Brides of Falconfell

by Bancroft, Blair

  And if I left, would Thayne do nothing at all, because he knew the murderer to be himself, and after a reasonable length of time, he would call me back and expect us to live at Falconfell, happily ever after?

  Until he grew bored and felt the need for yet a different wife?

  “No,” I said, knowing full well what a fool I was, even as I said it. “No, Thayne, we will find this villain together.” I reached across the desktop and clasped his hand in mine.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The euphoria of self-sacrifice lasted but an hour or so. Even a long visit to the nursery failed to lift the miasma of fear that was closing in around me. With Alice Maxwell gone, I should have felt better. I did not. Whatever was wrong at Falconfell permeated the air, clung to the furnishings, crept along the walls and ceilings, mocking us. Evil lurked, and I had no idea what to do about it.

  Worst of all was discovering my mind less resistant to innuendo than I had thought, I no longer waited in our sitting room for an opportunity for an intimate moment with my husband. The possibility of murder rose before me like a great black curtain blocking out all hope of re-creating those few precious moments when I had caught a glimpse of what our marriage might be—if only . . .

  Nonsense! Thayne needed me. I was Serena, the Useful. Our thieving housekeeper was gone, our meals miraculously improved. Violet had a fine array of new clothes. I had even begun my campaign to add more color to the rooms. Maud rejoined us at table, the only ripple in our serenity occurring when Avery’s brows rose all the way to his hairline at his first glimpse of Anton Fournier.

  Yet somehow my wariness remained. Thayne favored me with odd looks from time to time, as if wondering how I managed to convey the aspect of an employee while giving orders only the lady of the manor could give.

  Frankly, I wondered too. It felt as if we were all waiting—even expecting—yet another disaster that would plunge us back into tragedy. One sunny morning in mid-June, I paused on my way through the portrait gallery to peek out its wall of windows at the rose garden, where the buds were showing color, and beyond it to the rest of the garden, where a variety of perennials were just bursting into bloom. I drew a deep breath, inhaling tranquility. Peace. For this small moment in time the shadows over Falconfell dissipated, I felt content. A whisper of happiness floated through my mind, as I pictured the pleasure life could be here.

  I swung around abruptly, staring at the wall of family portraits behind me. So far in my stay at Falconfell I had used the long gallery only as a route to the southern wing of the house, passing through so fast my skirts rustled. Today, some inexplicable urge insisted I take a closer look at the generations of Hammersleys.

  I searched past ladies and gentlemen in Renaissance garb, Tudor ruffs, and the elaborate brocades of the eighteenth century until . . . there! Thayne as a young man of eighteen. With twinkling eyes and lips threatening to curve into a smile at any moment. Oh yes, here was the charming gentleman I met only a few years later during my London Season. The Thayne I knew and loved.

  Beside him was another portrait, this one with Helen at his side. They looked so gloriously happy, a young couple on the verge of a long, fulfilling life. Her beauty glowed in the sunlight pouring through the windows opposite the wall of paintings. Helen, Lady Hammersley, everything a man could want in a wife.

  Unlike the drab peahen that was Serena.

  Determinedly, I examined the next painting. Oh, good heavens! It was Isabelle and what must be Thayne’s father. On either side were two boys—Thayne recognizable at perhaps age twelve or thirteen, Avery clinging to his mother, a wide-eyed babe.

  I meandered past portraits of Thayne’s father with his first wife and Thayne’s father as a young man until I came to another family portrait—an arrogant aristocrat of the mid-eighteenth century with his wife and three small children gathered ’round. The Hammersley blue eyes stared down at me from beneath hair the same shade of chestnut as Thayne and his father. The children, however . . . Clearly, the eldest was Thayne’s father, but the other two were another matter entirely. Both the younger boy and the girl, who must be Maud, had eyes so dark they appeared black. Not a hint of red colored their dark hair. Thayne’s face featured strong bones and a square chin. The younger brother’s face was thin, his chin almost pointed. On Maud, the result was striking, if not beautiful. Not so effective on her brother, who appeared pinched and perhaps sickly, even at the age of no more than ten.

