Seacliff (39 page)

She looked up. Here and there, as invisible clouds drifted over the landscape, she could see islands of stars and the faint glow of an unseen moon. A faint smile creased her lips. Bradford was right; there would be rain tomorrow, whether the wind calmed down or not. She didn’t mind that at all. Rain would lend a solemn, gloomy cast to the occasion, much more appropriate than bright skies and balmy breezes.

For an hour or more she let the turmoil play around her, comfort her, before returning inside and reluctantly bolting the doors. Then she poked at the hearth fire, stood before the mirror, and finally left the room.

There was no guard.

With her arms crossed over her chest, hands gripping her upper arms, she walked the gallery’s circumference, listening to the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls, listening to the beams creak and groan as they supported the massive weight of centuries-old stone. Dust eddied in corners. The standards in the center hall fluttered from their poles. She descended to the ground floor and walked slowly through the pageant of rooms, stopping first at each threshold to be sure she was alone. It was more than a way of killing time until dawn; it was a journey through the whole of her life, a voyage of bright lights and laughter, scoldings and punishments, learning and weeping, and games well and poorly played.

And the longer she walked the more attuned to the house she became. Every shadow was familiar, every nook and cranny held a memory. She could see the subtle differences between her family’s additions and those of their ancestors. She could taste the air, reminding her of parties she’d long since forgotten; and she could catch the scent of polished wood, smooth stone, tapestries freshly cleaned, and the few patches of overlooked mold. Perfumes and perspiration, tobacco and wine, wool and silk and cotton and flesh all blended and gave Seacliff its distinctive air.

By the time she had returned to the center hall she finally knew in every fiber of her soul what she’d already decided in her mind: that Seacliff was hers and there was no escaping it, and she would never lose it to James Flint. Not without a fight.

She laughed aloud and headed for the staircase. There was one thing left to do, and then she would have to sleep. “Madam.”

She grabbed the banister and felt her heart in her throat. She turned slowly and saw Bradford standing in the entrance of the side corridor. Only a few chimneyed candles were lighted, and his face was in partial shadow.

“Yes?” she said, thinking Flint had sent him to her. Then she realized he seemed somewhat nervous. His shoulders were more rounded than ever, and he seemed incapable of keeping his head from turning slightly from side to side. “Yes?” she Repeated.

“About tomorrow, m’lady.” His voice quavered. She waited, puzzled by his demeanor.

“It appears that it will rain.”

“It does,” she said.

“I… I suppose Mr. Flint has no plans to postpone the ceremony.”

“Because of the weather?” She started to laugh, caught herself and wondered what the old man was driving at. “Bradford, Mr. Flint has said nothing to me about a postponement. As far as I’m concerned, the wedding will be held.”

“The major,” he began, and stopped himself. “Pardon me, m’lady.

I’m sorry to bother you.”

He turned on his heels and hurried down the hall. Caitlin, frowning, made her way slowly up the stairs. She suspected he was disturbed over her refusal to mourn for her late husband, in spite of the manner of his death, and he was probably trying to express his nervous displeasure at her remarrying so soon. Convention dictated that she wait a year at least; she was remarrying in less than six months.

It was possible that this was why Bradford was agitated, she thought as she reached the gallery, but somehow she didn’t think it very likely. There was something more, something he hadn’t told her. But with a shake of her head she dismissed it; there were weightier matters to worry about. Matters that, when all things were considered, would please the old retainer no end at the last.

A stairwell, narrow and unlighted, opened in the wall just before the door to her apartments. It led to only one place— the third floor of the south tower: her father’s rooms. Though all the other Evanses had lived in the main building, her mother had taken a liking to the magnificent view from the tower, and he had bowed to her wishes. No one had visited there since his death, and as she climbed the stone steps and stopped before his door, she noticed that the air was stale, musty.

She took a deep breath and she moistened her lips nervously.

The door opened stiffly, its hinges squealing so loudly she thought surely someone would hear it. But she did not hesitate; she squeezed inside and closed the door behind her. She needed no light for what she was about to do. All she needed was another ration of courage to prevent her from disgracing her family spirits.

