The Countess

by Catherine Coulter

  Three days before the ball, Amelia’s parents arrived. Her father, Hobson Borland, Viscount Waverleigh, a man so preoccupied with his own thoughts and ideas and internal discussions on otherworldly phenomena, was so distracted, that within five minutes of meeting the family, he walked into a door, poured his tea in a lovely big potted plant just beside the settee where he was sitting beside his wife, Julia, and stared fixedly at the far corner of the drawing room.

  Strangely enough, or perhaps not, Amelia’s father was every bit as beautiful as Thomas. The viscount was utterly immersed with the spirit world, and Thomas, his equal in male beauty, was absorbed with his health—as mysterious as the spirit world, some could argue.

  It was also interesting that Amelia appeared to treat her father’s eccentricities just as she did Thomas’s, with love and tolerance and endless patience.

  Viscountess Waverleigh said, after she managed to pull her husband’s attention back to her, “Hobson, my dear, there are mysteries here for you to solve. Do you remember? Your daughter, Amelia, wrote to you about them. She said she needed you to solve otherworldly problems.”

  “Amelia? Yes, yes, a lovely daughter that I managed to bring into this magical world myself when the damned physician got himself thrown into a ditch and finally brought himself to see to you after three days, his arm broken.”

  “Yes, and you did splendidly.”

  “Am I not here because Amelia asked me to be?”

  “Yes, Father. There are mysteries to solve, just as Mother said. There is also the Christmas ball.” She said to Lawrence, “My father is a splendid dancer as well. Like Thomas, he is so very graceful.”

  “I like to dance,” the viscount said. “It passes the time between hauntings.” Then he pointed. “I am glad I do not have to dance at this moment because there is something over there, something interesting happened right over there in that corner. Do you feel it?”

  This was said to me. I shook my head and said quickly while I still had his attention on me, “There are two chambers, however, that we would much appreciate you investigating for us, my lord.”

  He immediately rose, stared around at all of us, and said, “Well? Where are these rooms? Are we to sit here all day doing nothing at all? But that corner, it is of interest to me as well. Julia, do write that down in your book to be investigated later.”

  “Yes, my dear Hobson,” said Viscountess Waverleigh.

  I didn’t want to go back to the Black Chamber, but I did. John, whom I hadn’t seen for a day and a half, showed himself when Amelia’s parents had arrived. He accompanied Amelia and me and his lordship to the west wing. Lawrence excused himself, saying he himself had no liking for anything not of this world.

  As for Thomas, he had just laughed, lightly patted his wife’s cheek, and said, “No falling asleep in any more rooms, my dear.”

  She turned instantly pale, then managed to pull herself together enough to smile at him.

  “Does anyone know what happened in this room?” the viscount asked. “Something violent?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “No one even remembers why it was painted black. Amelia showed me the room, said one of the best stories was that a former countess had stabbed a lover, but there is nothing to prove it. It was only I who felt a malignancy, a dreadful sense that something evil is in there. I don’t believe anyone else has felt anything out of the ordinary. Just me.”

  “Hmmmm, we will see. Sensitive to this sort of thing, are you?”

  “Not that I ever knew of.”

  I couldn’t bear to go back into that room. Amelia, since it was simply another room to her, went in first with John, then stepped aside for her father to enter, which he did very slowly, one short step at a time, sniffing, listening, so intent, that he nearly fell over a stool near the door.

  Then he stopped cold. He stared in the exact corner that had felt so dreadfully cold to me. Lord Waverleigh, however, wasn’t a coward. He walked right into the middle of where that dreadful cold had been. I took another step backward, into the corridor now.

  “Can you feel it, sir?” I called to him. “It is just that one spot. It feels cold, the sort of cold that seeps right into your bones and soul, and there is menace to it, as if something evil happened right there.”

