The English Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  Suddenly, ahead, there was a lighter patch. With a low oath Roger pulled the horse to a stop. “Leonie, hush. I must go and look to be sure no one is lying in wait at the house. My dear, I am sorry to be so cruel to you. You have much to weep for, I know, but try not to weep now.”

  He did not know whether his plea would overset her and drive her to hysteria and he was prepared to muffle her cries by force if he had to, but the sobs choked off and a trembling hand took the reins. Roger made his way toward the lighter area and saw, within it, the dark bulk of a large house. There was no sign of life—no light, no movement. Roger crept forward, crouching and sliding from one shadow to another. Eventually he reached the house. He could see that the doors had been wrenched from their hinges and the hall loomed black and empty.

  Nothing. Desolation. Ruin. Roger stared around, wondering whether he should permit Leonie to come here. She had said she expected the house to be a ruin, but when she saw it… Roger swallowed. The sky was already lightening with a predawn luminescence. The horse was tired. There was nowhere else to go. They could not abandon Henry’s body as if it were a piece of dross. Shaking himself as though to cast off a pall, Roger began to make his way cautiously around the house.

  No one was lying in wait. Roger had one fright when he heard a scrabbling sound near the kitchen quarters and something mottled pale and dark flashed away into the shadows. After he had swallowed the heart that leaped into his mouth, he told himself it was just a rat and moved toward the stables. Those too, were quiet, and Roger saw with relief that they had not been emptied completely. The horses were gone, of course, but those who looted the house had no use for a gentleman’s carriages. What could be used had been ripped out of them, and they had been slashed and shattered—senseless destruction to relieve centuries of repression and hatred—but the remnants were still in the carnage house. Roger was reasonably certain he could conceal his own shabby vehicle among the broken ruins.

  Alone in the carriage, Leonie stared around at the narrow lane that had been almost as familiar to her as the house itself. How often had she ridden down it astride La Belle, her pretty mare. Where was La Belle? She shuddered, pressing a hand against her mouth to silence the whimpers of grief and loss and terror. Broken! Overgrown! Ruined! Her whole life was like the lane, like the house she could not see—but she could sense the silence, the desolation. If she were dead…

  That thought brought her up sharp. She was not dead. She did not wish to die. Her life was not a ruin! Monsieur St. Eyre had told her she was not destitute. Lonely and frightened—yes, Leonie acknowledged she was lonely and frightened. She wished Mama and Papa and François were alive—but she could not bring them back. Either she must give up and lie down and die, or she must put her grief behind her and look ahead to the new life she must make. Monsieur St. Eyre—no, Roger. Leonie lingered on the name, the pain of unshed tears in her throat easing. She was not alone.

  Slowly, while Roger searched for hidden spies and traps, Leonie came to terms with what had happened. She felt a little guilty at not grieving more, but she knew that it was because there was little grief left in her. When Mama had died, she had grieved full measure and overflowing. There was not much reason to grieve for Papa now. His pain was over. He was at peace. If only she could bury him with Mama… He had wanted that so much.

  A flicker of movement on the road made her gasp, but Roger’s voice came softly almost at once. “It is I, Leonie.” He came closer and looked up at her for a long moment. “There is no one here yet, but… The house—it’s—like a ravished woman.”

  Infinitesimally Leonie stiffened, but the pain and revulsion in Roger’s face were very soothing to the hurt he did not even know she bore. Two things were clear to her. Roger was very sensitive, and he did not think it amusing—as was not infrequent with men—to force a woman. The conviction sent a flow of warm comfort through Leonie. She had not been consciously afraid of Roger and she did not fear coupling. Nonetheless, the violence of the past hours had wakened an inner awareness of her helplessness and dependence, of her inability to resist. The dark and fear had sparked some subconscious comparison with the night she and her family had been seized amid violence. Rape, pain and shame had followed. Somehow, deep inside, she had expected the same culmination.

