand with the clean piece of cloth.

  “Now.” He strode to within an arm’s length of her; she stood her ground. “Tell me why you’re here. Then get the devil out of my stables.”

  She dared give him a malicious smile. “Your stables, Toby? Has Lord Neville expired after naming you his heir in a fit of madness? He was quite alive when I saw him two hours ago.”

  “Answer me,” Hobbs hissed through his teeth, “before I kick you out on your sweet arse!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Take care, Toby. I am a wedding guest, here by invitation and hence under protection of Lord Neville. Yes, dear brother, it so happens the Honourable Miss Stowington and I are dear friends, indeed I am her closest confidant. ‘Twas I who debuted her into London society.”

  Staring at his sister, Hobbs struggled to assimilate this startling news. “As if I give a rat’s prick,” he countered. “All I want to know is why you’re in these stables at this hour.”

  “Only to warn you that you had better keep our kinship to yourself. Otherwise, you’ll not see another shilling from my purse.”

  He grinned.

  Caroline stomped her booted foot. “‘Tis not in the least amusing, Toby Hobbs! I am quite in earnest.”

  He touched a finger to his lips, then pointed down a dim passageway. “One of my grooms sleeps yonder.”

  Caroline’s hand flew to her mouth. “Dear God—do you think we woke him?”

  Enjoying her alarm, Hobbs grinned again. “Henry sleeps like the dead. Your secret is safe.”

  “And yours,” she reminded him tartly. “You’d be out on your bum if Lord Neville got wind of it. So ‘tis agreed? You won’t betray me? And you’ll treat me as others do—as a lady—for the duration of my stay?”

  Gone was the haughty society lady. In her place stood the beautiful, spirited girl who’d cared for him while their mother labored long hours in a seamstress’ shop. The girl who’d so fiercely defended him when others had dubbed him “bastard-boy.”

  His animosity fled, leaving him disgruntled. “Agreed.”

  Caroline eyed him dubiously.

  “Agreed, I say!”

  “Very well, then.” Watching him, she tugged a boot off and pulled something from the toe. Hobbs kept a bland expression as she opened an embroidered handkerchief to display a wad of currency. “Here.” Her nose was in the air again. “Take it. For the remainder of my visit, I shall have no further dealings with you, nor shall we speak to one another. Understood?”

  “Quite, dear sister. You needn’t nag.” Pocketing the money, Hobbs dangled the dainty square of cloth in front of her. “Don’t drop it. Monograms are like calling cards.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think we’ve had a roll in the hay, would we?”

  Tight-lipped, Caroline jerked the linen from his callused hand and strode toward the door.

  “Better hope the wind hasn’t shifted, either,” he called after her in a low voice. “The hounds are just up the lane. Oh, and one thing more…”

  Caroline halted in the doorway, her back stiffening, but did not turn around.

  “When dear old Horace arrives, tell him I’ve business with him in the stables.”

  “You know he doesn’t ride,” she snapped.

  “No matter,” Hobbs drawled softly. “I’ll be doing the riding.”

  TEN

  “The stables are packed and the coach house crammed full!” Elaine heard William tell Bridey. Guests had arrived with maids and manservants since Monday morning. Elaine had lost count of the extra servants hired in from the village.

  While William and the footmen hauled sides of beef, joints of mutton, bacon slabs and yards of Bridey’s linked sausages from the smokehouse, and crates of her crocked preserves from the cellar, Elaine helped Janey, Susan, and Hillary unload a cartload of fresh produce just in from the manor farms and orchards. Watching Arthur head happily away from the fuss and into the forest with his musket and sack, Elaine supposed she’d soon be plucking feathers while Hillary roasting partridge, pheasant, and quail alongside the lambs and suckling pigs on the spit in the cavernous kitchen hearth.

  Instead, Dame Carswell gave her full charge of the wedding gifts, though under the housekeeper’s own eagle eye. Displayed in the day room, formerly Catherine Neville’s domain and soon to be that of Gwynneth Neville, Elaine arranged the sumptuous items for display and then cataloged them along with their givers’ names in her meticulous hand.

