The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel sounded unnaturally loud and slow. What was best to do? Rachel’s mind stayed nerve-wrackingly blank. She started when the clock chimed eleven. “See if you can hang them again,” she managed at last. “Just—do the best you can. I’ll have to speak to Lord D’Aubrey. He may want to replace them. Or repair them. I don’t know. I’ll speak to him,” she repeated, feeling idiotic—and already dreading that encounter.
“All right, ma’am,” Susan said, fingering the musty cloth doubtfully.
“I’d stay and help you, but I have an appointment in the village. I didn’t realize it was so late. Leave them until I come back if you can’t manage it.”
“Aye, you’d best be hurryin’ along,” Violet spoke up from the hearth, “else we might get a visit from the high sheriff, wonderin’ what’s become o’ you.”
Rachel got to her feet stiffly, keeping her face still, making a show of dusting off her skirts. The proper retort eluded her, as usual. But Violet mustn’t be allowed to belittle her in front of the others; some show of authority was called for. “They need guidance,” Mr. Holyoake had warned her. Yes, yes—but when she raised her voice or spoke sharply to an insolent servant, it sounded in her own ears like lines read by an incompetent, insincere actress. She was the most transparent of impostors.
Still, she had to say something. But now too much time had passed. Her lame “Go about your business, Violet” came too late and did no good. The maid sent her a triumphant sideways smirk and went back to polishing the firescreen, smiling.
Hurrying along the corridor, Rachel tried to put the incident out of her mind. Easy—she’d worry about the constable instead. How could she have let the time slip away without noticing? Her appointment was at eleven-thirty; she would be late unless she ran most of the way. Not that being late would be a catastrophe. She knew that, and yet the thought of being reprimanded for tardiness or even questioned about it filled her with the same stupid, dark, shivery dread she’d lived with every day in Dartmoor. What if it never left her? What if she went to her grave terrified of the consequences of a raised voice or a frowning face? In a thousand ways she was like a child, the natural development of her emotions cut off at the age of eighteen. But in a thousand other ways, she felt like the oldest woman on earth.
She came to a sudden stop on the top stair leading down to the courtyard. For one cowardly second, she wanted to slide back behind the door and escape. But even as the craven wish formed in her mind, Sebastian Verlaine glanced up and saw her. Too late.
He was walking through the gatehouse arch, holding his hat in his hand, smacking it energetically against his thigh at every other step. He wore no coat or waistcoat, even though the May morning was brisk. His fine white cambric shirt had come halfway out of the waist of a pair of none-too-clean buckskin breeches, which he wore with scuffed leather riding boots. The rough clothes not only became him, they looked completely natural on him, and yet she couldn’t help wondering if he wore them as an affectation, a personal ironic joke, because at other times it pleased him to dress in the height of languid, aristocratic chic. When he saw her, an unmistakable expression of surprised pleasure came over his hard, handsome features.
Helpless—that was how he could make her feel, as if a trapdoor were opening under her feet or an irresistible wind were sucking her up into thin air. When she was with him, the careful, rigid walls she’d built, within which she barely knew how to exist as it was, disappeared and left her with nothing, no handholds and no rules to follow slavishly just to survive. He could cut through everything, see through everything, no matter how secure the barrier she tried to put between them.
“Mrs. Wade!” he called to her, in the faintly facetious tone he used when calling her by her married name. She suspected he thought of her in his mind as “Rachel,” and the formality of saying “Mrs. Wade” to her amused him on some dry, sardonic level. “Ah, the black today.” He stopped twelve feet away, hands on his hips, legs spread, waiting for her to come to him.
She closed the gap slowly but steadily, keeping her eyes wide on him so he couldn’t chastise her for an indirect gaze. The way he watched her was not only unnerving, it was unfair—because she wanted to watch him, indulge in a long, uninterrupted scrutiny. He had a long, lean face, sharp-boned and intense, and wicked, heavy-lidded eyes the color of blue topaz. By contrast, his hair was practically boyish, brown and soft-looking, falling straight down from either side of an off-center part, with an impudent cowlick on one side. The combination in his features of youthfulness and jaded sophistication never failed to fascinate and unsettle her.
