by Karen Ranney
Bernie extended her hand toward one of the innumerable servants and another glass of sherry appeared in it. Magical, effortless hospitality at Sanderhurst. Achieved, however, only after hours of planning.
“How could something that horrible have happened, and I not know?” Samuel asked. “Shouldn’t I have seen it or felt it?”
He turned red-rimmed eyes to her. Bernadette St. John laid her hand upon Samuel’s sleeve. He looked so much older than she’d imagined he would, but then, the last few days had been filled with aging experiences. Although only an inch or two taller than she, Samuel sported a paunch, a sure sign that too many years had elapsed since she’d made her tearful farewells to him. His muttonchop sideburns were magnificently silver, his eyes lined. The years had not been kind.
“Cecily forgot the basic tenets of any faith, Samuel. Forgiveness. Hope. Atonement. Love.”
“But her own child. To have killed her own child. How can I live with myself, Bernadette, that I did not protect Alice?”
“We all have our guilt to bear, Samuel.”
“Was it a punishment, Bernie, for not loving her? She was not a woman who believed in such things. She was not an easy woman to love.” He looked at her with hope-filled eyes. Did he ask for absolution from her? She didn’t have the answers he sought. Did anyone?
There were, after all, no words to speak. At times like this, it was better to remain mute. Silence was her gift to him, a time for Samuel to unburden himself, speak words he would possibly never repeat.
“Do you think she knew that I regretted my marriage?”
Oh, Samuel, will you not leave it alone? “It isn’t important anymore, is it?”
“I made a poor decision back then. The world would have changed if I had taken any other woman to wife instead of her. Alice would never have been born, only to die at her mother’s hands. And poor James might be a famous man of music.”
It was exceedingly difficult to see a proud man crumble before her. He seemed to realize it, because a long moment later he stood straighter, drank deeply from his glass.
“Are you happy, Bernie? Has life treated you well?” The look he gave her was almost speculative, certainly inquiring.
“I have learned to live within my skin, Samuel. I am different from other people, but then, most of us are, in one way or another.”
“You always knew yourself, Bernie. I envied that about you.”
“It is a skill I’ve practiced for many years, Samuel. It is not as easy as it seems. There are many things about myself that I would change.”
He looked away from her then, to the broad open windows and the vista of the snow-covered lawns of Sanderhurst.
And what would he change? Certainly a wife and two children gone through madness. She would remember the look on Cecily’s face until the day she cocked up her toes, Bernie thought. Confusion, then rage, so deep and so black that it seemed capable of eating through the most sturdy metal. And then Cecily’s face had simply softened into death, all emotions smoothed away until there was nothing on her features at all. She might have been sleeping.
All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman. How odd that she should remember that quote now. And from the Bible. How absurdly ironic.
“I’ve the three girls left, Bernie. And my grandchildren. All of whom are at home crying over their mother’s grave. What do I tell them?” Again, that look of hopelessness. She wished she had the power to wipe it away. Only time itself would.
“Cecily was their mother. Certainly there was something about her that was good, something fine to remember?”
Then cling to that, my friend, because too many other people will be more than happy to help you remember the worst of it.
“Perhaps you can come to visit them all, Bernie, before they go back to their own homes.”
“I’m afraid not, Samuel. I leave for China in but a matter of days.”
“Then I wish you well, Bernie.”
“And I, you, Samuel.”
She bent forward to kiss him on his cheek. Just for a moment he held her, a soft press of body against body until he released her and stepped back. Bernie knew she would probably never see him again.
She strolled away from him then, outwardly serene, inwardly impatient that this day of obligation and ritual be finished. She wanted to be free of the milling people and the mirrors draped in black and the low-voiced humming sounds of voices. Idiotic things people said at such occasions, nothing making much sense. But then, what could be said at such senseless tragedy?
This was not an old man wheezing his last breath in his familial bed, or an ancient crone cackling her last wishes before extending one claw for the hand of Death itself. This was the memorial for two young people, deprived of life because madness had made it so. One a countess, a young woman with a bright smile and a sparkling laugh Bernie remembered from when she was a child. The other a young man of talent and brilliance, who could coax music from his mind and anoint the world with it. And a child never born, never given life, because madness decreed it so. It seemed fitting that they all rested together.
Yet she was more concerned for the living. She’d had only glimpses of Archer in the last few days and had the distinct impression that Mary Kate was avoiding her. Neither looked ready to offer comfort and support to the other. Neither seemed capable of being denied it much longer.
Guilt. A strange word. An even more onerous emotion. They all felt it, did they not? Archer for condemning a victim. Mary Kate for not saving James Moresham. Herself, for killing a madwoman. Even Samuel, for keeping the secret of James’s birth too long, for not knowing that he slept beside a madwoman. They were all human beings, all flawed, all destined to writhe a little upon a heavenly spit for the sins they’d committed. But not punished as ably and as permanently as Cecily would have wanted.
