‘If he’s an evil man, then perhaps his lordship has a right to be worried,’ reasoned Betsy.
‘But the passage of time should diminish the threat, not make it worse. If Farquharson were here, we would have known of it by now. No one can arrive in the village, or leave for that matter, without one of Lord Tregellas’s men reporting it back to him. I’m worried about him, Betsy,’ confessed Madeline. ‘He thinks of nothing but Farquharson. I believe it’s an unhealthy obsession, something that has grown out of all proportion. Perhaps the threat from Farquharson is not what he would have me believe. Perhaps it never was,’ she said quietly.
‘Stands to reason, though,’ said the maid, ‘that he’s likely to be a bit overreacting about such things, given what happened.’
‘What do you mean?’ Did Betsy know that she had jilted Farquharson to elope with Lucien? And if Farquharson was of a mind to call Lucien out, he would have done so before they left London. He had told her Farquharson had killed a woman, but it wasn’t Farquharson that London whispered was a murderer. For the first time Madeline began to doubt the truth of what Lucien had told her. She had married him on the basis of his assertion that she was at risk from Farquharson, that and her own instinct that there was something intrinsically rotten about the Baron. Looking back, she began to see that she had been blindly trusting of a man that she had not known at all. And now that she knew him, had come to care for him…His behaviour towards Farquharson smacked of something more, something dark and obsessive. Madeline shivered, and waited for the maid’s answer.
‘What happened with his betrothed, all them years ago.’
Foreboding prickled across Madeline’s scalp. ‘His betrothed?’ she whispered.
Betsy looked up and blushed beetroot. ‘’Cept we’re not supposed to talk about that, m’lady.’
‘Betsy?’
But Betsy had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment with Mrs Babcock and was off and away before Madeline could say another word.
Madeline rubbed her arms against the sudden cold that chilled her. She thought she had come to know her husband, to learn something of his childhood, of his life before he had met her. Now she realised that she knew nothing at all, save for a queer, hollow dread that had opened within her heart.
Chapter Ten
The letter arrived at midday while Lucien was still out on the estate. The writing comprised spiky narrow letters that were vaguely familiar. Something tickled in her memory, lurking just beyond recall. Faint unease shimmied down Madeline’s spine.
‘Somethin’ the matter, doe?’ enquired Mrs Babcock, topping up Madeline’s cup with tea.
Madeline shook her head. ‘No, nothing at all. What kind of soup did you say?’
‘Mock turtle, and as well as that George brought in a lovely brace of partridges fresh this morning.’
‘That sounds fine, Babbie.’ The seal broke easily beneath her fingers and she opened the letter. A glance over the first line, then her eyes leapt down to the signature and she quickly closed the piece of paper back over and tucked it beneath her leg.
‘You sure you ain’t sickenin’? You’re lookin’ a touch pale, m’lady.’ Mrs Babcock stared with concern as the blood drained from Madeline’s cheeks, leaving her ghost white.
‘No, no,’ gasped Madeline. ‘Just a little light-headed, that’s all. It will pass. I’m fine.’
‘Light-headed?’ Babbie said, her blackcurrant eyes growing rounder by the minute. ‘Can’t be due to lack of food. You’ve developed a right healthy appetite since you come here. I remember when you first arrived, picked at your food like a little sparrow, you did. Not good for a body, that is. Got a bit more meat on you now, I’m glad to say.’ Babbie’s brain weighed up the evidence, feeling faint, increased appetite, weight gain, and a new closeness between the master and mistress…and reached quite the wrong conclusion.
‘Yes,’ said Madeline rather weakly. ‘I think I might just go and lie down for a little. Will you manage the rest of the dinner arrangements?’
‘Course I will, doe,’ replied Mrs Babcock, beaming. ‘You got to get your rest, m’lady. Don’t want you takin’ too much out of yourself. I’ll leave the scones and tea here in case you want to finish them later. Got to keep your strength up.’
