Lady Anne 01 - Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark

by Donna Lea Simpson

  A rustling sound outside startled them both, but before she could be alarmed, Anne heard a voice softly calling, “Lord Darkefell… are you there?”

  “It’s Mr. Boatin,” she said and undid the latch, opening the door.

  The secretary entered with a wary glance between the marquess and Anne. “Good evening, my lady,” he said with a proper bow. Irusan trotted to him immediately and leaped up into his arms, knocking him slightly off balance. “Oof… and Sir Irusan! I was concerned when his lordship did not return at the appointed time.”

  “And you’re familiar with this place,” she said.

  “I know every spot on the estate,” he answered, caution delineated in his expression and his careful answer. He stroked the big cat.

  “The deception is over,” Darkefell said, eyeing Osei and his purring armful. “She caught me in my bestial vestments and promptly set them aflame. Tomorrow we must retrieve the remnants of the costume. The werewolf—at least this one—is dead.” He said the last with a significant look to Anne.

  It was beginning to rain. If he could have saved her the walk, he would have, but he enlisted Mr. Boatin to accompany Anne back to Ivy Lodge, while he limped back to the castle.

  Anne, Osei, and Irusan made their way speedily through the drenching downpour. She tried to question Mr. Boatin, but it was all they could do to keep their footing as they skulked through the woods and slid down the slippery hillside back to Ivy Lodge, the secretary carrying Irusan under his coat so the cat wouldn’t get wet. Fortunately, he had a key to a garden door and could let her in without alerting the household to her scandalous late-night perambulation. She and Irusan went up to her room without creating any unnecessary commotion. Mary was nearly frantic, but Anne calmed her down without telling her much, brushing Irusan’s bramble-knotted fur while Mary performed the same task for her. She was exhausted and confused, and just wanted to sleep, but feared slumber would elude her for quite a while.

  Was it Ellen she saw walking away from the lodge? If so, where did the girl go? She curled up under her covers, with Irusan a weighty presence beside her, and fell quickly into a deep, troubled sleep filled with dreams of wild creatures and midnight terror, and Darkefell—always Darkefell—threatening her with sensual torment.

  That same question was on her mind the next morning, so she was up early, and even before breakfast, she ventured to Mrs. Hailey’s lair. The woman was short with her, but the answer to her question was, Ellen had apparently not returned. No one knew why. And now another maid had left; Caroline, one of the downstairs’ maids, had disappeared.

  Perhaps that was the blonde young woman Anne saw leaving in the night; if so, she left of her own accord. Anne said, “I’m going into Hornethwaite today, Mrs. Hailey, with Lord Darkefell. If Ellen has family there, I could check with them to make sure she’s all right and find out what has happened.”

  The housekeeper reluctantly agreed, and Anne left with directions to Ellen’s family dwelling. Lord Darkefell arrived at the gate of Ivy Lodge promptly at two, and they set out to Hornethwaite.

  Anne, seated beside the marquess in the high-perch phaeton, suited to such a sunny day after the rainy night, was without the accompaniment of Robbie, since the poor child was still not feeling well, a bellyache brought on by too many slices of fresh bread slipped to him by a complaisant cook who doted on hungry little boys. Lydia, too, was not well and was confined to her bed. Irusan seemed content to stay with Robbie, after his adventurous nocturnal prowl.

  As she and the marquess trotted briskly along the country road toward Hornethwaite, Anne kept casting glances at him, noting the firmness of his gloved hands on the reins, his strong jaw, his perfectly molded lips in profile. “Sir,” she said with no preamble, “I cannot help but think that the continual kisses and caresses you inflict upon me are your way of distracting me from something—a logical mind will then proceed to the question: ‘What is he hiding?’”

  “I have never had a lady reproach me in quite such a manner,” he said, his lips twitching. “So I inflict kisses upon you, do I?”

  She sighed. “Will we never have a conversation that does not consist of questions to answer questions to answer questions?”

  “Do you notice that you have done the same thing yourself, just now?”

  “So I have!” she exclaimed, gasping. “And so have you.”

  “Between us, we must have a surfeit of inquisitiveness.”

