The Silent Touch of Shadows (15 page)

Sibell stifled a sigh and tried to ignore the discomfort of sitting ramrod straight next to her father during the evening meal. He had a proper chair with an ornately carved back and armrests, while she had to make do with a bench. She wished herself a hundred miles away. Or at least as far as Idenhurst. She wondered idly if Sir Roger was still there and, if so, what he would be doing at this hour. Was he, like her, sitting at table or had he retired for the night? Her face grew warm at the direction her thoughts were taking.

‘I must stop thinking about him,’ she chided herself, but she’d found it almost impossible during the last few days. Images of him came unbidden into her mind far too frequently for comfort and she wanted nothing so much as to escape to her chamber to daydream.

Normally she would have done so as soon as she had finished eating, but tonight she had to remain, since her father had guests. Some distant cousins whom he wished to impress with his worldly goods and standing. Hence the interminable meal. Sibell restrained the urge to rip off her headdress, which was making her head ache like the very devil. Out of sheer boredom, she began to pay attention to a conversation across the table. It was all about politics, a subject that wasn’t normally of any interest to her, but it helped pass the time.

‘There are rumours that the Earl of March is assembling a fighting force and plans to return to England soon to meet up with his father, the Duke of York, who is coming back from Ireland.’ The speaker, a sparse man in his late forties named Robert, was her father’s cousin on his mother’s side. He had a nose as sharp as a razor blade and riddled with red veins, and he was telling his tale with relish. Sibell could see his eyes glowing with excitement.

‘Oh, aye?’ Another cousin, Ambrose by name, who was slightly older with a huge paunch, was clearly not impressed. He continued with his meal unperturbed. The excellent fare provided at Ashleigh appeared to interest him far more than the intrigues of his superiors.

Sibell had heard talk about the Duke’s return for months now. No one seemed to know for certain whether there was any truth in this or merely wishful thinking on the part of his supporters.

‘Yes, and the Queen isn’t best pleased, apparently. She must have thought the threat from York was over after the King’s victories last year, but there are many who think she wields too much power. They’d support York, should he return.’

It was rumoured that Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England, was an ambitious and unforgiving woman who had no intention of relinquishing her position. Apparently, she dominated her husband and the court completely, causing controversy among the lords who felt they could no longer give the King their whole loyalty. Sibell knew the Queen had given birth to a son seven years previously. This excluded York from the succession, but it would appear it wasn’t enough to stop an ambitious man such as he. Could he really take the throne, though? It didn’t seem very likely, but it was true there was a lot of opposition to a system of government dominated by the Queen.

Whatever Ambrose’s private views on women in politics, his only reply to the sharp-nosed Robert’s gossip was a grunt. The latter man continued undaunted, pleased to have an audience in John and his sons, at least.

‘Yes, indeed. Lord March is said to be ready to rally to his father’s cause.’ The scepticism on the face of his listeners was obviously not to the man’s liking. He drew himself up to his full height and tried to look important, despite the shabbiness of his clothing, which proclaimed his lowly status.

‘And who will support him?’ A third cousin was equally unimpressed.

‘Why, he has the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury with him in exile and at least two Neville lords as well, it’s said. There are many who are ready to join them when they land on these shores.’ Robert was growing agitated now, his cheeks turning as red as his nose.

‘I take it you’re one of them?’ The paunchy Ambrose had obviously tired of such treasonous gossip, which could easily be overheard and the words misconstrued.

‘M-me?’ Red-faced, Robert began to splutter indignantly as he belatedly realised his peril. ‘I was only repeating what I’ve heard, cousin.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s nothing to me what the Earl of March chooses to do. I am a loyal subject of his majesty the King.’ Ambrose raised one eyebrow in disbelief and the gossipmonger obviously deemed it wise to retreat. Muttering something about needing the privy, he headed for the door.

Sibell saw her father watch the man scurry away, a pensive look on his face. She could tell he was digesting the overheard information to see whether it could be used to his advantage. He’d never been averse to finding ways of bettering his position, as she well knew. But he was canny enough not to rush into anything without being absolutely sure it would be to his benefit. Would the situation have any bearing on her own plight, she wondered? Perhaps if she prayed hard enough, Sir Fulke would join the fray and get himself killed in battle before the wedding.
Oh, if only
 
…

The woman on the horse was a red-head too!

This random thought popped into Jake’s brain without warning later that day, causing him to bump into the examination table as he led an elderly woman into the veterinary surgery. The strange dream he’d had came rushing back to him again. Taking a deep breath, he turned to the lady and asked politely what he could do for her, putting everything else out of his mind for the moment.

She didn’t answer immediately, but placed a shoe box on the table and opened the lid. Inside, nestled on top of a pink tea towel, was a tiny hedgehog.

‘I found him in the middle of my lawn this morning, Mr Precy. He wasn’t moving and I thought the little mite was just cold, so I brought him indoors. He wouldn’t touch a drop of milk, though, just lies there looking sorry for himself. You’d better have a look at him.’

With infinite care Jake felt for broken bones before lifting the little creature out of the box. He put it on the table and listened to its breathing. He had a shrewd idea what ailed the hedgehog, but examined him thoroughly before making a diagnosis.

‘You did right to bring him, Mrs Wycliff. I think the little fellow has pneumonia. Can you hear his laboured breathing?’ In the silence of the surgery, the wheezing noise coming from the tiny animal’s throat could be clearly heard.

