Sandra Heath (16 page)

He nodded. “It seems Amabel has a tendresse for him, and after much flirting, has finally succeeded. I’m convinced that she will soon be the Marchioness of Rothwell.”

Henrietta didn’t glance up, but her hand shook so much as she poured another cup of tea, that the teapot rattled against the blue-and-white china.

Charlotte stared at her husband. “And what, pray, leads you to such an unlikely conclusion?”

“The evidence of my own eyes. She’s been quite shameless, and at first he did his utmost to avoid her, but then he began to change. This morning I saw her creeping from his room.”

The teapot slipped from Henrietta’s fingers and would have spilled had she not caught it quickly. “F-forgive me,” she murmured apologetically to Nurse, whose best crockery it was.

“That’s all right, my dear,” the old woman replied, looking shrewdly at her.

Charlotte spoke again. “Russell, are you saying you actually saw Amabel leaving Marcus’ room?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Charlotte got up. “I can’t believe Amabel appeals to Marcus in the slightest.”

“Well, I know what I saw. Anyway, if it comes to that, I thought she had other fish to fry,” Russell replied casually, then glanced at Henrietta and fell abruptly silent.

Henrietta looked up. “Other fish? What do you mean, Russell?”

Charlotte shot her husband a warning look, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er, nothing. It’s just an expression.”

Nurse’s quick gaze moved from one to the other, but Henrietta detected nothing. She got up. “If you will excuse me, I’ve left my gloves in my room ...”

Oh, the agony of despair that had engulfed her as she hurried up to the little bedroom that had been hers for the past weeks. Hot, stinging tears could not be halted, and she’d flung herself on the patchwork counterpane, weeping in silent wretchedness.

It hadn’t been easy to mend the damage to her face, and the Chinese box had been much resorted to before she at last considered her tearstains to be satisfactorily concealed. Now she was ready to leave with the others, but she really didn’t know how she was going to cope with seeing Marcus and Amabel together.

Charlotte’s voice carried from the hall. “We’re ready to leave, Henrietta!”

“I’m coming.” Taking a final look at herself in the little wall mirror, she pulled on her gloves and left the room.

It
was sunny but still cold outside, and as Charlotte emerged with Eleanor in her arms, there were cheers from the inhabitants of Mulbridge, who were to follow in their pony traps to attend the double ceremony. Deep snow lay everywhere, mostly smooth and untouched, but in great heaps beside the road where the men had cleared the way. The creek was frozen, and the Mull itself had a crust of ice. Icicles hung from everything and curls of smoke rose lazily from cottage chimneys into motionless air. The rooks rose in a noisy flock as the carriage set off, followed by its procession of traps.

Half an hour later, the convoy entered Mulborough, where the townsfolk cheered and waved. The atmosphere was joyous, not only because of the new baby, but because the boom was almost finished and everyone felt safe from the
Légère.
Out in the harbor the
Avalon
fired her cannons in salute, and was answered by those on the abbey terrace. Crowds followed as the procession made its way up the steep hill to the church, and as the carriage halted at the lych-gate, Henrietta saw Russell’s empty curricle. Amabel’s handkerchief lay upon the seat, dropped when Marcus had assisted her to alight.

Composing herself, Henrietta forced a smile to her lips. Russell and Charlotte ascended the steps first, and then came Mary Gilthwaite with the baby. Henrietta followed at a distance, assisting Nurse, who found the climb difficult. The old woman paused to smile at the cheering people thronging the churchyard. “Well, Miss Henrietta, it would seem the Mulborough bogle is far from thought today.”

“Indeed so.”

“I’ll warrant there wouldn’t be a soul here if it were midnight.” Nurse touched Henrietta suddenly. “Look, the marquess is at the church porch with that Mrs. Renchester.”

Henrietta glanced up reluctantly. Marcus looked very elegant in a dark brown coat and fawn trousers, with a brown top hat and cream silk waistcoat. Amabel wore ice green; the white plumes on her wide-brimmed hat fluttered, and as if sensing Henrietta’s gaze, she turned suddenly. For the space of a heartbeat she made no acknowledgment, but then smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

As Henrietta returned the salute, Nurse briefly touched her sleeve. “You’re doing very well, Miss Henrietta. The marquess won’t know a thing.” She smiled as Henrietta’s eyes flew to her. “You can’t hide it from me, my dear, I know you love him.”

