It seemed to be an image of a great bird. I thought of the crow, the large black bird that had menaced me from the tree. But this shape was different.
I turned back around, suddenly infused with terror, and spurred my horse forward. Clasping the reins desperately, I glanced back and saw that the billowing formation had made itself into the suggestion of a large and looming serpent.
“Do you see that?” I blurted, shouting over the sound of the horses’ hooves.
“What?” Sebastian glanced back. “Is it lightning? Lud, I hate electrical storms. Come, Emma!”
The thing was now quite distinct. It was not a serpent, for it had wings. It was a dragon. I could make out the coiled tail, the ridges of its back, its head, and the suggestion of elongated teeth protruding from a snarling mouth.
I saw Sebastian look again, saw his eyes aim directly at it, then they shifted rapidly to the left and then to the right. He was merely scanning for signs of flashing light in the clouds. He did not see the figure.
A cold finger of terror, more deep and real than any I had ever felt before this, traced a path up my spine. If he did not see it…
“We must hurry, Emma,” Sebastian urged. “If those are thunderheads, we will be in real danger out in the open.”
Gritting my teeth, I held on as we galloped back to the stables, making quick progress to the fence of the inner paddock. A stable hand came out to grab the reins of my horse, running to get us quickly into the barn. He helped me dismount, and as I had never gotten into the aristocratic habit of ignoring the staff, I turned to thank him.
There was no explanation for my reaction. He was but a servant, a lower-level stable hand, the short, sturdy kind with a thick form that holds graceless but unmistakable power. As dark-skinned as a gypsy, his thick hair curled in clumps around his head like clawed fingers and a heavy mustache obscured his mouth. There was nothing repulsive about him, not on the exterior, and yet I shrank from him, repelled and filled with sudden fear.
I felt the sudden, vicious stab of pain in my skull, and the sensation of the veil parting assailed me again. Something was there, beyond the reach of my mind, something pressing forward, coming now. Closer. Closer.
The grooves in the groom’s weathered cheeks deepened as if he was smiling underneath his mustache. Large, liquid eyes held my gaze boldly, gleaming as if he knew something, something that gave him pleasure to savor, something of which I was ignorant.
“Emma!” Sebastian called. His hair had wilted under his hat, the curls lifeless and sticking to his cheek. “We should make a dash for the house now. Here, put my coat over your head.”
I could not get away from the barn fast enough. Grabbing his arm, I raced with him through the fat droplets pelting down upon us, cowering under the shelter of his ruined coat. When we arrived at the garden gate, I glanced back. The gypsy was still there. His teeth showed under the dark slash of drooping mustache. He was laughing.
Chapter Four
I took to bed straight away, tired and distraught and fit to see no one.
I dreamt of a woman weeping. In my dream, it was my mother, staring down at me as she bent over my bed. Tears ran in broken rivulets down her cheek, dropping off her trembling chin. Upon waking, I found tears on my own lashes and a hard knot in my throat which made it difficult for me to swallow.
Shivering in my bed, the coverlet pulled to my chin, listening to the steady patter of rain, I wondered if my wits were slipping away. But despite the long-held fear that my mind would weaken as my mother’s had, I did not believe this was true. Somehow, I felt something strong and sure inside my breast. As fantastical as all of this was, I did not think I was insane. I had sensed and seen things that were not real in the strict sense, and yet existed. Perhaps not in normal perception…
I paused in my thoughts, wondering if this was how the mad reasoned.
I forced myself out of the bed upon that thought, seeing there was no point in tormenting myself. Struggling against the feeling of heaviness in my limbs, I bent over the table to light an oil lamp. My head ached in a vague, dull way. I padded in bare feet to the window and peered out into the dismal weather. Mists had come in with the rain, floating fingers wrapping themselves around the landscape like a ghost making a fist. I frowned at my fanciful imagination and yanked the drape closed.
