by Burke, Jan
Despite everything I now knew about Adrian deVille, a horrifying vision arose in my mind, of being in his place. I thought of being brought back to life again and again, only to drown moments later—and to repeat that fate forever.
Lord Varre seemed to understand why I paled. “No need to waste your sympathy,” he said. “Adrian told me he awakened the next morning in a small cottage, one of his many homes here in England, places where he keeps papers and possessions hidden. He placed various protections on these places so that none would disturb them. Thus, while my ancestors were dancing for joy, thinking themselves free of him at last, he was in a comfortable bed, Shade at his side. He was taken with one of his fevers, but while he waited for this to pass, he plotted his revenge.”
He fell silent. Many minutes passed before he spoke again.
“Should you decide to take Shade on a walk through the family cemetery, you will see a great many weatherworn markers for a single year late in the sixteenth century. Anyone will tell you that the plague struck the area, and hardly a man was left standing as a result of it.”
“He caused it?”
“Adrian boasted of bringing it to the place.”
“But that means—he took his revenge on the innocent as well?”
“Children, women, men who had nothing to do with the plot—diaries from the time recount terrible suffering. Early on, when the head of this house and all his family died, Adrian reestablished himself here as the heir to the barony, and turned a deaf ear when any of his remaining persecutors begged for mercy for their families.
“Although little survives in the family records from the time before the plague, there are a few letters and diaries from the times that followed. Stories have been handed down for generations—family tales of ‘Our Monster,’ as he became known. What I tell you next, I’ve learned in part from those stories and writings, and in part from Adrian himself.
“When he returned some thirty years later, his own anger toward the place had not abated. He did not bother with charm now. He was more debauched than ever, behaving insultingly to the women here, and cruelly to the children. He had spent this time, it seemed, learning to inflict pain on others. The family sent their servants away, in order to protect them, and would have sent their own women and children from the place had not Adrian forbidden it. Among the servants, a few stouthearted men stayed to be of whatever help they could. One of them bore the name of Wentworth.”
“An ancestor of your butler?”
He smiled. “Yes. Adrian felt invulnerable, but he was only one man, and the family awaited their chance. One night when he was, as usual, drinking heavily—perhaps you have noticed a change in the way drinking affects you?”
I shook my head. “I enjoy wine as much as the next man, but I’m afraid too much of it makes me so ill, I—” I broke off.
“Assuming you respond to alcohol as Adrian did,” he said calmly, “you will find that you now have what is commonly called a ‘hard head.’ It will take a great deal of drinking before you begin to feel the effects of alcohol, but you may then go on to become remarkably inebriated, to the point of passing out. A moment or two after you reach unconsciousness, you will awaken clearheaded, but suffer nothing more than a brief, slight fever. No headache, no queasiness. In short, you may become stewed to the eyebrows without being punished.”
“I find the prospect less attractive than you may believe.”
He smiled. “You are not much like your predecessor.”
“You were telling me about the second attack on him?”
“Ah, yes. That time, his downfall was at the hands of a raven-haired girl of fifteen, one of the fairest daughters of the house. She was his own granddaughter, but this made no difference to him. He flirted with her as if she were no relation to him. She decided to turn this to good use and enlisted the help of the rest of the household. She was a brave girl, but she professed a great fear of the dog, and on a night when Adrian was drinking and making amorous overtures, she asked Adrian to shut Shade away. For reasons we do not understand, Shade meekly allowed this.”
He paused and scratched the dog fondly on the ears.
“The girl gave a signal as soon as Adrian was well separated from the place where he had locked Shade away. Adrian was set upon again. This time they burned his body and scattered his ashes in the wind.
“They went back to the manor and were of a mind to harm the dog, but the girl stopped them. I do not know that they would have been able to do any of the things they intended to do to Shade, for he is capable of defending himself. She came close to Shade and said, ‘You will protect us, won’t you?’ and set him free.
“The men argued with her, but she paid them no heed.
“Again the dog sought Adrian, and had no difficulty finding him. Again Adrian awoke alive and whole in a place of his own. But for reasons he would not disclose to me, he did not return until long after that young woman had married and died in childbirth. With one notable exception, whenever he came back to visit this place, he reverted to his most charming manner. He usually came here, as I’ve mentioned, in another guise, most often posing as a European cousin who outranked a mere baron. He might be demanding, insist on special treatment and the best rooms, but he brought his own servants, paid for his luxuries, and threatened no one.”
“The notable exception?”
“This last visit. He returned here two weeks after Waterloo. He was demanding, as usual, but also unhappy—he could no longer drink to excess. He needed sleep. He grew hungry several times a day, and it was no longer the kind of mild sensation he had previously thought of as hunger.
“His arm was in a sling—he had been slightly injured on his journey north and the wound had become infected, a matter of some carelessness on his part in treating it, developed over several hundred years of never needing to concern himself over minor wounds. While here, he bumped his head, which raised a lump. Listening to his howls over it, one would have thought the world was coming to an end.
