Diamond Dreams

by Sandra Heath

  “Oh, yes, and I will accompany them, because they will not be afraid if I am with them.”

  “From all of which I take it there has been further word from Lord Griffin?”

  “No, miss,” Gwilym replied, “nothing in weeks now, not since the letter with the bit at the end about the Russian emperor inviting his lordship to his palace.” He smiled. “I just know what is to be, Miss Ellie. The czar will want a mare and a colt, and I have decided that it will be these two.”

  “When you say you know, you mean ... ?”

  He tapped his head. “I know in here, miss.”

  “No one has told you?”

  He shook his head. “No, miss.”

  “Oh.” Ellie didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth; after all, he had power over horses, clocks, and doors, and he certainly managed to prevent the accident at the wharf. So why shouldn’t he know what was going on in St. Petersburg as well?

  Gwilym looked intently at her. “But there are things that are hidden from me, miss, important things with which I cannot help you.”

  She returned his gaze, finding him almost hypnotic. Sound became deadened, and it was as if the breeze checked, remained still, and then flowed again. Unsettled, she shifted a little on the sidesaddle. “I ... I think I may be going to Russia soon too.”

  “You will, Miss Ellie?”

  She nodded. “Nothing is certain, of course, but I am hoping that when my uncle goes there, he will take me too.”

  Gwilym looked at her, as if reading words written across her face. “You will go, Miss Ellie,” he said quietly.

  “You can see my future?”

  “I can see that you will cross seas, and ...”

  “Yes?”

  “That you will hold a diamond in your hand, a diamond as red as blood.”

  She stared at him. “But diamonds aren’t red—” she began, then broke off as she remembered what she’d read in the newspaper at the Crown Inn, just before those fateful deviled kidneys had plummeted into her lap. What was it now? Something about a famous red diamond going on display at the Tower before being incorporated into a new Sword of Concord for the royal regalia?

  Gwilym glanced up at the lowering skies. “You’d best go into the church, Miss Ellie, for the first raindrops are about to leave the clouds. Take Tomos around to the shelter at the back, for he is old and his fetlocks give him pain if he gets too wet.”

  Then, almost as if he had waved a wand, it did indeed begin to rain again. Ellie didn’t question what he said about Tomos, but led the cob through the gate. Gwilym’s voice followed her. “Be on your guard, Miss Ellie. Be on your guard.”

  She took Tomos behind the ancient weather-beaten stone church, with its squat tower. It seemed to hug the mountain, determined to not only stand the test of time, but defy the worst of the fierce winds that often shrieked over the mountains from the sea, eight miles away. Snug between the church wall and the rise of the mountain was a sheltered spot where gnarled holly trees and overgrown ivy provided a little retreat.

  After making sure Tomos was secure and comfortable, she hurried around to the front of the church again. She glanced toward the gate before entering the porch, but of Gwilym and the horses there was now no sign.

  It was unexpectedly light in the church, because the rough walls were mostly whitewashed, although there were some exposed facings. A single bell was all that was to be found in the belfry, and its rope was dangled beyond an arch at the foot of the tower. The stone-flagged aisle was lined with dark oak pews, a low arched doorway gave into the tiny vestry, and there was a beautiful barrel-shaped wooden ceiling in the sanctuary, where a beautifully worked altar cloth of exquisite colors set off a handsome display of simple but very old plate. Slender white candles stood sentinel, and a board on the wall announced the numbers of the hymns sung at the last service. Or perhaps it was the hymns for the next service. Ellie could not really have said.

  Rain now drummed heavily on the slate roof, which was exposed above aged oak rafters, and gusts of wind buffeted the church as a sudden squall swept across the mountain. Ellie glanced all around, but saw nothing she would not have expected to find in a church, certainly nothing to indicate Fleur’s purpose in coming here so often and staying so long. Nor was there anything to suggest what it was that Gwilym said was to be found here.

  Amid the racket of the squall it suddenly seemed to her that she could hear coughing and the shuffling of feet, as if a congregation were present. And there was the scent of flowers. She looked toward the altar again, and seemed to see the misty figures of a bridal couple.

