The Whispering Rocks (11 page)

“There, miss, you look very nice. Blue suits you so.” Janie smiled at her in the mirror, putting the finishing touches to the bow which held Sarah’s thick black hair back.

“And who is there to notice how I look, Janie? Mr. Ransome? I think not. He wouldn’t notice if I sat down to breakfast in my undergown.”

“Miss Sarah!” Janie was horrified that her mistress could even think such a dreadful thing.

Sarah’s expression was wry. “Indeed, when I think of it, I imagine he would be completely unsurprised by my doing such a thing, for so low is his opinion of me that he doubtless thinks I make a habit of such behavior!”

She picked up her reticule and went to the door. As she opened it Paul and Melissa were walking along the passage, and they stopped. Melissa smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Sarah. I trust that the storm did not keep you awake last night.” Even the sweetness in her voice sounded so utterly believable.

Sarah returned the smile woodenly. “I slept well, thank you.”

Paul glanced at her. What ailed the woman? She looked peaky. Or was she still sulking because of what he had said the night before? “Are you all right, Miss Stratford?” he inquired.

“I’m well enough, Mr. Ransome,”

“You look pale ... er, unwell.”

Melissa’s laugh tinkled out. “Oh, tush, Paul, did you not know that to look pale and unwell is the look this Season? Shame on you for being so ungallant.” Her wide green eyes looked spitefully at Sarah’s unfashionably tied hair and then she patted her own cascade of white Grecian curls.

Paul grunted. “ ‘Lissa, I trust that this Season’s languid look applies only to those of a healthy disposition. Miss Stratford looks unwell to me, and it’s not ungallant to ask.” He looked anew at Sarah. “I’d rather you gave me a truthful answer, Miss Stratford.”

She looked rebellious. She did feel unwell—who would not, being cooped up in this odious house with only his odious self and his equally odious sister for companions! “I feel suffocated for lack of good fresh air, Mr. Ransome. I’d ask you to permit me a measure of freedom—such as you permit your sister.”

“I cannot allow you to ride alone whenever and wherever you please, Miss Stratford. You must see that.”

“I’m afraid that I do not, Mr. Ransome. If Melissa needs no supervision then I fail to see why I do.” She was desperate to be free of Mannerby House, and free of Paul Ransome.

“Miss Stratford, my sister is here of her own volition. This is her home. You, on the other hand, have been sent here under circumstances which give me cause to severely curtail your freedom while under my protection.”

Flame red scorched across her pale face at these words. What a toad the man was! “Mr. Ransome, for once I find myself in agreement with your sister. You are ungallant!” Shaking with emotion, she shut the door in his face and turned to look at Janie who had overheard everything.

She went to the chair by the window, sitting down with so dark a face that Janie remained silent. Sarah opened the window. Outside, the village street rang with noise and bustle as the people went about their business. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys and there was a delicious smell of fresh baked bread. Sarah’s stomach reminded her sharply that she had not eaten—nor would she now after her display of temper!

Down the slope of the hillside she looked at the dark strip of the woods through which she had ridden on her journey from Rook House. The trees were still bare, but now their grayness was mellowed by the sunshine, and she could imagine the softness of the moss beneath a horse’s hooves. Oh, how she longed for a ride! A tiny speck of chestnut moved along the edge of the wood and she leaned forward. A horseman was there, his face turned toward the village. As she looked he melted into the woods. She was puzzled, for she recognized the bright chestnut horse as the one she had seen the previous evening.

Across the room she could see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were dark-rimmed, tired, and anxious. Her hair was dull and her skin was so pale as to be almost white, which, although it may have been the very height of fashion, did little for Sarah. She needed a touch of color, a sparkle in her eyes and a sheen in her hair. Paul Ransome was right after all; she did look unwell She pulled a face at herself.

“Miss Stratford, may I come in?”

Startled she turned in her chair to see Paul standing in the doorway. She felt foolish, knowing that he had probably witnessed her face-pulling.

“Miss Stratford, I think your anger with my ill manners was justified and I’ve come to offer my apologies, and to make amends, if I may.” His words were not stilted and he looked genuinely sorry.

“I accept your apology, Mr. Ransome.” Try as she would, Sarah could not be gracious.

He sighed. “Then you would not relish the thought of a ride after all? And on such a magnificent day too—still ...” He began to turn away but she almost ran across the room to him, putting her hand on his arm.

He glanced down at her hand and she removed it immediately. She bit her lip. “Mr. Ransome, I would relish a ride. Yes, indeed I would. Let us be honest with each other. You don’t like me, and I do assure you that the feeling is mutual. I can only say again that I don’t deserve your dislike. However, I’m under your roof and must remain here until my father sees fit to send for me. Until then I would wish to live as peacefully as possible. I’d love to go for a ride. Thank you so much for asking me.” She finished this long speech with a rush and watched him anxiously.

He nodded. “Be ready to leave within the hour, Miss Stratford. Melissa will accompany us.” He left the room, closing the door as quietly as he had opened it.

Janie cleared her throat. “Shall I put out your riding things, miss?”

“Yes, thank you, Janie. Oh, how good it will be to get out and away from this house with its awful atmosphere.”

The maid looked a little agitated at her words. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you about that, miss, but didn’t know quite what to say. I know that no one likes you or trusts you, and I don’t know why. You’re such a dear lady and have done nothing to deserve their spite. Even Martin acts as if you are bad and he doesn’t like it one bit that I’m your maid, but he won’t tell me why he dislikes you so much because he knows
I
like you.”

Sarah smiled. “And I like you, Janie, and thank you for your concern and loyalty.”

“It’s not so simple, miss, because their feeling is so powerful. They think you’ve done something awful.”

