by M C Beaton
The passage led to a narrow black staircase. She put the little bouquet down on the floor, raised the candle high, and searched for the mechanism that would close the door behind her. There was a carved stone dolphin on the inside of the secret door. She pressed and pulled at it until the door behind her grated shut.
Matilda started to make her way gingerly down the stairs. Why had the staircase been built? Had the wife of the third duke taken lovers? On and on it went, down and down, and then she found herself at the foot of the staircase with a long narrow passage stretching out in front of her. She walked and walked, wondering whether she would ever reach the end of it, glad that the place had been built in the last century and not farther back, say, in Tudor times. That might have meant danger from crumbling walls.
Just when she was beginning to wonder whether it would ever come to an end, she came up against a blank wall.
She held the candle up and stood looking at it. The wall was of smooth polished wood. Her eye caught a dark stain on the floor. She bent down and looked at it. Oil. She was sure it was oil. That might mean there was some mechanism that caused a door to open in the wall and that someone had been there recently to oil it.
Matilda began to press various parts of the wall but nothing happened. Her heart sank. The adventure was over. She raised the candle again for a last look and then nearly laughed aloud. At the top of the wall was a metal lever, jutting out. How could she have missed it? She stood on tiptoe and pulled it downward and the whole wall slid open like a door. Ahead of her lay a green tunnel of tall arched bushes and a mossy path. She turned and looked at the outside wall to find some way of shutting the door. But this time there was no carved dolphin, no rose, no lever. Determination to solve the mystery made her calmly start to probe the brickwork. But she could find nothing. Her candle wavered in the green gloom. She blew it out and put it back inside the door and continued her search. Her eye fell on a rusty foot scraper, but the rust, she noticed, lay not on the top, which was shiny and clean, but at the sides. She bent down and tugged it forward like a lever and let out a sigh of pure satisfaction when the door quietly slid closed behind her. Now to see whereabouts in the grounds she was. If she was in view of any of the outdoor servants, there would be no point in proceeding with the adventure.
The tangled path led on and on and then suddenly she found herself in a small glade carpeted with bluebells. To the west of the glade, the trees were thinner and she could see the jutting wing of the rustic, or servants’ quarters. This then must be the wooded section to the far side of the house. She smiled. She was, therefore, well away from either being seen by anyone in the servants’ quarters or the stables. If she continued through the wood, bearing east, she would soon reach the road that led to the town.
She set out walking briskly until she came to the wall of the estate. She nimbly climbed over it and dropped down quietly onto the road on the other side. After a mile she came to a signpost that said HADSBOROUGH, 10 MILES. Matilda groaned but continued doggedly. After about a mile she heard the rumble of wagon wheels. When the wagon came alongside her, she called to the driver, asking him whether he could take her as far as Hadsborough. He stopped and nodded and she climbed up beside him. The wagoner was a slow, incurious man, and they traveled into the market town in companionable silence. Matilda was grateful she had had the foresight to bring money with her and paid him a shilling before alighting in the market square.
She looked around eagerly at the bustling crowds and drew a breath of sheer gladness. Freedom! No one would recognize her, which was one of the advantages of having been kept mewed up at Ramillies.
Matilda wandered around stalls and in and out of shops, looking at the wares until she began to feel hungry. She went to the main posting house and was served with a light meal in the coffee room. She ate well for the first time in months, no longer caring about the long road home.
And then she became conscious of that familiar feeling of being watched. The hair began to rise at the back of her neck. At last she could bear the suspense no longer and swung about in her chair.
The coffee room was deserted save for one tall man, who was standing by the fireplace, surveying her. He was a commanding figure. His eyes were arresting, light green with a black ring around the iris and heavy lidded. He had a powerful, handsome face, lightly tanned, a clever, sensuous mouth, and glossy black hair worn rather long. His coat was exquisitely cut. He approached and made her a low bow.
“Do I have the honor of addressing the Duchess of Hadshire?” he asked. His voice was deep and husky.
“You do, sir,” said Matilda, after a momentary pause in which she had wondered whether or not to lie.