  Because Dame Carswell worked the rest of the staff relentlessly and at odd times to avoid inconveniencing anyone, the guests seemed to come and go at all hours. Elaine heard tell of picnics in Beck’s Hollow, strolls in the formal gardens, Pall Mall and archery competitions on the terraced lawn. Hired coaches drove daily into Northampton for anyone inclined to buy elsewhere than the open market and quaint shops of Wycliffe. A company of musicians played in the gallery evenings after supper, when footmen removed the Aubusson rugs for dancing and then stood guard at the great hearth with bellows and waterpails for sudden drafts, flying embers, and skirt hems too near the fire screen. Elaine saw the guests at their most elegant then, as their jewels, velvets, silks and brocades transformed Wycliffe Hall into a small-scale replica of the king’s Court.

  *

  It seemed to Thorne that supper’s din and duration increased each evening, ale and wine flowing freely, conversation ranging from the latest fashions and Court gossip to rising taxes and denouncement of King George’s latest and longest stay in Hanover. To Bridey’s credit, mouthwatering aromas pervaded the Hall long before the meal, and heaping platters of puddings, meats and gravies, vegetables, fruits, and sweetmeats streamed steadily from the kitchen as it progressed.

  Now and then a lady’s perfume wafted under Thorne’s nose, provoking thoughts of pleasures other than dining. It was at one such moment on Wednesday evening that he glanced down the table and locked eyes with Caroline Sutherland, who acknowledged him with the slightest of nods.

  It was easy enough to shift his impenetrable gaze along to the next guest, and the next. But it was impossible to keep the color out of his burning face, and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed Caroline’s little smile.

  *

  “Pardon, M’lord.”

  Leaning against doorjamb and listening to Gwynneth’s Aunt Evelyn play the harp, Thorne turned to find a pair of dove-gray eyes upon him.

  “M’lord, please, you must come to the kitchen.”

  “What, have Dame Carswell and Mistress MacBride finally come to fisticuffs?” His smile faded as he noted the maid’s pallor and trembling lips. “What is it, Combs?” His hand moved to touch her face; he brought it sharply to his side.

  “Please, you must come straightaway.”

  A glance assured him their exchange had drawn no attention. He followed her into the east hall, then laid hold of her arm from behind. “Tarry a moment, Combs, tell me what’s the matter.”

  She stopped and shook her head, her shoulders beginning to heave with silent sobs.

  Torn between a powerful desire to comfort her and the need to know what caused her distress, Thorne let go her arm. His long strides quickly putting her behind him.

  Charging through the kitchen door, he was met with a gaggle of weeping women, Bridey’s wavering wail rising over her maids’ muffled sobs. Seeing Thorne, she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth and pointed to a small chalk-white figure laid out upon the worktable.

  Beside the unnaturally still figure stood Arthur, head bowed and hat in hand.

  Thorne slowly circled the table, where drying rivulets of b
lood trailed from young Henry Pitts’ mouth and nose onto the scarred wooden surface. Colorful bruises marked his face and neck. His vacant stare and the absence of a pulse in his thin little throat left no doubt he was beyond saving.

  Jaws clenching, Thorne gently closed the boy’s eyes. “He’s been trampled,” he said gruffly. “Who found him?”

  “I did.” Arthur’s voice shook. “By the time I reached him, there was nothing I could do. ‘Twas Raven, M’lord.”

  Thorne felt the blood drain from his face. “How? What happened? Where the hell was Hobbs?”

  “I…might we talk quietly in your study, M’lord?”

  “Very well.” Thorne turned to the blubbering cook. “Fetch clean linen to cover the boy. Then leave him be, and rally your maids.” Beckoning Arthur, he strode from the kitchen.

  Laughter drifted from the game room, punctuated by a roll of dice and the clack of wooden balls, while from the east wing, the tinkle of glasses and the drone of conversation floated up the hall on a whimsical tune from the pianoforte. Suddenly it all seemed barbaric, even blasphemous, and in the study Thorne turned a face dark with helpless anger on his steward. “Well?”

  Arthur shut the door. “‘Twas my fault, I gave Hobbs leave for Northampton this eve. He said he needed some leisure, what with all the extra work of late…” He twisted his hat in his hands.

