Sandra Heath

by The Haunting of Henrietta

  She didn’t want to consider such a thought. “Oh, what nonsense! Who on earth would wish to do that?”

  Amabel’s name entered his mind, but he had no proof, only a deeply suspicious intuition where the lady was concerned, so he didn’t mention her. “Don’t dismiss it as nonsense, Henrietta. I believe someone wishes to be rid of you. I don’t know who, or why, but I am convinced it is so, and if I hadn’t come here when I did today, they would probably have succeeded.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I would prefer not to alarm Charlotte with this. I will tell her I came here to the church, but that is all.”

  “As you wish. By the way, we’ve established the reason for my presence, but what of you? You aren’t fit enough to leave the abbey at all, let alone ride this distance.”

  Glad to be temporarily diverted from talk of murderous intentions, she told him the tragic love story she’d read in Lady Chloe’s journal. “That’s why I came here today. I had just found Jane Courtenay’s grave and was about to come in here to look for Kit Fitzpaine’s, when the boy jumped down from the tree. The rest you know.”

  Marcus’ eyes moved to the wall behind her. “Well, if you wish to see Lord Christopher Fitzpaine’s tomb, you need do no more than turn around.”

  There it was, flanked by marble angels, wreaths, and various other funereal symbols. The contrast with Jane’s simple resting place could not have been greater, but then Kit had been of noble birth; Jane had not.

  Marcus got up to examine it more closely. “Are you saying this is pretense, and he isn’t buried here at all?”

  “Nor is Jane out in the churchyard. On the day they were supposedly laid to rest here, they actually died on the Goodwins. Within sight of Bramnells, apparently.”

  “The Goodwins? A far from pleasant fate,” he murmured, knowing the murderous sands only too well.

  She watched as he continued to examine the tomb. “It’s good to be able to speak to you without rancor.”

  The words touched a nerve and he turned sharply. “Rancor that was entirely due to your actions.”

  Her eyes cooled. “You were at fault, not me.”

  “You discarded me in favor of Sutherton.”

  “Discarded? I was saved from you.” She got up unsteadily. “I should have known it was foolish to think we could he friends again. There is no need for you to linger here now, for I can manage by myself.”

  “And have you say I deserted you? Oh, no. I’ll ride back to the abbey with you.”

  “I wouldn’t say any such thing.”

  “No? Madam, denigrating my good name appears to be your favorite pastime, so I trust you will forgive me if I take your reassurance with a considerable pinch of salt.”

  “Escort me if you wish, but I think it would be better if we omitted any attempt at polite conversation, don’t you?”

  “That will suit me admirably,” he replied coldly. “One thing more. ..”

  “Yes?”

  “The acrimony between us may be great, but I still want your promise to be more cautious after what happened here today. Dropping the subject has not made it go away. It is plain you have a very deadly enemy, and you would be advised to be very much on your guard from now on. Don’t trust anyone.” Especially Amabel, he added silently.

  “The point is taken. Now, may we please go?”

  He inclined his head, and after he’d collected his hat and gloves, they walked from the church, emerging into a sunlit graveyard that was now devoid of supernatural activity. Marcus paused for a moment, shading his eyes against the sun to look down at the Avalon. The gig that had come ashore earlier was now returning, and figures on the sloop were preparing to take on board the provisions she brought. He watched for a moment, trusting that his boatswain, Mr. Padstow, had properly attended to the minor storm damage suffered to the hull. Marcus smiled then. Of course Mr. Padstow had done his job, for there wasn’t a finer boatswain on the seas. Tapping his top hat on more firmly, he followed Henrietta down the steps. She had also looked briefly at the sloop, recalling the strange moment when it had seemed to turn silver and change shape. This time the Avalon did not alter at all.

  The return ride to the abbey was accomplished in a silence that was broken only when they entered the house. Henrietta paused by the long table that ranged across the hall, and took off her gloves. Her ring caught a shaft of sunlight from a nearby window, and she glanced down at it.

