The Countess

by Catherine Coulter

  No one mentioned the old woman. No one mentioned anything else that had happened the day before.

  As for Thomas and John, they were both distracted, very bad company, as a matter of fact.

  When Lawrence left me at my bedchamber door, I didn’t want to go inside. I just didn’t. It wasn’t the middle of the day now, and I wasn’t knocking on the walls in the clear light of day. It was dark, very dark, with scarce a sliver of moon to shine in the windows. Jasper was walking George. I wanted to be walking with Jasper myself.

  I waited in the corridor until I heard Jasper coming. He was speaking to George. “A fine selection you made, Mr. George. That old yew bush needed some attention even though it was a rather noxious sort of liquid attention you bestowed on it. Yes, you did well.”

  I still didn’t want to go inside my bedchamber. I thanked Jasper, took George in my arms, and forced myself to open the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There were three branches of candles lit against the darkness. A healthy fire burned in the fireplace. The room was warm. I stood there, holding George too tightly, feeling as if my blood had frozen in my veins. I stared at the shadowed corners, unable to see clearly, knowing that there could be things in those shadows, hiding from me.

  George wuffed and strained to get away from me. He didn’t see anything amiss. Still, I just stood there, looking now toward the windows. Belinda had pulled the draperies closed. I’d told her to leave them open. She had forgotten, or perhaps she was trying to break me of what she considered a very unhealthy habit.

  I locked the door, turned the knob one way, then the other, did everything I could think of to pry it open, but it held. Yes, it was well locked. I walked to the windows and jerked back the draperies. I opened the windows. Cold dry air washed over me. I breathed in deeply.

  There was nothing and no one here. It was very possible, if I had indeed locked my door last night, that the person had come through my open windows. I shut and locked them. I looked down at the empty bar holes on the casement and wondered if Caroline was still here, if the violence of her death was somehow holding her here. Poor, poor girl. I couldn’t imagine such an illness, but I knew it existed. One of grandfather’s oldest friends had even forgotten his own wife and his children. The day he no longer recognized Grandfather, I saw my grandfather cry. He would die alone, my grandfather had said, alone, because there was no one he knew and loved to be there with him.

  I took off my clothes and pulled my nightgown over my head. I tied the pale blue satin ribbons into pretty bows. I suppose it had been my mother who taught me that. So long ago. I couldn’t call up her face anymore. I picked up George, and together we settled ourselves under the mountain of warm covers. I didn’t wake up once.

  The next morning I rode Small Bess into Devbridge-on-Aston, a small village clustered around a central square that held an old church, a vast graveyard whose oldest stone was dated 1311, and a meandering stream. I looked closely at all the now-white ducks swimming in the stream, at the clumps of skinny oak and lime trees. Stone houses lined up on either side of a very old inn called The Queen’s Arms. There was an almshouse, a blacksmith, his hammer ringing loud in the morning air, and a good half dozen other small shops that carried everything from tobacco to leather to barrels. Many villagers were out and about, and I smiled and met a good thirty of them. Everyone was friendly, which I certainly appreciated. It had been a long time since there had been a mistress at Devbridge Manor. I began memorizing names, something, I knew, that would hold me in good stead. I also spent money at every store I visited. My last stop was the gunsmith, housed in a ground-floor narrow little room just off High Street. The owner was Mr. Forrester, a very short smiling individual, with freckles covering his face and his bald head, who looked to be about my husband’s age. His grandchildren were playing in a corner. Near the guns. That surprised me, but didn’t seem to faze him at all. He knew who I was, and was voluble in welcoming me to Devbridge-on-Ashton. I was from the Big House, the new mistress, and I knew that every word I spoke, every look that could possibly convey any opinion at all, would be remembered and then shared with everyone in the village. If Grandfather had seen me going through the village, he would have just patted my cheek and told me that I was behaving exactly as I should. I was treating people with the respect that some of them might even deserve. Everyone would believe me a nice proper young lady, just so long as they didn’t notice the wickedness in my eyes. Then Grandfather would laugh.