“Good morning, my lord,” she greeted him levelly. And then, in an unwonted fit of extravagance, she added, “It’s a beautiful morning.”
His mobile, voluptuous lips quirked upward, signaling amazement. But it was his fault that she was so uncharacteristically forthcoming today: he looked different, not so suave, younger than usual, and unbearably handsome. “There’s a new foal,” he told her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s a filly. Cadger’s her sire, and she’s a beauty. Come and see her.” He held out his hand.
Heat radiated from his body with the earthy odors of stable and leather and healthy sweat. She stood stock-still. Did he think she would just—take his hand? “I can’t,” she said somewhat breathlessly.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I have an appointment in the village. I mustn’t be late.”
“What kind of appointment?” he demanded, in a tone that said he doubted she could have any engagement that couldn’t be put off for his pleasure.
“Once a week, I am required to report to the parish constable’s office, my lord. It’s one of the conditions of my ticket of leave.”
The good humor left his face; his black brows drew together in a scowl. She didn’t think it was the loss of her company that irked him, but rather the news that someone besides himself had the power to control her life. He slapped his hat across his knee, making a sharp, impatient sound that inwardly jarred her. “What are the other conditions or your—what is it?”
“My ticket of leave. It’s my release, the conditions of my release. I must also report once a month to the chief constable in Tavistock, and every week I have to pay a little on my fine.”
“Your fine?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He raised his haughty eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate.
“I owe the Crown a fine,” she said stiffly, determined for some reason to keep the amount to herself. “It’s in retribution for my—crime, and represents as well the cost of the prosecution against me. I’m allowed to pay it off a little at a time.” She closed her lips and returned his cool stare as boldly as she could.
“That’s what you’re spending your wages on, then? Paying off your fine?”
“In part.”
His lips tightened; he wasn’t used to evasion from his servants. “Why is it you never told me you would be taking time off in the middle of every week, Mrs. Wade, to tend to your personal business?”
Her heart stuttered in fear—foolishly; he was scaring her on purpose. But knowing it didn’t make his tactic less successful. “My lord, I never intended to deceive you. Mrs. Fruit had a half day on Saturdays, and I made an assumption that I would be given the same liberty. It’s at the constable’s order that I visit him on Wednesdays, and it never takes more than two hours altogether, including the time going and—”
“Oh, very well,” he snapped, and this time she couldn’t comprehend the source of his irritation at all. “You’d best be on your way, then, hadn’t you? The last thing we want is to have the constable descending on Lynton Hall, claiming we’re harboring a fugitive.”
His inexplicable coldness bruised her. She wanted to lash back, ask him, Is that the royal “we,” my lord? But, of course, she said nothing at all. He brushed past her without another word and strode off toward the house.
She thought back over the enc
ounter as she walked across the bridge and started up the winding lane that led to the village, replaying the words they’d said to each other over and over, until the futility of understanding him made her weary and she gave up trying. She’d dreamt of him this morning, but she couldn’t remember the dream anymore. Except that it had left her feeling helpless. Nothing new in that: he must lie awake at night thinking of ways to make her do things she didn’t want to do. Speak to him, for instance. His interest in her hadn’t diminished in the weeks since she’d come to Lynton; if anything, it had only grown stronger. She didn’t understand it, and she feared it. What will he do to me? was a question she asked herself daily. She’d thought she was impervious to everything now; short of locking her up in a cell again, what could anyone do to hurt her in any deep or lasting way? Nothing—and yet she feared Sebastian Verlaine.
He wanted to sleep with her, of course. She’d have to be made of stone not to know that. If that was all he wanted, she would count herself lucky. Her body was cheap; it had nothing to do with her; she never thought of it. But she was afraid he wanted more from her, or that he would take more from her if they ever became intimate. He was a patient man, languid and mesmerizing, predatory; he had complete power over her life, and she spent her days trying to please him, to save herself. But what if pleasing him brought down her ruin all the faster?
