The Silver Rose

by Jane Feather

  Early in the morning, Ariel’s bedchamber had resembled market day in Cambridge as a stream of visitors inquired after her health. But at last she was left alone when the wedding guests set off for the day’s sport.

  A day of enforced idleness was not appealing, even though Ariel’s physician self told her that it was as wise as it was necessary. She lay back against the pillows waiting for the skittering claws of the hounds in the corridor outside as Doris returned them from their morning’s walk. Doris had taken them herself because Edgar would be out fetching Jenny.

  Ariel sat up abruptly and looked at the clock. It was past eight. Edgar should have been back with Jenny long since.

  The dogs yelped at the closed door even as she thought this. They burst into the chamber as Doris opened the door. “Mercy me, Lady Ariel, they’ve run me off me feet,” she gasped, panting. “’Ere’s Miss Jenny, come to see ’ow y’are.”

  “Thank you for taking the dogs, Doris.” Ariel smiled warmly at the girl. “I was worried about you, Jenny.” She reached out a hand to grasp Jenny’s as the other woman stepped closer. “Surely Edgar didn’t forget to come for you.”

  “Not exactly,” Jenny said evasively, gesturing slightly toward Doris, who could be heard setting the room to rights behind her. “How are you feeling this morning?” She placed a cool hand on Ariel’s brow. “The fever’s broken, then?”

  “Yes, sometime in the night.” Ariel opened her shift so that Jenny could listen to her chest. “I sweated rivers, it was quite disgusting. Poor Simon was constantly having to change the linen.”

  “He proved a good nurse, then?” Jenny inquired in an oddly flat voice.

  “Surprisingly so.” Simon’s dry answer from the door made Jenny jump with a startled little gasp.

  But she recovered quickly, beginning to palpate Ariel’s throat as she responded neutrally, “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Good morning, Jenny. What’s your opinion of the patient?”

  “Better. Is your throat sore, Ariel?”

  “Very.”

  “We should wrap it in hot flannel.” She turned to address Doris. “Run down to the kitchen, Doris, and ask Mistress Gertrude to heat strips of flannel in the bread oven.”

  “Yes, miss.” Doris hustled past the earl, who still stood in the doorway. Doris didn’t notice the rather puzzled frown in his eyes.

  Jenny seemed to be avoiding conversation with him. When he stepped closer to the bed, she jerked sideways, tension rippling through her thin frame. What on earth was the matter with the woman?

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your ministrations,” he said, hearing the shade of awkwardness in his voice. “I’m sure she’s in better hands than mine, Jenny.”

  Jenny didn’t respond, seemed to be concentrating all her attention on taking Ariel’s pulse.

  “Enjoy the stag hunt, my lord,” Ariel said. “I wish I was coming with you.”

  “Well, you can’t,” he stated, bending to kiss her. “You’ll stay in bed wrapped in hot flannel, and I’ll join you for dinner by the fire.”

  When the door had closed behind him, Ariel said swiftly, “What happened with Edgar?”

  Jenny sat on the edge of the bed. “Apparently he drank deep of a powerful mixture of blackstrap last night and overslept.”

  “What do you mean, apparently?” Ariel never missed a trick.

  Jenny bit her Up. “There was more than October ale and apple brandy in the tankard, Ariel.”

  “Oh?” Ariel sat up, an intent look in her widened eyes.

  “Verbenum, certainly, and maybe belladonna. And I could definitely taste celandine.”

  “Oh.” Ariel stared at Jenny. “You’re saying the blackstrap was drugged?”

  Jenny shrugged. “There were only a few drops left. I could be wrong.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” Ariel said flatly. “Where is Edgar now?”

  “Checking on the horses.”

  Ariel felt the dread start from a pinprick somewhere in her chest and expand like a swelling balloon until it seemed to fill the whole cavity of her rib cage. She gazed in silent horror at Jenny’s still figure beside her.

  The two women waited in silence. Waited for what they both knew they were about to hear.

  When Edgar entered the room a few minutes later, his face deathly white, his mouth and nostrils pinched, Ariel forestalled him. “What have we lost?”