  “Ashton is the name of that stingy little meander-ing stream that used to be much larger,” Mr. Forrester told me, “back when Cromwell wandered the land. Cromwell had a lot of hair, you know. Unfortunately, even the small rapids disappeared during my grandfather’s time. I have read that many of the Roundheads had more hair than they deserved.”

  “That is a pity,” I told him. “Not about all that hair given out unjustly. No, I am very fond of rapids.”

  After ten more minutes of observations on my part, I simply couldn’t help myself, I said, “Whatever happened to the Cockly boy, Mr. Forrester, the one who painted the ducks pink?”

  I must say that the question took him aback. Then he gave me the biggest grin. Mr. Forrester was missing quite a few of his back teeth. “He was whipped by the vicar himself, a dozen times with the vicar’s cane, then forced to clean the paint off the poor ducks. They bit him hard, many times, the little devil.”

  Then, and only then, after he was laughing and distracted by the duck story did I tell Mr. Forrester that I wanted him to find me the very smallest gun he could. It was a Christmas present for my cousin, I told him, who traveled a lot and needed something very small that would go everywhere with him. Mr. Forrester told me that would be a derringer, small enough for a lady’s reticule, but naturally, no lady would ever want to touch one of the nasty little things. He didn’t carry something like that in his small shop. He beamed at me when I ordered the most expensive derringer he described to me, and assured me he would have it here in under a week. I paid him for the derringer, and as a result received three very deep bows from Mr. Forrester, and little bobs from all four of his grandchildren, all lined up to see me safely out of their territory.

  I visited the butcher’s shop, ordered the pork the butcher specifically recommended, purchased some crockery from the small dry goods store, and finally searched out the local seamstress from whom I immediately ordered three chemises in the very finest lawn she had on the premises. My last stop was the ancient stone church in the square. I met the curate, Mr. Bourne. The vicar, I was told, was visiting his bishop in York.

  When I returned to Devbridge Manor, I rode into the stable yard to see Tempest trying his best to trample one of the stable lads.

  I didn’t really think about it, just climbed off Small Bess’s back and ran to the lad. “Give me the reins,” I said, and he was so surprised that he obeyed me instantly.

  I didn’t pull or jerk on the reins, just held them loosely, giving Tempest even more slack. He reared and snorted and kicked out with his front hooves. He was very angry. I stayed as far out of his way as I could. I spoke to him as I’d been taught by Grandfather, softly, my voice pitched low, nonsense, most of it, just repeating over and over that everything would be all right, that I thought he was magnificent, and I would be angry if someone was jerking me around like the stable lad had been doing to him. But everything was fine now, I would get him an apple, and so he could calm himself down.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to ease. As he did, I tightened my hold on the reins, coming closer and closer to him until he was blowing hard against my palm. His great body shuddered. “It’s all right, boy.” I let him punch his nose against my shoulder. He very nearly knocked me over. I spoke to him for another five minutes before he simply dropped his head and blew softly. I called out to the stable lad, who was standing there, pale, sweaty, wringing his hands, “It’s all right now. Bring me an apple, and hurry.”

  I fed that beautiful animal a hu
ge apple, felt him lip my fingers, then chew some carrots that Rucker, the head stable lad, handed me silently.

  I said nothing to any of them, simply wrapped my hands in Tempest’s thick mane and pulled myself onto his bare back, something I could never do in London. But this was Yorkshire, and I was mistress here. He twisted his head about to look at me.

  “Just you and me, Tempest. Let’s just walk about for a while, until you’re all calm and happy again.”

  And so we did. Tempest walked until he was bored, then cantered a bit. I didn’t let him gallop all out. If there was still anger in him, I didn’t know if I could control him. I guided him down to the stream and slid off his back. “I’ll teach that lad what’s what, Tempest. He won’t ever jerk and pull on your reins again. If he tries it, I’ll smash him into the ground. Then you can kick him. No, you won’t have to get yourself upset anymore.”