Stop thinking about him.
She hated going into the village, but she loved the solitary walk to it. Each time she went, the world seemed to have grown more beautiful. Devonshire lay in the green lap of May, and every bird, every wildflower, every fresh scent on the breeze was an unimaginable delight. Sometimes it was too much, the textures too rich, the shapes and colors too sweet, everything opulent, fertile, lavish. Sometimes she had to bend her head to the stolid ground and plod along without looking. She was used to gray and brown, metal and stone, the odors of public latrines and disinfectant, the sounds of cell doors slamming and angry voices shouting. Mercilessness and monotony and cold-hearted routine ruled her old world, and the new one bewildered her. She couldn’t categorize it; it was infinite, unpredictable, and much too hazardous.
Ah, but the beauty, the beauty—it was nothing to find herself in tears, just looking at the pink petals of a marsh violet in her hand or watching the slow, undulating wings of a tortoiseshell butterfly on a branch. Today buttercups covered the unplowed meadows, and yellow cowslips bloomed on the roadsides with primrose and wild hyacinth, speedwell and wood sorrel. She saw a green woodpecker, she heard the first cuckoo, and she found a hedge sparrow’s nest in a gorse bush, with four blue eggs. The sky through the leafing oak trees was blinding blue, adorned with cottony clouds the color of new snow. And the sun was a miracle. Her heart felt too big for her chest—she almost wished it would rain, so she could manage the loveliness, contain it better inside herself. Because this really was too much.
Trudging up the last hill before the crossroads, she started at the sound of hoofbeats. Before she could even compose her face, a man on horseback loomed over the hill in front of her. She stepped smartly sideways to let him pass, but he reined in his cantering chestnut as soon as he saw her and came to a shuffling halt by her side. She looked up in amazement, arrested by the suddenness of his appearance, the size of him and his horse, and his quite astonishing good looks. The certainty that she had seen him before confused her; how could that be? Then he took off his hat, and she remembered: he was Reverend Morrell, and she knew him because he’d come to Dartmoor half a dozen times in the last two years, as a guest chaplain for the Sunday services.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, squinting into the sun that lit up his golden hair like a torch. He wore sedate black clothes, but no clerical collar. Even knowing he was a minister, Rachel could hardly credit it, because he looked too healthy and robust, too physical for a man of the cloth. “I’m Christian Morrell,” he told her, holding his blowing horse in check with gentle hands; “I’m the vicar of All Saints Church.”
“How do you do?” She dreaded telling anyone her name, but this man’s directness left her no choice. “I’m Rachel Wade. I’m the housekeeper at Lynton Great Hall.”
His face registered no surprise, so she suspected he’d heard of her. She was startled when he leaned down and offered his hand. Flustered, she touched it briefly, then stood back, so he could ride on. But he stayed where he was. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wade. I’m on my way to the Hall now, as it happens, to meet Lord D’Aubrey for the first time.”
“You’ll find him in, sir. I’ve just left him.”
“Yes, I sent a note earlier; he’s expecting me.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“I’d have come sooner, but I’ve been out of the country for more than a month. On my honeymoon,” he said, smiling. “My wife and I only returned two days ago. We were in Italy.”
She had no small talk, so she was surprised to hear herself respond, “I hope you enjoyed your trip?”
“Thank you, yes, we enjoyed it very much. It was—perfect.”
The fact that speaking of a stranger’s wedding, trip in any but the most general terms might be indelicate was just beginning to dawn on her when she noticed the faint pink color seeping into Reverend Morrell’s fair, handsome cheeks. It had just dawned on him, too. Somehow his embarrassment lessened hers. She relaxed, and said with more ease than she would have imagined possible, “I met your father once, Reverend. Briefly.”
“Really?” He looked intrigued.