  Then the groom’s voice—Athan’s voice: ... to be my lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part...

  Tears pricked Ellie’s eyes, so distracting her that she didn’t hear another horse outside by the gate. It wasn’t until hurrying footsteps echoed beneath the porch that she knew she was no longer alone. Dismay followed swiftly as a figure in a red riding habit ran into the church. Fleur was the last person she’d expected to see, because the almost daily visit to the church had taken place that morning. It seemed a second visit was required today.

  Fleur was caught unawares. Seeing a movement near the altar, she turned, her eyes bright, an eager smile leaping to her lips, but her expression froze like ice when she realized it was only Ellie. She took a moment or so to recover, then gave a short laugh. “Well, well, if it isn’t the china maker’s niece.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Ellie replied.

  “Disappoint me?”

  “Well, it’s clear you expected to find someone else here.” Ellie was pleased to note that her foe’s clothes were rather wet, her riding boots mud-spattered from dismounting by the well, and that her beautiful red ringlet had so lost its gloss and curl as to resemble a horse’s tail.

  A light passed through Fleur’s lovely green eyes. “Someone else? Indeed not, for who on earth would I hope to find here? St. Dwynwen herself?”

  “Well, certainly not the ghost of the first Lady Griffin,” Ellie ventured, surprised at her own boldness, not having realized the taunt was on the tip of her tongue.

  “Well, at least you are no longer playing the innocent.” Fleur looked past Ellie toward the sanctuary, at least, that was what Ellie thought. The feeling was so strong that Ellie even turned, half expecting to see someone else there, but there was no one.

  She looked at Fleur again. “I honestly didn’t know of my resemblance to Lady Griffin when last I spoke to you.”

  “My dear Miss Rutherford, I imagine that you and honesty are strangers.”

  Ellie laughed in disbelief. “Oh, come now, Miss Tudor, for it is to you that honesty is unknown. Lord Griffin is far away in Russia, yet here you are, quite clearly engaged upon a tryst of some sort. Oh, don’t try to deny it, for I’ve seen you coming up here almost every day. Now, if I were asked to guess your purpose, I’d have to say I thought you were involved in a clandestine liaison of some sort.”

  Fleur’s face had now gone very pale. “And you would be wrong, Miss Rutherford.”

  “Would I?”

  Time hung, and the squall raged across the mountainside outside, howling around the church tower, and blustering in through the porch, scattering a few leaves that had survived from the autumn. Ellie quelled a shiver, determined not to display any sign of weakness as Fleur advanced a step or two.

  “Yes, Miss Rutherford, you would be wrong. Oh, dear, did you think you had discovered a weapon to use against me? Well, think again. Whatever my purpose in coming here, you cannot prove anything. It’s your word against mine, and no matter how like his beloved Caroline you may be, he will stand by me. Why? Because he has asked me to be his wife, and he is the sort of man who will stand by his word, no matter what. You will need proof of my wrongdoing, my dear, and that is something you cannot possibly have, because I am innocent.”

&n
bsp; “I notice that you do not mention love,” Ellie said then.

  “Love is for fools, for it blights common sense and drains ambition. But do not make the mistake of imagining that because I do not love him, he does not love me. He did not propose to me simply out of duty and honor, but because he loves and desires me too. Oh, yes, it’s true, and I can see in your eyes that the news sorely disappoints you.”

  Ellie thought back to the garden of the Crown Inn. How could he love Fleur if he was so strongly diverted by a face that reminded him of the wife he’d lost? The kiss she, Ellie Rutherford, had shared with him that momentous day had been something utterly wonderful, something so fine and rare that Fleur’s claims of possessing his love seemed empty.

  Ellie’s silence made Fleur less sure of herself, and she tried a different tack, “Why are you here?”

  “I’m sheltering from the rain.”

  Fleur met her gaze, then glanced toward the sanctuary again, before giving another of her supercilious smiles. “How are the family pots coming along?”

  Ellie was stung by the disparaging comment, but dissembled with a screen of bland civility. “They are coming along very well indeed,” she replied.

  “So Mr. Bailey now has ... two sound plates to daub successfully in lieu of rent to Lord Griffin?”