As she turned, she caught a glimpse of a cloaked Mary Kate, bonnet pressed down about her face as if to hide her features from the guests. Bernie excused herself, walked into the hallway. Mary Kate gave her a watery smile, a false mimicry of her usual bright greeting. Bernie pressed the young woman’s hands between her own, offering wordless comfort. If only there were something else she could have done. Of all of them, she worried about Mary Kate the most. The vivacity of the girl had been muted, as if she resided beneath a heavy, fog-colored cloud.
“Are you sure you wish to walk the grounds now?” Bernie’s voice held a great deal of gentle doubt. “It is a very cold place to wish solitude.”
“It smells clean and fresh.”
Unlike sweet decay. A thought Bernie voiced only in her mind. “Shall I leave you alone, then?”
“I will be fine, Bernie.” A resolute smile seemed to promise it.
She pulled open the door, but before exiting the too warm hall, she turned. “Did you know, Bernie? Did you realize Cecily was capable of something like that?”
A moment of thought, as a small and infinitely painful smile appeared on Bernie’s face. “Who is to see the face of madness, Mary Kate? Are we not all capable of some horror or another? What keeps any of us just this edge of sanity?”
“That does not hold out much hope for the rest of us, does it, Bernie?” Her hand gripped the door too tightly.
“Oh, my dear, that is all we have, sometimes.”
She knew it was not enough of an answer, yet a more complete one might never be found.
Mary Kate sat heavily on one of the rustic benches. In front of her was a small pond that had frozen overnight, to the consternation of several ducks that pecked upon its surface. Tall reeds stiff with ice surrounded half of it; an interesting tree draped its branches along the other half. She was not a gardener, but a lack of proficiency did not prevent her from admiring the work of others. The formal garden of Sanderhurst would be glorious in the spring. Now it lay dormant and brown, carefully shaped and trimmed boxwood hedges peeping from beneath a layer of snow the only spot of color. It was a perfect sight for restful composure, if only sh
e could convince her mind of it.
She needed time alone, unhampered by the demure gentility this day demanded. How odd that she should miss her father so acutely now. Or perhaps not. Her father represented stability, something lacking in her life for years. And love, something she’d not felt since his death until coming to this sprawling castle of a home. But neither stability nor love would be hers for much longer.
Until today, she had not seen Archer since those horrible moments in the curing shed. Mary Kate had never seen anyone undergo such a rapid transformation, from handsome to haggard, from filled with life to almost a cadaver. He’d come and loosened her bonds, freed her mouth of the gag. For a moment he’d stroked his hands over her bruised mouth, but then his attention was turned upon Alice.
Sweet, dainty Alice, shriveled and wizened and bent, nut brown, her skin shiny, leathered by the smoking process. Archer had knelt there in a sad mimicry of his wife’s tortured position, his hands stretching out as if to touch her. But at the last moment he could not, just softly withdrew them to rest upon his knees, never noticing when a blond hair fell soundlessly to the floor.
Perhaps Mary Kate could have given him something of comfort in those moments, perhaps said a few words of wisdom, even held him in her arms. Yet it was as if they were all singularly inviolate, separated, kept apart not only by shock, but by the horror of a mind that could have envisioned this tableau and then executed it in perfect detail.
She had not, in the end, touched him. It was Peter who hauled her up into his arms, who planted her in the carriage. Bernie who sat with her during the ride back to Sanderhurst, where the doctor examined her head and ankle and pronounced her assigned to her bed for a fortnight.
Today was the first day she could bear to stand, and today she had indeed stood, while a minister consecrated the new vault in the St. John crypt. After it was over, only she and Archer had remained, staring as the door was slowly closed and sealed. The two people who had loved each other since they were children now lay together in death.
Heaven should have wept for such a loss, and perhaps it did, the tears frozen to become the snowflakes that fell soundlessly around them as they stood there.
And since he had said nothing to her since the moment he’d discovered his wife, Mary Kate said nothing as she left, uncertain of Archer’s thoughts or his feelings. There was no voice in her mind, nothing to guide her but a feeling of trespass.
If she felt guilt, it was not of the nature Bernie supposed. She had tried to save James Moresham, despite the ridicule of others. She had tried and failed, but others might not have tried.
No, the guilt she felt was that assumed by those who live when others do not. Death touched a nerve with Mary Kate, a strong and sensuous one that surprised her, then shamed her, then simply amused her. She was radiantly glad to be alive, hysterically gleeful for being pulled back from the brink. She hadn’t wanted to die, was not prepared for it, may never be. She had always clung to life with a greedy and confident expectation that things would be brighter, that life would become better, that she herself would experience all those things she’d longed for as a child and a young woman.
Even now, at a time when she should have felt the most saddened, a small flicker of hope breathed like a tiny flame.
Chapter 41
It was dawn when Mary Kate woke, a scant three hours before she was due to leave Sanderhurst. She had arrived with few belongings; how odd that her portmanteau now bulged at the seams. A book of poetry given to her by Archer, two dresses altered from Bernie’s wardrobe, plus the headdress Mary Kate could not bear to part with, it reminded her so much of the odd and iconoclastic countess—all these things rested inside. And at the bottom was a pressed flower from the garden and the most precious treasure of them all, a miniature of Alice St. John as a child, given to her by Samuel Moresham with many tears on her part and a gruff throat clearing on his.