‘Oh, yes, poor little thing!’ The old lady tilted her head to one side to look at it.

‘Not to worry, I’ll keep him here for a while and put him on antibiotics. That should do the trick. When he’s feeling better I’ll give you a call and you can keep him in your greenhouse for the rest of the winter, if you don’t mind. That way he should survive.’

‘Thank you, Mr Precy, that’s very kind.’

‘Not at all. You’ll probably have to feed him, though. I don’t think he’s strong enough to hibernate this year. Just some dog food and milk once a day. Can you do that?’

‘Of course. I’ll see to it, don’t you worry.’

He walked her to the door. ‘Goodbye then, Mrs Wycliff. Thank you for coming.’

‘Goodbye. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

As he gently lifted the hedgehog to give him an injection of antibiotics, Jake’s mind returned to the subject of the woman in his dreams. It was that other woman’s fault, the one who’d fainted into his arms outside the baker’s shop earlier on, he was sure. Meeting her had triggered something inside him, although for the life of him he didn’t know what it could be.

Yes, he’d been attracted to her. He’d have had to be made of stone not to, in all honesty, but that wasn’t all. No, something about her had struck a chord deep inside him. But why?

‘You’re cracking up, Jake,’ he muttered to himself.

She was just a woman, and he’d been without one for too long. Holding her so close, his body had reacted predictably. End of story.

On auto-pilot, he settled the hedgehog into a cage and made sure there was fresh water and food within easy reach. He filled out a sheet of care instructions for his assistant and hung it on the cage door, while his brain returned to the subject of the red-headed female. Well, not red exactly, he corrected himself. A deep, rich auburn, like a fresh chestnut, just out of its shell. The kind of colour that would look wonderful in candle light
 
…

Jake shook his head.
What the hell is the matter with me?

The little hedgehog continued his wheezing and regarded him sadly out of huge brown eyes. Jake stared back. ‘Yeah, little fellow,’ he whispered, ‘life is strange, eh?’ But some things were stranger than others.

Perhaps it was time he found out more about Ashleigh Cottage. He was beginning to believe it might be haunted.
Or at the very least, a witch had lived there and she’d cast a spell on him
 
…
He smiled at the thought.
Ridiculous!

Another sneeze from the hedgehog made him snap out of this idiotic thinking. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm to ask someone about the cottage’s history, would it?

Chapter Eleven

‘There’s a story which has been passed down through our family,’ Dorothy began. ‘Long ago a daughter of the house fell in love with someone unsuitable. Her name was Sybil, I believe, and she was supposedly the daughter or grand-daughter of the man who had Ashleigh built, so this must have been some time in the fifteenth century.’

Melissa felt as if a warning bell sounded inside her head; the name seemed very familiar. She had to force herself to concentrate on Dorothy’s next words.

‘Unfortunately,’ her aunt continued, ‘Sybil’s father had already decided that she was to marry someone else, so she wasn’t allowed to marry her beloved. I don’t know his name, but perhaps he was the Roger you mentioned? The lady was, of course, deeply unhappy with this and refused the man her father had chosen for her. She was crazed with grief and it’s said that she turned to a witch for help in exacting revenge. The witch cast a spell on the family so that all Sybil’s brothers died before their father, and Ashleigh manor came to her on her father’s death as she was the only child left.’

Dorothy paused for a moment, then went on, ‘I think the young man had been her lover because she bore a child, a daughter. The house has been passed from mother to daughter ever since. And it has been reputed to be haunted for centuries.’ Dorothy looked at Melissa with an apologetic shrug. ‘It’s probably all rubbish, but it made a great tale to tell the children round the fire in the evenings.’

‘Hmm. I’ve learned to take most family stories with a pinch of salt. I hear an awful lot of them from my clients. This one does sound a bit more credible though – apart from the bit about the witch, that’s just silly – and it could be the explanation. But why didn’t Sybil marry her lover after the rest of her family died? She could have done whatever she wanted then. And why is he haunting this place and not her? Surely it should be the other way around?’

Dorothy shrugged once more. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he was already dead? There is no mention of his name in the story and those were uncertain times. There is more though.’

‘What?’

‘This ghost that you have seen appears to all the red-haired women of this house. So you see, you’re not the first one he has haunted. Please, do try not to become too affected by it all.’

‘Oh. I wondered why he picked me. You’ve lived here for so much longer than I have, I thought surely he should have shown himself to you too.’

Her great-aunt looked sad. ‘No, I was blonde.’ She paused. ‘But my sister saw him.’

Melissa gasped. ‘You mean Grandma Ruth?’

‘Yes.’ Dorothy grew silent and Melissa waited for her to explain, but her aunt hesitated. Finally she sighed again. ‘I see that I shall have to tell you everything. I was going to wait until you’d been here a bit longer, but I suppose you might as well know now.’

‘Know what?’ Melissa was about to expire with curiosity. She was finally going to learn the reason for the estrangement between the sisters and now Dorothy was stalling. She couldn’t bear it. ‘Go on, please,’ she urged impatiently.

‘Very well. As I said, Ashleigh Manor has been in our family for centuries and it has always been passed down from mother to daughter and never, as far as I know, to a son. Now your grandmother, my sister Ruth, was the eldest and as such the house should have been hers, but my mother decided to give it to me instead. There was nothing to prevent her doing that.’

‘The house isn’t entailed in any way, then?’