I was a fool.
I should not let this happen.
Wary, that’s what a lone woman must be.
Yet how could I guard a heart already lost?
I read Jason’s letter one last time then folded it, pressed it flat, and tucked it into the Bible I kept in the drawer of the table beside my bed. Among the pages of the Song of Solomon. I doubted even Papa, a most worldly man of the cloth, would find my action blasphemous.
Five days of inactivity dragged by, and though my headache subsided to the point where I could read and even do a bit of mending, I could not be easy, could not settle my mind to doing as the doctor ordered and think of nothing but getting better. My brain whirled in blurred circles, with occasional words or visions popping into clarity. Demons, death, bonfire, boat, drown, death, rag and bone man, poison, death, a flying horse, a faceless Eileen Dawes, a cart wheel sailing into the canal.
Death.
Was Thomas Guthrie telling the truth? Or was Oxley trying to rid himself of someone who could confirm his heinous crime? Was Chas, not Nicholas, the target of the boys’ “accidents”?
I sat in the chair by the window, the summer breeze blowing across my face, and shook from head to toe. Jason! I can’t face this alone.
But that was my current weakness talking. I was imagining things.
Imagining someone had tried to drown the boys, poison them, toss them out of a careening cart?
I sat there, staring out the window, forcing myself to examine the view—the lawn, the wild rose hedge, the endless marsh, the seagulls circling overhead. So idyllic, yet danger stalked just out of sight.
At that point Josie, arriving with my luncheon tray, interrupted my chaotic thoughts. Unfortunately, her visits frequently brought more worries. Her tales of near-daily visits from Miss Talmadge, or of Cressida, her mother, and Nicholas visiting the Talmadges, did not aid my recovery.
“Real forward she is, ma’am,” Josie had told me only the day before. “Looks at the master like a cat eyeing cream. And him doin’ his best to hide in his bookroom. Fair turns my stomach, it does. Cook says all the Talmadges be coming to dinner tonight, Sir Basil too.” Josie paused to draw breath before plunging on. ’N’ Charlie heard Lady Hadley say as how Mr. Lunsford won’t get away this time, less’n he refuses to come to dinner.”
I admit no small satisfaction in hearing that Jason was so unwilling to be caught, but I could not like the thought of a predatory female running tame in the household, as Alyssa Talmadge seemed to be doing at the moment. With little reluctance, I succumbed to the temptation to pursue our current mystery. “And does Mr. Talmadge also visit?” I asked.
“Not seen hide nor hair of him, ma’am. Mrs. Allard says she doesn’t think he’s best pleased to call a Lunsford friend.”
Could brother and sister truly be working at cross-purposes? It seemed unlikely, yet . . .
I sat at a small table near the window, spooning up Cook’s hearty soup and popping bits of bread in my mouth, while my brain skittered hither and yon before deteriorating into nonsensical bits and pieces chasing themselves in endless circles.
“Mama!” Chas burst into the room, red-faced and disheveled, his nose dripping blood. Somehow I managed to put the tray aside without disaster and come to my feet before he barreled into me, burying his face on my breast and hugging me tight.
“Chas, what’s happened? Tell me quickly.”
“I want to sleep here, Mama! Please. I want to come back.”
“Of course you may come back.” I settled into my chair, pulling him into my lap. I wiped the blood from his nose. “Look at me, Chas. Now tell me, slowly and clearly, what has happened.”
His customarily angelic features settled into a stubborn mask I knew all too well he had inherited from me. Oh dear. His lower lip edged out, completing the look I remembered from mirrors in my childhood. And perhaps from more times than should have occurred in my later years. “He said horrid things, Mama.”
“Nicholas?” Chas made a grunting noise I took for a yes. “What kind of things?”
Once again, Chas turned silent, his lips now thinned to a straight line.
“About me?” I guessed.
Silence.
“Would you care to tell Mr. Lunsford about it?” Chas’s eyes opened wide, as if thoroughly shocked by the idea of speaking to the master of the house. “Perhaps Amos?” A swift, if silent, negative to that also.