  Marcus noticed, and was goaded anew. “Sutherton won’t even be out of his damned bed yet!” he observed scathingly. “If he is, I’ll warrant he reeks of the maraschino shared with Prinny last night! And he’ll be wearing fine new clothes purchased on account of your fortune.”

  She turned angrily. “How dare you say such things!”

  “I dare because it’s the truth. I thought you were intelligent, Henrietta Courtenay. Instead I find that you are the latest great fool in Christendom!”

  After all that had happened, it was the last straw. She struck him as hard as she could, leaving angry marks upon his cheek. She would have struck him again had he not caught her wrist. “Once is more than enough, madam,” he breathed.

  “It barely touches the surface of my loathing for you!” she cried.

  “Loathing? I recall that it was not always so, madam!” He gazed bitterly into her eyes, then suddenly bent to put his lips to hers. It was a brief, savage kiss, filled with rage and other emotions that he himself hardly recognized. Then he released her wrist contemptuously and strode away toward the cloisters.

  As he disappeared, Amabel spoke from the staircase, where she had observed everything. “My, my, how strangely the snow affects some people.” She came down, looking very becoming in a primrose woolen gown, with matching satin ribbons in her rich brown hair.

  “I—I wish you would forget anything you just heard or saw,” Henrietta said awkwardly.

  “What you and Marcus get up to is nothing to do with me, although I daresay Sutherton might have an interest.”

  Henrietta removed her gloves. “Marcus and I didn’t get up to anything, and what you just witnessed was simply Marcus being his most overbearing and disagreeable.”

  Amabel glanced at the betrothal ring. “So it was nothing over which Sutherton should lose any sleep?”

  “Nothing at all, and if one word of it reaches him, I shall know who to blame!”

  An odd shadow passed through Amabel’s green eyes. Then she said. “He won’t hear from me.”

  Henrietta relaxed a little. “How is your headache? Are you feeling better now?”

  “It is quite gone.”

  “I’m glad. Is Charlotte still resting?”

  Amabel shook her head. “No, she and Russell are in the conservatory. Shall we join them?”

  Suspecting that to be Marcus’ destination, Henrietta declined. “I, er, think not. But you join them, by all means. I’ll just go up to change.” Gathering her skirts, she hurried toward the stairs.

  Amabel watched her. The smile on her lips was fixed, and her eyes were cold. You escaped again this time, Henrietta, but next time I’ll make sure of you. The ring you wear should grace my finger, not yours! George Sutherton belongs to me, and no other woman is ever going to become his wife!

  * * * *

  Everyone gathered in the conservatory that evening, and while Marcus and Russell amused themselves with another game of billiards, Henrietta, Charlotte, and Amabel sat in conversation. The night-darkened windows soared above them and the surrounding foliage shone in the lamplight as the women enjoyed cups of sweet chocolate thickened with cream. Henrietta wore a gown of a particularly becoming shade of figured rose velour, and her hair had been intricately dressed by Charlotte’s maid. She was still shaken by events at the church, although her pallor was concealed by a touch of rouge.

  Charlotte eyed her. “I think you were quite mad to go out today.”

  “I’m afraid I was overeager to see the tombs.”

  “Which have been there for a hundred years. Another da
y or so wouldn’t have made any difference.” Charlotte smoothed her russet brocade robe a little impatiently.

  “I know.”

  “Anything might have happened. You could have collapsed and lain undiscovered until it was too late because of the cold.”

  Henrietta fell silent.

  Charlotte raised her cup suddenly. “I fear I have been a neglectful niece. It is my uncle Joseph’s birthday today, and I quite forgot to drink his health at dinner. Now it will have to be with chocolate. A toast, ladies. To Rear Admiral Sir Joseph Harman.”

  They raised their cups and drank, and then Amabel sat forward, her blue velvet gown tinged with purple in the candlelight. “I understand he almost caught the Légère!”

  Charlotte nodded. “Would that he’d succeeded.”

  “Amen to that,” murmured Amabel.

  “Speaking of relatives, you have a brother, don’t you, Amabel? I recall his name is Charles.”

  Amabel hesitated. “Er, yes.”

  Charlotte was curious. “Where is he now?”