Yet I could not prevent the pulse of my thoughts from going to my unhappy preoccupation. I felt in every other way quite normal. Would I know if my mind were becoming disordered? Or would I hold fast to the false belief that I had really been attacked by the crows, that something terrible had truly ridden the storm, that the gypsy in the barn meant me harm?
I missed Simon terribly in those moments. What comfort he would have given me, his wan smile, his distracted pat of affection to my shoulder.
I do not speak of love for my husband, and that may disappoint some. When my father had known he was ill, he arranged for Simon, an older gentleman with whom I had barely a passing acquaintance, to marry me. He told me Simon Andrews was wealthy, amenable to a wife, and a good man. It turned out he had been correct on all accounts, and my married life had been unexpectedly pleasant until Simon’s weak heart had failed him just last year.
My husband had liked me, and we had been friends after a fashion. I could have used such a friend now, and I mourned him with the selfish longing of a denied child.
The maid came in and I turned away. “I’m down with the megrim,” I told her. She left me with a fresh basin of cool water to bathe my temples. I lay on my bed, letting darkness gather around me as the day waned.
It was fully dark when Alyssa slipped into my room. “How is your headache?” She spoke softly.
“Better,” I lied. I was too curious to send her away. It was not like Alyssa to be solicitous of me.
“Would it bother you if I sit?” She had already pulled a chair beside the bed by the time I uttered my assent. “Did you not have even a cup of tea?”
I was suspicious, even wary. “The maid offered, but I was not of a mind to eat.”
She seemed astonished. “But you should have taken at least a cup of tea. It can be so restorative.”
“I do not wish to be a bother.”
“It’s too late for that,” she said unkindly. She eyed the stack of books I’d brought with me, piled on the bedside table. “I hope you are not taxing your eyes while the headache has you. And why is it so dim in here?”
“I have not felt like reading, no.”
Her eyes shifted back to me, narrowed in kittenish vexation. “If you are malingering, I shall be most put out with you, for it is making everyone nervous. Roger is fearful of this dreaded wasting disease.”
“I do not have the wasting disease, I assure you. Just the megrim.”
“Well, it is remarkable to find you with such complaint. Never was a woman less given to vapors than you. You are hardy, not delicate.” Unsaid went the end of that sentence: like me.
Her hands were folded neatly on her lap. Yet another difference between us: she could sit like that, like a portrait, so still. “You’ve been hiding in Devonshire since Simon died,” she observed.
“I lost my husband not long ago.” I made an effort to sit up.
“Oh, Emma. Do not act as if you and Simon shared affection.”
I was stung. “As a matter of fact, we did, Alyssa. Not like you and Alan, true, but deeply felt nonetheless.”
But she was right. I was not in mourning. Sad, yes, but not bereaved.
“And you are very wealthy,” she observed. She could not keep the tinge of bitterness from her voice.
I sighed. “Please, if you’ve come for a quarrel, give me some respite tonight. I am not up to my full wits.”
She sniffed, drawing herself up. “I know we have never been friends, but we are sisters.” Her still hands began to move, restless on her lap.
“We are sisters,” I agreed. “Alyssa, is everything all right? Are you and Alan getting on?”
The anxi
ety in my voice made her smile. “Yes, yes. He is as devoted as ever. That is why I married him. It is why you objected.”
“I…” It hadn’t been that. I had simply been of the opinion that Alyssa deserved something more than calf-eyed admira tion. What I had failed to see back then was that Alyssa had not wanted anything more.
Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I sat facing her. “I always wanted you to be happy. I truly hope you are.”
Her smile wasn’t sad, exactly. Perhaps a little bit hard. “I am. Brilliantly happy. And…I’ve some news. I am going to have a child, Emma. I’m to be a mama.”
“Oh, Alyssa, that is wonderful.” I had the impulse to embrace her, but she held herself so stiffly that I hesitated. “You are going to be such a beautiful mother.”
“Do you think so?” She stood suddenly and went to the window, lifting the velvet curtain. “The rain is so dreary. Mary is beside herself over the weather. We were to have a tournament of bowling tomorrow. It will have to be postponed.”