I swallowed a sigh. Clearly, this was a delicate matter that would take time to sort out. “You and Nicholas fought?” I prompted. Again, a silent nod. I stifled a sigh, for I could only presume that Nicholas—older, bigger, and stronger—won. I kissed Chas on the forehead. “I will have Peg pack your things and move them back to the dressing room. And now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
One good thing, I realized as I washed his face and skinned hands, feeling my son’s anguish chased all other problems out of my head.
Until the following morning when I descended the stairs for the first time in nearly a week, bent on burdening Jason with the problem of the boys’ falling out, and discovered my fellow conspirator, friend, and possible lover gone, replaced by the coolly polite but distant man who had interviewed me on my first day at Lunsford Hall.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Mrs. Tyrell.” Jason stood, inclining his head in a formal nod as I entered the bookroom. Though the day was warm, a chill swept through me, my eager smile faded. I had missed him, longed to see him, in fact. Longed to pursue the personal interest his note implied. A hope now shattered by two words and a stony face. He might well have been a cathedral gargoyle designed to scare away inimical spirits.
Such as demons.
As I sat in my usual chair in front of his desk, I attempted to school my face to indifference, but my confusion—more truthfully, my hurt—was all too apparent.
“If I seem abrupt, Mrs. Tyrell,” Jason said, matching my frown with one of his own, “I apologize. Matters have not gone well over the last few days, even spilling into the nursery, as I understand.”
My breath hitched. Of course he would have heard about the fight. Wide-eyed and wordless, I waited to hear what more had happened while I was tucked away in my bedchamber.
“There has been talk, and I am deeply sorry for it.”
Talk? What kind of talk? Was that the reason . . .?
Oh, dear.
“Let us deal with the matter of the cart first,” Jason declared in a sudden shift to brisk lord of the manor. “I have been informed it is almost impossible for a wheel to come off of its own accord. Apparently, the bolt was loosened, making this yet another attempt on Nicholas’s life.”
I had suspected it, of course, but the bald statement sent a shiver through me, nonetheless. What kind of fiend would kill a child? Nor mind who else died with him? The hole in the boat, poisoned sweets, and now this. A knot of horror twisted in my stomach, shot up to my head, crushing my confidence, my good sense, even my faith in God. This could not be happening. I had come here seeking safety for Chas and for myself. Yet of all the houses in all the counties of England, I had found a place more dangerous than the one I’d left.
Jason was drumming his fingers on his desk, his gaze fixed on the park outside. He huffed a sigh. “Guthrie has been informed and is making every effort to discover who is behind all this. As am I. We are, I believe, well beyond a situation that can be solved by clergy, no matter how well-intentioned.”
Mutely, I nodded.
“From now on, you and the boys will go nowhere without Amos, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No excursions beyond the park. No solitary walks, not even along the beach.”
Again, I agreed. How could I not?
“And now . . .” Jason paused, an uncomfortable silence shimmering between us. “I repeat my apology,” he muttered, his good hand fisted on top of his desk. “There has been talk, some of it vicious. And it is my fault. Call it overzealous concern, midnight madnes
s—whatever you will—I should not have been in your bedchamber.”
So that was it. Inwardly, I groaned. Of course he should not have been there, but waking to find him beside me had been the greatest comfort imaginable. And that letter . . .
“And the whispers do not end there,” Jason continued, his gaze now focused somewhere past my shoulder, as if he could not bear to look at me. (Or have me look at him.) “More rumors have cropped up, though from where I have no idea. It’s being said you are a . . . that you were a wild child and lost your reputation when you ran away with an impoverished gentleman, whom you married over the anvil.”
I heard the question in his voice and knew I must respond.
“It is true I married in Gretna Green,” I told him, “but my husband was not impoverished. It was his aunt who gave us shelter and left us her property in Kent. And I was far from a wild child,” I added softly. “It could be said I was guilty of independent thinking, but for the most part I was a pattern-card of virtue. My papa would have tolerated nothing less.”