The interior of the Daniels’s cottage was brightened by the golden light from candles and a fire blazing in the hearth. A partition had been constructed on the left side of the house to provide privacy for Gwen and Davy; old Les’s pallet had long since been removed. The two brothers were seated in tall, narrow chairs flanking the fireplace, and Gwen occupied a bench facing the flames as she worked on a quilt spread over her lap.

“Imagine her thinking I’d come at her call, like I was a dog or worse,” she muttered, stabbing at a patch with her needle.

“Cor,” Davy sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “There she goes again.”

“Well, damn your eyes, I got a right, don’t I?” she said.

“You have cause,” Orin rumbled around the stem of his clay pipe. “You have cause.”

The wind stirred the fire and the ashes eddied under the logs stacked on the andirons. Then Orin took the pipe from his mouth and examined the contents of its bowl. Gwen glanced up at him without lifting her head, and she could see by his expression that the evening’s lecture was about to begin. She groaned silently, but there was no getting around it. Every night, or so it seemed, he asked quietly when she and his young brother would be seeing the vicar. It wasn’t right, he would say, the way they were living together. As if people didn’t have enough to talk about, what with all the goings on in the main house, he didn’t think it proper they should add fuel to the fires of gossip.

But, though she and Davy had spoken of it often, neither of them felt comfortable with the idea of marriage. It wasn’t their love, which seemed to have increased in strength and purpose; it was their mistress. Their marrying now, Davy argued, might somehow be construed as a slap in her face, showing her what true happiness could be if only the right people were involved in the relationship. Though more often than not Gwen tended to agree with Orin, Davy would not budge from his position. And a stubborn Davy was five times worse than a deep-rooted stump in a cornfield.

But Orin surprised her.

“We’ll be havin’ a visitor soon enough,” he said, without meeting either of their startled gazes.

Davy made a loud, disgusted noise and reached for the green bottle of gin next to his chair. But he never completed his motion. In no time, Orin was out of his chair and had grabbed the bottle by its neck. With little more than a glare, he reduced his brother to a small child.

“Who?” Gwen asked, before Davy recovered his courage and made a grab for the gin.

“You’ll—”

A faint knocking at the door froze them all. The sound was barely heard over the battering of the wind, but it filled the small room with ominous tension. Gwen slowly folded the quilt and put aside her needles and patches; Davy straightened, and folded his legs under the chair in case he had to stand in a hurry. Orin, however, only set his pipe on the rough-hewn mantel and stepped around Gwen’s bench to the door. When it opened the wind gusted through, whipping the fire to a frenzy and making Gwen gasp at the night’s cold breath. But it wasn’t until their visitor had moved into the light that she recognized him.

“Martin,” she said to the goldsmith, “what in heaven’s name are you doin’ up here?”

Randall accepted Orin’s assistance in removing his large hat and voluminous cloak. Then he stood in front of the fire to warm his hands and back. Once done, he took Orin’s chair and stretched out his legs.

“You’re here,” he said to her, nodding his pleasure.

She blinked. “Well, of course I am! Where’d you think I’d be on a hellish night like this? Walkin’ the cliffs, waitin’ for a ship?”

“Gwen,” Davy cautioned.

“Well, it was a silly question, wasn’t it?” she said, making room for Orin on the bench. Then, with a frown, she understood. “You knew he was comin’, didn’t you, Davy?” Davy nodded, blushing at the guilty secret.

She looked at Orin, who was watching the fire, then at Randall, who was looking straight at her. “How’d you know I’d be here?” she demanded.

“The mistress spoke with you today.”

Astonished, she half rose, and would have stood up had not Orin taken her arm lightly and pressed her back into the chair. “What’s going on? What does Cat have to do with any of this? Talk to me, David! Orin! What does—” She stopped, and her eyes widened.

“She gave you an order,” Randall said quietly.

“Damn right,” Gwen snapped. “It could’ve been Flint talkin’ she was so damned high and mighty. La, you’d think she was one of them ladies we was always seein’ at Eton.”

“You disobeyed her,” Randall said, his full lips quivering now in a faint, amused smile.