“Alyssa, come sit down.”
To my utter shock, she did. I could not recall the last time she had obeyed me. “Tell me what is bothering you,” I commanded gently.
She shrugged. Then she laughed. “It is so silly, really. I…I keep thinking of Mama. And Papa. I don’t think I missed them so much as now, with the baby coming.” Suddenly, she grabbed my hand. “I find, now that we have been apart for so long, that you do not irritate me nearly as much as you once did.”
I smiled softly as she went on, oblivious to the insult buried in what she surely saw as a compliment. “When you urged me not to accept Alan’s proposal, I thought I would never forgive you. I was so angry with you…”
“I have ever had a knack of accomplishing that, always to my dismay.”
She looked at me, a smile twisting on her lips but remaining unformed. “Yes, you did.” She wrinkled her nose. “But that was Papa’s fault. I may have been Papa’s pet, but you, Emma, you were his pride. You knew it, admit it.”
“I didn’t,” I replied truthfully. In fact, this news shocked me to the core. I had always been the outcast, I had thought. I knew my father loved me—that I had never doubted. But I remembered my father’s dark gaze on me. I’d never detected a trace of pride or affection. He had always seemed so removed.
I had thought he was ashamed of me, the daughter of a madwoman. A warm feeling of tenderness suffused me and I wished I had realized this sooner. It would have been a comfort to me so many times when I’d felt alone.
For a moment, the old sneer played on her features, marring her perfect beauty. “Imagine, him bringing you up the way he did, with your own tutor and all those unwomanly interests. He could deny you nothing, Emma. It drove Mama to distraction. Perhaps she pointed out your faults too often, but she was only looking out for me. Her great fear was that I’d be pushed to the side.” She sniffed. “But it was you, Emma, the clever one, the steady one, the interesting one…you he bragged about. He indulged your ridiculous infatuation with books. He never pressed you on your looks and you didn’t bother having to dress up. It wasn’t expected of you.”
“But you were always the shining joy of his life, Alyssa.”
“No. I was just pretty. That’s what I am, pretty. Mama always told me I had to be pretty for Papa.” Her high voice mimicked her mother’s advice, shrill and harsh. “‘Wear the pink satin, and stand up straight. Don’t dare muss your hair.’ But you he loved, and you didn’t even have to try.”
How wrong she was, but I was no longer disposed to argue. “It was Father’s nature to hold his affection to himself.”
“Papa was a dark man. Haunted.” Glancing away, she grew sullen. “He never recovered from what happened to your mother. Mama told me things…”
I did not want to hear them. I interjected quickly. “But you shall do so much better for your child. Your baby shall bask in the affection you’ll shower on him.”
“I shall,” she said fiercely. “But I absolutely determined I am going to have a girl. And you are not to hide away on that dreadful moor. I will not have you abandoning me in that fashion. I shall have need of you to comfort me and calm me.”
I fought a smile I knew she wouldn’t appreciate. The world had surely changed cataclysmically if my sister was looking to me to bring equanimity to her life. In the past, our encounters could be counted on to send her into fits, for we could never seem to get along well. The difference was that now she needed me. I had never been needed like this before.
“You shall come to dinner,” she said, rising.
I felt somewhat revived by my sister’s visit, and by the revelations that had come as a result. I resolved to put my troubles out of my mind. I would strive to carry on with an improved attitude. I would no longer lie about and worry.
However, I could not completely dispel the dull headache. It stayed with me as I departed the gloomy safety of my room and again joined the world of the living.
The following morning, after visiting Henrietta in her schoolroom, I joined the guests in the salon. The curate and Mrs. Bedford were among those present for luncheon. Sebastian slipped to my side. “No bowling today. Are you absolutely crushed?”
He wore a gold-and-peacock-blue waistcoat that dazzled my eyes so intensely I had to squint. He smiled at my reaction at such a costume and began to fuss with his lacy cuff. “You like it? I spent nearly all my quarterly allowance on it, but it was worth it. Is it not marvelous?”