“It is also being said you had to flee Kent due to the wrath of the dowager Lady Oxley, your new lover’s mother, who considered you quite unsuitable.”
Indignation shot through me. “You cannot believe that!”
“Of course I don’t believe it. But others do. Which means—” Jason drew in a ragged breath. “Which means you must show a front more virtuous than the most sheltered virgin.”
I made a moue of disgust, adding a noise that was close to a snort. “So . . .,” I said on a whisper, “I have become one of the demons of Fenley Marsh.”
“I fear so.”
“Do you wish me to leave?”
“No!”
Now there was the first good word I’d heard so far.
“I beg your pardon, Miranda. That was selfish of me. If you think it best for you and Chas to leave us, then I cannot ask you to stay.”
Oh, foolish heart. What right had I to keep Chas in harm’s way?
Coward that I am, I used the tenets taught in childhood as an excuse to do what my heart dictated. “My father is a man of God,” I said. “He would, I think, counsel me to stay and help find an answer to what is wrong here.”
A quiver shook Jason’s body. I wanted to think he was repressing a sigh of relief, but that might have been wishful thinking. “Very well,” he declared in his most neutral tones, “but I beg you to be careful. For your own sake, as well as for the boys’.”
Boys. Silently, I thanked him for including Chas in his concern. Then, emboldened by this hint of the old Jason, I asked, “Is there any word about Miss Dawes?”
“Nothing so far.”
Cloaking myself in a formality I might have used when being presented to the queen, I asked, “Is that all, sir?”
At his abrupt “Yes,” I stood, offered a cool nod, and swept out of the room, head high, even though my insides were quaking. I had a very good idea who was blackening my reputation. And why. Alyssa Talmadge had brought out her big guns. Though where she had acquired gossip nearly a decade old I had no idea. Someone had been diligent indeed. Did her mother correspond with old friends in London? Or possibly Warwickshire? Or was Mr. Guthrie lying through his teeth, his employer not someone from my past but the villain who lived among us?
I had thought the Bow Street Runner a possible savior, a stalwart aid in helping us out of whatever was threatening us from all sides. But what if . . .
I held the banister tight as I climbed the stairs, dire thoughts besieging me from every direction. I had hoped to go down to dinner that night, my first appearance since the accident. Instead, I sent word that I would once again dine in my room.
Coward!
I snapped back at my inner voice. Under these circumstances who would not be a coward?
Needless to say, the next morning the nursery was not a comfortable place to be. But I was determined to return to our daily routine, something I felt could only benefit the boys, as well as myself. If the atmosphere resembled a conference between two warring nations, so be it.
After two hours of lessons—the only smiles my own, and quite abominably false—we paused for nursery “tea.” I nibbled on a pastry while gathering enough courage to broach the topic that hung over us like a thundercloud. “Nicholas,” I said at last, “are you enjoying your visits to the Talmadges?”
He flushed, shoved a strawberry tart in his mouth and chewed. Ostentatiously.
“It cannot be very interesting to hear the ladies talk?” I ventured, knowing I should be ashamed of myself for prying, but surely the circumstances warranted it.
Nicholas’s face grew even redder. Still chewing, he shook his head.
Chas, bursting with news, answered for him. “Mr. Talmadge has collections. Birds and butterflies, strange rocks, even a case full of animal paws. Nicholas told me,” he added when I stared in surprise.
“They were his father’s,” Nicholas said, the odd and intriguing collections at the Talmadges evidently overcoming his reluctance to speak. “There’s even a cabinet with things from the Orient and a shrunken head from the Amazon.”
“The elder Mr. Talmadge was an explorer?” I asked. Somehow I had not received the impression that he had been an adventurer. Except at the card table.
“No, ma’am. I believe he was only a collector. Or so Mr. Talmadge—Mr. Miles Talmadge—said.”