  What had happened to him, I wondered. He was never mentioned—

  But, of course, this had to be Ross’s father.

  “Hugh,” said a voice behind me. “A lovely boy he was. Kind-hearted, gentle . . .” Maud’s words trailed away.

  “He’s dead?” I asked softly.

  “He and his wife both. In a carriage accident when Ross was but five. He came to us after that, was raised here until both boys went off to school. Not the same school, mind, Thayne being the heir and all. Poor little Avery missed them, but he still had Rab Guthrie.” Maud heaved an elaborate sigh. “Not that that turned out well,” she added on a grumble.

  I changed the subject. “Ross has the Hammersley looks,” I remarked, “yet his father does not.” I was re-examining the portrait when Maud’s extended silence brought my head back around. “I suppose it’s one of those jokes of nature every family encounters,” I offered.

  “We never speak of it,” Maud declared and scuttled off down the length of the gallery, the stick she had taken to carrying, tap-tap-tapping along the marble floor. As I stared after her, a shiver shook me. I had stumbled on something, though I knew not what. A family secret? Some deep, dark scandal?

  Were Maud and Hugh cuckoos on the family tree, the product of their mother’s indiscretion?

  Or were they merely anomalies, their dark eyes and thin faces descended from some far distant ancestor on the Hammersley family tree? Which might mean Ross was the cuckoo. But how? If born from his mother’s indiscretion, he would not have the Hammersley blue eyes.

  As if to punctuate my confusion, a cloud suddenly obscured the sun, leaving the portrait in shadow and reminding me why I was passing through the gallery. With a newly hatched idea of inviting Cressy and the family for a visit, I had been on my way to inspect the rooms and linen cupboard in the guest wing. Best get on with it. No sense conjuring any more trouble than we already had.

  A half hour later I returned to the main body of the house, delighted with the well-appointed rooms beyond the portrait gallery. At one time Falconfell must have entertained on a grand scale. No wonder Violet had so many party dresses. I was almost to the Yellow Room, where I was expecting to interview a candidate for housekeeper when it struck me: I could not possibly invite Cressy and the children into a house where a murderer roamed loose.

  Glumly, I sank down onto the nearest gilded chair. I was alone, on my own. I wanted to trust Thayne, but my inner voice reminded me that love was blind, taunting me with an eerily echoing, No-o peace, no lo-ove.

  I steepled my hands over my face and fought for control of my jaggedly mismatched emotions. Just wait, I vowed. Matters would improve, they had to.

  Yet was trust possible when I could sense evil in the very air we breathed? But where was its source? Thayne, Maud, Ross, some monster oozing out of the woodwork? Rab, Alice Maxwell, an unknown Hammersley by-blow turned anarchist? So easy to fantasize a villain when all logical answers were anathema.

  The truth was, the only person who had shown grief over Justine’s death was Ross. A grief too genuine to be feigned. So if he did not kill Justine, it seemed unlikely he had killed Helen. And no doubt my other suspicions were just as ephemeral. Thayne or Maud, an upstanding baron and his father’s sister, commit murder? Ludicrous. Rab Guthrie, a Hammersley without the name? Truthfully, I’d never seen a more gentle, easy-going giant. A fine, strong branch on the Hammersley family tree, if unblessed by clergy. No menace there. None. I’d stake my life on it.

  I had, in fact, done just that,. Rab Guthrie could have
seen me trapped among the shake holes, turned his back, and left me there.

  Anyone else, Serena? my inner voice taunted. Perhaps Nanny Roberts or the second footman? Old Edgar, the gardener? Avery, Isabelle, the doctor, the vicar?

  The only madness was mine. How could I doubt both women died of natural causes? Falconfell’s aura of evil was all in my head. I was responsible for the welfare of the household, from Violet and the youngest tweeny right on up to Thayne and Ross, the Hammersley cousins who were responsible for everything outside the house—the people, animals, moors, mountains, valleys, and streams.

  Shamed by my fantasies, I hurried down the corridor to the Yellow Room. I must have been scowling rather fiercely as I entered, for the poor woman waiting for me nearly toppled over in her rush to her feet. Her curtsy had a decided wobble.

