The Haunting of Grey Cliffs (11 page)

Uncle Phillip's strange longing to see the devil face-to-face hardly made him a sane and sober citizen, but he was such a little stick of a man. I did not see how he could have moved the earl either.

I was not certain either of them was above murder, given the right circumstances, and that certainty had a chilling effect on me. But I simply could not see how either could have achieved the final position in which the old earl was found.

Now, Robert—that was different. Robert was a big man, hale and hardy. He could have overcome his father, could have arranged the whole thing to look like suicide. He had the most apparent motive. He'd been denied the earldom and he felt angry. Yes, Robert was the most likely person to have—

My heart almost stopped. I had left someone out of my reckoning. My husband, my husband who had succeeded to the earldom on the death of his father. My husband who had confessed to me that he hated that very father.

My head began to pound and my mouth went dry. Had I married a murderer? Could I now be carrying the unborn child of a madman?

I began to shiver in earnest then, mad, uncontrollable tremors that shook my body. I tried to get a grip on myself. It could not be. I could not have made such a horrible mistake.

I set myself to controlling my shaking body. I set my mind to calling up memories—tender, loving memories of Edward. Holding me, kissing me, loving me. Could a murderer have behaved like that? No, no, I decided. I would not believe such an evil thing of my husband.

It must have been Robert. I would look into the matter. I would ask questions. After all, I had that right. I would find out who had done this horrible thing and bring him to justice. Then I would be free to love my husband. And the child to come. Our child.

Chapter Ten

The days passed. My new gowns arrived, rich, beautiful gowns befitting a countess. I wore them only to dinner.

Each day I spent time with the boys, teaching them lessons, but also trying to bring them to regard each other as friends. With the lessons, I had some success. With the friendship, I had none.

Though Ned and the twins both seemed to regard
me
in a friendly light, they were still suspicious and standoffish with each other. But I did not despair. I knew such things took time and I did feel that my presence had at least brought about an armed truce.

I spent my free time searching for the secret passageways and asking the servants what I hoped were subtle questions about the castle and its inhabitants, especially the former earl.

I did not find the passageways and I grew more and more convinced that if they existed the servants knew nothing of them. But when I began to talk about the inhabitants of the castle, it was a different story. Every servant had some tale to relate, many about the old earl.

But, though they would talk, telling me stories about him, I sensed that there was more they weren't saying. And really the only new thing I learned was the disquieting information that the "old one," as they called him, had had quite a temper. This piece of news was hardly encouraging, coming as it did after the exhibitions of my husband's temper that I had witnessed.

But temper needn't mean madness—or murder. I told myself so repeatedly. And I believed it. Because in spite of all of my fears and uneasiness, my love for my husband was growing. Every day I seemed to love him more than I had the day before. It was not gratitude that made my body grow warm when I saw his beloved face and form, but something that went far deeper.

So things continued through the damp autumn. There was still no child growing of our love, but I was not unduly concerned about that. I felt deep in my soul that when the time was right, the child would be conceived.

One late November day, I was in the kitchen with Cook, discussing what would be planted in the kitchen garden come spring. And, perhaps because the thought just occurred to her, or perhaps because I had before evinced an interest in the previous earl, she began to tell me about the foods he liked.

"He were a man of definite tastes," she pronounced, slapping a handful of bread dough on the board. Her strong fingers kneaded in time to her words. "He liked his green onions, fresh from the garden. And his potatoes sprinkled with dill, just so."

She frowned. "Why, one day he threw a fit just 'cause we forgot the dill. He had such a temper. Threw those potatoes right against the wall—dish and all! Lord, what a mess!"

She nodded. "But his favorite dish was anise pudding." She wrinkled her nose. "It ain't to my taste, too bitter and all, but the old earl, he loved it. Had it the night he—"

Looking up from her kneading, Cook stopped abruptly in midsentence. Her eyes went round and I realized that someone stood in the doorway behind me, someone Cook didn't want to overhear her. But from the look on her face it was too late.