  He said nothing at all. He simply stood there, and closed his eyes. No one said a word, just watched. He opened his eyes, nodded to his daughter, and came back out into the corridor. He took my hands in his. “Listen to me, that is no spirit hanging about in that room, locked in there by some long-ago violence. I felt everything you felt, and more. Something violent did happen in that room, but the evil that is in there, that permeates the very air and space, it is not from the spirit world. It is from our world; it exists right here, with us now, in this house.” And then Amelia’s father, closed his eyes and slid down the wall to the corridor floor.

  Terrified, I dropped to my knees immediately.

  “No, Andy, it’s all right. Father always does this. I believe that what he feels, what he sees, exhausts him. John, could you carry him to his bedchamber? He will sleep for an hour or so and then be all right.”

  “Just as you slept, Amelia?”

  “Yes, just as I slept. I do have my father’s blood, after all. But there is nothing in that room for me, except the ridiculous black paint. John?”

  I watched John hoist Lord Waverleigh over his shoulder and carry him off down the corridor.

  Lady Waverleigh merely nodded when told that her husband was sound asleep in his own bed. “My dearest Hobson will be just fine in a little while. Then he will drink three cups of very strong tea.” She sighed and smiled at me. “It is his way. I hope he was of help to you, Lady Devbridge?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I could think of nothing else to say besides that. Or should I say, evil was in this house, not a long-dead evil, but an evil that lives right here, in our midst, and what, pray tell, does that mean? But I knew it was here, I knew it was just waiting.

  But for what?

  * * *

  The next morning at breakfast, I was listening to Lord Waverleigh speak of a castle in Cornwall, in ruins now, very close to Penzance, in which he had personally located twelve different spirits, all of them long dead and alert and in lively spirits, so to speak. “None of them wanted to leave, even though it was now a ruin and no one lived there. It suited them, they felt it clearly to me. They never bothered the local Cornish. But they very much enjoyed terrorizing any visiting Englishman who chanced upon the castle.”

  I didn’t want to believe him, but I did. He planned to visit the small room where Amelia had fallen asleep, Caroline’s music room, just after breakfast. Lawrence had told me he wished to be a part of this visit when he had seen me to my room the previous night. He smiled down at me, gently laid his palm along my cheek. “You are doing so well here, Andy. I am very proud of you. I heard your praises loudly sung when I was in the village today. You also very wisely put some money in every shopkeeper’s pocket. Well-done.” He kissed my cheek then, something I was used to now. I no longer pulled away, even in my mind. Progress, I thought, trust. He was a good man, and I promised myself yet one more time that I would never forget what he had done for me.

  And what had he done for me?

  He had made me the mistress of a beautiful home. He had given me the protection of his name. He had made no demands on me whatsoever. And I thought, what have I done for him?

  I wasn’t a clingy milksop, but how important was that? I wasn’t evil or malicious or ignorant. I amused him, so he told me often. I got along well with the family and the servants. I liked his daughter, and she seemed to like me. Surely that was to everyone’s benefit.

  But what I was, I knew now, and recognized it for the first time, was supremely arrogant. I had set everything up and assumed it would remain exactly as I wished it to.

  One thing I was as well, I now freely admitted to myself—was stupid. I was a blockhead. I had made a huge mistake marrying Lawrence. But i
t was done. Never, never, would Lawrence know anything from me but all the affection I could muster, all the kindness that was in me, all the loyalty that I felt to my very bones.

  That morning, just Lord and Lady Waverleigh were with me at the breakfast table—and George, of course. Lady Waverleigh had taken quite a fancy to George, and he was exploiting her shamelessly.

  I had just buttered a piece of toast, fed George a piece of crispy bacon—which, if he weren’t such a glutton, he would have refused, since Lady Waverleigh had already stuffed at least three slices down his gullet—when Brantley came into the dining room and brought me a silver salver. “A letter for you, my lady,” he said, and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

  “I know he was Moses in the Bible,” I said to my guests, smiling. In the next minute I was so excited I nearly ripped the paper. “It is from my cousin,” I said, then lowered my head to spread out the page. It was too soon to hear from him about coming for Christmas. Ah, but maybe he wished to make peace with me and my marriage to Lawrence. There were two pages. I smoothed out the first.