  “And we always come back to discussing it.” She was silent for a while, watching the scenery. So far, her visit had been so full of turmoil that she had not had time for any of the things she normally did when visiting: writing letters, drawing, walking, exploring. And this was a place she would, above all, love to see. The Yorkshire landscape was unexpected in its variety, beauty, and appeal to her.

  “I think,” he said, glancing over at her, the reins slack in his hands as his handsome team trotted along the hard-packed road, “you should know that not all kisses are alike.”

  “I have experienced a kiss or two before yours, you know.”

  “Oh?” he growled.

  “Yes. Even a plain woman, be she of good birth and ready fortune, will be importuned for kisses.”

  “I think you value your attractions too lightly,” he said, his deep voice holding a gentle tone.

  She glanced over at him and could not look away, examining his face, the dark shadow where his beard had been perfectly sheared, his exquisite tailoring, his long dark lashes. He was perhaps too hard and bold to be considered by society a beautiful man, but she thought him exquisite. His very beauty made her tremble inside, and she chided herself at the shallow nature of her attraction. However, on reflection, she was grateful; if her inner trembling could be explained by attraction to his handsome appearance, she would soon be rid of unwanted sensations. Even perfect beauty, when viewed too often, would become everyday.

  He met her gaze, and she felt it, then, to the core. She was deceiving herself. Her powerful attraction to him had little to do with his looks, as perfectly suited to feminine appreciation as they were. There was something within him that called to her, and she was terrified to answer. She looked away, her stomach aching, her gaze misty and unseeing, all attention turned inward. What was it? And how could she defeat the irrational appeal he held for her? It was unthinkable to fall in love with such a man. Even if he should consider her for a wife, being wed to him would lead to her becoming completely besotted, she feared. Drowning in love was too terrifying a notion to contemplate.

  She struggled to think of anything else, and as she stared at a distant rise and green fields trailing upwards, she said, “Darkefell, what role do you wish me to take in the questioning of William Spottiswode? I saw him once on the street, and know I will understand only one word in three that he utters, given his impenetrable accent. But what little I have seen of him and understand, I utterly despise.” She turned to look at the marquess. “You, as a lifelong inhabitant of this place, will understand him, no doubt. I know I asked to come along, but I doubt myself now.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I’ve come to appreciate the acuity of your mind, the steadiness of your character, and the depth of your understanding of people. I trust your ability to look beyond words, my lady, and would say, then, that understand what you can, ask your questions through me, and keep your eyes open. I will, despite my initial resistance to your accompaniment, be interested in your opinion.”

  And there he was again, appallingly fair-minded. She could not dislike him, no matter how much she tried.

  But he had to stop kissing her; that was all there was to it.

  Twenty

  Darkefell put the team and phaeton up at the livery stable and walked, with Anne on his arm, to the guildhall near the magistrate’s grand mansion at the top of the village. The guildhall was a long, large structure built into the rocky side of a hill. In the basement, cells held prisoners until they could be transported to the assize c
ourt in York.

  “A hundred years ago, when the woolen industry took hold and commerce with Scotland was unsteady, my ancestors built the guildhall and encouraged the people of Hornethwaite to create a local weaving guild. Hornethwaite weave is renowned for its fine texture and beauty.”

  She cast him an amused glance. “I would think you’re trying to sell me something, sir, you’re so persuasive.”

  He was silent for the rest of the walk, but she didn’t blame him for his serious humor. They had spoken of it already; he couldn’t bear the idea that an innocent man might hang but felt it even more terrible that a guilty one might go free, a threat to his people and the peace of his community. She should be probing him for what his involvement in this whole mess was—she strongly felt he was not telling the whole truth—but she absolved him of the most serious charge: murder upon Cecilia Wainwright. He said he was speaking with his mother when Anne arrived at Ivy Lodge that awful night, and if that was true, then it exonerated both of them, not that she had seriously considered the marchioness a suspect.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  The guildhall was large, with a columned entrance flanked by elegant wings. Enormous glass windows reflected the afternoon sun and dazzled her eyes momentarily. He led her up the steps and inside, where proper obeisance was made to him by the custodian of the hall, a Mr. Conyngton. The man bowed and clanked his keys officiously, their footsteps echoing as he led them through a series of vast chambers then down some stairs to a dank passageway.