“I saw you once at Lady Bellamy’s autumn ball,” he said. “May I?” One hand indicated the chair opposite.
“Please do,” said Matilda, all the while wishing him in Jericho.
“My name is Torridon,” he said.
Matilda furrowed her brow. Then her face cleared. “Ah, you are the Earl of Torridon,” she said. “What brings you to Hadshire? Your estates are in the north, are they not?”
“I am staying with friends nearby, the Ansteys. I escaped by myself for the afternoon.” He gave a rueful smile. “Country house life can become a trifle dull. And you, Your Grace? What are you doing all alone without husband or maid?”
“I escaped as well,” said Matilda. She leaned forward impulsively. “I fear I must take you into my confidence, my lord. My husband is in Town. I am… well, in short, I am not allowed anywhere even in his absence. The servants watch me, you see. Please do not tell anyone you have seen me or I shall be in sore trouble.”
“My hand on my heart and my solemn promise,” he said, his eyes studying her curiously. There were shadows under her eyes and the eyes themselves held a haunted look.
“Will you not be missed?” he asked.
“I hope not,” said Matilda. “I said I had the headache and wished to be left alone.”
“You have obviously friends among the servants.”
“I have no one loyal to me,” said Matilda quietly. “I have found a way of coming and going unobserved. Oh, you must not speak of this!”
“Did I not give you my solemn promise?”
“You are very kind, sir, but you cannot know what it is to long for freedom. I do not criticize my husband,” Matilda added quickly, “but he is, let us say, very protective.”
The Earl of Torridon’s heavy eyelids drooped as he conjured up a picture of the Duke of Hadshire. A tall man, well enough looking, with large liquid black eyes, a straight nose, and a rather pretty little mouth. As cold as ice, however. It was rumored he treated his wife shamefully. There were other rumors about him, dark rumors and whispers, hinting at cruelty. “I do know what it is to long for freedom,” said the earl quietly. “Did you walk all the way from Ramillies?”
“Not I,” said Matilda. “A wagoner took me up.”
“Then with your permission, I will escort you home. Oh, no! Do not look so. I shall take you to the nearest place convenient for you.”
“Thank you,” said Matilda gratefully. She looked at him shyly. “I am not in the way of conversing with people. I have two very good friends, the Comtesse Saint-Juste and Lady Darkwood, but the only chance I get to see them is during the Season, and…” She bit her lip.
“And provided your husband does not know of it,” he finished for her. Matilda remained silent. She could not criticize her husband to this stranger. Only Annabelle and Emma knew of her hatred for her husband.
“I shall be in London in a few weeks’ time,” he said lightly. “Perhaps we shall meet.”
“I do not know whether my husband plans to go this year or not.” Matilda sighed. “Probably not.”
“Will you take wine with me?” he asked, looking at the jug of lemonade at Matilda’s elbow.
She suddenly felt reckless. They were alone in the coffee room. From outside filtered the noise and bustle of the square. The coffee room was cool
and dark, low-beamed and intimate.
“I should like that very much.”
He leaned back in his chair and shouted, “Landlord!” and when the landlord appeared, ordered a jug of claret.
“So what is so boring about your country house stay?” asked Matilda, sipping her wine.
“I am lost among the ladies,” he said with a rueful laugh. “My host, old Sir James Frobisher, sleeps most of the day and so it is left to me to play the gallant. I am weary of examining watercolors, talking to pug dogs, and listening to endless recitals on the pianoforte. My wife enjoys such things, however.”
A shadow crossed Matilda’s eyes. So he was married. But why not? And why should the fact he was married depress her?
“Will you not be missed by the servants?” he asked, misreading the sad expression on her face.
“No, because… well, because I have told you so much, I may as well tell you all.” She related her morning’s adventures, ending with “I do hope my helper is not discovered.”
“So we are both escaping for a little,” he said. Something of the sadness in her face was suddenly reflected in his own.