  “I did not realize it was for you to worry over his lordship’s accounts, Miss Tudor.”

  “Oh, it’s for me to worry about everything, my dear. Certainly I worry about your welfare.”

  “I’m honored.”

  Fleur’s responding smile was the thinnest imaginable. “Don’t be, for your gratitude is ill placed. Unless, of course, you wish to thank me for discovering a way in which you may spare your uncle.”

  “And what way might that be?” Ellie asked, sensing the other’s eagerness to impart unwelcome news.

  “Why, your departure for pastures new, of course.”

  “If Lord Griffin wishes me to go, then I will, but I will not move an inch simply because you wish me to, Miss Tudor. You may indeed be on the point of becoming mistress of Castle Griffin, but you have yet to wear a wedding ring. I prefer to wait and see what happens.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Fleur breathed.

  “You do not appear to have much confidence in your hold upon his lordship,” Ellie murmured.

  “Oh, I have confidence, Miss Rutherford, certainly enough to know that your uncle will be turned out of Nantgarth House the moment Lord Griffin returns. I was going to call upon you on my way back to the castle, but this chance meeting saves me the bother. You see, I have already spoken to his agent, voicing my considerable doubts about John Bailey’s character and the nature of his relationship with his so-called niece.”

  Ellie gave a shocked intake of breath. “That’s a monstrous suggestion, absolutely monstrous!” she cried, her hands clenching into fists as she struggled against the urge to fly at her foe.

  “Monstrous? I thought it was rather convincing. Anyway, a letter will be dispatched to St. Petersburg today, requesting immediate permission to commence proceedings. Of course,” Fleur went on, strolling down the aisle and passing black-gloved fingers from pew to pew, “the letter need not be sent at all if you give me your word you will leave.”

  “And where do you suggest I go? Apart from perdition, that is.”

  “It has come to my notice that the Lady Brecon is seeking a governess for her sons, who are at present residing on the family estate in North Wales. You are more than suitable for the post, Miss Rutherford, and I wish you to apply for it forthwith.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “You have until seven o’clock this evening to decide. If I have not heard from you by then, a courier will take the letter to Cardiff to be sent immediately to St. Petersburg. It will take six weeks at the very least to arrive in Russia, and the same for his lordship’s answer to return, but you may be sure that your uncle’s days at Nantgarth are numbered.”

  The rain stopped, and the squall died away at the same time, leaving the church quiet except for a light breeze that was sufficient to swirl the dry leaves a last time over the church floor. A shaft of watery sunlight filtered through the thick medieval glass of the lead-latticed windows.

  Fleur held Ellie’s gaze. “I suggest you go back to Nantgarth House now, Miss Rutherford.”

  “I’m not in any hurry,” Ellie replied, sensing the other wanted her out of the way in order to do something, and seeing how yet again Fleur’s eyes went in the direction of the sanctuary.

  “Go!” Fleur ordered imperiously.

  Ellie folded her arms and held her ground. “No,” she replied. She had nothing to lose by antagonizing this odious creature, who intended to do her worst no matter what.

  Fleur wasn’t accustomed to being defied and didn’t quite know what to do because she’d expected the despicable threats to cow Ellie into helpless tears. Instead, there were anger and barefaced defiance, with the added suggestion that the china maker’s niece had spirit enough to physically strike her enemy.

  Discretion therefore had the better part of Fleur’s valor. “Very well, I will leave, for I do not wish to remain in your company for any longer than is necessary. Just be sure to send word to me before seven,” she said, and turned on her heel to march out.

  Ellie waited a few moments, then went to the porch to watch as the figure in red rode angrily away along the track to Nantgarth. Seeming to touch the ground where Fleur rode, a washy, indistinct rainbow arched the mountain. Fleur’s figure shimmered, then disappeared beyond the haze of color. How good it would be if the awful creature really did vanish like that, Ellie thought as she made her way back down the aisle to the low-roofed sanctuary.