  “Go on.”

  “I’d an errand in the coach house, and was halfway there when I heard the sound.” Arthur winced. “He was mad, M’lord, Raven was. From what, I don’t know, I only know I’ve never heard such accursed cries from a horse, and God willing, I shall never again.” He drew a shuddering breath. “I hurried to the stables, but by the time-” He broke off, choking back a sob.

  Thorne poured a dram of Scotch and gently slid it across the desk to him.

  “Henry was lying there with his body bent so unnatural,” Arthur said after downing the bracing liquor, “that I knew he was dead. And Raven…” He shook his head. “‘Twas as if demons had set upon him, M’lord. All a-tremble and frothing at the mouth, nostrils flaring, eyes rolled back in his head. I took the boy up and ran. Why the gate was open, I’ll never know. All I know is that poor Henry was alone against the beast, and the fault is mine.”

  Thorne stirred from his own horrific trance and came to lay a hand on the steward’s shoulder. “You’re not to blame, Arthur. You must know that.”

  Arthur only shook his head.

  “We’ll investigate,” Thorne said with a calm he didn’t feel. “Raven should have been inside his stall, and something provoked him to trample Henry, who probably did no more than try to settle him and put him up.” He poured another generous dram for Arthur and one for himself. “We’ll wait for Hobbs’ return and try to reconstruct events. Meanwhile, send William for the undertaker. Fetch Kendall, too. If the horse is mad, we’ll put him down. If ‘twas something beyond his control, and he isn’t ailing, we’ll let him be for now.”

  Arthur nodded, then set his glass down and turned to go, clutching his cap to his chest as if to a bleeding wound. His face seemed to have aged a decade. The sight of it only compounded Thorne’s sorrow.

  “Arthur, I would have given Hobbs leave tonight myself. He’s bound to be bone-tired from this chaotic week. So stop blaming yourself.” Thorne’s tone brooked no argument.

  Arthur paused at the door, his voice near breaking. “He was a good boy, was Henry.”

  Thorne swallowed hard. “Yes, that he was.”

  *

  Shortly after midnight, Dylan Smythe carried Henry’s shrouded body to his cart and laid it gently on a blanket. Thorne stepped back as Hobbs placed a hand upon the little form and lowered his head.

  “Go,” Hobbs told the undertaker abruptly, his voice thick, and headed for the stables as Smythe drove the cart away.

  Thorne trekked past the dark hulk of the smokehouse and through Bridey’s herb garden, hoping the scents of lavender and chamomille might soothe his troubled mind. His household had adopted Henry Pitts as readily as Hobbs had, with the exception of Dame Carswell, who’d “no truck with vagabonds and urchins.”

  His heart skipped a beat as he entered the great hall and spotted Elaine Combs alone on a hearthside bench. She rose hastily and curtseyed. Approaching her, Thorne detected traces of dried tears. “You should be abed,” he chided.

  “I’ve kept an ear open,” she said, and he knew she meant for Carswell, which was not what he’d meant at all. “Was the horse mad, M’lord?”

  “No.” He sighed, suddenly wishing for nothing more than to sit down and have Elaine Combs sit beside him. “Kendall found nothing wrong with the poor beast,” he told her, “nor was there anything amiss in the stall area. The gate had to have been open, but no one knows why. Henry might have opened it himself…but again, why?”

  Combs shook her head, looking into the fire. “Mister Hobbs must be inconsolable. Henry was like a son to him.”

  Surprised she could be so magnanimous toward the man who’d used her, Thorne replied a bit gruffly. “More like angry, whether at me—‘twas my horse, after all—or at himself for being away when it happened.” He watched Combs closely, trying without success to gauge the depth of her feelings for his stable master. “There will be a small service tomorrow,” he informed her, though she was bound to know already.

  She thanked him as if it was news to her, then dipped her knee. “Good night, M’lord. May you rest well.”

  “Wait, don’t go yet, Combs.”

  She showed no surprise. She was becoming accustomed to his waylaying tactics, Thorne realized wryly, as he groped for the right words. “Your situation,” he said at last. “Is Dame Carswell still-” He broke off, struggling with the real question, and the sudden shy glow in Combs’ eyes made it imperative for him to avert his own.