  Inwardly, I sighed. Desperate as we were, a housekeeper who quaked at a frown would never do for Falconfell. I went through the motions of an interview and sent her on her way.

  That night I demonstrated my determination to conquer my fears by waiting in our private sitting room until Thayne came upstairs. His valet must have relayed the message immediately, as my husband came to me fully dressed, which I must admit caused a twinge or two of disappointment. The picture of Thayne in nothing but his indigo silk banyan had lingered in my head most delightfully for weeks.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked, sitting in a chair opposite the couch, where I had displayed myself in my new azure satin robe elaborately embroidered with waterlilies, arrived from London that morning. I thought I caught an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but if so, why had he not sat down beside me?

  “No, nothing,” I murmured. “Things have been remarkably quiet. For which I am infinitely grateful,” I added quickly. “But today . . .” I hesitated, suddenly realizing my curiosity might not justify intruding on such delicate family topics. That possibly I was using what I had seen in the portrait gallery as an excuse to speak to my husband in private. An intimacy that had occurred rarely in recent weeks.

  “I spent some time in the portrait gallery today,” I said. “It brought up some questions.”

  Thayne crossed his arms over his chest, his expression moving from bland inquiry to the hint of a gathering storm. If I had any sense, I would have invented a different topic on the spot. Instead, I plunged full ahead. “I saw a portrait of Maud when she was young and quite lovely. Violet looks so much like her I have difficulty believing such a strong resemblance could come . . . from a less close family connection.”

  “Did you examine the other children with as much care as you gave to Maud? Thayne returned, sarcasm in every word. “If so, you saw that her brother Hugh, Ross’s father, and Maud share the same eyes, the same thin facial features—”

  “That, too, was puzzling,” I interrupted. “How could Ross be the image of your father and you, when his own father has entirely different features?”

  Thayne slid down in his chair, scrubbed his hand over his face, tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair . . . “Someday,” he said, “we will understand the science of inheritance much better. But we have all seen dark generally triumphs over light, meaning Ross should have dark eyes, not blue. Yet we also see anomalies, common enough in the animal world and among humans as well. Hammersley blue eyes and chestnut hair have come down through the years, and so have the dark hair, dark eyes, and thin face of some other ancestor, perhaps Spanish, perhaps something even more exotic. The blood is there, and from time to time it pops up, sometimes to the embarrassment of all those involved.”

  “Ah . . . your grandmother did not have a roaming eye?” I ventured.

  Thayne guffawed—there was no other word for it. “If you had ever known my grandmother,” he finally said, after wiping his cheeks with a handkerchief, “you would know how absurd that sounds.

  “But if Hammersley males have such roving eyes, perhaps she felt she had a right—”

  “Roving eyes!” Thayne roared. “Where did you get that bit of madness?”

  I closed my eyes, pursed my lips, and took a deep breath. “You yourself told me about your grandfather and his proclivities. You have but to look around you. Everywhere I turn, I see the Hammersley blue eyes. Alice Maxwell, Rab Guthrie, at least one footman, the upstairs maid, old Edgar, the head gardener . . .”

  “Oh. I thought you were referring to me,” he mumbled before nodding his head. “I have to admit it’s true. My grandfather was notorious and his father before him. And likely a long line of barons before that.” Thayne re-crossed his arms over his chest. “As for my father, Rab is the only indiscretion I know about. I’m inclined to think my father strayed only between marriages. As for myself . . . I repeat what I said earlier, I never shared Justine’s bed. Though not for lack of her trying,” he added with considerable bitterness.

  I sat there, head bowed, hands clasped in my lap, certain I was a monumental failure as an investigator, as well as a helpmeet and a wife. I had touched on family secrets, posed uncomfortable questions, challenged comfortable assumptions (excuses?), when I was a wife in name only. Sometimes I wondered if such hasty marriages as ours were even legal.

  Really, Serena, are you assuming the vicar can be as easily bought with a new steeple, a new pipe organ, as the doctor was with a bag of guineas?

  One did not like to think so, but at Falconfell I was beginning to think anything was possible. Here, feudal England seemed but a stone’s throw away . . .

