Dark Splendor (13 page)

For his part, Roman was also quiet, and
though polite, paid her little attention. Had it not been for one
special smile, she might have thought he had forgotten the moment
of harmony they had shared near the beach. But one smile was enough
to make her eyes dreamy and to bring a warm flush to her cheeks.
One smile was promise enough for tomorrow.

When dinner was over, the men bade good
night to the women and left to discuss the business of the estate
over brandy and cigars.

Silvia and Martha retired to a small parlor
adjoining the dining room. The feminine decor was in shades of
rose, with pale brocade cloth covering the cushioned furniture.
Martha’s expert needlework was evident in pillows and beautifully
appointed cloths on the tabletops. The chairs were small-scaled
compared to the library furniture, and grouped cozily around an
inlaid tea table. Martha’s sewing basket, filled with thread and
yarn and fine linen cloth, sat beside one chair. The room was a
perfect setting for Martha’s beauty and enveloped her in a warm,
rosy cocoon.

“This is the only room in the castle Uncle
has given me a free hand in decorating,” Martha said, noting
Silvia’s appreciation of her surroundings. It is used for
entertaining ladies who accompany their husbands when they are here
to do business with Uncle.”

Martha’s small hands carefully poured a
special herbal blend of tea she had prepared when learning of
Silvia’s soreness. She had sent for boiling water, and as she
waited, selected the various herbs from silver-topped jars she kept
in a small cabinet. The steaming brew had a delicious, spicy aroma.
Martha added sugar to each cup, and handing one to Silvia, asked
how she had enjoyed the ride with Roman.

“Morgan joined us,” Silvia said, sipping a
swallow and setting her rose-patterned cup on the low tea
table.

Martha’s brows raised slightly and a faint
smile reached her lips.

Silvia lowered her lids a moment and rested
her head against the back of the chair.

“It was wonderful to get out after months on
the ship.” She laughed lightly. “I enjoyed it in spite of being
unaccustomed to the saddle.” For Morgan’s sake she did not tell
Martha about his mishap, nor did she mention Roman’s invitation to
ride with him again tomorrow.

The moment her cup was empty, Martha poured
a second cup of the fragrant brew for her.

“You must drink another. It will help you
sleep.” Martha smiled sweetly, and carefully returned the teapot to
its tray. Her slender white hand patted Silvia’s arm. “I use it
when I am overly tired.” Martha sipped daintily from her own cup.
Tonight she had dressed entirely in pale blue satin. Even the
dainty slippers peeping out from the hem of her gown were made of
matching fabric. She twisted her head slightly, showing a pair of
sapphire earrings that shone like starlight against her fair skin.
“But it is Vivien’s cure that will do you the most good. She will
be down soon to get it for you. Her liniment will take the soreness
out by morning, if you can stand the smell.” Martha’s soft laughter
had a musical ring, and as her head bobbled slightly, candlelight
reflected in her pale hair, making it look as silvery as the
elegant tea service before them.

Silvia had not seen Vivien since morning.
Now she mused over the strangeness of the dark, hawkish woman who
was never in sight but appeared like a conjured-up spirit when
needed or mentioned. She was, perhaps, Mr. Schlange’s nurse and
stayed with him when he was not sleeping. Yet she seemed to have
authority over the other servants. Was she the housekeeper or a
member of the family, some distant relative like they supposed her
to be? Martha would know, but Silvia thought it not prudent to ask
her about Vivien. A moment later she pushed the matter from her
thoughts as a drowsy warmth spread through her limbs.

“The tea is wonderful,” Silvia said,
draining her cup of the last swallow. “If Vivien’s liniment is
equally as soothing, I am certain to sleep more soundly than
ever.”

The crisp rustle of taffeta skirts alerted
her to Vivien’s approach, and she turned to see the stern-faced
woman enter the parlor.

“Anna said you wished to see me.”

Silvia set her cup down. Vivien’s eyes were
dark as a starless midnight sky and her face held the same grim
expression as when she had first greeted Silvia at the door of
Serpent Tree Hall. Instinctively Silvia felt that Vivien disliked
her and merely tolerated her presence in the house. But possibly
Vivien did not like anyone. She showed no more deference to Martha
than to Silvia herself. Martha, though, apparently saw nothing
disturbing in her manner. In any event, Silvia politely stifled a
yawn; Vivien’s peculiar relationship to members of the family need
not concern her for a little while longer.