  I heard a laugh. Of course it was John.

  When I turned, he was standing not six feet away, just walking around one of the huge willow trees that hung over the stream. He was dressed in riding clothes, a riding crop in his right hand. He looked big and dangerous, and instinctively, without thought, I stepped back, bumping into Tempest, who merely butted me gently with his big head.

  The laugh fell off his face. He was wearing Hessians, polished to a mirror finish, buckskin britches, a tan riding coat. I wouldn’t want to have him coming up to me like this on a battlefield. I could easily see a sword in his hand. He was very angry indeed. Well, what could I expect? I had taken his horse.

  “What the hell have you done?”

  Of course his anger at me wasn’t entirely because of Tempest. He was furious because I had stepped away from him.

  “Didn’t Rucker tell you that I merely took Tempest for a walk to calm him down?”

  “I told you never to ride him. He could crush you under those hooves of his.” Then he looked at Tempest and slapped his forehead with his palm. “Evidently Rucker did not believe it important enough to tell me that you rode him bareback. Are you mad, woman?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “particularly since I changed my story about the old woman so no one will believe I am another Caroline. I didn’t hurt your bloody horse, and I didn’t hurt my bloody self, either. Now, how is your knife, John? Safe and snug on its red velvet cushion?”

  “Don’t,” he said, and walked to me. I wanted to swing up on Tempest’s back, but I knew I wouldn’t make it. He couldn’t very well hurt me with Tempest playfully hitting the back of my head every so often with his nose. “Damn you, don’t goad me. It isn’t to your benefit.”

  “Stop acting like a soldier in a battle facing an enemy. Listen to me. I don’t deserve your anger. He would have crushed the stable lad if I had not taken the reins from him. He is perfectly fine. He hasn’t a thought to hurt me.”

  At that point Tempest began chewing on my hair.

  John looked from his horse to me, and laughed again, something I knew he didn’t want to do. “You deserve to be beaten,” he said, and began to detach a long curly hunk of hair from his horse’s mouth.

  And because I didn’t have a brain in my head, I said without hesitation, “Just who do you think would be stupid enough to try that?”

  He said slowly, looking down at me, “You barely come to my chin. It’s true you’re strong, since you evidently pulled yourself up onto Tempest’s back—no mean feat for a female. But that makes no difference at all. I could do anything I pleased to you. Lower your arrogance, madam.” He stopped then, looking away from me, out over the stream. He didn’t look back at me, just said low, violence in his voice, “Damn you for being here. Oh, yes, I would be stupid enough to thrash you,” and he grabbed me. Tempest whinnied, I dropped the reins and tried to pull free, swamped with complete and utter terror. I must have looked suddenly different, because John let me go. I saw white, all blank nothingness, then red, violent, and flowing, and I simply cried out and fell to my knees.

  I heard someone screaming, agony screams, death screams. I saw my mother’s face, so clearly, right in front of me. She was pale, tears oozing out of her eyes, and she looked utterly bereft. Then there was a man there amid the screaming. He looked around, and then he just shrugged and walked away. The screaming didn’t stop, just went on and on until once again, there was the blessed empty whiteness.

  Suddenly, John was on his knees, facing me. His hands were on me, and he pulled me against him. I felt the hardness of him, the strength, and for just a moment, I wanted every ounce of strength he had, but I knew I couldn’t have it. His hands were stroking up and down my back. He was saying things in my ear. What, I don’t know. My riding hat was on the ground beside me. Then I felt his hands in my hair, pulling the braids free, pulling out the pins Belinda had so carefully placed. His hands were in my hair then, his fingers touching my scalp, then suddenly, he stopped. He pulled back. I didn’t want to, but I looked up at him. We were on our knees, facing each other. It was odd, but I knew this was wrong, since I was married to his uncle, and I felt that more than I felt the fear of being near him, a man who could hurt me so easily, humiliate me, make me scream and scream until I died. I drew a deep breath and slowly, so very slowly, I began to pull away from him. He dropped his hands to his sides and quickly got to his feet. He walked away from me, to his horse. He swung up on Tempest’s back.