  “Serena?” My chin still down, I peeped at Thayne from under lowered lashes. “Tomorrow is the Summer Solstice. Would you care to view the bonfires from Falconcrest? We might even catch sight of a dance or two. The old ways are still very much alive in this part of the land.”

  My head snapped up. I stared. “You wish to climb Falconcrest at night?”

  “I’ve known every inch of it since I was out of leading strings. I assure you there is nothing to fear, and the festivities will be well worth it.”

  Mid-summer’s Eve with Thayne? The two of us climbing Falconcrest, viewing the revelry . . . I had never in my life been allowed out of the house on the night of the Summer Solstice. When I was a child, I had been too young and too obedient to sneak out. When I was older, I had learned the festivities were pagan, far beneath the dignity of a gentlewoman. And, besides, my informants hissed, they were dangerous. At least to any young woman who valued her good name.

  Mid-summer’s Eve in Northumberland. My spirits soared, I could scarcely wait. Thayne and I climbing Falconcrest on the most licentious night of the year . . .

  I slammed a dire hiss of warning to the back of my mind. Even if Thayne were not the man I hoped he was, he needed me. He approved the changes I was making at Falconfell. He liked my ability to organize, the recent even tenor of our days.

  And, I assured myself, it was much too soon for another death, particularly another Lady Hammersley.

  My smile might have been tremulous, but I answered with a right good will. “I would love to observe the bonfires of Mid-Summer’s Eve.”

  “Then we are agreed.” Thayne held out his hand and I put my fingers in his. Quite ridiculously, I stopped breathing. He placed his other hand on top, squeezing my hand between. A long moment’s pause, then he jumped to his feet, barked a good-night, and strode rapidly toward his bedchamber. The door banged shut behind him.

  Far from the innocent I’d been at eighteen, I wanted to believe he was running from unexpected attraction, but it seemed more likely he had taken a good look at competent but plain Serena and departed abruptly before he rescinded his invitation. I was not exactly a man’s ideal of the woman he wished as his companion for the Summer Solstice. Nonetheless . . .

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would climb Falconfell with Thayne Hammersley.

  The question was: would I come down again?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Being of a level-headed, practical nature, I shooed away my second thoughts about climbing Falconcrest with my husband. We would not be climb
ing in the dark, I realized, my mind wandering as I looked over Anton’s proposed menus for the next week. This far north, the sun rose around 4:30 in June and set close to 10:00, leaving a lingering twilight some time after that. We should be able to see quite well during our climb up the mountain.

  But coming down . . .? Would we would be trapped up there all night?

  I shivered, blushing hotly as I realized fear had nothing to do with my reaction. In the dark Thayne might forget I was a plain woman, destined for a life of service to others . . .He might hold me tight to shut out the mountain chill . . . perhaps even kiss me. Or would he, inspired by the excesses of Mid-summer revels, indulge in something more? I used one of Anton’s neatly penned menus to fan my face.

  Sad little spinster . . . can’t contain her excitement over a few hours alone with her husband. On occasions, my inner voice got out of hand.

  I haven’t been a spinster for weeks now!

  Spinster, virgin, what’s the difference?

  I rang for a maid, handed her the menus, unread, and asked her to return them to Anton with my approval. Our dinners for the coming week would be a surprise. The only ones, I hoped. But Bess had brought back rumblings from below stairs. Our new cook seemed equally receptive to the overtures of the housemaids and Avery, which had everyone in a twitter. And Rab Guthrie steaming with more than sweat from his duties as gamekeeper.

  I groaned. More problems Falconfell did not need. Problems I did not need. Perhaps, if I found enough breath while climbing tonight, I might bring up the matter to Thayne. Surely he had more experience with such a delicate topic than I.

  For a moment I pursed my lips, frowning over matters I was powerless to change. Why hang a man for the crime of love? And then there was Isabelle, the ultimate aristocrat, who lived in fear for her son’s life. Isabelle, who would rusticate year-round at Falconfell, embroidering altar cloths for every church in England, if that meant keeping Avery safe. And Rab the giant, perfectly splendid gamekeeper who undoubtedly filled the dreams of every female who had ever set eyes on him. Hopeless dreams.