She covered her mouth, but try as she might,
this time could not prevent a yawn. She was so drowsy, so sleepy.
The tea had worked well to relax her, and she felt as if she would
fall asleep if she closed her eyes again. Martha’s beautiful
porcelain-lidded eyes glowed like candle flames in her hazy vision.
She blinked and straightened up in the chair and with a fleeting
smile turned toward Vivien.

“I would be grateful if I could use some of
your liniment, Vivien. I rode today and the experience left me sore
and stiff.” Her words sounded thick and slow like honey pouring
from the rim of a jar.

Vivien’s eyes were shiny black beads fixed
on Silvia, and as she listened she lifted her chin slightly in a
slow, fluid motion like that of a perching bird raising its
head.

“Anna will bring it up when you go to your
room.” Vivien stood ramrod straight. “Use it sparingly. It is
strong.” She glanced once at Martha and made an almost
imperceptible nod before she left the room.

Silvia patted her cheeks, briefly chasing
the sleepiness from her eyes. She stood cautiously, said good night
to Martha, and made her way slowly to her bedroom. Anna was at her
door almost as soon as she arrived. In her pudgy hands she carried
a corked bottle of dark brownish liquid and a kettle of hot water.
She took them into the dressing room, poured the water in a bowl,
and set the bottle in to warm the liniment.

“It’ll take a minute to heat it up right,”
Anna said. “Nobody knows what she puts in it,” she went on. “She’s
a wonder with cures.” Anna stopped abruptly as if she were about to
say more but thought better of it. Instead she merrily added, “Do
you want me to rub it on for you, miss?”

“No, thank you, Anna, I’ll do that
myself.”

***

As Anna left, Silvia contemplated her maid’s
stilted speech. At times everyone in the household held his tongue
while in her presence. What could they possibly be keeping from
her? Although each tried to make her feel at home, Silvia knew they
all secretly wondered why she was here, and she sensed the
uneasiness they felt. Yet only Vivien’s piercing glares bespoke her
curiosity.

In her lethargic state Silvia saw Vivien’s
menacing looks as those coming from a bird of prey. She felt
certain the woman disliked her, would prefer she had never come to
Serpent Tree Hall. Silvia felt terribly uncomfortable when ever
alone with her and hoped for little contact once her position was
announced.

Listlessly she undressed, wrapped herself in
a robe, and painfully made her way to the dressing room. She took
the bottle from the water and wiped it dry with a cloth, lifting it
high to the candlelight and turning it curiously in her hand as she
dropped the cloth to a washstand. She tested the temperature
bare-handed to be sure it was not too hot to apply.

The cork fit tightly and required a tug
before separating from the bottle’s neck. Grimacing, she snapped
her head back in surprise when it popped out, and just as quickly,
her nose wrinkled in disgust at the overpowering medicinal odor.
She laughed softly. It was stronger than any horse liniment she had
ever smelled. If odor were any indication of its effectiveness,
Vivien’s ointment would be a marvelous cure. Holding her breath,
she rubbed it on her sore backside and thighs, feeling a soothing
spread of warmth on her skin where she massaged in the potent
liquid.

A few moments later she climbed with
agonizing slowness between the soft sheets. Martha’s tea had acted
as a sleeping draft, and combined with the effects of the rub, took
her into a deep, spiraling slumber where figures swirled and
shimmied shadowlike in a thick green mist.

She moaned softly. Her body floated like a
loose feather drifting downward through heavy, warm air. At last
she came to rest in a cavernous dark room where open-paged books
appeared like large silent birds flying around her head. The sound
of crashing ocean waves and the loud thundering hooves of running
horses mingled in her ears.

Dim figures swirled faster, rising from the
floor as dancers, floating weightlessly in the greenish mist. One
dark shape stepped apart from the others and moved purposefully
toward her. Silvia stirred, tossing her head from side to side on
the pillow. She cried out softly, whimpering like a lamb lost in
the darkness. The figure stopped at the sound of her cry.
Suspended, it hovered above her head until she was again still and
quiet.

