by Karen Ranney
He came forward, and she realized he’d disappeared into the shadows because of the dark greatcoat he was wearing.
“What are you doing here, vicar?”
“I’ve come with news from Glynneth.”
“Glynneth?”
They walked toward Balidonough together, him falling into step beside her.
“Where is she? Where has she been all this time? Why has she not returned to Balidonough?”
“Perhaps I might prevail upon you to offer me something warm to drink before I begin to answer all your questions? Some of your famous Balidonough whiskey would not be amiss, I think.”
Most of the staff of Balidonough was in the courtyard. She took the vicar into the Red Parlor, a familiar place since they had often retired there after dinner when he’d visited with the Dunnans.
She motioned toward the sideboard as she sat on the settee in front of the fire. Someone, blessedly, had kept it burning. The snow was still blanketing the ground, and from her vantage point it looked beautifully peaceful. Except that Moncrief was out in it, fighting a fire.
“Serve yourself some whiskey, vicar.”
“And may I serve you as well, my dear? I would feel somewhat awkward partaking of your generosity alone.”
“A small whiskey, then.”
He had his back to her and was taking an inordinately long time to serve them both. She wanted to ask him if there was a spot on the glass that had offended him, or if he was praying over the whiskey, but she didn’t voice either thought. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been leaving Balidonough because of her rudeness.
Instead of saying anything, she merely took the glass from him and motioned to the settee beside her.
“What about Glynneth?” she asked, taking a small sip of whiskey.
Although everyone at Balidonough was justifiably proud of the distillery and drank their whiskey often, Catherine had not yet developed a taste for it. However, she couldn’t remember it ever tasting this bitter.
“Glynneth is well,” he said.
Catherine took another sip, then set it down on the table between them.
“She’s returned to Kirkulben.”
She sat back against the cushions and looked at him. “I’m surprised. I didn’t know that she had friends there. In fact, I thought the opposite.”
“She has no friends. But she does have family.” He looked down at the floor, then back at her, a small boy confessing a large misdeed. He took off his spectacles, rubbed them briskly with the edge of his waistcoat, and replaced them. “She is my daughter.”
Chapter 28
Catherine leaned forward, grabbed the glass, and took another sip. This time the taste was not so bitter. Instead, it was sweet. She would have to ask Moncrief if he’d made some adjustment to the distilling process.
When she sat back it was to find that her balance was slightly off. She bumped her elbow against the arm of the settee, nearly spilling the remainder of the whiskey.
One hand went up to press between her brows and ease the tingling there. She blinked at the vicar, and he smiled back at her. A very calm smile, as if he understood everything that was suddenly happening to her.
“You are her father,” Catherine said, finding her lips suddenly dry. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth.
“I am. It’s not something I mentioned in the past. After all, she has an illegitimate child. But I’m sure you know that already.”
She nodded.
“Did you know that Harry was the father?”
The glass slipped from her numbed fingers and fell onto her lap, pooling the liquid. She watched as the whiskey seeped into the pale blue fabric, ruining it. Moncrief would be unhappy. He really liked this dress.
Glynneth. The vicar was talking about Glynneth and Harry.
“Did Harry know?”
“Of course he did, my child. But there is nothing he could do. You know his family. They have no money, certainly not enough to please a man like Harry. He needed to marry an heiress. You.”
She nodded, remembering tales of Harry’s gambling. The Dunnans would never have been able to support Harry’s losses.
“So he introduced himself to your father, then to you. One thing led to another as things do, and you found yourself besotted with him.”
“I was in love.” She had to enunciate her words carefully. Was she getting tipsy? She had never been tipsy before. Is this what it felt like?
“Of course you were, my dear. All young women were in love with Harry.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Instead of answering her, he stood. “I think you need to rest now, don’t you?”
His voice was so soft, she almost leaned into it. It sounded as if it must be a cloud, billowy and restful.
She found herself moving, but she couldn’t feel her feet. She looked down to make sure she wasn’t floating, but no, her shoes were touching the shiny wooden floor. She meant to mention it to the vicar but before she could, the thought simply slipped through her mind. He was walking her upstairs. Wallace still wasn’t at his post. No doubt he was fighting the fire.
“Everyone is there but me,” she said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. “I should be outside as well.”
“You need to rest.”
“Yes. But there’s a fire.”
“Yes, I know. A pity that all those lovely things had to burn.”
She glanced at him but before she could formulate a question, it simply slipped away.
“I’ve had too much whiskey. Forgive me.”
“You haven’t really. Have you forgotten the taste of laudanum, my dear? This time I’ve given you enough to ensure you sleep. Long and forever.”
Catherine felt her heart begin to slow, her limbs grow heavier. Each inch they traveled down the corridor was a mile.
“The Duke’s Chamber is this way, is it not, my dear? I must admit I didn’t have the time to explore during my last visit to Balidonough. Perhaps at your funeral I will have the opportunity to look around.”
She glanced at him, wondering why she didn’t feel the least bit intimidated by such a word: funeral. Funeral. It seemed have no meaning at all but sounded only like a strange grouping of syllables strung together. But even that thought was too difficult to maintain for long.