  “Aye, M’lord,” she said softly. “My situation is yet in jeopardy.”

  For some reason his heart sank—anxiety about her impending dismissal? Ultimately that was up to him, if he so chose, however unconventional it might be. Envious, then, of Hobbs’ part in her dilemma? Perhaps even jealous?

  Suddenly annoyed with her, himself, and the entire scenario, Thorne said curtly, “Well, good night, Combs,” then turned on his heel and walked away, unwilling to witness yet another damnable curtsey.

  *

  Hobbs stood still as a statue; indeed his face might have been carved from stone.

  As Parson Thomas Carey brought the short service to a close, Thorne signaled Hillary to escort a weeping Bridey ahead of the other servants, before the gravediggers could begin lowering the small coffin into the gaping maw of wet earth. Hobbs himself threw in the first spade full of mud.

  The small horde of sniffling mourners trickled from the manor churchyard, heads bowed under hoods and hats. Thorne kept his tricorne in hand, the cold morning drizzle a blessed distraction from the gnawing in his gut. He still knew no cause for Raven’s attack, and at graveside had silently sworn to find it himself.

  Turning to go, he spotted a wilted posy lying next to his father’s gravestone. Who, he wondered for at least the hundredth time, felt inclined to pay regular tribute to Robert Neville?

  Lagging behind the other servants, Elaine Combs sank her shoe-heel in the mud. Thorne had to resist an urge to bound forward and take her arm. Deliberately slowing his pace, he nonetheless kept a covert eye on her progress.

  When some way up the road she glanced back at the churchyard and stopped to stare, he turned to look as well.

  The gravediggers stood off to the side, hats in hand. Alone on the soaked, matted grass beside the open grave, Hobbs sat with his head bowed over bent knees, his broad shoulders quaking with sobs.

  ELEVEN

  “‘Tis cold and quiet as death,” Gwynneth observed with a shiver. “Why was it built?”

  “Defense, my lady.” Thorne stood at the base of the stone steps that spiraled up the interior wall of the tower keep, his oil lantern casting grotesque shadows of himsel
f, Gwynneth, Townsend and Caroline. They had come through a hidden door in a carved oak-paneled wall of the archive room, which doubled as Arthur’s office. Just beyond the panel door, double doors of studded oak nearly a half-yard thick and hinged by one piece from top to bottom in forged iron had required all of Thorne’s and Townsend’s might before opening with an unearthly groan.

  “It may seem folly now,” Thorne admitted, “but Queen Bess conferred the barony on Thomas Neville for his help in destroying the Armada, and Thomas could not forget how Spain’s army was rumored to have been marching overland to meet the fleet on shore of the Channel.”

  “First the army. Then the Inquisition would have returned for an encore,” Townsend quipped. “And none of us would be here now, what with our ancestors having been killed in the march or burned as heretics.”

  “None but Gwynneth,” Thorne countered, grinning as Townsend winced at the reminder of Gwynneth’s original avocation. “At any rate,” Thorne teased, “a manor lord never knows when the villeins might rise against him, forcing his family into the tower for survival.”

  “Heaven forbid.” Gwynneth shivered again, rubbing her arms.

  Thorne indicated the massive square timber leaning against the wall. “Lifted into those iron brackets by a half-dozen men, that barricade turns this place into a fortress.” He held up the lantern, illuminating a wooden disk in the stone floor, with a thick iron ring in its center. “And this would be our water.”

  “None too fresh, from the smell of it,” Townsend observed.

  They climbed the narrow steps with caution, using handholds cut into the stone. On the second floor, meager light stabbed through small iron-barred windows in three of four separate chambers. There was no sign of use, not even a dried rush on the stone floor. There was only the smell—something besides the stagnant water in the old well below—and the chilly, tomb-like silence.

  The third floor proved the source of the unpleasant odor, as arrow loops cut through the thickness of the wall admitted thin crosses of light, revealing animal droppings in partially slimy but mostly hardened heaps. As the women gasped, Thorne put a finger to his lips and pointed upward.