  November 25, 1817

  Brussels, Belgium

  My dearest Andy:

  I will be with you as soon as I can leave Brussels. I ask you to read the enclosed letter from your father. He sent it to me because he feared you wouldn’t read it if he posted it directly to you himself. Actually, I also believe he is afraid that it would be intercepted and not reach you at all. Although he doesn’t state his reasons, I know he is nearly frantic to get to you.

  Read it, Andy, for me, if not for any other reason. I will see you by Christmas. Please take care—

  My love,

  Peter

  I looked up, aware of voices, but the owners’ faces were a blur. My father. No, not him, not that horrible man. I suppose I had assumed he was dead. He should have been dead for a very long time now. He didn’t deserve to live, yet here he was writing to me, and my mother had been dead for more than ten years.

  My fingers shook as I slowly smoothed out the single page. I didn’t recognize his handwriting. It was large and dark and bold, sloping slightly.

  November 22, 1817

  Antwerp, Belgium

  My dearest daughter:

  I pray you are reading this letter. I won’t waste time telling you of my sorrow at our separation for so many years. Perhaps soon, you will agree to give me a chance, and I may come to know the woman you have become.

  I read of your marriage to the Earl of Devbridge. This cannot be, Andrea. You are in danger, extreme danger. I know this is difficult for you to believe, but you must do as I say. Leave Devbridge now, or as soon as you can without detection. Return to London, to your grandfather’s house. I will be with you as soon as possible and explain everything. Peter is waiting for me to finish, so I will close by saying that I have always loved you.

  Your father,

  Edward Kent Jameson

  I rose from the breakfast table, smiled at Lord and Lady Waverleigh, and excused myself. George barked, then fell in beside me. I walked to the ballroom at the back of the manor. No one was there. Just the week before, a half dozen servants had descended on the ballroom and scrubbed and polished everything to a rich shine. The chandeliers were lovingly cleaned until the glass sparkled like hundreds of twinkling jewels. The heavy brocade draperies covering the tall windows had been taken down and beaten until all accumulated dust of at least five years floated to the ground.

  I opened the letter again and walked to the far windows, so clean it looked like I could walk directly outside. I reread his letter.

  He wanted me to leave Devbridge Manor immediately? But why? What was his reason? Why didn’t he simply write his reason? Ah, because he was in such a hurry, he didn’t have time. That was ridiculous. There was no reason. He simply wanted to insinuate himself back with me. But why? Surely he had enough wealth, didn’t he? Did he want me to give him money when all was said and done? Perhaps he had feared that someone else would read the letter and would be alerted to—what?

  So he had read of my marriage. Because of my marriage I was in extreme danger? Bosh. Then, of course, I saw the old woman, John’s knife raised high, ready to send it into my heart.

  I looked up to see gardeners scything the grass on the east lawn. Two peacocks preened, their tail feathers spread wide as they strolled lazily toward the small rock garden. The scene before my eyes was so normal, so calm, so real.

  But there was something and someone in this house that wasn’t normal or real. There was someone evil.

  But did that mean I was the target?

  I folded the two letters and walked upstairs to my bedchamber. Belinda was straightening my brushes and creams in the dressing table. I went to my desk and pulled out my Italianate letter box. It was empty. I put the two letters in the box and locked it. I looked at the small gold key. I started to simply drop it in the drawer, then stopped. I found a gold chain, looped it around the key, and hung it around my neck.

  I picked up my derringer from beneath my pillow and put it in my pocket. I wasn’t about to leave my home; on the other hand, I wasn’t an idiot. Whatever my father was talking about, whatever it was that he believed was wrong, I would be prepared. If that old woman came into my room again, I would shoot her. If anyone at all threatened me, I would shoot them. Let him come here, I thought. Let my precious father come here and face me.