  “I am so sorry,” Roger continued, getting into the carriage. “It hurt me to see such beauty despoiled, and I know it will be worse for you who loved the house. I wish—”

  “Thank you for warning me,” Leonie said as his voice faded helplessly, “but I knew. There is nowhere else to go and—and if I cannot bury Papa by Mama, which is what he wished, at least he can be here where her spirit lives.”

  Roger patted the small, cold hands before he took the reins from them. It was a relief that Leonie recognized the need to inter Henry, but Roger shuddered at the problems. Where was he to find tools with which to dig a decent grave? It was nearly morning. He did not think he could manage to do it that night, and if he did, would not a new grave be noticed? It would not be safe to stay long after Henry was buried, but the horse could not really go much farther.

  The lane led around to the back of the house and the stables. Roger stopped by the back door. Again there was a flicker of movement low to the ground. He glanced nervously at Leonie, hoping she had not noticed. Most women were terrified by rats. No, she had not seen the animal, and this time it had fled out of the house. Roger’s heart contracted at her pain. Warning was one thing, seeing another. Her eyes were staring wide, her cheeks wet.

  “I am glad Papa is dead,” she whispered. “I am glad.”

  Chapter Seven

  Somehow the things necessary for concealment were done. Roger pushed the carriage in among the wrecks and strewed it with straw, then leaned a broken wheel so that it concealed the perfectly sound wheel behind it. Meanwhile, Leonie took the horse away to hide it in the maze. There was a small sheltered area in the center of the maze. No one could see the center, and the tall hedges would muffle any sounds the horse made. It could not find its way out, and no one would attempt to thread the maze’s overgrown paths. There was plenty of grass and even a small decorative pool at which the animal could drink.

  Roger could have kissed the ground Leonie walked on for her marvelous self-control, for the way she put aside her grief and horror to be of practical assistance. He was also grateful that she went away. There was no way that Henry’s body could be handled with dignity and decency. It would have been dreadfully painful for Leonie to see Roger haul her father’s corpse around like an old sack of wheat, yet there was nothing else he could do. This way, by the time Leonie returned. Roger had been able to lay the body straight on a counter in the scullery. In the faint gray light of coming dawn, he was even able to find and pull down a window drape, too spoiled by fire and water to make it desirable as loot, to cover Henry.

  Later, between them they managed to carry the body down into the cellar and place it where it was not likely to be discovered, since neither movement nor breath could betray its presence. Last, Leonie showed Roger the wine cask, warped and empty, that marked the entrance to the hidden tunnels. The sun was up now, and some light filtered through a distant window, at least enough to see. When one knew the secret, it was childishly simple. An iron hook lifted away from a support, and the cask swung aside. Once they were behind it, a pull drew it back into position and the hook, affixed between a hasp on the back of the cask and a staple on the wall, held it rigidly.

  Inside however, it was black with a blackness no night can produce. There was a silence. Roger clung to the hook he had just fastened, sweating with panic, totally disoriented. Beside him there was a faint whimper that somehow expressed the blind, abject animal terror Roger himself felt. His grip on the hook tightened until the metal cut painfully into his hand.

  “Leonie!”

  The word echoed and reverberated, producing a ghastly image of endless black space behind them. Roger groped wildly with his free hand, nee
ding desperately to touch something that would make the space finite. Fortunately, before her courage or his own broke, his hand fell upon Leonie’s arm and he drew her tight against him. She was shaking so violently her body fluttered against his like that of a captured bird, but she was silent now. Pity routed panic.

  “It’s all right, Leonie,” Roger murmured, keeping his voice low but not whispering. The soft tone did not start the hollow echo, and the ability to control his voice gave Roger confidence. Still gripping the hook he pulled himself toward it until his shoulder touched the bulge of the cask. Then he turned so that his whole back rested against it, pulling Leonie with him. The solidity reoriented him. He was no longer lost in the dark. He let go of the hook and put both arms around the trembling girl.

