The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  Holding his wife’s arm, Lord Charles followed the housekeeper up the stairs. “What a strange atmosphere this house does have,” he mused to himself. “I declare, I feel almost as if it were repelling me.”

  “We have to share the same apartment, Charles,” said Jane gaily, “since we are a trifle cramped for space. Ah, here are our quarters! Only see, they have followed my plans for decoration so nicely!”

  The suite of rooms prepared for Lord and Lady Charles was in Wedgwood blue and white, with prodigious use of the novel West Indian wood mahogany. Watercolors of pretty Italian landscapes graced the walls; the late Marquess had taken his own watercolorist along with him on the Grand Tour. The chimneypieces were of the finest marble and festooned with vases in blue-john and ormolu.

  It was not odd that Lady Jane should have such excellent taste, such a love of literature and painting. It was an age when any well-bred individual was expected to revere books, music, and art. But it seemed odd to Lord Charles that she had shown none of this enthusiasm at Upperpark, even though he had begged her to make any changes in his home that she wished.

  He walked to the long palladian windows and looked out at what would be a magnificent manmade piece of landscape when it was finished.

  Behind him, he could hear his wife singing a little song as she unpacked. Over in the west, great blue and black clouds were massing, climbing swiftly over the blue of the sky. All at once the sun was blotted out and a great shadow like a giant demon’s wing swept over the Chase.

  He was overcome by sadness, a chill, cold sadness that seemed to come from outside him and seep into his very marrow. Jane had stopped singing. The room was very quiet. Down below in the garden, the workmen were glancing up at the steadily darkening sky as they scurried about, packing away their tools.

  In the distance, he could see a carriage bowling along the ribbon of road, and then it was hidden by the woods. Mrs. Bentley and her daughters. Coming home before the storm. Riding before the storm. Now what had made him think of that?

  He was all at once anxious to be back in his own home. He could sense danger, feel it in his bones, a danger emanating from the very walls.

  Then the carriage appeared at the end of the long, straight drive. The outriders had lit their torches, for the day had turned as black as night.

  He watched as their dancing lights jogged closer. One by one, snowflakes began to fall, and through their eddying, swirling hypnotic dance he could see the carriage turn to stop almost directly below the window, and the pale glimmer of Mrs. Bentley’s face as she stared up.

  Lord Charles stirred and shivered and turned. His wife was kneeling in front of a trunk of books she had been unpacking. She was very still, staring straight ahead.

  “Mrs. Bentley is back,” he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears.

  She gave a little nod and said, “Let us go and meet her.”

  He led her with reluctance to the top of the stairs, just as the door in the entrance hall opened.

  Lord and Lady Charles suddenly stood motionless on the landing as Mrs. Bentley threw back the fur-lined hood of her cloak. Fanny came behind her, stamping her feet on the tiles of the hall floor to warm them.

  Mrs. Bentley looked up to where Lord Charles and his wife stood on the landing. She smiled her small, curved smile.

  “Welcome home!” she said.

  Lord Charles put an arm round his wife’s shoulders and held her close.

  He was afraid.

  He felt a slight tremble run down his wife’s body and knew that she shared his inexplicable fear.

  Together they went slowly down the stairs to meet Mrs. Bentley.