“It is like living in a prison,” said Matilda. “It is worse in the country. In Town, there are always parties or balls to go to, other faces to see, faces that do not watch me the whole time. And sometimes we go to the playhouse or to the Italian opera. I like that above all things. I can lose myself in a stage world for a little. I particularly like the plays with happy endings. Life appears to have so few happy endings.” She rested her chin on her hands, her eyes dreamy. “Sometimes I imagine I am the heroine and after a few hours of adventures can live happily ever after.” She shook her head and sighed. “But I am not normally so romantical, My Lord, and try to accept my life as it is.”
She glanced suddenly at the large clock that stood in the corner and let out a stifled exclamation. “I had not realized how quickly the time had flown,” she said.
“Then come along,” he said, rising to his feet. “I will soon have you back at Ramillies.”
He had a smart curricle drawn by matched bays. He dismissed his groom, saying he would pick the man up on his return journey. He made light conversation as they bowled along the deep green tunnels of the winding lanes where the tall hedges arched over the road. But Matilda only answered automatically. She was now in an agony of fear. If the servants had discovered her absence, then she would need to fret and worry for three whole weeks, wondering what the duke would do to her.
At last, she recognized the part of the wall she had climbed over and called to him to stop. He jumped lightly down and tethered the horses to a tree beside the road and held out his hand to her. She took it, feeling the strength of his hand, aware of the concern in his strange green eyes.
“Thank you,” said Matilda. “I must go now.”
He bent and kissed her gloved hand. She curtsied and then turned and climbed over the wall, affording the Earl of Torridon a tantalizing glimpse of neat ankles.
Matilda ran through the woods so fast that by the time she reached the secret passage, she was clutching her side and gasping for breath.
Quickly she operated the mechanism to open the door. She slowed her pace and crept quietly onward and then upward. She had left her candle, but even if she had remembered it, she could not have lighted it, having no tinderbox with her.
When she reached the door that led into her bedchamber, she groped around looking for the mechanism to open it—and then froze.
Voices were coming from the room. She pressed her ear to the door. “There you are, Mr. Budgens,” came Betty’s voice. “Her Grace is asleep, like I said. You’d best lock up the doors again afore she wakes.”
Budgens, the house steward, answered. “I had to check. More than my job’s worth. His Grace won’t allow her no liberty and that’s a fact. Strange ways. But that’s the quality for you.”
Matilda, listening hard, heard their voices retreating and then the sound of the door being locked. Still, she waited, fearing some trick. Then she found the dolphin and opened the door. Her foot struck against the nosegay. She picked it up and looked at it ruefully. She could hardly tell Betty she had picked it, as she was supposed to have been in bed all day. She put the flowers in water and put the little vase with the nosegay back in the passage. Somehow, she had to find out the identity of her helper and warn him or her not to put himself or herself at risk. Then she took the dummy from the bed and dismantled it. She did not think she would find the courage to use the secret passage again.
After half an hour, she dressed for dinner and went slowly down the stairs. She ate in solitary state as usual. Her thoughts turned to the Earl of Torridon. He would no doubt be sitting down with his wife, their hosts, and the other guests. There would be lively conversation and then, after dinner, no doubt music and cards. He was a sympathetic and charming man. His countess was indeed lucky.
“Are we going down for dinner or not?” demanded the Countess of Torridon. “It has been an age since we heard the dressing bell and yet you are sunk there, unchanged, in a brown study.”
“I shall be with you direct,” said the earl wearily.
“I should think so, too,” said the countess, walking angrily up and down. “You go off without a by-your-leave and refuse to tell me where you have been. I am your wife, sirrah, or had you forgot?”
“I am not likely to forget with that voice of yours dinning in my ears from morning till night,” said the earl, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. He looked at her and she stopped and swung round to face him. How beautiful he had once thought her. He had married her five years ago. She had fascinated him with her tempestuous manner, her jet-black hair and flawless skin. But what he had thought to be a passionate temperament had proved to be nothing but bad temper. Added to that, she was barren, which, he thought bitterly, would not have mattered one whit had she not seen fit to nag him to death at every opportunity. He had made his marriage vows and now he was trapped by them. This visit to the Ansteys had been an attempt by him to see if the marriage could be repaired. But she had ruined things from the start by cleverly goading him in company so that he answered her sharply and then she would look pathetically around the other members of the company as if to say “See how he treats me?”