“Yes. He . . . married my husband and me.”
He had the most extraordinary eyes, both gentle and penetrating, and she had the sensation that they saw a great deal more than she cared to reveal.
When he didn’t say anything, she added hurriedly, “I hope he’s well?”
“My father died about five years ago.”
“I’m sorry. He seemed to be—a very kind man.”
“Yes. He was.”
What an odd conversation they were having. Or perhaps it wasn’t; perhaps it only seemed odd to her because she so rarely had conversations. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Good morning, sir.”
He didn’t look relieved; if anything, he looked surprised that she was ending the encounter so soon. Which made her wonder how much longer he’d have tarried in the middle of the road, passing the time of day with Lynton Hall’s resident murderess-turned-housekeeper. Had he known Randolph? He must have. The thought disturbed her.
“My wife will be pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said unexpectedly, and if he hadn’t had one of the most open countenances she’d ever seen, she’d have dismissed that as a bald and not very kind social lie. “Her name is Anne. Her late husband was a cousin of Lord D’Aubrey’s, you know.”
Yes, she’d heard that bit of gossip already, from servants eager to share the news that the former Lady D’Aubrey was now plain Anne Morrell, the vicar’s wife. “I would be honored to meet her,” Rachel said carefully—although the likelihood of it still seemed impossibly remote to her.
The vicar put his black hat back on. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said with every sign of sincerity, smiling down at her. “Perhaps I’ll see you in church on Sunday, Mrs. Wade?” he asked, with just enough diffidence to make the question inoffensive.
Rachel had no great love of religion, or the bloodless, soulless clergymen who had harangued her and her sister-inmates in daily, sometimes twice-daily, sermons on what wicked sinners they were, how lucky to have been given such a humane chance at reformation, how grateful they ought to be for it. But to Reverend Morrell she heard herself say, “I look forward to it.” And as she watched him out of sight, the singular thought struck her that she meant it.
***
Sebastian’s peevish mood stayed with him as he stripped off his dirty work clothes, washed over the sink in his new bathroom, and pulled on clean shirt, trousers, waistcoat, and coat, Preest hovering over him all the while. He couldn’t have said why he was still chafing over the idea of
Mrs. Wade having to visit the blasted constable once a week; he seemed to be taking the whole thing personally. What was it to do with him? Still, it rankled. It was an imposition on her freedom, if nothing else. She’d paid, for her supposed sins, hadn’t she? Wasn’t ten years enough? He felt riled up on her behalf, and angry with her for not being angry. Or not showing it, anyway. But then, there was precious little she did show. Her everlasting reserve was fascinating in its way, but he was getting bloody sick and tired of it.
Preest went to answer a knock at the bedroom door, returning a moment later to announce, “My lord, Reverend Morrell is here.”
Sebastian swore under his breath, feeling mildly put upon. So it’s come to this, has it? he taunted himself, peering into the glass at his clean, combed reflection. A visit from the ruddy minister, for God’s sake? Respectability had been foisted on him by virtue of a title and a crumbling old manor house, and the onerous weight of it was getting on his nerves. When Preest started fidgeting around his shoulders with a lint brush, he shrugged away, muttering, “Oh, sod it,” and stalked out of the room.
The maid had put the vicar in the rosewood drawing room. His broad back was in silhouette against the window, out of which he was gazing at the river bridge with such absorption, he didn’t hear Sebastian until he said, “Reverend Morrell?”
He turned swiftly, as if jarred from a memory, and blinked a faraway look out of his eyes. They met in the middle of the room and shook hands. The minister had a vigorous grip. He was tall and good-looking, and about thirty years younger than the man Sebastian had for some reason been expecting. “Welcome to Wyckerley, my lord,” he said warmly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to say that to you when you arrived.”
“I doubt that, Reverend, considering that if you had been, you’d have missed your honeymoon. But the sentiment’s appreciated.”
Patricia Gaffney - [Wyckerley 02] Page 7