She lay staring up at the ceiling, wondering if she’d have the courage to say good-bye to Archer. Still no words between them, nothing but a stilted silence.
Was it that he had truly not believed her and now was having difficulty coming to terms with it? Or had he loved Alice more than he had admitted even to himself?
She sat up on the side of the bed, then stood. She pulled her nightgown off and spent the next few moments donning her clothes for the journey. The first tinges of light shone upon the horizon, trailing fingers of pink and yellow and rose. Mary Kate chose not to light the candle, but stood at the door of the terrace watching the dawn, feeling the pepper of tears in her eyes.
Only after a few long moments did she leave her room and turn down the hall, turn left at the branch and step toward the Master’s Suite. Only once before had she been in Archer’s room before, and that journey left a store of memories. She knocked softly on the panel, prepared to turn away if he did not respond to the soft entreaty. She did not wish to waken him.
“Enter.”
It was a command given in a fully awake voice. No grogginess or stumbling over words. She bent her head, placed one hand upon the door’s lever, then pushed it open with the gentlest of movements.
He was standing at the window, watching the sky lighten as she had, although his view was not of the east as hers had been. The Master’s Suite was a huge sprawling room that looked out over the northern expanse of Sanderhurst.
Mary Kate understood why Archer had never thought to guard her, after viewing the sheer size of the landscaped lawn. He needn’t worry that she could have escaped; a coach and four would not have been able to travel the manicured expanse in an hour. It was a daunting sight, the massiveness of Sanderhurst, a silent yet overwhelming reminder of the power of the man who had imprisoned her, first in rage, and then in passion. And a goad to remember how different their stations in life were.
She did not belong here.
He turned at her entrance, yet did not seem surprised by her presence. Had he heard her stirring? Or did he know she was about to leave and wished to bid her farewell on his own? Questions she did not feel courageous enough to ask of him. Not now. Not at this moment.
“We have not talked, you and I,” he said.
“No.”
Her answer seemed to amuse him. A small smile curved his lips. “Are you well?”
“Yes.” Why was she finding this so difficult? Why was farewell such an onerous word to utter? Say good-bye, Mary Kate, and have an end to this. Of fairy tales and ghosts and wounded eyes. Say good-bye and go back to being of the servant class, where a man looks like what he is, be it ironmonger or fisherman or carpenter. Where pain is from a boil on the arse or a severed thumb, not an agony of the spirit, or a wound of the soul.
“And you? Is your injury better?”
He fingered the bandage on the side of his neck. “Yes. I’ve been told I heal quickly.”
The flesh, perhaps, but the soul? How quickly did the spirit heal?
He looked too tired, as if sleep had been only fleetingly his. Too world-weary, as if he’d seen all that was wicked and evil and hideous about it. Ah, but then, they both had, hadn’t they? Was that why they could not talk?
“I’ve come to say…” There it was then, that hitch in her breath. That word, so terribly difficult. Good-bye.
“Must you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then be gentle, Mary Kate. I’m feeling rather battered and bruised with the truth lately.”
“What truth, Archer?”
He looked at her blandly. No, not bland. Nothing about Archer St. John was without emotion, be it good or bad. He seethed with it, anger, disgust, contempt. What would he be like veiled in those emotions of brighter hue—joy, excitement, expectation? Love?
He turned away from her, back to the view of Sanderhurst.
A small laugh broke the silence between them. “That you were right, and I was wrong, of course. Horribly wrong, as it turned out.” He turned and watched her, an eagle’s stare again. “Was that not what you came t
o say? Although, I will admit, I’d never thought you the type to gloat.”
“Nor am I.”
“Forgive me,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve hurt you. I am doomed to always disappoint you, Mary Kate, first with my doubting, then with my cruelty. Forgive me,” he said, reaching her, extending his arms forward and grabbing her shoulders.
She could have easily wrested herself from his grip, but it seemed that he needed the embrace as much as she. She stepped into it, feeling absurdly that she was coming home, nesting in a spot reserved for her in all of nature, Archer St. John’s arms.
His chin nuzzled her hair, and of their own volition, her arms crept around his waist, to anchor him there. He was so very warm, easing out all the cold she’d felt for so very long.
“Do you know, since you’ve come into my life, nothing has been quite the same. Or is it, Mary Kate, that I only see things differently?”
“What things?” Her voice was muffled. She held her cheek against his chest tightly, the way a child would do if frightened or in danger of imminent parting. She never wanted to leave. How terrible, then, that the minutes ticked so stolidly between them.
There was a note of humor in his voice, a rueful acceptance of her insistence. “I had forgiven Alice even before she was found. I no longer thought of her as a perfidious wife, but a woman as trapped as I in our loveless marriage.”
“I am so sorry, Archer. For all that I did not do.”
He pulled back, studied her with a fierceness that would have denoted anger if she had not seen the fear in his eyes. “You almost died, Mary Kate. You almost died.”
He kissed her then, and she kissed him back, surrendering to an unbearable temptation, the feel of his lips. Through the veil of tenderness crept another emotion, one more visceral, more fierce, protection, possession, need. It tore the tenderness to shreds with one swipe of a taloned claw.