  “We’ve lost touch. I haven’t seen him since we were children at Versailles.”

  “Ah, yes, Versailles. I was quite forgetting that the poor late Queen Marie Antoinette was your godmother. It must be difficult for you sometimes.”

  “Difficult?”

  “To know whether your loyalties are with Britain or France.”

  Henrietta was appalled. “Oh, Charlotte, how could you?”

  Amabel thrust her chocolate aside and leaped to her feet. “That is a monstrous thing to say. Charlotte! I find Republican France totally abhorrent, and so, I’m sure, does Charles! As Queen Marie Antoinette’s godchildren, how could it be otherwise?”

  Russell and Marcus looked up in consternation from their play, but Charlotte hastened to smooth the brief contretemps. “Good Lord, Amabel, there is no need for your feathers to fly! All I meant was that as someone who clearly must have fond memories of France, you must find this endless war particularly hard sometimes. So please stop being so sensitive.”

  Amabel hesitated, and then resumed her seat. “I—I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. Charlotte, but you did sound as if you were questioning my allegiance.”

  “Well, I wasn’t.”

  The ensuing silence was broken by the chink of the billiard balls as the men took up their play again. After a moment Amabel returned to the subject of the Légère. “Charlotte, I know Russell said it was only a rumor, but I keep hearing the whisper about gold being hidden here, and I can’t help wondering if it’s based on fact of some sort.”

  “Believe me, there’s no gold.” Charlotte’s glance slid fleetingly toward Henrietta, and she gave a tinkling laugh. “Gold or not, it’s as well the Légère doesn’t know about the old smugglers’ path, or she might try again.”

  Amabel’s tips parted. “Old smugglers’ path?” she repeated.

  “Yes, down the cliff opposite the lych-gate at St. Tydfa’s. Everyone had forgotten about it until the bushes were cleared recently, and it was discovered again. It’s a very hazardous descent, but strings of packhorses used to negotiate it quite well. Or so I gather.”

  Amabel finished her chocolate and then stood. “I feel rather tired, so if you will forgive me, I’ll retire now.”

  When she’d gone. Charlotte poured herself another cup. “Oh, how wonderful a drink chocolate is, but far too wicked for the figure. Still, in my condition it hardly makes any difference, for I can’t possibly get much bigger with only a month to go!”

  “You do resemble a Montgolfier balloon,” Henrietta said teasingly.

  “Thank you very much. Anyway, if I last until February, I will be amazed. I feel as if I’m about to explode!”

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “I will endeavor not to.” Charlotte smiled.

  * * * *

  That night, as Jane wept herself to sleep in Kit’s arms, and Henrietta and Marcus lay wide awake with their respective thoughts, Rowley was sitting dolefully on the ceiling of a very dark, windowless place, where there was a constant lapping of water. He didn’t know where he was; indeed the only thing he knew for certain was that he’d at last tossed the bogle from his back and then hidden under a large heap of crumpled canvas on the quay. The canvas had suddenly been rolled up around him, and when he’d eventually dared to emerge, he’d found himself in this horrid place. He didn’t know where the bogle had gone, just that it was no longer with him—for which mercy he was exceeding thankful!

  A bell sounded every few hours, and earlier he’d heard boots hurrying upon wood, but now there was just a man singing to the squeak of a fiddle, and the endless lap of water. Rowley was more dejected and frightened than he’d ever been before. He’d howled and howled in the hope that someone psychic would hear, but no one came near.

  He got up to pace unhappily to and fro. How long would he be trapped like this? Giving another loud howl, he cocked a hopeful ear, but the fiddle continued to scrape and the song didn’t falter. Rowley’s tail drooped. Jane or Kit had always heard him in the past; why didn’t they come now? He paced and howled a little more, then came to a startled halt as everything was suddenly lit by a strange silver glow. Sound echoed very oddly and he saw a simple staircase, little more than a ladder, descending where there had been nothing a moment before.