"Go on," Robert said abruptly. "Tell her the whole thing. He ate anise pudding the night he died."

Robert! If it was Robert Cook was afraid of, then maybe—

I turned and my heart sank. Edward stood beside his brother, his face grim. "That will be enough," he said, his voice cold. "You are not to discuss my father. Not at all. Is that clear?"

Cook bowed her head, her hands moving rhythmically in the dough. "Yes, milord. I won't, milord."

Robert laughed, a harsh sound, grating to the ears. "That's it," he said. "Play the heavy-handed lord." He turned a dazzling smile on me. "Keep it up and you'll soon drive Hester here away."

I knew my husband's various expressions, and I thought I glimpsed a shadow of doubt flit quickly across his face. Though when he turned to me, his countenance was blank, still I could not forbear replying to Robert.

"I am not easily driven away," I said crisply.

"Loyal Hester," Robert intoned darkly. "Let’s hope your loyalty is not misplaced."

"Enough!" Edward barked.
"
I give you food and shelter, but I don't have to listen to your insults."

Robert looked about to reply again, but then he turned and stomped out. Edward was in no better case, his face crimson, his jaw tightly clenched. "Come," I said, drawing my arm through his. "Let's take a cup of tea in front of the fire. It's cozier there."

He allowed me to lead him out of the kitchen, but when we had reached the hall he stopped. "I cannot have tea now," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "I have an appointment in town."

I managed to keep my voice level too. "I see. And when do you expect to return?"

"I do not know." There was no warmth in his voice, no affection in his face. I might as well have been Hillyer, being informed of his departure like a servant.

A cold chill settled over me, and I pressed closer to Edward's side, hugging to me the arm that I had tucked mine through. "I shall hope that you finish your business in town and return in time for dinner," I said in my cheeriest tones. I smiled at him, too, hoping to elicit some answering warmth. But there was nothing. He was as cold as the stone walls—and just as unfeeling.

He pulled his arm free from my grasp. "I must go," he said.

His coldness unnerved me and I did what was for me quite an unusual thing. I threw myself into his arms. But even that evidence of affection brought no answering warmth. He simply set me aside. Like a piece of furniture or a cloak he no longer wanted, he set me aside and walked out.

I stared after him, his name rising to my lips. I opened my mouth to call out to him, to beg him to stay, but I closed it again without uttering a sound. I had always been a proud person—and after his rebuff I could not bring myself to plead.

And so I stood in stunned silence until my husband was out of sight. Then I felt a rising anger that I should be so foully treated! How could the man love me so tenderly and then treat me so coldly? It made no sense.

Neither did my anger, but it would not dissipate, and finally, in desperation, I took my hooded cloak and set out for a walk. Since our first walk together I had not gone often abroad. The weather had turned cold soon after our arrival and I had been busy with the boys.

Besides, I did not like to venture on the moor alone. Edward had warned me that it was an easy matter to lose one's way there on the land that, though it looked flat, was deceptively rolling and could cut off distant views when one least expected it.

But now I did not care for warnings or for anything else. The castle seemed to be closing in on me, its chill reaching to my very bones, its air fetid and numbing. I had to get out of there.

A brisk walk, I told myself, would restore my spirits. But I knew differently. It was going to take more than a walk to make me accept my husband's treatment of me with any aplomb. And if he did not come to my bed that night, if he left me to sleep alone—

I dared not think such thoughts. Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I hurried down the path. The winter air was more than brisk, it was dank and cold, but I preferred it to being shut up in the castle.

I made my way through the twisted trees, walking carefully because the snow-covered ground was damp and slippery. I tried to concentrate on keeping my footing, but my thoughts reverted to my husband and his peculiar behavior. Why did he vacillate so toward me—one moment passionate and loving, the next cold and distant? Could he be like the old earl, a man whose passion for women was almost legendary, but who, from what I'd been able to gather, used and then discarded them?