“If there is a better word to describe this apparition, I cannot think of it,” I replied drolly.
“Look,” he said, jerking his head to where Roger stood in conversation with a knot of men. “A Mr. Valerian Fox.” He drew out the name with flavor as I spied a new guest.
“Is he a friend of yours?”
His hand fluttered dramatically. “No, no, dear, I’ve just made his very intriguing acquaintance myself. He’s Roger’s friend, someone from London, I think. I took it my brother was rather surprised to see him here.”
I peered more intently at the man. He was tall and blade-thin, but his shoulders were broad, filling his coat and stretching the material slightly when he placed a glass on the mantle. Someone made a joke—I’m sure it was Roger, as Alan has no sense of humor—and the deep timbre of masculine laughter filled the room.
“Was he not invited?”
“I do not know the particulars, but he seems to have corresponded with Roger, after some mutual acquaintance provided a letter of introduction. Roger had no choice but to ask him to join us. Which was quite decent of him, but you know how absurdly polite my brother can be.”
Mr. Fox half-turned, and I caught his profile. In that first glimpse of patrician nose and intelligent brow over which spilled a spike of dark hair, I don’t believe I breathed. Mr. Fox chanced to glance over one square shoulder, and caught me watching him. He merely returned my perusal, his dark, hooded eyes unwavering without being rude.
His face was interesting rather than handsome, composed of angles and planes; pointed cheekbones and a square jaw were balanced by the smooth, swarthy skin of his cheek. There were elongated hollows on either side of a sensuously curved mouth, lending an aspect to his face that was too sharp for conventional good looks. And yet it was arresting. I caught myself staring with what had to appear startling rudeness.
“Come on, let us get you introduced,” Sebastian whispered, and I instinctively drew back. But my resistance was easily overcome when he pulled insistently at my elbow and marched me toward the group.
“Mr. Fox,” he said, his face alight with excitement, “may I be allowed to present you to Mrs. Emma Andrews.”
Mr. Fox’s dark head inclined and his gloved hand extended with smart correctness. “Your servant,” he said.
His voice was like silk drawn over a rough surface, smooth with a slight rasp. His eyes were nearly obsidian, glittering cleverly as he took my measure.
“Emma, this is Mr. Valerian Fox,” Sebastian continued, drawing on t
he name again, saying it with relish. “Emma lives in Devon,” he explained, sidling a touch closer to the man as if imparting something of import. “We are so happy to have her here at Dulwich. Since she lost her husband after last Christmas, we would like to keep her with us as long as possible.”
Ah. The mention of my status as a widow meant Sebastian had appointed himself my matchmaker. I would have liked to have struck him with a blunt instrument at that moment.
“I am sure it is desirable to keep such a charming person as Mrs. Andrews as close as one can,” Mr. Fox said to Sebastian, then addressed himself pointedly to me. “I understand you have been under the weather recently, Mrs. Andrews.”
“A low place indeed, given the wretched state of it,” I replied.
His eyes flickered over me, brushing a light touch down my neck and to the gentle swell of my bosom, encased in steel-blue lace, then back up to my face. His gaze seemed to narrow in on me. “There is sickness in the town, I understand. You must have a care.”
“Thank you,” I replied, “but you have been misinformed. I am not unwell.”
He seemed to appreciate that fact, something he made apparent with an almost improperly bold look. “What a relief.”
For some reason, I found myself slightly breathless. His regard of me was intense, and I cannot say it did not affect me, making me a trifle nervous.
I excused myself and turned toward the others, catching my cousin’s eye watching me. Mary was wearing an expression of animated interest, and approval. I nearly groaned, for she had seen my exchange with Mr. Fox, and I feared it was giving her ideas. My dread was realized when moments later she announced lunch, and in arranging the procession into the dining room, made certain I was partnered with Mr. Fox.
The promenade was a rather foolish custom, I had always thought. I made a self-conscious overture to conversation. “There are Latin inscriptions all around the house. Have you seen them?”
Descent into Dust Page 4