  But no one came that night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following morning, all of us accompanied Lord Waverleigh to Caroline’s empty music room. Amelia declined to come into the room. I didn’t blame her. Lawrence beside me, we followed Lord Waverleigh inside.

  I didn’t move, simply watched Lord Waverleigh walk around the small room. He said nothing at all. Finally, he raised his head and said, “There was no violence in this room. This was a young lady’s room. She perhaps wrote letters here, or read here, or any number of things that she could do in private. She felt safe here, calm. It was her haven. I can feel her unhappiness, but nothing more than that. Is this where Amelia fell asleep, on the floor of this room?”

  “Yes, Father,” Amelia said from the doorway. “And I felt this young lady—this chamber was Caroline’s music room—she was Uncle Lawrence’s second wife, and she apologized to me, I swear it to you. Not in words, of course, it was rather like she felt to me that she was sorry, that I was the wrong one.”

  “You say she was your second wife, Lawrence?”

  “Yes. Poor Caroline killed herself after she birthed her daughter. It was all very tragic, very sad. Unfortunately, she was mad. She was only Andy’s age when she died. Her death affected us all profoundly.”

  Lord Waverleigh started to say something, then he just shook his head. He looked at his daughter who had taken one step into the room. “If you were the wrong one, Amelia, then who is the right one?”

  “I suppose it was me,” I said. “But I have felt absolutely nothing in this room, sir, nothing at all. If Caroline wanted me specifically, I have given her many opportunities to speak to me, or feel her thoughts to me. There has been nothing.”

  “Hmmm,” said Lord Waverleigh, stroking his chin. “You are the third wife. Caroline was the second wife. I wonder what she wants? I also wonder why she hasn’t come to you, since you have given her the opportunity?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  He said then, “I should like to visit the spot where she killed herself.” I thought Lawrence would refuse. He was pale, his hands fisted at his sides. Of course this would upset him. Even though it had all happened many years before, Caroline had been his wife, he had loved her, he had grieved for her when she hurled herself from the north tower. Finally, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “It is this way.”

  John, Lawrence, and I accompanied Lord Waverleigh to the north tower. At the end of the west wing, there were narrow stairs that twisted sharply, going up and up, until finally there was a narrow door that grated like a shrieking ghost when my hu
sband opened it. There was an ancient bed in the circular room, with tattered bed hangings. A chest stood at the end of the bed. Nothing else.

  “I have never had the tower room cleared,” Lawrence said. “Everything is older than the oak trees all clustered together in the eastern forest, and they are very old indeed. I don’t know who slept in that bed, but if they are continuing to sleep there, I see no reason to disturb them.”

  He walked to a tall narrow door and pulled it open. It moaned each inch it moved. There was a narrow balcony outside the door, in the form of a half-circle, a three-foot-high stone balustrade enclosing it. I walked to the balustrade and looked down. It was a very long way down, much farther than I would have thought. And directly below was a stone walkway. I felt gooseflesh rise on my arms. She had climbed up upon the balustrade and jumped. I closed my eyes. Ah, Caroline, I thought, I am so very sorry.

  “I found her.” I turned quickly. John was at my elbow. He was pointing. “There, on that second stone, that was where she landed. There is still blood in that stone. It simply will not be scrubbed out. I remember when I found her that I at first thought she was asleep. Then I turned her over. There was so much blood, so very much.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You were a young boy. It must have been very difficult.”

  “More so for Caroline,” he said, and turned away.

  I turned to Lord Waverleigh, who was simply staring around that circular room. He was frowning. “I would have expected to feel the violence of her passing, but I do not. In my experience a man or woman who chooses to take his life is confronting an excruciating decision. There is doubt, pain, anguish, terror. It is not easy to convince yourself that death is preferable, yet I feel nothing of what she should have felt here. Nothing at all. It is strange. Usually I feel these things very strongly.”

  “Sir,” I said. “Caroline wasn’t well. Perhaps her mind simply did not react the way yours would or mine. Perhaps there was no great decision for her to make. To end her life was a compulsion.”