“The realization that he was now humanly vulnerable was emphasized by the fact that he arrived without his dog. Never before had I seen him without Shade. It was immediately clear to me that Shade had in some way restrained Adrian’s worst behaviors on visits to this household.
“I also learned that whatever supernatural gifts Adrian had lost, he was not entirely without power. His temper led to unhappiness with the staff. The staff who upset him began to suffer painful maladies and serious injuries. Two died. Other servants began to talk of the house being accursed, and despite the shortage of work in this area, they quit. That was when I went to him and begged him to have a care. I needed the staff to see to his comfort. What’s more, my two sons and their families would be closing up their London houses and returning here for the summer. I expected them at any moment.
“He laughed in my face and told me he’d do as he damn well pleased.”
He again fell silent. I waited for his story to continue, but then I saw that his eyes were filled with tears. Shade came closer and sighed softly. Lord Varre gradually regained his composure. “Late that same evening,” he said, “I learned that my sons and their wives and their four young children were numbered among those who perished in a fire at an inn, a place where they had stopped along the way during their journey north. The youngest was a boy of four.”
His face grew set. “After the funerals, I went to London, telling Adrian I needed to settle my sons’ affairs. I did, but I had another purpose as well: to discover whether anyone matching Adrian’s description had been seen in either of my sons’ homes. He had indeed visited, posing as a young émigré cousin. A maid he had trifled with recalled that he had asked one of my sons for recommendations for places to stay along the road north.
“I knew Adrian had been responsible for their deaths,” Lord Varre said. “He would doubtless arrange for mine as well, and ‘prove’ that he was next to inherit the title. I knew that I had little time to act.
“I re
membered the stories I had heard of his previous ‘deaths,’ but I prayed to God that without Shade, he might be denied his restoration to life. I returned home determined to neither eat nor drink anything Wentworth had not prepared himself, and to keep a sturdy footman by me at all times. I had developed a plan, and I asked for Wentworth’s help, something I had no right to do, but he readily agreed to give it.
“The evening after my return, Wentworth brought a bottle of the best brandy in our cellars to the table, and I feigned readiness to refuse it, but of course Adrian insisted we drink to ease our sorrows, although he showed no more concern for their loss than a cat feels for the loss of a canary. As usual, he drank to excess, calling for additional bottles when the first was emptied. I convinced him to remove to the library, where we could be more at ease. He agreed and took the most comfortable chair for himself. I had expected this.
“He continued to drink, saying his arm was troubling him, and this might help him sleep. Fortunately, he did not worry that my own glass was nearly untouched—this meant I would not be taking brandy he wanted for himself. He remained unconvinced that he had lost his former immunity, and like many a drunkard before him, believed he held the reins of a horse that had instead fully harnessed him. He dozed off in his chair.
“When I was sure he was deeply asleep, I rose from my own chair and quietly dismissed the footman who had been standing just outside the door, ready to intervene should I fall under attack from Adrian. Wentworth arrived just then, carrying a new bottle. We entered the library together. I moved toward the desk, where I had earlier placed a dagger. I had just opened the drawer when I heard a rather sickening thud. I looked up to see Wentworth wiping off the bottle he had used to strike a very nasty blow to Adrian’s head.
“‘You’ll forgive the liberty, my lord,’ Wentworth said, ‘but I believe I owe something to all the generations of Wentworths who have suffered this man’s presence.’
“I asked if Adrian still lived, and Wentworth announced almost regretfully that he did. ‘I have prepared a place in the cellars, my lord. Upon reflection, it seemed better not to carry out our work on this Aubusson.’
“I gradually realized that Wentworth, so devoted to me and my sons and grandchildren, was furious with Adrian, and had only just restrained himself from murdering Adrian outright. He was also thinking more clearly than I was—he was right that we should not leave stains upon the carpet. I took the dagger and its sheath from the desk and hurried to help Wentworth carry Adrian to the cellar.
“This was not difficult. He was not a large man, and I had not yet fallen ill.”
He paused.
“I will not make you suffer every detail of Adrian’s murder. Despite my hatred of him, I found it distasteful. Still, I will tell you that it was a long night’s work. I left nothing to chance, and in the end, nothing was left but an iron chest filled with ashes and ground bones. This chest I surrounded with iron bands and heavy locks.
“We took it to a seaport. There I entrusted it to a dear friend of mine who was on his way to his family plantation in Jamaica. He solemnly swore to me that he would not attempt to open it, and would drop it into the deepest part of the Caribbean. I watched him set sail on the Morgan Bray.” He fell silent, then said, “I may have sealed his fate.”
He pointed to a newspaper. I picked it up and saw the article that had caused his dismay. The Morgan Bray had been caught in a storm off Jamaica and gone down with all hands aboard.
“The chest was at the bottom of the sea, just as I had asked, but Adrian took my friend and all the crew with him.”
“Such storms are common in that part of the world, I am told,” I said.