  Lanterns were perpetually lit in the gloom, and the light flickered and danced up the dank stone walls. The smell—putrefaction, dirt, and human waste—invaded Anne’s nostrils. She took a kerchief from her pocket and held it over her nose, the scent of lavender a welcome respite, and asked to carry a candle or lantern.

  “My lady,” Darkefell said as he took down a wall lantern and handed it to her, “I’ll not think less of you if you wish to return upstairs. Mr. Conyngton could take you to a drawing room and fetch you some tea or other refreshment.”

  “Gracious lady, my wife would be honored if you would come up and partake of her tea and cakes… the lightest in this county, milady,” the fellow said, bobbing his head. “Please, let me take you from this formidable place, for the delicacy of a lady should never be tested so severely.”

  That fussing was all Anne needed to steel herself. “I’m perfectly well, gentlemen,” she stated, taking the kerchief away from her nose and holding her lamp high. “Thank you for your concern. Lead on.”

  The tunnels were narrow and oppressive, dampness seeping through cracks. Faint scuttling sounds from creatures sent chills up Anne’s back. The marquess did not top six feet, but the ceiling was low enough that he had to duck his head in places.

  They arrived at their destination, a row of cells. The first in the line was inhabited by a weeping woman. Anne paused at the cell door. “Why are you here, my dear?” she asked, her voice echoing oddly into the cell.

  The huddled woman peered over at her, blinking in the faint light of the lamp Anne held.

  “Don’t pay no attention to ’er beefin,’” Conyngton said. “Widow Bess Parker… thief, she is. Stole a bolt o’ fabric and lace trimming from the dressmaker she worked fer, Mrs. Holderness. Base treachery, to steal from yer employer like that!”

  “Did not, Mister Tom, I didn’t! ’Twas an accusation, but I didn’t do’t! Wouldn’t dare steal from madam, now, would I? Not wi’ three young ‘uns to feed an’ poor Jack dead.”

  “If you didn’t do it, why are you accused?” Anne asked, holding the lamp close to the cell door and searching the woman’s red-rimmed eyes. She seemed a clean sort, given her surroundings, and was even pretty in a work-worn way, with tumbles of red-brown hair, matted though it was and dirty from her time in the cell. But prettiness was no indication of character.

  “’Twere that gossip, Mrs. Jenkins!” the woman said on a sob. She clapped her hands together in a prayerful attitude. “Oh! Pardon me, miss… ma’am… M-Mrs. Jenkins, she came t’the shop an’… an’ accused me o’ all manner o’ filthy things.”

  “Mrs. Lily Jenkins?” Anne asked. The marquess surged forward, but Anne held up her free hand, and he stayed back in the shadows. His appearance might have been enough to frighten the woman into silence.

  “Yes’m.”

  “You call her proper, y’mind!” Conyngton said, hitting his stick against the cell bars. “This ’ere is ’er ladyship, Lady Anne Addison!”

  “Stop it, Mr. Conyngton,” Anne said angrily. “Is that how you treat all of your prisoners?”

  “It is a jail,” the marquess murmured behind her.

  “That doesn’t mean we treat people like animals, sir,” Anne retorted, turning and glaring at him. She turned back and peered through the cell-door bars. “Of what, exactly, did Mrs. Jenkins accuse you?”

  The woman approached the bars more closely and whispered, “Foolin’ wiv her ’usband, ma’am. She don’t trust ’im, I s’pose, an’ someone told ’er… ’e was wiv me. ’Tweren’t me, I swear’t! We talked oncet on the street, but no more’n that. She said summat to Mistress Holderness, an’ next day I was up on charges. Found fabric in my room, they did, an’ lace, too, but I swear I din’t do’t!” She broke down weeping.

  The weight of the woman’s franticness bore down on Anne. Clutching the greasy bars, disregarding the state of her fine lawn kerchief, she asked, “Where are your children?”

  “Wiv me mum, but she can’t keep ’em. They’ll go t’almshouse! My poor babes.”