  Gwilym had said there was something to be found in the church, and Fleur’s manner suggested the sanctuary was the wisest place to start looking. But what for? Ellie began to look as thoroughly as she could, while at the same time showing due respect, for it was hardly proper to scavenge around an altar. She had all but given up when she saw a tip of folded paper protruding behind the lower edge of the curved wooden ceiling, which came low enough to be within reach of her fingertips if she stood on tiptoe.

  Originally it must have been tucked well out of sight, and had slipped slightly, but as she stretched up to try to pull it free, she heard fresh steps approaching outside. Too heavy to be Fleur’s, they must belong to a man.

  Alarmed that it might be the person Fleur had hoped to meet, Ellie abandoned the attempt to take the paper and instead cast swiftly around for somewhere to hide. The only place she had time to reach was the altar itself, and she flung herself on the floor behind it just as the steps entered the church. She heard spurs on the stone floor, then the slither of a waterproofed cloak being flung back over shoulders.

  “Fleur?” he called, but only an echo answered, and to Ellie’s unutterable dismay he began to walk down the aisle. She pressed so low to the floor that if she could have melted into the stone she would. Please don’t let him see her! Please! He reached the sanctuary, and the sound of his steps changed as he trod on the square of dark blue carpet that had been laid there. As Ellie held her breath and lay motionless, from the corner of her eye she saw his spurred boots as he paused and looked up at the wooden ceiling exactly where the paper was hidden.

  His back was toward her as he reached up, his height making it a simple matter to pull it from its place of concealment. Ellie dared to turn her head to try to see him properly. His back was toward her, but she could see that he was not old, and that he had dark blond hair, cut very short and worn in tight curls against his head. There was something familiar about him, and as he turned, at last she saw why: It was Freddie Forrester-Phipps!

  She didn’t know whether to be shocked or not to gaze again upon the pale profile and light blue eyes of Athan’s “school torment.” After all, on hearing of the rumors about Fleur’s Season, Freddie’s was the first name that had leapt to mind. She watched as he unfolded the note and read whate
ver it said, then refolded it and placed it very carefully in his breast pocket, making certain that nothing unsightly spoiled the lie of the costly material. His Corinthian attire had been well protected by the heavy waterproof cloak that he’d flung back on entering. The only blot on his appearance was a little muddy rain upon his gleaming boots, but even that seemed loath to be there.

  He wasn’t smiling today, and she noted that, as she’d thought at the bank, he really was rather reptilian. If Fleur really was seeing him behind Athan’s back, and there seemed every reason to suspect she was, then Ellie thought her completely and utterly mad. How could any woman be so taken in by this man’s false smiles and sly eyes that she was prepared to risk losing everything?

  Freddie didn’t delay, but strode out of the church again, and Ellie got slowly to her feet as she heard him loudly urging his horse away from the churchyard gate in the direction of Pontypridd. Gwilym had promised her there was something to discover here in St. Dwynwen’s church, and oh, how right he had been, but what could she do with her new knowledge?

  Fleur was right; she had no proof of anything. If only Freddie’s arrival had been delayed a few more minutes, perhaps she would have at least had the note, whatever it was, but she hadn’t had time. She was left with strong suspicions, and that was all.

  In such circumstances, did she dare to pit herself against Fleur? Or did her situation remain completely unchanged, leaving her with the stark choice of applying for the position of governess with Lady Brecon, or being embroiled in a horrible, shameful scandal that would ruin her uncle?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Paul’s yacht, the Troitskoe, a sleek schooner with a slender blue-and-gold hull and a figurehead of a Dalmatian dog, had been becalmed for days off the island of Bornholm. Nights were long in these northern latitudes, so that the moon and stars shone far more than the sun, and tonight the aurora borealis was in full color, as if a monstrous show of fireworks were taking place just beyond the horizon.

  It was St. Valentine’s Night by the British calendar, if not by the Russian. The weather was very cold and clear, the sea as still as a millpond, and the water was so cold that floats of ice were visible here and there. There was ice on the schooner’s rigging too, and upon the rail where Athan leaned to watch the glories in the sky. He’d seen the northern lights before, but never quite like this. Every color of the rainbow seemed to be pulsing overhead, and everything was so quiet that he could even hear the display rustling and swishing, as if the gods were whispering.