  He said from his great height, “I have told you that I would never hurt you. This fear of yours, it is something very dark and very deep inside you. Whatever it is, it’s bad, it is corrosive. It is directing your life, not you. You have married an old man because of it.

  “And me, madam? Just look what you do when you are around me. Jesus, it unmans me.” He shook his head. There was such pain on his face that I couldn’t bear it. “This will stop, it must.” Then he kicked his boots into Tempest’s sides, and rode away.

  I didn’t move for a very long time. It took me even a longer time to get my hair plaited and pinned, and the riding hat perched back on top.

  It was a twenty-minute walk back to the Manor. I supposed the horse John had ridden to the stream had made its way back to the stables. I met with Mrs. Redbreast and discussed replacing linens that had been too many times mended. Then I met with Cook to plan the following week’s menu. George and I played with Judith, then we shared her geography lesson with her and I learned how to say good day in Mandarin Chinese.

  For dinner that night, Miss Crislock joined the family, and I was so very pleased to see her. She was the only one there for me, only me. She’d known me forever. She loved me.

  John wasn’t there.

  After my husband had lightly kissed my cheek, and left me at the door to my bedchamber, I fetched George, walked him for an hour until the dreadful cold finally drove us back into the house.

  I slept horribly. George snored the night through.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The days passed swiftly. John was rarely at the Manor. I heard stories of Lady Appleby chasing him down and chaining him to their dining table so her daughter could bat her eyes at him. I hope he suffered. I wanted him to.

  As for Thomas, he seemed back to himself. I found out that he’d fancied e had caught chicken pox from the children in the village. However, there was no chicken pox reported, and it turned out to be a small rash brought on, Amelia decided, by a particularly rough bit of wool that had scratched against his chest. She was now feeling, with her own hands, any material that would come into contact with her beloved’s body.

  I heard Lawrence speak of how John was learning everything he could, and he was learning it quickly. And that was why, he said one evening at dinner, that we saw him so rarely. He was busy. And I knew that was good that he wasn’t often around, and I hated it, which made me an idiot.

  Days would pass without my seeing him, and that was good, too. I knew that. The other things that were also true that I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to explore, I locked firmly away.

  The elegant little der
ringer that Mr. Forrester had fetched me himself from York was safe under my pillow, wrapped in one of my handkerchiefs. Grandfather had taught me to shoot. I went out only one afternoon to practice with my new gun.

  A week later, Lawrence suggested that I invite Peter home for Christmas. I immediately wrote a letter, and Lawrence franked it. He was a splendid man, my husband. So very thoughtful. And I could never forget that. What John had said to me that day by the stream—that my fear of men had directed my life, had resulted in my marriage to his uncle. I knew it was true, but I didn’t want to change anything, except in moments when I was lying in my bed at night, trying to sleep and John would slip into my mind and I felt a deep hard stroke of pain and regret that left emptiness. And, in the light of day, I remembered who and what he was. He was big and dangerous. If there was darkness deep inside me, as he had said there was, it was because of what he was, because of what every man was, that had put it there.

  I myself was very busy, planning for the big ball. All of us were involved. The guest list was made up and refined, argued over, added to, and finally the invitations were sent out, many of them delivered by messenger. Lawrence was pleased about the preparations. The menu was selected. I asked if we could have the orchestra that had played for my coming-out ball two years previously. Lawrence, my very kind husband, had Swanson, the estate manager, see to it.

  So much to do, thank God. The Black Chamber and its malignant presence faded from my mind. I never went back there. As for the empty room that had once been Caroline’s music room, I never went close to that, either. And I locked the door to The Blue Room, religiously, every night.