  “The mare in foal.” He stood helplessly, wringing his hands. “I can’t believe it ’appened. I can’t believe I could ’ave drunk meself silly, but . . . but I did.” A wail of anguish broke from him and his shoulders hunched. “I’ll leave right away, m’lady. I wish I could do somethin’ to show ’ow sorry I am, but—”

  “There’s no need to flay yourself, Edgar,” Ariel broke in briskly. “It wasn’t your fault. The blackstrap you drank was drugged. Jenny tasted it.”

  “Drugged?” Edgar’s shoulders snapped straight again and his eyes were suddenly wrathful, all anguish, remorse, and guilt banished. “Someone wanted me out of the way.”

  Ariel flung back the bedclothes as if they were stifling her, impeding her thought processes. “Ranulf,” she stated.

  Edgar’s gaze shifted abruptly. He cast a glance to where Jenny now stood beside the bed, her face closed as granite. He cleared his throat. “The tankard, m’lady, it didn’t . . . didn’t come . . .” His voice faded.

  Jenny picked up the thread, her voice cool and resolute. “Edgar told me earlier that the ale had been sent him by the earl of Hawkesmoor.”

  “The lad what brought it, m’lady, said ’is lordship sent it with ’is thanks. I thought because of lookin’ after the roan.” Edgar fell silent again, unable to look at the white face in the bed.

  Simon? Simon had drugged Edgar and then staged a raid on the Arabians? Simon knew she bred them. As an experienced horseman, he would have seen that they were fine specimens. He had a perfect hiding place on his own estates, easily reached by barge along the rivers and drainage cuts crossing the fens. Could he have seen what a gold mine she had in her stables? Had he assumed that a naive young woman wouldn’t realize how lucrative her hobby could be? Had he acted accordingly? Simon? How could it be possible? It wasn’t possible.

  “Which of the lads brought you the ale, Edgar?” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for a wrap lying over the end rail.

  “I didn’t know ’im, ma’am.” Edgar shuffled his feet uncomfortably, staring fixedly out of the window beyond the bed. In his shock and guilt, he had rushed in on Lady Ariel in her bedchamber without giving a thought to the intimacy of the surroundings. The sight of his lady sitting on the edge of the bed in her shift, swinging her bare legs, flooded him with embarrassment.

  “You think he’s not one of ours?” She thrust her arms into the sleeves of the wrapper, unaware of Edgar’s discomfiture.

  “Mebbe, m’lady. Mebbe ’e’s new an’ I ’adn’t seen ’im afore.”

  “Go down to the kitchen and ask around,” Ariel instructed as briskly as before. “Find out who knows him, where he comes from. And then find him. I’m going down to the stables to check on the others.”

  “Right y’are, m’lady.” Edgar went eagerly to the door. “The roan’s doin’ fine this mornin’. Wounds closin’ over nicely an’ she ’ad some bran mash.”

  “Good.” Ariel slipped from the bed and stood up gingerly, assessing her strength with a critical frown. “Go now, Edgar.”

  The man left and Ariel began to pace the bedchamber. “I don’t believe Simon could have stolen the mare.”

  “He had the opportunity,” Jenny pointed out.

  “Yes, but I don’t believe he would do anything so underhanded. It’s much more likely to have been Ranulf. He’s been making inquiries, and Edgar told me he was livid when I shipped the colt out. He must have some inside information and he heard that I had a buyer for the mare.”

  In other circumstances it would have made Jenny smile to hear Ariel championing a Hawkesmoor—
a man whom she would once have believed capable of any despicable act, a man whom a few short days ago she would have cheerfully pitchforked into the pits of hell.

  “Well, whether it was your brother or not, I don’t think you’re going to do yourself or anyone else any good if you go out again in the cold, Ariel,” she said practically.

  “No.” Ariel flopped down in the rocker, drawing the folds of the wrapper tightly around her. “You’re right, I’m not.” She bit a fingernail, tearing it off with a snap. She was going to have to move fast now. Ranulf would not stop at the mare.

  Chapter Seventeen

  RANULF HAD A more than usually self-satisfied air, Simon thought, as the earl of Ravenspeare turned his horse toward the drawbridge and led the hunt clattering out of the castle, over the moat.

  Simon rode up alongside his brother-in-law and offered a comment on the days expectations.