Madeline waited for the housekeeper to leave and wondered why Mrs Babcock seemed so pleased. She didn’t ponder the problem for long. As soon as the door shut the letter was hauled from its hiding place and, with a dry mouth, she began to read each and every one of the words penned upon it, hearing once again that cruel voice that Trethevyn had made her forget. For the sender of the letter was none other than Cyril Farquharson.
London
April 1814
My dearest Madeline
I hope that this letter finds you in good health, and that Tregellas has not yet subjected you to the worst of his nature. I write to tell you that I bear you no malice for marrying that scoundrel—indeed, the blame lies entirely upon his head. For what choice had you in the matter, my love?
I strike my breast and deliver myself a thrashing when I think how you misinterpreted my eagerness for our union. Forgive my cruel words that I last threw at you, I was overwrought. I love you, Madeline. I have loved you from the first minute that I saw you. But I should have realised that my very great consideration for you would overwhelm such a fragile flower as yourself. I beg your forgiveness, most humbly, if I ever acted as anything but a gentleman. You should know that I have ever held you in the highest regard, and I truly regret if I let my passion frighten you. It was my dream to make you my wife and care for you in the manner you deserve. Alas, Tregellas has destroyed all of my hopes.
I wish you well, Madeline, but my conscience could not sit easy if I did not at least try to warn you of Tregellas’s true nature. I am afraid that there is, indeed, substance behind his reputation as the Wicked Earl. Although I do not wish to increase your hurt any more than it is already, as a Christian gentleman it is my duty to tell you the truth of what lies behind your forced abduction and marriage.
Many years ago, as a young and impetuous man, I met a young lady who captured my heart. She was sweet and good in much the same way as you, my dear Madeline. We fell in love and wished for nothing other than to be married. But the lady was betrothed to Tregellas and he would not release her from their contract. For the sake of our love we had no other choice than to elope. Perhaps it was wrong of me to return her love when she was promised to another, but I cannot be ashamed of something so pure. Tregellas was like the devil with rage. He came after my sweet wife, and…pen and ink tremble at the words I know I must write…killed her.
Forgive me, Madeline, for breaking such a harsh and horrible truth to you. I can do nothing else but warn you of his terrible evil. From that day until this, he has stalked me, desiring nothing more than my death. He hates me with the haunting compulsion of the insane. You must realise by now that he cares nothing for you, and, indeed, that he wed you in an act of selfish revenge. I do not know the extent of the lies he has told you, but I truly fear for your safety, Madeline. Should you need my help at any time, you have but to send me a message and I will come. I did not think to love again in this life, but God blessed me with you. I could not stand to live if Tregellas were to kill you, too, my darling. I pray with all my heart that you will be safe from danger.
Ever your servant,
Cyril Farquharson
Madeline read the letter, and reread it, until the words blurred upon the page. His love, his darling? Never. She remembered the biting grip of his fingers bruising against her skin, the hardness of his mouth as it sought hers. One close of her eyes and she could see the cruel promise in his face. She shuddered and set the letter down upon her desk. Yet time and again as she sat there her eyes drifted back to catch at the page. He wrote of a woman who had been betrothed to Lucien. Betsy had let slip those same words. Lucien’s betrothed. Her stomach knotted at the very thought. He came after my sweet wife, and…killed her. The
words stood out boldly on the paper before her. It was not possible. Not Lucien. Not when he had only ever treated her with kindness and care. That, at least, could not be denied. He might not desire her, he most definitely did not love her, but Madeline knew in her heart of hearts that Lucien would never hurt her. From the first time she had looked into those intriguing pale eyes, she had trusted him and felt safe. Surely her instinct could not be so wrong?
But Farquharson was right in certain aspects: Lucien’s increasingly obsessive behaviour; Lucien’s hatred of Farquharson, so intense as to be almost palpable. Could Farquharson be right about the others? Her teeth gripped hard at her lip, contemplating what she had learned. She wondered what truth lay behind Cyril Farquharson’s letter. Had Lucien wed her solely for revenge? Was he guilty of Farquharson’s accusation? Or was it Farquharson who had murdered the woman, as Lucien had claimed that night so long ago in London? Madeline’s head whirled dizzy with the thoughts. Cold fingers touched again and again to the letter before, at last, she folded it up and placed it carefully in the bottom drawer of her bureau, beneath a pile of fresh writing sheets. She rose to stand before the window in her bedchamber.