Henrietta looked away in confusion. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Deny it if you will, but I know better. Forget him, my dear, for he’s a breaker of hearts. Come to that,
all
men are, and many women too, especially the likes of that Renchester woman.” Nurse didn’t care for Amabel, who had ridden over to Mulbridge only once to see Charlotte and Eleanor. She’d come with Marcus, which was why Nurse hadn’t felt able to observe Charlotte’s wish regarding her nonadmittance to the cottage. On leaving Amabel hadn’t properly controlled her rather capricious horse, which had started forward, almost pinning Henrietta against the gate. Things might have been very hazardous if Marcus hadn’t had the presence of mind to pull her to safety. Amabel had been all tearful apologies, but to Nurse her words somehow hadn’t rung true.

“Please don’t say that, for Amabel is my friend—” Henrietta began.

“Friend? After what she’s done? My dear, she is a serpent.”

Henrietta began to sense there was something she should know. “What exactly are you talking about, Nurse?”

The old woman realized she’d said too much, and fell into an embarrassed silence.

“Nurse?”

“It’s of no consequence, my dear.”

“On the contrary. I think it is of considerable consequence. Please tell me.”

“It’s not my place. Miss Henrietta.”

Henrietta was determined. “You’ve gone this far, you may as well tell me. I won’t let the matter lie, of that you may be sure.”

Nurse became quite flustered. “Oh dear, I—I really don’t think—”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, me and my rattle tongue. I—I don’t
know
anything, my dear, I’ve simply put two and two together from what was said at the breakfast table today. I’m probably wrong anyway.”

“Wrong about what?
Please
tell me!”

Nurse drew a long breath. “Well, I guessed from what was said this morning that Mrs. Renchester had been more than she should to the gentleman you are to marry.”

Henrietta stared.

“As I say, it’s only a guess, and I’m probably entirely wrong.”

Amabel and
George
? And Charlotte and Russell knew?
Henrietta was shaken. With hindsight it had been clear from the moment Amabel arrived at the abbey that Charlotte’s dislike for her moved on more levels than just old school rivalry. Henrietta closed her eyes. To her shame she knew she could cope with the thought of Amabel and George, but Amabel and
Marcus?
Oh, that was pain of the deepest kind.

Nurse put an uneasy hand on her arm. “My dear, please forget all about it. It’s clearly long since over, and the marquess is receiving her favors now. Soon you will be Lady Sutherton.”

Henrietta made no response. The future suddenly stretched before her with an awful clarity it never had before, and she knew she couldn’t marry George. It had nothing to do with his infidelity, but was simply the realization that gratitude was no foundation for marriage. She felt nothing for him, and he felt nothing for her. His warning about Marcus had been delivered solely with an eye to her fortune, not out of consideration for her feelings. Henrietta opened her eyes again. Her decision was final, although she wouldn’t say anything to anyone else until she’d had a chance to tell George face-to-face.

Nurse looked anxiously at her. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Henrietta smiled. “Yes, Nurse. Please don’t worry, for you’ve done no harm.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved.”

At that moment the cheering died away and Henrietta saw that the crowd was moving toward the church. The main party had already proceeded inside, except for Marcus, who was descending the steps. She steeled herself for a moment she had been dreading.

He sketched a bow to them both and she inclined her head stiffly. “My lord.”

The formality of the response was not lost upon him. “It’s time to go into the church, but you’ve been talking down here for some time. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” she replied, glancing at the porch, where Amabel had been.

Nurse continued up the steps, but Marcus prevented Henrietta from accompanying her. “We really should talk privately.”

“About what?”

“That must be obvious.”

“No, sir, it isn’t, for in my opinion we have nothing whatsoever to discuss. Let us simply endure the remaining hours we must be beneath the same roof, and in the morning I will gladly depart.” Henrietta pulled away from him, but then halted as she saw Jane and Kit moving among the gravestones. The ghosts were calling a name—Rowley—and she knew they were searching for the spaniel. She glanced around, half expecting to see the little dog gamboling toward them, but there was no sign of it.