  “What a fool I am,” he murmured, “to shut us in here without light. Just hold on to me. I will open it again. We can search for candles and water. There won’t be any food, but if you are very hungry, I think I could walk back to the village and buy some.”

  “Food?” The whisper hissed away into the long dark, and Leonie, whose trembling had quieted, began to shudder again.

  “Just speak low,” Roger encouraged, “then the sound does not come back. There must be a turn or a door after a long corridor. That is what makes the echo.”

  Another silence followed, too long for a natural pause, so that Roger was just about to speak comfortingly again. He was interrupted by a soft giggle, and although he made no sound, he thought lurid obscenities. This was not the place he would have chosen to deal with a woman in hysterics. Nonetheless, he really could not be angry, considering what the poor girl had been through and considering that he had almost succumbed himself. Before he could take appropriate measures, however, Leonie spoke.

  “You are just like Papa,” she said, still chuckling softly, and Roger realized that the giggle had been honest amusement, not incipient hysteria. “Whenever I was frightened of things like the dark, Papa would give me a long explanation of what caused the fright. I used to feel so angry. There I was with my heart pounding, feeling as if I would die, and he was telling me about the curvature of the earth or the way light is reflected. But it always worked. By the time he was finished, I wasn’t frightened anymore.”

  Roger did not reply. He should have felt glad his device had worked so well, relieved that Leonie was so calm. All he felt was a bitter shock of disappointment. She thought of him as a father! Well, why should she not? He was nearly old enough to be her father. He could think of nothing to say and merely relaxed his grip on her, but she did not seem to notice any awkwardness in his silence.

  “I have food,” her voice continued.

  She was still so close, because she had not stepped away when Roger released her, that he could feel her fumbling in her skirt. The movement stimulated highly inappropriate images in Roger’s mind. He would have backed away, except that he was already pressed against the cask. A protest rose in his throat, but it was checked again when the fumbling stopped. Leonie’s hand touched his bare chest. Roger stiffened, but the hand moved to his arm, down to find his hand, and a round, slick object was pressed into his palm.

  “Sausage,” Leonie said, her voice light with laughter. “I have another also. Louis gave them to me. Ah, if I ever see him again, I must apologize for thinking ill of him. He did help to release us…” Her voice faltered, and the happiness died out of it as she remembered what else Louis had done and that her father was not part of “us” anymore.

  “Yes.” Roger had found his voice again. He pushed the sausage back into Leonie’s hand. “I am glad you have food. I am sure I can get water from the pump in the scullery. I think we will have to spend the day in hiding here, which is just as well because we both need sleep. Meanwhile, look around the cellar and see if you can find a candle and, even more important, flint and tinder.”

  Roger turned, careful to keep his contact with the cask so that he would not become disoriented again, and unhooked the catch. The cask swung out without difficulty and they emerged into what seemed to them brightness. Roger made for the stairs, Leonie for what had been the most frequently used portion of the wine cellar, where she hoped to find candle stumps. As he went, Roger looked around the floor and eventually spotted an old jug. The top was broken off, but the body seemed sound. If he could find nothing better above, it would do to hold water.

  The full morning light that flooded through the scullery windows showed all too clearly that Roger had been fortunate to find the partly unbroken jug. On the main floor there was nothing usable remaining. Probably waves of looters had swept over the château periodically, each group taking less and less valuable objects until there was nothing at all worth taking. Then, in spite or wanton rage, whatever could not be taken had been broken and battered. Roger exclaimed with irritation. Even the handle had been wrenched from the pump.

  A brief investigation solved the problem. One form of destruction made up for another. A splintered chair provided a stick with a crooked end that Roger was able to fit into the pump to replace the handle. He worked it as vigorously as he could, hoping the mechanism had not been damaged and the pump would not need priming. Fortunately, Henry de Conyers had installed the best of everything for the convenience of his servants and the water soon spurted. Roger rinsed the jug as thoroughly as he could, then set it under the spout and pumped it full. As he did this his gaze wandered out through the windows.