  Trembling with fear, the spaniel pressed back in a corner, and gradually things returned to what amounted to normal in this dreadful place. With a huge sigh, Rowley threw his head back to proclaim his misery anew, but the only response was the jangle of the bell.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A meeting concerning a possible boom across the harbor mouth had been arranged in the town for the following morning. It was another bitterly cold but beautiful day, and as Russell and Marcus prepared to ride down after breakfast, they were surprised that Amabel appeared in her riding habit to accompany them. They argued in vain that she would find the meeting very dull, but in the end she had her way.

  Charlotte had woken up in an oddly restless mood. She could not sit still and insisted upon a brisk walk along the cliffs with Henrietta, after which she decided to make the promised visit to Nurse. She wanted Russell to come too, but he had a prior luncheon engagement with the local magistrates, and Marcus and Amabel returned from Mulborough alone. Amabel had no desire to accompany the others to see Nurse, whom she did not know, and announced instead that she would attend to some long neglected correspondence. Marcus would not hear of Henrietta and Charlotte going alone to the hamlet of Mulbridge, even though it was only half a mile away. He insisted upon driving them in Russell’s curricle, which could easily accommodate three, and so, with the winter sun at its highest, they set off.

  Henrietta and Charlotte sat on either side of him. They were well wrapped against the cold, in fur-lined cloaks and matching muffs, and their feet rested on warmed bricks. The team of matching bays was kept at a gentle trot, and the two-wheeled vehicle hardly slid at all on the icy, hard-packed surface of the road.

  Henrietta glanced back at the abbey, which stood out magnificently against the sparkling water of the bay. Her breath caught as at one of the windows she saw Jane weeping in Kit’s arms. Their sorrow was so palpable that Henrietta could almost have forgotten they were ghosts. She gazed back at them until they were too far away, and as she faced the front again, she wondered why they were so sad.

  The spirits saw the curricle drive away. Jane was so brokenhearted about Rowley that she would have agreed to an eternity of haunting if only her beloved spaniel were to return. As Kit rested his cheek against her hair, he had to concede that he too missed Rowley. Tiresome as the little cur was, his disappearance left a void that could never be filled.

  * * * *

  Mulbridge was little more than a few stone cottages nestling in a narrow valley where a moorland creek emptied into the Mull. The sound of rushing water echoed and rooks wheeled noisily above the trees as Marcus drove the curricle smartly over the bridge and brought it to a stands
till beside Miss Rose Hinchcliffe’s green-painted gate.

  Frail now, but still active and alert, she was delighted to welcome her unexpected visitors. She was small and resembled a gray sparrow, with bright little eyes and a beak of a nose. Her hair was completely hidden beneath a crisply starched day bonnet, and she wore a comfortable gray woolen gown. Seeing how pink their cheeks were after the cold drive over the moor, she ushered them into her warm parlor. Cups of hot spiced caudle were pressed upon them as they sat on the settles that flanked the hearth. Nurse cast an experienced eye over Charlotte, then promptly declared that things were certainly more advanced than eight months. “Oh, indeed, yes. My lifetime of experience tells me for certain that you are due at any moment, my lady.”

  “Dr. Hartley saw me only a few days ago, and insists the original date is correct,” Charlotte replied, recalling how she herself had questioned the point. He had been so offended that she’d felt obliged to apologize.

  “That fool of a doctor gives himself airs and graces, but isn’t capable of much more than prescribing laudanum. It’s his cure-all!” Nurse did not care for the doctor, and the dislike was mutual.

  Henrietta smiled. “I can vouch for that, for he dosed me well and truly.”

  Conversation drifted to other things, but Charlotte’s odd restlessness soon got the better of her again. She got up to wander around the room, admiring the various little ornaments that were the nurse’s pride and joy. Henrietta began to worry about her, and at last fell obliged to confide her concern to Marcus.

  He was startled. “She seems all right to me,” he whispered back, watching as Nurse took down yet another porcelain Staffordshire shepherdess to show to Charlotte.

  “She seems incapable of sitting still more than a minute.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I think Nurse is right. Charlotte is further than eight months. Last year I was at a house when a lady commenced her pains. She’d been behaving in exactly the same way.”

  Charlotte glanced toward them. “What are you two whispering about?”