Marcus followed her gaze, but saw only the now empty churchyard. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Henrietta murmured, watching as the ghosts suddenly saw her looking and hastened away into the lane.

While Jane and Kit searched in vain for him, Rowley was still imprisoned in the dark. A little earlier, the whole world seemed to reverberate with thunder. Everything trembled and boomed, and he’d huddled even farther into his corner. There was more thunder, and then came a voice from beyond the door. “We’re to celebrate too, lads! Orders are to break out some good rum!”

Suddenly a man came in with a lantern. He wore a thick blue woolen jersey and wide white nankeen trousers, and his long hair was pulled back and waxed into a pigtail. The swaying light revealed a storeroom containing, among other things, casks, barrels of gunpowder, ropes, and rolls of heavy canvas. But just as the overjoyed spaniel prepared to make a dash for it, something else crept in behind the man. It was the bogle, which was only too visible to Rowley, but could only be seen by humans if it chose to appear. The horrid manikin retreated into the shadows by a heap of sandbags, and then the man went out with a cask on his shoulder and closed the door again.

Darkness returned, and the bogle sniggered. “I’m after you, doggie, and I’ll get you. No one disturbs  
my
sleep and goes unpunished!”

Chapter Seventeen

Coming face-to-face with Henrietta in the churchyard had delivered a timely reminder to Jane and Kit that they had things to do if they wished to pass through the gates of heaven. They were only too aware that they’d allowed their grief over Rowley to take precedence over all else, and now their time had almost run out. When Henrietta left the abbey in the morning, their chance would be lost until the next time it snowed on New Year’s Day. The hapless wraiths had not given up entirely, however, and that night returned halfheartedly to their task.

It was late evening when they went in search of Henrietta, and found her in the grand saloon. From a dark corner, the ghosts watched the suppressed emotion on her face and wondered what she was thinking. She was the only person there. Marcus and Russell had already gone to their rooms. Charlotte was in the nursery with baby Eleanor, and for some time Amabel had been in the library writing a letter of instructions for the housekeeper at Renchester Park, the Wiltshire estate left to her by her late husband.

Henrietta wore a spangled cranberry silk gown and a simple gold necklace. A fringed gold-and-white cashmere shawl rested around her shoulders. Her face was pale and strained because she had endured an unutterably wretched evening. She was angry with Charlotte and Russell for not telling her about Amabel and George, and angry with Amabel for her treachery. But worse than that by far was having to watch Amabel fawning over Marcus, who made no move to discourage the attentions.

The secret pain was acute. Whatever may or may not have happened with George in the past, it was clearly Marcus now. Henrietta’s feelings were in turmoil and she wanted to strike out at them all. She had been betrayed on all sides, and the hurt was immense.

In the library, Amabel wasn’t writing. Instead she sat by the light of a single candle, mulling over the options that remained for ridding herself of the woman George Sutherton intended to make his bride. Henrietta appeared to possess nine lives, and time was now running out. There only remained tonight and the return journey south in which to succeed; after that the tiresome creature would be at her cousin’s estate, and out of reach for heaven alone knew how long. Something had to be done, something utterly final that would dispose of her once and for all. The means was at hand, and she had shrunk from using it until now because there was a risk that its use might arouse suspicions in others.

Might. What a teasing word that was. Just how great
was
the likelihood? Enormous? Moderate? Infinitesimal? Amabel’s fingers drummed pensively upon the writing desk, where her reticule lay beside the untouched sheet of vellum before her. A cold smile played briefly upon her lips. Infinitesimal was the word she preferred, and if she was very, very careful, infinitesimal the risk would be. She got up, extinguished the candle, and left the library.

At that moment Henrietta’s hurt resentment boiled over. She
had
to confront someone, and Charlotte was the chosen target. Jane and Kit followed. They were still at a loss as to why she was clearly so angry, and also at a loss to know how to make use of this last night. Inspiration failed them, and all they could think of was following her. She picked up a lighted candle from the table at the foot of the stairs, and made her way up to the nursery.