“Damn right again I did. Nobody talks to me like that and gets away with it. Who does she think I am anyway, that little slut Mary?”

Randall roared, his head knocking against the back of his chair, while Orin chuckled deeply in his throat and Davy covered a laugh with the back of his hand. Gwen, enraged, leaped to her feet and stood with her back to the fire, where she ignored the heat on her spine.

“Enough!” she shouted. “Enough of this, you hear me?”

“Davy,” Randall said once his composure returned, “you were right.”

“Right?” she yelped. “Right about what, David Daniels?”

Davy’s face seemed ready to split in half with his grin. “That if the mistress talked to you proper and stuffy, you’d do just the opposite, just to spite her.”

It took a while for the words to sink in, a while longer before she confessed to bewilderment and took her place again. “Please,” she said then, “please stop this and tell me.”

Randall nodded once, sharply, and gave her a quick narration of Caitlin’s visit to his shop. He had not mistaken any of the messages she had sent him beneath her words and had, shortly afterward, contrived a reason to visit the farrier and convey her plan.

As soon as he was finished, Gwen started to her feet but Orin stopped her again. “No,” he said gently. “You must stay here, out of the way. It was obviously the mistress’s wish you not be in the house tonight.”

“But why?”

Randall fell silent, and neither Orin nor Davy would give her a clue. Panic rose in her breast, and her heart began a wild pounding. “She’s doin’ something foolish, isn’t she?” she said. “She’s—”

Davy immediately squeezed onto the bench beside her and put his arms around her shoulders. She leaned into him, suddenly cold.

“I thought she’d gone English,” she whispered.

“So did we all, to our shame,” Randall said. “But that’s changed now. Now we must be ready when the mistress is. We cannot fail her. All hell is breaking loose at Seacliff tonight.”

Gwen slowly lifted her head, her eyes wide again. “She… I’ve heard that before.” She looked to Orin. “I’ve said that to you before.” She snapped her fingers. “On her birthday!”

Orin nodded, then cocked his head to listen to the wind. “It didn’t happen then,” he said. “But it’s happening now. It’s happening now.”

C
aitlin slipped down the staircase with a bundle tucked under one arm. At the bottom she scanned the gallery furtively before darting into her apartment and stuffing the bundle into the chest at the footboard of her bed. A sigh of relief escaped her as she slumped onto the chest and lowered her head. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, and her hands trembled. Then she glanced up at her reflection in the full-length mirror and groaned. If ever guilt was written across a woman’s features, it was written across hers. Boldly. In blood red. For all the world and James Flint to see.

She stood up and wrung her hands. She had no idea how she was going to make it through the night. Sleep was out of the question. So was pacing the floor; she’d be exhausted by morning. She walked to the side window and looked down at the staff cottages, then at the wavering dim light that marked the Daniels’s home. By straining, she thought she was able to see figures before the fire through the window, but she knew it had to be only her imagination. Thank God Gwen had not lost any of her spirit or her independence. She would have been in great danger had she, through a resurgence of loyalty, sought out her mistress and stayed with her the last night before Caitlin’s disastrous union. She had hated ordering her friend about this afternoon, but it was the only way she could ensure the safety of them both.

A bath was the next thing, she decided a few minutes later. A bath to calm her nerves, and perhaps soothe her to sleep. She yanked the bell-pull by the door and paced impatiently around the room until Mary arrived, sullen and red-eyed, and almost balking when she was told to fetch hot water for the tub.

But she did. And within the hour Caitlin was immersed in a cloud of comforting steam. She might have drifted off had not the outer door slammed open and Flint strolled into her chamber as though walking through a garden.

Caitlin did not bother to cover herself. “You have heard of knocking, I presume?” she said coldly.

Flint, in his velvet dressing gown, his dark hair brushed down to his shoulders, smiled broadly. “Even on the night before our nuptials you insist on playing the scold.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort.”

He bowed to her correction. “It appears our guests will be somewhat damp tomorrow,” he said, walking to the French doors and peering out at the night.

“I don’t think anyone will come.”