Suddenly she was in her chamber. No, not hers. Moncrief’s. But then, she rarely spent any time in hers lately. She slept with him, always touching him in some way.
He laughed about her cold feet.
She couldn’t even feel her feet.
All the past dukes looked down at her disapprovingly, as if she had no place in this room all by herself, that her only position was as Moncrief’s consort. Otherwise, she was unknown, unliked, and unwelcome.
The vicar led her to a small desk in the corner and placed a quill in her hand. It fell from her numbed fingers and he patiently replaced it.
“I want you to write something, my dear.” His voice was so kind, but then he’d always been kind to her.
“I want you to tell Moncrief that you would like to die now.”
But it was so far from what she truly felt that she could only grip the quill with trembling fingers.
“I don’t,” she said, forcing the last bit of lucidity from the haze that had become her mind. “I want to sleep.”
“I know, my dear, but you must write the letter first.”
She wanted to ask how he knew what she was thinking. Did he have the power to define her thoughts, did God give him that ability along with his calling? But then she realized she was speaking aloud because she could feel her lips move. Puzzled, she placed two fingers against her lips to silence her thoughts.
She dropped the quill and it made a blot on the paper he’d put before her. A sound escaped her, an inarticulate protest. She was incapable of speech, her mind becoming more and more numb as the seconds ticked by.
He placed the quill once again in her fingers. She wanted to apologize, but his swearing c
onfused her.
She couldn’t write to Moncrief and tell him she wanted to die. She wanted, very much, to live. The quill dropped again, and she leaned over to pick it up from the floor and fell to her knees.
He swore again, and suddenly he was walking her to the ducal bed. Moncrief had often done the same, but there would be no passion in this night, but only a sickening kind of horror that would accompany her death.
She understood that much.
The vicar wanted her to die.
He laid her down and covered her with a blanket. She wanted to ask if he was going to pray over her, but she couldn’t say the words. She wanted him gone. If she was going to die she would do so without a witness. Perhaps she could say something in the silence of the room, words that would linger on long after she died, thoughts that Moncrief would hear when he entered the room.
She wanted him to know that she hadn’t planned any of this, that it was as much horror for her as it would be for him. Would he mourn her? Please God, don’t let him mourn her as she had Harry. She would not wish grief or despair on anyone, especially not the man she loved.
She heard a key in the lock and realized the vicar had locked the door to the hall.
“I’ll just lock the door, shall I? Until such time as you’ve gone to sleep, my dear. By that time, the fire will be out, and I’ll be gone.”
And she would be dead.
She forced open her eyes, and the ceiling whirled above her.
He stood at the connecting door to her room. “I’ll lock this one as well. You mustn’t call for help, my dear. That would ruin all my plans.”
Then, just as she was certain he would leave her, he pulled the bell rope free, the embroidered length of it falling in a puddle to the floor.
She heard the sound of a door close, and waited. Only then did Catherine rise from the bed, stumble to the wall, and half slump against it. Above her head was the sconce Moncrief had turned to release the secret door.
Please, let me survive. She reached up only to find that she couldn’t touch the bottom of it.
The laudanum was sapping her strength, but she was not going to die, not without a struggle and not without using the very last drop of her energy. She edged against the wall, and stood on tiptoe before reaching up again. This time, her fingertips brushed against the bronze circle welded to the bottom of the sconce. But she couldn’t pull on it hard enough.
She kept blinking to clear her vision, but a gauzy white haze obscured her sight. The fireplace was on the other side of the room, and she made her way toward it, her steps slow and unbalanced. Once, she nearly fell over the ottoman arranged in front of a chair, but steadied herself. When she reached the fireplace tools, she gripped the poker and, holding it like a scepter, made her way back to the sconce.
The laudanum slowed her movements, made it difficult to aim with the poker or hook it into the circle. Perspiration dotted her forehead and she felt nauseated but she didn’t give up.
Moncrief.
His name was a lodestone, a beacon through the mist that was beginning to cloud her mind. She wouldn’t succumb because of Moncrief. He had saved her before, but this time she would have to save herself.
The next try she hooked the circle with the end of the poker. She wrapped her hands around the brass handle and used the weight of her body to pull it downward. Slowly, the door opened with a creak, so loud that she wondered if the vicar could hear the sound.
Please don’t let him come in. Please, let him have left Balidonough.
She entered the dark passage and closed the door with her shoulder.
Moncrief.
She placed both hands on the walls and stumbled forward, trying to get her bearings. She couldn’t feel her feet, didn’t know how many doors she passed. There should be stairs, but she felt as if she walked the length of Balidonough and could not locate them. At one point, she stopped and turned, certain she should have turned left instead of right. But finally she noticed a pool of darkness ahead of her. The stairs. Slowly, she descended them, tripping on the next to the last step and landing heavily on her knees.
She was not going to die here. Swaying, she tried to stand, fighting back the surge of nausea. The smell of onions sickened her, and she was violently ill. Laudanum always made her sick.