Farquharson made her flesh crawl. Lucien engendered different emotions altogether in her breast. For all the dark mystery that had surrounded Earl Tregellas, that still surrounded the man she called her husband, she trusted him over Cyril Farquharson. From what she knew of Farquharson, it was likely that he had fabricated the entirety of the story. Lucien might have been betrothed once upon a time, in the past. It was hardly a fitting subject to raise with his new wife. Little wonder he had not spoken of it. There would be no link between Farquharson and the woman promised to marry Lucien. And as for Lucien killing anyone…well, the whole idea was just preposterous.
Madeline lifted her face to the sun, letting the brightness of its rays through the pane glass warm her and banish the dark suspicions from her mind. Cyril Farquharson might think to fool her, but Madeline refused to be so easily hoodwinked. She would not let her worries over Lucien’s behaviour add substance to Farquharson’s lies. She thought once more on how increasingly bedevilled her husband was becoming with Farquharson. The letter would only make things worse.
A wood pigeon soared high in the sky, heading for the trees at the far end of the drive. Madeline watched the hurried beat of its wings and felt the freedom that surrounded its flight. In the clarity of the moment she knew what she should do. Lucien had tried to protect her. Now it was her turn to protect him. Whatever reason lay behind Cyril Farquharson’s torment of her husband, Madeline meant to see that it would go no further. She lifted the pen and opened the lid of the inkpot. By the time she was finished, Lord Farquharson would be under no illusion as to where her allegiance lay.
It was early the next morning when Madeline received the news that Mary Woodford was unwell. She ceased her rummaging amidst the linen cupboard and scanned the hurriedly scrawled note pleading that she attend Mrs Woodford at the parsonage.
Madeline nipped at her lip and pondered the problem. It was clear that she should visit Mrs Woodford to offer what help she might. But Lucien had left at dawn to travel to Tavistock and would not return to Trethevyn until late. And since her visit to Mrs Porter, Lucien had ensured that she did not leave the house unless he accompanied her. What to do? Madeline worried some more at her lip, concern about the kindly parson’s wife snagging at her conscience. Mary Woodford was a friend. The woman would not plead for help without good reason. Surely Lucien would understand why she could not just sit here uselessly while heaven only knew what Mary Woodford was going through. If she were to be accompanied by one of the grooms, as well as Betsy, and have Mr Boyce to drive the carriage, and they were to carry a cudgel with them…He could not be angry that she had taken no precautions against danger. Besides, he need never know that she had gone. She would be back well before him.
‘The linen can wait. Mrs Woodford is unwell and has asked that I visit her. We must make ready.’ Madeline replaced the bedsheet back upon the neatly folded pile on the shelf closest to her within the press. ‘And, Betsy—’ she delivered her maid a worried look ‘—ask John Hayley to accompany us and to bring a large cudgel with him.’
‘J-John Hayley?’ stuttered a suddenly rather pink-cheeked Betsy.
‘Yes, the groom with the blond, curly hair, arms like a cooper, looks like he’s made of solid muscle, bright blue eyes.’
Betsy’s face flushed a deeper hue. ‘Why ever should he accompany us, m’lady?’ Her hands plucked at her apron in a decidedly flustered manner.
‘As our guard,’ answered Madeline, gaining an inkling as to the reason for her maid’s rosy complexion. ‘Do you know him at all?’ she asked rather wickedly.
‘A little,’ admitted Betsy with an averted gaze.
Madeline tried hard to keep a straight face. Only the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘Then this will be a good opportunity for you to get to know him better. He looks very strong, does he not?’
‘Yes, m’lady, quite strong indeed.’
‘And I suppose that some ladies might even describe him as handsome.’
‘Very handsome,’ agreed Betsy.
‘Well, then, it’s settled. You run down and ask Mr Boyce and John Hayley to make ready in, say, half an hour. I will speak to Babbie. That sounds like a good plan, does it not?’
Betsy grinned. ‘Yes, m’lady, a fine plan.’