  “We should see good sport if Ralph has done his work,” Ranulf replied. He cast a darkling look at his young brother riding just behind him. The younger man flushed.

  “I can’t be responsible for inept hunters. I’ve instructed the beaters and made sure the woods are well stocked. What more can I do?”

  Ranulf didn’t answer. “Do you intend to go to court when you leave us, Hawkesmoor?” His voice was pleasant, as if he was having the conversation with an amiable acquaintance. “You have the duchess of Marlborough’s patronage, as I understand it.”

  “Sarah and I have a shared interest,” Simon responded. “We’re both deeply concerned for the health and welfare of her husband.”

  “Ah, yes, our valiant John, duke of Marlborough.” Roland’s tone, unlike his brother’s, was caustic. “I’ve heard it said that Queen Anne grows a little impatient with her hero.”

  Simon’s lips tightened for a moment, then relaxed. He smiled and shrugged. “Men of Marlborough’s caliber don’t find it easy to dance to the tunes of a whimsical conductor—monarch or no. But I’ve not yet heard his loyalty questioned.” His voice had the faintest edge to it.

  Roland made some nonchalant answer, not prepared to attack the character of a man known to be among Simon’s closest friends, and regarded as a demigod by the whole country.

  “Do you know anything about a woman called Esther in these parts, Ravenspeare?” Simon addressed Ranulf, his tone still light and conversational. “She would have come here some thirty years ago. Maybe a few more.”

  Ranulf looked surprised. “I was but ten years old.”

  “I just wondered. I’ve a mind to discover her whereabouts, if she’s still alive.”

  Ranulf now looked very interested. “What’s she to you, Hawkesmoor?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. But there seems to be some family mystery about her.” He shrugged again. “I detest mysteries.”

  “She came from Hawkesmoor land to Ravenspeare land?” Roland asked sharply. As usual, of the brothers, he was the quickest to grasp the point.

  “Possibly.”

  “Are you implying that there might be some connection between our two families with this woman?”

  “I know of none,” Simon lied smoothly. “Her name was mentioned in my father’s papers. Not much was said about her, except that she left Hawkesmoor land and it was believed that she had moved to Ravenspeare. I was curious and simply wondered if the name meant anything to you.”

  “Not to me,” Roland declared. He called over his shoulder, “Ralph, d’you know of a woman by the name of Esther living anywhere on Ravenspeare land?”

  Ralph drew up alongside his brothers. His expression was still sullen. “I can’t be expected to know the names of every tenant, let alone the fly-by-nights and vagrants coming through.”

  “No, that’s certainly more in Ariel’s line,” Ranulf observed. “I should ask your wife, Hawkesmoor. If Ariel hasn’t heard of the woman, you may rest assured that she isn’t here . . . buried, maybe, but living . . .?” He shook his head, put spur to his horse, and took after the crying hounds toward a distant copse.

  The rest of the hunt followed suit, and Simon dropped back into the midst of his own cadre. Ariel had never heard of Esther. Edgar had never heard of her. Perhaps Ranulf was right and she was dead. Thirty years was a long time, and the Ravenspeare involvement, if there had been any, would have concerned Ranulf’s father, maybe even his uncles. Whatever had happened, it was now buried. If there had been any reference in the Ravenspeare archives, Ranulf would have known of it. And his ignorance had not been feigned.

  But what had happened to the child? His father’s papers had referred very clearly to Esther’s child, fathered by Geoffrey’s own brother Owen. A child that, on its father’s death, Geoffrey had assumed responsibility for. But Simon couldn’t remember his father ever referring to this unknown cousin. His own mother had never mentioned the child either. Was it a boy or a girl? Not even that simple fact had emerged from Geoffrey Hawkesmoor’s cryptic papers.

  Simon had discovered them only a few months ago, hidden beneath a false bottom of his father’s desk. And that in itself was a puzzle. Why would such an act of family generosity have to be kept hidden, hidden from the world as if for all time? Did it have something to do with the child’s mother? The papers referred obliquely to the woman’s complete disappearance, to Geoffrey’s several attempts to locate her.