“I suppose you are right,” he said, but sounded thoroughly unconvinced.
“If this news has made you fall ill, my lord—”
“No, no. Whether these matters and the loss of all my beloved children took its toll on me, or whether Adrian had already planned that I would sicken, I do not know, but by the time I returned home from seeing the Morgan Bray set sail, I had already fallen ill, and became as you see me now, a dying man. I am now the last of my name. I have arranged for the care of my servants and the disposal of my wealth.
“But until today, I worried that I might have damned myself for naught. I feared that Shade would leave your side and seek Adrian, that Adrian would reappear in some cottage or hunting box not far from here, and come forward with his false documents to claim the title. I had inquired of you from the army, and was first told you were dead, and then that you were alive but injured, and finally that you were no longer with the army and were traveling to Brussels. I hardly knew what to believe until Wentworth told me of your arrival.”
He looked at Shade again and smiled. “I can see his loyalty is to you now, Captain. I cannot tell you how greatly I am relieved.”
He died two days later, a day after a visit from his solicitor, and not long after a visit from the local vicar, who appeared quite shaken when he left. With Wentworth, I was at Lord Varre’s bedside when he died, and we received the last of his confidences. I will not betray his trust. I will only add this note to this part of my narrative—I do not believe for a moment that he was damned.
Of Lord Varre’s wealth, the largest part went to his servants and to aid the poor of his parish, most especially to those returning soldiers who had served in the recent wars. I was surprised to learn that I was a beneficiary of his will, but this made it easier for me to take away those objects that he had entrusted to me, most of them possessions of Adrian deVille. Added to these were family papers, his own collection of books, and a small collection of miniatures of his family members.
This last bequest, the solicitor said, reading from the will, “is given to you to remind you of the importance of having accepted a gift.” The solicitor seemed hopeful that I would interpret this for him, but I am afraid I disappointed him.
31
Amanda finished the last of the parchment pages and set them carefully on the desk. All her first thoughts were of Tyler, and what he had been through. She thought of him spending so many years keeping secrets, going to one deathbed after another.
A little earlier, she had heard him return, heard him speaking softly to Shade as he walked down the hallway past her room. She thought of going to him, to talk to him about the pages he had left for her.
She hesitated.
She asked herself if she believed what she had just read.
Yes, she thought, I do.
And yet, none of this fit into her experience. She told herself sternly to consider the possibility that he was crazy, convinced of his delusions, but right out of his head—or that this was a hoax. She knew she had to be on guard against con men—that had been drilled into her own head from childhood on.
Okay, if this was a hoax, the pages she had just read could have been written yesterday, faked to look aged. But that phrase, “written yesterday,” took her thoughts to the previous day.
No, they couldn’t have been written yesterday. Not while he was lying on a dirt road in the desert, dying. Not with all that had occurred yesterday and today.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She had seen him revive after the accident. She had seen him heal—twice, now—from serious wounds. She had watched him use his gift with the dying.
He wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t a hoax. Strange, but not a hoax.
She admitted to herself that given the degree of attraction she felt to him, she might not be able to think about him objectively.
She got up again and put on a light robe. She would check on Brad, she decided.
She was crossing the room, headed toward the door to the hallway, when the ghosts appeared. She drew in a sharp breath and put a hand to her throat, but managed not to yelp.
Tyler’s story made her think of them a little differently now, she realized. He didn’t see ghosts, so why did she? She studied each of their faces, trying to read their expressions.
&n
bsp; Not disapproving this time, she noticed. Her aunt and uncle looked worried, her parents—serene.
She could not recall a time, during the years her mother lived, when she had ever seen her look like this. Even the childhood photos she had seen of her mother, years before marriage, had not captured this quality. “You’re beautiful, Mom,” Amanda said.
Nothing in her mother’s expression changed—or did it? Something in her eyes. Didn’t they lighten just a little?
Then it occurred to her that they were standing between her and the door.
“Is this a message of some sort?” she asked.
They said nothing. Made no gesture.
She waited.
They drifted toward her.
They had been near her many times over the years, but she had never seen them close distance in this way. She felt frightened, and realized that although they often startled her, they had never before scared her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, hearing the tremor in her voice. “I’m just going to see Brad!”
Her mother seemed to shake her head, just slightly. They came closer still, and she began to feel cold.
Closer yet, and now the air was icy. She shivered. “Don’t!” she whispered.
She turned in blind panic, knocking over a vase that crashed to the floor behind her. She ran to the French doors leading to the deck and wrenched them open. Crossing the deck in quick strides, she gripped the railing and took great gulps of air. The night was cooler now, but still warmer than she had felt in her room.
“Amanda?”
She turned to see Tyler, who must have been standing there all along. Shade was next to him, looking at her with his head cocked to one side.
“Are you all right?” Tyler asked, moving toward her. “I heard something crash—are you all right?” Somewhere inside the house, an intercom tone rang. He ignored it.