Hearing details about the deceased Mr. Talmadge’s eclectic interests gave me a twinge of guilt, as if somehow, through my interest in Jason—also guiltless in the matter of the Talmadge’s loss of their ancestral home—I too had contributed to their reduced circumstances. “I am glad you had an opportunity to see these collections, Nicholas, but I fear you may have overheard things not suitable for your ears. Would you say that is true?”
Nicholas hung his head. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.
“And did you repeat those things to Chas?”
“Yes, ma’am.” A response so soft I could barely hear it.
“And that is what began your quarrel?”
Sullen and shame-faced, Nicholas nodded.
What to say? How to roll this hideous moment into a lifetime lesson?
“Nicholas? Chas? I want you both to listen carefully. You are taught to respect your elders, to do as you are told . . . but sometimes part of growing up is to learn that adults are not always right and that sometimes we have to do what we know in our hearts to be right instead of follow a path we know to be wrong.”
Was I making any sense at all? At least I seemed to have their full attention, their heads up, eyes fixed on my face.
“It is never good to speak ill of someone, even when some of what you say might be true. For it is all too easy to take a few true things and twist them into something bad.” Suddenly, inspiration hit me. “You both know what a good man Mr. Lunsford is, am I right?” Both boys solemnly nodded. “But his injuries in the war twisted his face until he looks like he might be a bad person.” I could see comprehension dawning in both young faces. “Do his damaged looks make him evil, a monster?”
“No,” both boys chorused.
“And have you ever seen me do something that would make you think I am a bad person?”
“No!” Chas shouted, his face betraying the most anger I had ever seen in him.
“No, ma’am,” Nicholas murmured, head down. “Never. “But Miss Talmadge said—”
“Miss Talmadge,” I interrupted, “said what she should not have said.”
“She wants Mr. Lunsford for herself,” Chas announced.
“Chas!”
“Well, it’s true. I heard Josie say that to Mrs. Allard.” Self-righteousness oozed from every pore.
“Chastain Jordan Tyrell . . .” My voice trailed away into nothing as I realized the futility of telling him not to eavesdrop. Children would always listen and absorb any careless words said in front of them. “Chas . . .” I heaved a sigh before continuing. “You are to pay no more attention to gossip than is Nicholas. Whe
ther you are a captive audience in a drawing room or overhear servants’ gossip, you will not assume it true and swallow it whole. Nor will you repeat what you have heard nor use that information to cause hurt to someone else. Do you understand what I have said?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another duet of young voices.
“Nicholas, I believe you have apologies to make. “To me and to Chas.”
Nicholas squirmed, a shine of tears in his eyes. Good, perhaps there was hope for him yet. Slowly, he got to his feet, bowed to me, and made his apology. He turned to Chas and did the same before sinking back into his chair and fixing his gaze firmly out one of the windows overlooking the salt marsh.
“I confess I am tired,” I said. “I believe we have had enough lessons for today. I shall tell Nurse Robbins that I am going to my room to rest and that you boys are allowed to have free time here in the schoolroom until after luncheon. “Would you like to ride your ponies this afternoon? If so, I will send word to Amos.”
This elicited the first enthusiastic response of the morning, and I went downstairs hopeful that the boys were on the way to making peace with each other.
I was not feigning being tired. A week of enforced inactivity is not the best preparation for a morning with two active boys, particularly boys who had recently fought a pitched battle. I threw myself on my bed, closed my eyes, and immediately wished I’d stayed in the schoolroom. At least there my brain was occupied, while now . . .
Dear God, things just kept getting worse. What on earth were we to do?
At least the boys were no longer attempting to kill each other.
Maybe. I listened for sounds of shouts and thumps above my head and heaved a sigh of relief when all remained quiet.
I punched my pillow and tried to think of happier things, but truth was, someone was trying to kill Nicholas and did not care who else might die with him. My reputation had been dealt a killing blow as well, and Jason had dropped a curtain of formality over any relationship that might have been developing between us. Looking back on our latest conversation, I felt it a wonder he had not demanded I burn his letter.
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 16