She sighed helplessly as a weight pressed
the mattress beside her. A dark shape sat at her side, its face
hidden in the shading hood of a cloak. Rising up from the blackened
folds of the heavy garment, a hand slowly reached out and touched
her cheek, drawing a finger in slow rhythm across her lips.

Another soft moan escaped from Silvia’s
lips. Her hands moved listlessly to her face and brushed against
the hair-roughened back of the hand that caressed her. She quivered
once and stretched her arms above her head, sinking deeper into the
soft pillow. Her body tingled pleasurably beneath the soothing
touches that came against her throat. She lifted lightly to meet
gentle, pliant fingers that moved the covers aside and stroked
delicately over her pale shoulders and the graceful swell of her
breasts.

A face appeared in her mind, gentle, loving,
with eyes of balmy blue. Her fingers stretched and curled in
enjoyment. He had stilled her troubled dream and stayed the
tormenting thoughts that played within her head.

“Roman.” A feathery whisper sounded from her
lips.

The hand stopped its tender game. Above her
a grim face contorted painfully into a frown. The lips twitched,
and a sound, half a gurgle, half a moan, sounded from deep within
his throat. Long, purposeful fingers moved quickly upward, looping
tightly around a single lock of Silvia’s raven hair. The shadowy
shape stood, raising the other arm high and holding it there
briefly. As the arm slowly descended, a sliver of moonlight
reflected from a bit of pearl on the curved handle of a dagger
clutched in his hand.

A sharp painful tug on her hair brought a
sudden cry of pain. Silvia jerked her head away and one hand
slipped down to fumble at her temple for the source of the pain.
When she rolled her head back toward the menacing shape, it had
become a dark, rising mist, a retreating shadowy cloud, leaving, as
it went, a scent of roses.

Silvia tried to speak but her words turned
to darkness. In a moment all the figures were gone like shadows
swallowed up in a blackened void. She knew nothing more until
sunshine filtered its welcome light into the room and she woke
suddenly, sitting up in bed with a vague, haunting remembrance of
something frightening having happened as she slept. A nightmare,
she’d had a dreadful nightmare, she remembered uneasily as a cold
shiver coursed her spine. She sniffed. The scent of roses still
filled the room, stirring a memory from the shadows of her
mind.

Slowly, knowingly, her hand went to her hair
and then she fell back to the pillow, feeling strangely alarmed.
Beside her head on the pillow rested a single red rose. A cold,
cold dread filled her heart as trembling fingers took the flower in
her hands.

Her thoughts flew like dry leaves in a
storm. Shaking uncontrollably, she tossed the flower from her and
combed her fingers through her hair while the dim memory of a dream
grew stronger. How could there be a rose on her pillow? She had
locked the doors. Yet she had awoken to find her door unlocked her
first night at Serpent Tree Hall. Could someone be watching,
waiting for her during the night?

The anxiety turned round and round in her
mind until all at once she threw the covers back and jumped from
the bed. She was at the mirror in a flash, but her suspicions had
not prepared her for what she saw. She froze, hands covering her
mouth. Her dark tangled hair hung loosely over her back and
shoulders. She stared wildly at a frightened image that returned
her fear. It had been more than a dream. There was no mistaking it.
Her arms fell limply to her sides and she caught hold of the
dresser to keep from falling. The glass showed quite clearly one
shortened dark curl resting on her forehead. Someone had cut away a
lock of her hair as she slept.

A churning panic swept over her and she
continued to stare at her image in disbelief. Her jaw slackened and
she backed woodenly away from the mirror. Taking a few aimless
steps, she spotted her robe and quickly slipped it on. A sudden
thought sent her rushing to the bedroom door, but there she found
the key in the lock as she had left it. The sitting-room door also
proved locked. Then how and who? Dreams did not produce roses nor
snip away locks of hair.

Her alarm growing, Silvia dashed back to the
bedroom, threw open the windows, and leaned out. She knew there was
no balcony, but somehow she had to confirm that the walls were too
steep and the windows too high for anyone to scale easily. It was a
long sheer drop to the ground below. No one could have come through
the windows.