The two women laughed together before setting off downstairs to make the necessary preparations for their journey.
Four hours later neither Madeline nor Betsy were laughing. They stood by the side of a muddy road, a fine drizzle soaking through their clothes and ruining their bonnets. Mr Boyce and John Hayley were hunkered down examining the axle of the carriage, scratching at their heads. One large wheel lay forlornly in the middle of the road. A sea of mist had gathered on the horizon and was creeping closer towards the little group.
‘Well, at least Mrs Woodford is feeling better. Dr Moffat said that the baby is fine. She’s to rest for the remainder of the week. Poor little Sally does not know what to make of her mama tucked up in bed.’
But Betsy had other things than the parson’s wife on her mind. She gave a shiver. ‘They say the ghost of Harry Staunton haunts this moor, puttin’ the fear of death into any wayfarin’ travellers who he happens to chance upon.’
‘Who was Harry Staunton?’
‘A ruffian and a highwayman. Hundred years ago they hanged him, they did, and when they cut him down and placed him in his grave he was still breathin’. But they buried him anyway…alive, and he’s haunted the moor ever since. A wanderin’ soul, robbin’ and terrorisin’ them he meets on the moor, him and his great black stallion, appearin’ out of the mist and disappearin’ just as easily again.’ Betsy wiped a hand across her runny nose, then rubbed at her eyes. ‘Oh, m’lady, what are we to do? Harry Staunton’s out there, I knows it.’
‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Betsy. It’s just a story told to frighten people. Even if this Harry Staunton was ever a real person, he’s dead and buried, not haunting Bodmin Moor.’ Madeline placed a comforting arm around the maid’s shoulder. ‘You’re just tired and cold and wet. Things will seem much better when we get back to Trethevyn.’ She pulled a clean pressed square of white linen from her reticule and placed it into Betsy’s hand. ‘Here, take my spare handkerchief.’
Betsy sniffed. ‘Oh no, m’lady, I shouldn’t.’
‘Of course you must,’ insisted Madeline before turning to Mr Boyle. ‘How fares the repair, Mr Boyle? Will it take much longer?’
The elderly retainer scratched at his head. ‘Not lookin’ too good, m’lady. Need some tools to sort this. Young Hayley could run back to fetch ’em and bring the coach back out to collect you. But that’ll take some time, and I don’t like the look of that mist. Ain’t too much shelter on the moor neither. Master won’t be best pleased when he finds out ’bout this.’
Guilt twinge
d at Madeline. It was her fault, not the servants. She didn’t want them getting into trouble. Especially when Lucien had forbidden her to leave the house without him. ‘Lord Tregellas need not know of our trip. Could not the wheel be repaired this afternoon before he returns?’
With a great deal of effort, and some help from John Hayley, Mr Boyle clambered to his feet. He wiped the dirt from his hands down his breeches and gave her a look that was enough to make Madeline shrink with shame. ‘Are you askin’ me to lie to his lordship?’
She felt her face colour with embarrassment. ‘No. I just thought…I was thinking that, perhaps—’ The muffled drum of horses’ hooves in the distance stopped her.
The fine bays still attached to the carriage pricked up their ears and whinnied.
Betsy gave a shriek. ‘It’s him, m’lady. Harry Staunton and his black devil horse. God help us all!’
Mr Boyle armed himself with an ancient blunderbuss and John Hayley grabbed the cudgel from the interior of the carriage. ‘Stand behind us, quickly, m’lady, Betsy,’ ordered Mr Boyle, his gnarled old hands aiming the gun at the bank of thick white mist into which the road disappeared.
Betsy started to sob.
‘Come along, Betsy,’ Madeline urged. ‘There’s no need to cry. It’s just another traveller. Perhaps they will be able to help us.’ She did not miss the look that passed between the two men.
Betsy whimpered even louder.
Madeline tried again. ‘Mr Boyle and John will protect us.’
Betsy’s whimper turned to a wail.
Madeline patted at the tearful maid’s shoulder, then wrapped an arm around her, to no effect. ‘Hush now, Betsy.’
Lucien Tregellas Page 16