  Midstroke, his hand froze on the handle he was working. Men were on the lawn that stretched down from the front of the house. Unaccustomed to being the object of a hunt, Roger had forgotten to keep watching for pursuers. Breath held, he watched and listened, but the movements he could see were unhurried, deliberate. There was no sign that any searchers had yet reached the house itself. They were only now spreading out to surround the château and the outbuildings.

  Roger snatched the wooden rod from the pump. Clutching the slopping jug in one hand, the stick in the other, he fled to the cellar steps. Just before he went down he paused to listen, but all was silent. He let out the breath he had been holding and eased his way down the steps. At the foot of the stairs, he had to stop. His eyes had adjusted to the light on the upper floor, and he was temporarily blind in the semidark of the cellar. Pausing briefly for his eyes to adjust, he strained his ears. Still nothing. He moved forward cautiously, feeling his way, still half blind, wondering how he would find Leonie. He did not even know the full extent of the cellars, because she had led him directly to the keg that concealed the tunnel. Again he held his breath and listened. Nothing.

  “Leonie, hide,” he called softly. “There are men—”

  He cut off abruptly. Footsteps. Should he set down the jug and go up, try to brazen out his presence in the house? How the devil could he explain the blood on his hands and coat? His lack of a shirt? Before he could think further, his hand was seized and he could have laughed at himself. The footsteps led him swiftly, and he did not pull away, even though by then he could see fairly well. Another moment and they were safely behind the cask, the hook firmly in place.

  This time the dark held no terrors for them. They were both too relieved to have reached their haven undiscovered and too aware of their great danger to be troubled by imaginary fears. Reality was probably already seeking through the house and barns. Would the men find the carriage? The horse? Henry’s body? Any of those discoveries might well doom them. Roger did not fear their hiding place would be discovered, unless some former servant already knew of the tunnels. But if any sign of their presence were found and Marot’s men set themselves to watch the house and grounds for any length of time, he and Leonie could be trapped inside the tunnel until they starved or died of thirst.

  Thought of food and drink woke in, Roger a sense of his need of both. He had not eaten or had a drink since dinner the previous day. And Leonie was probably in even greater need. “Are you thirsty?” he asked softly. “I have water, but be careful. The mouth of the jug is broken. Als
o…” He did not wish to frighten her, but he had to warn her. “We may be trapped in here for some time because—”

  “I know,” she, interrupted, her voice quite cheerful. “Even if they do not find us, they may leave watchers in the house to wait for us.” She chuckled. “You do not need to worry about me. It will be a long time before they can starve me out. I know how to starve. Still, we have not come to that state yet. We should not gobble all we have, but I cannot believe they will stay more than two days or three. It is stupid to go hungry before it is necessary.”

  Roger considered that, trying to be sure it was not his stomach that was agreeing with Leonie rather than his head. Finally he decided she was right. It was better to eat a little now than to face the long hours hungry and thirsty.

  “The only thing is,” Leonie went on before he could answer, “I could not find any flint. I have two candles—but no way to light them.”

  “It does, not matter,” Roger said, “for now we can manage by feel.”

  He did not mind the dark at all now. All he could think of was that Leonie was the most incredible girl. Henry de Conyers’ daughter must have been delicately raised, yet nothing seemed to break her spirit. She had endured violence, fatigue, fear, grief—and she had not been unaware of her bereavement or danger—yet she could laugh, even in the face of more pain and peril. A memory of Solange, spoiled and whining in the midst of the greatest indulgence and luxury, made Roger wince. How could, he have been fooled by that exquisite doll-like beauty? Solange had never pretended to be other than she was. Roger could distinctly remember calling the discontented thrust of her lips an adorable, delicious pout.