“You do not care a fig for me,” railed the countess, coming to stand over him.
He looked up at her and said quietly, “God, how you weary me.”
She spat full in his face. He jumped to his feet and slapped her, not hard for his hand stayed its force just before the impact. She sank to her knees, crying hysterically.
The earl clutched his head and then rang the bell. He told a footman to fetch the countess’s maid and then waited, numb to the weeping figure of his wife. When the maid arrived he told her to take her mistress to her own apartments.
He felt guilty. He had never struck any woman before. He sometimes thought she would drive him mad. He decided that as soon as the visit was over, he would go back to his estates in Scotland. If she wished to stay in London, then she could do so on her own. At least at home he did not see much of her, for he was able to sink himself into the agricultural work on his estates. He thought briefly of the Duchess of Hadshire. He had liked her direct and frank way of speaking. Hadshire was an odd stick, but surely no marriage was the hell that his own had become.
The earl summoned his valet, dressed quickly, and went downstairs to join the Ansteys and their other guests for dinner. The ladies were clustered around the countess when he entered, and they all looked at him with horror and reproach. What appeared to be an ugly bruise marked his wife’s cheek. His guilt fled and his anger rose again. He dipped a napkin in a water jug and approached his wife. Holding her firmly by one shoulder, he scrubbed at the “bruise.” Ink came away, staining the whiteness of the napkin. He threw aside the soiled napkin and smiled down at his wife, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Shall we go in to dinner, my dear?” said the Earl of Torridon.
&n
bsp; Chapter Two
Matilda was frightened to use the secret passage again. She worried and fretted that one of the servants might have seen her in Hadsborough. No more little nosegays of flowers appeared and once more she felt friendless, despised, and constantly watched. She had given up looking forward to the morning post for a letter from either Annabelle or Emma. They never wrote and she could only wonder that they had forgotten her so quickly, now that both were happily married.
The servants were busy with preparations for the ball. The state apartments on the first floor were to be used, the huge Yellow Saloon for the ball itself and the adjoining rooms for supper and cards. She had no say in anything, from choosing the supper menu to the hiring of the orchestra. The efficient house steward, Budgens, saw to all that.
The duke’s return approached at great speed, the days flying by. The weather had been dull and wet, and Matilda’s spirits seemed to match it. Her very appearance became as dull and colorless as the weather.
On the day before the duke was due to return, she was passing the secretary’s little study. The secretary, Mr. Curtis, was absent. She drifted into his room and looked idly down at the desk, which was stacked high with estate account books. But there neatly in the middle of the blotter was a list of the guests invited to the ball, a neat tick against the names of those who had accepted. A number of the neighboring county were listed. Either the duke had become less high in the instep in inviting his hitherto despised neighbors or the secretary had been at a loss as to how to make up the numbers. She glanced down the list and then her gaze stopped at the item, “Sir James and Lady Frobisher and party.” Sir James was the Earl of Torridon’s host. She remembered the intelligence of the earl’s green eyes and the elegance of his figure.
Matilda heard a footstep in the passage and nimbly left the room like a guilty child, although she had every right to be there. Perhaps he might come, thought Matilda. But his wife would be with him. Still, they shared a secret, and now she came to think of it, he, too, had seemed unhappy. She went back to her bedchamber and sat down in front of the toilet table. The weather had abruptly changed and was sunny and warm. A shaft of sunlight struck across her face, showing her the greasiness of her once-beautiful hair and the grayness of her skin. She felt dirty and gritty. Then she remembered there was a pool in the woods, in that little-used part of the gardens. She looked longingly toward the fireplace. If only she could risk using that passage again. Surely the servants were too busy with all the preparations. Even Betty had not put in her usual silent appearance.