  But it was this unknown cousin who fascinated Simon. Why, if his father had assumed responsibility for the child, were there no provisions made in his will for his dependent? If this person still existed, Simon, his father’s sole heir to a considerable estate, felt he owed him or her something. He didn’t know why he should feel this obligation, but he did.

  At the very end of his father’s private papers, there was one reference to Ravenspeare. The only clue Simon had. I can only assume that the devil’s brood have had a hand in her disappearance. It’s not the Ravenspeare way to leave loose ends flapping in the wind, even though, in her present state, she’s no threat to them. But they would have her somewhere under their eye, just in case that changed.

  His own mother he remembered as a pale, shadowy figure. She had spent her days lying on a couch. Everything about her was pile: her hair was so fair it was almost white, her eyes were the palest blue, her skin so thin it was almost translucent. She had worn pale clothes, the flowers in her boudoir had been as near to colorless as flowers could be, and the draperies had wafted in filmy bleached folds. She had been surrounded by hushed voices, hesitant movements, muffled footfalls.

  Although he’d been a small child, he had always felt huge, clumsy, and bright-colored when he’d been taken to her. He had sat on the stool beside her couch, seeing his hands, dirty, ragged, rough, beside his mother’s slender bloodless fingers. His feet in their great clumping boots had embarrassed him. His voice had been too loud, harsh, even when he’d tried to whisper. And she had tired of him so quickly. After a very few minutes, she would wave him away with a faint smile and his nurse would remove him without a word spoken.

  He couldn’t remember feeling much at all when she died. He’d attended the funeral, sitting solemnly beside his father in the carriage, standing at the graveside, throwing earth on the coffin. He remembered the darkness of the house, with the furniture and windows shrouded in black, his father’s black presence, his own unrelieved mourning clothes. But when his father had come out of mourning, everything had changed. There was noise, laughter, company in the house. His father had taken him fishing and hunting. They had dined together whenever the earl was in residence at Hawkesmoor Manor, and his father had seemed a different man. A glowing, smiling, joyous man.

  Until that dreadful day, when Simon was ten years old. That dreadful day when they’d told him that his father was dead. It was several years before he learned the truth of that death. That his father had been having an affair with the wife of the earl of Ravenspeare. That they had been caught in flagrante delicto. That the earl of Ravenspeare had killed both his wife and her lover in cold blood on a snowy London street.r />
  Geoffrey Hawkesmoor had loved Margaret Ravenspeare. And now Geoffrey Hawkesmoor’s son was fairly wed to Margaret Ravenspeare’s daughter.

  He realized he was frowning and noticed that his friends were all regarding him with a mixture of interest and concern.

  “Something bothering you, Simon?” Peter asked.

  Simon laughed, but without much humor. “You mean apart from being forced to accept the hospitality of a loathsome clan who won’t settle for less than my blood?” He shook his head. “Come, let’s join the sport.”

  It was late afternoon when Ariel heard the hunt returning—the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the shouts and bellows of servants and hunters alike as the riders dismounted, handing their horses to the waiting grooms before making their way into the Great Hall, where wine and food awaited them.

  Ariel was sitting in the rocker, the dogs at her feet. Jenny had gone home long since, taken by Edgar after his fruitless search for the mysterious lad who’d brought him the poisoned chalice. The chamber was warm; the lamps threw a soft glow; a pot of fragrant herbs simmered on the trivet in the fire. A decanter of wine and a platter of savory tarts rested on the small table beside Ariel’s chair.

  As she heard the sounds from the court below, Ariel jerked out of her miserable reverie. She unwrapped the hot flannel from around her throat. The treatment had had some good effect. Her voice was less croaky, her throat less sore. But she was still fatigued after the night’s fever and filled with a warm lassitude that dulled even her confusion of misery and anger. But she intended to go downstairs for dinner, so it was time now to throw off the lingering effects of her chill.

  She had decided that she would say nothing to Simon about the mare’s disappearance. Nothing either to Ranulf. She couldn’t afford to give either of them an inkling of how important the horses were for her.

  The dogs pricked up their ears and went to the door a good five minutes before Simon rapped once on the oak and immediately entered. He responded to their ecstatic greeting with a brief pat and a firm, “Down.” When they’d retreated soulfully to their place on the hearth, he turned smiling to greet his wife.