  Anne looked over at the marquess in the shadows and whispered, “Darkefell, I’ve met Lily Jenkins. I’d like to look into this.”

  “I know of Benjamin Jenkins, of course, and his wife. But we do have more pressing business, my lady,” he said, his tone tense.

  “Then I will do it myself once we are out of this place,” she said, not willing to go into the reasons she doubted anything Lily Jenkins said right at that moment. If this proved to have been a false arrest based on Mrs. Jenkins’s word, it exposed the woman as willing to twist people’s lives to soothe her jealous heart. She had seemed irrational on the subject of Fanny Allengate, suggesting she was not as innocent as others thought her. Had Lily Jenkins had anything to do with the young woman’s tragic end?

  Anne was still haunted by Richard Allengate’s consuming grief over his sister’s death. All Anne knew was that Fanny had been found on Darkefell’s estate, near the waterfall. If there was a connection to Cecilia’s murder, it escaped her, but her curiosity was piqued now. She turned back to the woman. “I cannot promise anything, but I’ll find out what I can.” She pushed her kerchief through the bars, begged the woman to take it, and left Bess Parker weeping. She swept on down the line of cells, followed by the marquess and Mr. Conyngton, who had retreated to sulky, silent obedience after Anne’s rebuke.

  “This be ’is cell,” Conyngton said finally as they got to the end of the row. “We ’ad to put ’im ’ere, ’cause he talks and yells and snores and makes such a clamorous noise.”

  Darkefell turned to Anne as Conyngton unlocked the cell door. “Are you certain you wish to come and speak with him?”

  “I am,” she said.

  They both edged into the narrow cell, and the marquess said loudly, “Spottiswode, wake up!”

  With a huff and grunt, William Spottiswode roused himself and sat up on his straw pallet. A rat scuttled away into a crevice as he shifted. He blearily stared up at them both, his bloodshot eyes dim with hopelessness.

  Conyngton, who had edged into the cell, too, kicked his leg and said, “Say a proper ’ello to the marquess and Lady Anne, you worthless drunk.”

  “Conyngton, enough!” Darkefell barked. “Leave us with him.”

  “I can’t do that, milord,” the man said with a shocked expression on his fleshy face. “What if he’d fall upon you and morder you? It’d be worth my ’ide!”

  “I think I can handle him,” Darkefell said dryly
, flexing his shoulder muscles.

  Anne bit her lip at the unexpected humor of the paunchy warden, thinking he might need to leap to the marquess’s rescue, half Conyngton’s age, near twice his height, and three times his strength as Darkefell was.

  The fellow bowed and backed out of the cell. “You ’oller good ’n loud if you need me, now, and tell me when I should lock ’im up again.”

  Darkefell squatted by the prisoner and said, “Spottiswode, do you know who I am?”

  He nodded. Anne watched him. He looked like a beaten dog, cringing. He was covered in bloody sores, scratches, filth crusting his face and hair, a disgusting and pitiable sight. At that moment, a noise in the passageway alerted them to someone else’s approach. It was Sir Trevor Pomfroy, his pompous voice the first indication as he browbeat Conyngton before arriving outside of Spottiswode’s cell.

  “My lord, I thought you would announce yourself to me first,” Pomfroy said, a testy edge to his voice as he arrived at the cell. “If I hadn’t seen your phaeton, I would not have known of your arrival.” He entered the cell, too.

  Anne swiftly glanced at the marquess; visibly annoyed, it was clear that he hadn’t wanted the magistrate present. Darkefell stood and said, “I rather wished to make this less of a trial to you, Pomfroy.”

  “This is my duty, my lord, and I will always do my duty.”

  Giving into the inevitable, Darkefell crouched down to Spottiswode again. “Willie, isn’t it? Willie, I understand you have expressed some hesitation about your memory of facts. Are you recanting your confession?”

  The man just stared. Anne watched and saw his bleary gaze flick between the magistrate and the marquess.

  “Darkefell, simpler words?” she murmured.

  Startled, he glanced up at her and nodded. “Of course. Willie, do you still say you killed Cecilia Wainwright?”