A shudder sped over me, a shudder that had little to do with the cold air of winter. Could my Edward be like his father? Like his brother, Robert? Would my husband tire of me and look to take his pleasure in another's bed?

The thought brought a sob to my throat and tears to my eyes. I didn't think I could stand the pain of such a thing. I blinked and tried to clear my vision.

Then I struggled to take myself in hand. My imaginings were farfetched, I told myself sternly. Perhaps Edward had something serious on his mind today, perhaps tonight he would be his former self—loving and passionate, yet gentle. After all, he had apologized for his harshness before.

I looked up, blinking back the tears, determined to concentrate on the scenery around me. The wood was growing darker. The trees, though not towering, reached high enough so that their twisted, tangled branches hid most of the sky. The wood was bathed in dark shadows so I surmised that clouds were then covering the sun.

I shivered. I should return to the castle before I got a chill, but first I wanted to reach the end of the path through the oaks, to gaze for a moment on the peaceful beauty of the moor.

It took me only a few more minutes. Then I stood at the edge of the wood and caught my breath. Even in winter the moor had an untrammeled beauty. I stepped forward, wanting to see a little farther, to absorb the sense of peace and beauty that seemed to hang in the still air.

I took a few steps, then a few more, but mindful of Edward's cautions about getting lost, I went no farther than ten feet from the edge of the wood. There I stopped, drinking in the pristine beauty, the peaceful silence—

The silence was broken by a familiar sound, that of a galloping horse. I swung around, thinking that Ned was returning from a ride, but it was not Ned approaching me. The sun behind him blinded me, allowing me to see only a rider on a dark horse, a rider so cloaked and hatted as to be unrecognizable to me.

There was no time to think. Even as I watched, the rider put the spurs to his great black horse and the animal sprang straight for me.

In panic I turned, trying to make the shelter of the wood, thinking the twisted trees would protect me. But the ground was wet and my shoe caught in the hem of my cloak, hurling me into the wet snow.

I could see the trees; their safety was only a few paces away. I scrambled to my hands and knees, trying to get to my feet. The horse was almost upon me, the pounding of its hooves thudding in my ears. My breath was coming in great gasps, my legs would hardly support me, but I kept my eyes on the trees, the twisted contorted trees that meant protection.

Then the horse was upon me. In one last effort I lunged toward the wood. The horse galloped by, hitting me a striking blow that threw me into the edge of the wood. And then they were gone, horse and rider pounding off over the moor.

I lay in the wet snow where I had been thrown, trying to pull breath into my tortured lungs, trying to assure myself that I was still alive. There was no doubt in my mind that the horseman had seen me. The sun had been at his back, and my dark cloak had made me stand out against the snow.

As my breathing gradually slowed I faced the frightening truth. Someone had tried to run me down! Perhaps to kill me!

Shaking, I pushed myself to my feet. My gown and my cloak were muddy and wet. My teeth were chattering from the cold and my limbs trembling in the aftermath of fear. Why? Why should someone try to kill me?

True, there had been that eerie voice that urged me to leave the castle. And the clammy hand that had touched my cheek in the darkness. But that had been weeks ago, when I first came to Grey Cliffs. Nothing like that had happened since.

I started back toward the castle, but I staggered and had to reach out to a tree for support. Somehow the touch of the bark reminded me of the kitchen, of Cook kneading dough and telling me about the old earl's last meal.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. This attack had been made upon me shortly after Edward and his brother found me discussing their father with Cook. Had she said something that someone thought might help me discover the old earl's killer?

A gust of cold, salt-laden wind hit me and I shivered again. I'd better get back to the castle before I took a real chill. Otherwise nature might well finish the task the horseman had bungled.

* * * *

I managed to get in through the kitchen entrance without being seen and hurried up the backstairs to my room. I didn't want anyone to see me because I hadn't yet decided if I would mention this attack. I did not like to be suspicious of my husband. But I could not be entirely sure of his love. And until I was—