The smell of onions. She was in the cool room.
She reached up with both hands, praying that the handle to the door was not too high to reach. But she found it on her third try and turned it. The groan of the opening door was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.
The cool room was filled with food, all stored for the winter. Bags and barrels filled with all sorts of grains and oats. Meat hung overhead, salted and cured.
A faint glow from the fire penetrated the staircase leading to the kitchen. She doubted she could manage the steps, so she turned to the left and traced her hands over the bricks until she found the door to the courtyard.
This one was more difficult to open, but she persisted, pushing on it until she tumbled out into the night, lying on her back in the open air, snow falling down upon her face like soft, chilled feathers.
She could sleep now.
Her stomach rolled again, and once more she was ill. On her hands and knees with her head hanging between her arms, she summoned all her flagging strength to stand.
Moncrief.
She finally stood, then began to walk toward the keep, her gait lurching, her mind on him. As she grew closer to the keep, the air grew warmer, smoky. Catherine fell again, choking in the thick air.
Juliana was suddenly there, her face devoid of makeup, her cloak shielding only a printed wrapper.
“Will you get up, Catherine. You’re the Duchess of Lymond, and as such must comport yourself with greater dignity. No matter the provocation.”
“Moncrief.”
“I will summon him, you silly chit. But first, you really must rise. You’re causing a scene.”
The blur surrounding her was suddenly peopled with faces.
“Catherine!”
She felt Moncrief’s arms around her. “Vicar.” Another word she forced herself to speak.
Suddenly, she was in his arms, moving toward Balidonough. Snow fell on her eyelids, a chilled benediction. She was out of energy. Her hands would not work; she could only slap them against his chest. Her lips were numb, and she suspected it wasn’t the cold as much as the effect of the poison the vicar had given her.
“Please save me,” she said, certain that the words did not come out correctly. Moncrief must know that above all, she had tried. She had tried, not to die, but to live. To remain with him, to love him—he must know.
Please, let me live.
Catherine awoke to find herself in the Duchess’s Chamber. Annie sat in the corner, dozing. When she attempted to lift herself up on one elbow, a male hand gently pushed her back against the pillow.
“I didn’t see you there,” she whispered, as Moncrief came into focus.
He looked terrible, as if he’d not slept for a week. His eyes were reddened, and a growth of beard obscured the sharp angles of his chin. She stretched out her fingers and touched his face.
“I don’t know why,” Annie grumbled. “He’s been beside you for this last week. The most obnoxious man in the entire world, farmer’s daughter. I should have left the bullet in him.”
Moncrief sent her a look that would have terrified any other woman, but Annie was oblivious to it.
“I thought I banished you from Balidonough,” Catherine said weakly.
“You did, farmer’s daughter. And I un-banished myself.” She grinned, revealing the gaps in her smile. “It’s a good thing, too. You would have died if I hadn’t been here.”
Catherine glanced at Moncrief for confirmation. He only nodded.
“How?”
“I made you sick. I’ve never seen anyone lose the contents of their stomach so often and so long. You reminded me of a cow I had once, when she was poisoned with spiritweed.”
/> For a healer, she was an insufferable creature.
Moncrief must have shared that thought because his eyes suddenly twinkled.
“The vicar tried to kill me.”
“I know. As sheriff, I took the liberty of sending Wallace, Peter, and a number of footmen after him. He is now resting, not so comfortably, in Edinburgh.”
“You have your own regiment, Moncrief.”
“I do. Some of them are more able than the soldiers I commanded.”
“Do you miss being colonel?”
“Not a whit,” he said. “I’d much rather be duke. But for the sake of my modesty, perhaps I should not admit such a thing.”
What else would he admit?
He bent his head and kissed her softly, gently.
Suddenly, she realized it no longer mattered. None of it did. All that mattered was that she was alive, and so was he. They could reason out the future when it came.
Chapter 29
A week later, Catherine left Moncrief sleeping, intent upon her errand. If she were quick about it, she would be back by noon. He would, of course, be angry with her, but he would simply have to be angry.
The vicar had been taken to Edinburgh for trial, but no one had mentioned what would happen to Glynneth. Catherine was determined to ensure that her former companion was cared for and that she didn’t suffer for anything.
She entered the coach, Peter palpable in his disapproval. She managed to ignore him for the most part, concentrating ostensibly on the view, but mostly on the upcoming confrontation with her former companion, and with Moncrief on her return.
At Colstin Hall even winter seemed to be a gentle season. The icy crust on the ground was being blanketed by a soft snow. The weak rays of the morning sun, diffused by a gray sky, struck the manor house, sparkling the windows and lighting the path.
She was welcomed back to Colstin Hall as if the two months away had been a year. She greeted the cook and the assorted maids, and nodded to the majordomo and two footmen in attendance. Colstin Hall was a prosperous manor home, but their staff numbered less than a fifth of what was employed at Balidonough. Because of the size of the home itself, Colstin Hall maintained a coziness lacking at the castle.