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. Betty. It must be Betty’s death. And perhaps Ralph’s death too ...

Janie took out the wine red velvet riding habit and laid it on the bed. “Just be careful, Miss Sarah, that’s all, for I don’t like it one little bit.”

“Yes, Janie.” Sarah turned for the maid to unhook her blue woolen gown. “Oh, Janie, I wish to write a letter when I return from this ride. Can you arrange to post it for me ... without Mr. Ransome or his sister knowing? I’d rather they didn’t find out that I’d written to my father.”

“Yes, miss, just you leave it to me.”

A short while later Sarah descended to the drawing room where Paul Ransome was already waiting. “You look most charming, Miss Stratford,” he said politely.

“Thank you, Mr. Ransome,” she replied in equally polite tone.

“Paul? Am I late?” Melissa came hurrying down the stairs in a flurry of emerald green. She glowed, and Sarah felt suddenly dull beside such sparkling vitality. It was with some satisfaction that she noticed a tear at the base of Melissa’s riding skirt; well, at least there was something to mar that dreadfully complete perfection!

Paul put on his top hat. “I thought we would ride to Bencombe.”

Melissa’s face fell. “Oh no, Paul, let’s go somewhere else.”

He smiled. “I’m afraid that I’ve some business there, for I must see James Trefarrin.”

“That man! I don’t like him!” Melissa was obviously upset in some way, and Sarah looked at her in surprise.

Paul smiled affectionately at his sister. “I’m sure that James would be heartbroken to see you look like that at the prospect of meeting him, ‘Lissa. Come on, now, for Bencombe is a far ride and perhaps we can eat at James’s excellent hostelry.”

Outside in the courtyard three horses waited. Sarah breathed deeply of the fresh moorland air and smiled at the groom who held her mount, but he would not meet her eyes.

A tiny black-and-white dog with a black patch over one eye hurtled unexpectedly across the courtyard toward Paul, yapping frantically and wagging its stumpy little tail. With a yelp of delight it flung itself upon him, licking his face and almost knocking his hat from his head. Paul was laughing as he held the little creature. “Kitty! You rascal!” He ruffled the floppy ears and rubbed the furry head which butted constantly against his hand.

Martin came hurrying up, panting and dismayed at his dog’s behavior. “I’m sorry, sir. I tried to hold her back.”

“That’s all right, Martin. It’s good to see her out and about again. How are her pups? Do they flourish?”

“Aye, that they do, sir. A fine handful they’ll be soon.”

Sarah was interested. “Has she some puppies then, Martin?”

He glanced at her quickly and then away. “Yes, miss, six of them.”

“May I see them please?”

He was reluctant. “Well, miss ...”

Paul put the excited dog on the cobbles. “Come now, Martin, it’s a small request. Perhaps afterwards you could show Miss Stratford how well Kitty dances a jig.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sarah remembered what Janie had said such a short time before. Martin quite obviously did not like Mr. Ransome’s guest.

They walked across the courtyard toward the gatehouse, and Kitty danced around them on dainty paws. The puppies were small and round, with their eyes still closed, and each one was a black-and-white miniature of its mother. Kitty sat down with them proudly and Sarah laughed. “Look at her. She’s as proud as any fine lady showing off her firstborn.” She stroked the dog and Kitty licked her hand.

“You are fond of dogs?” Paul crouched down beside her, touching the tiny furry bundles in the straw.

“Oh yes, I had one of my own once.” It was long since she had thought of her childhood pet.

Paul looked at her profile and then up at Martin. “Martin, when they’re old enough perhaps you’ll give one to Miss Stratford...”

“They’re all spoken for, sir,” the big man spoke hurriedly.

Paul was surprised. “What, all of them? Who around here wants them?”

“They’re all spoken for,” repeated Martin, staring at the puppies firmly.

He just doesn’t want me to have one, thought Sarah. The puppies were not spoken for, she knew that, and so did Paul, who merely shrugged.

“Well, at least Kitty’s dancing time isn’t spoken for. Come on, Martin, get out your fiddle and let Kitty entertain us.”

Never before had Sarah seen a dog dance a jig, but Kitty did. She tottered around on her hind legs as Martin scraped out a tune on his ancient fiddle. Kitty reveled in all the attention she was getting and danced as finely as any actress on the stage in London. Sarah was captivated as she watched, and her eyes shone. Paul studied her; it was hard to believe that this girl who took such a delight in Kitty’s puppies and in the little dog’s dancing antics could have been capable of such heartless behavior at Rook House....

The foot-tapping music ended with a loud chord and Kitty dropped to all fours, tail still wagging. Paul bent to pat the dog’s head before turning to the two women. “Well, ladies, I think we must go now.”

“Let’s go somewhere other than Bencombe, Paul,” pleaded Melissa for the last time.

“No, ‘Lissa. Bencombe it is,” he said firmly, crossing the courtyard to mount the Turk.

Melissa followed him, her expression apprehensive.

When they rode up from the village and on to the moor itself, Sarah found herself speechless at its magnificence. The rolling, wildly beautiful land stretched ahead for miles, covered with the brown bracken of last year and the new heather leaves of the present year. Silver birch trees dotted the green carpet in every direction, and rocks and boulders were scattered as if by some giant hand. Now and then the land rose steeply to a tor, but high above all others was Sarah’s tor—Hob’s Tor she now knew it to be named, where Hob’s Brook rose.

Everything basked in the sunshine. Dimples in the ground marked the passage of tiny streams, and from overhead came the lonely calls of the curlews. The blue skies were free of all clouds, and there was no wind to chill the air. A hawk hovered momentarily, before plummeting down to the heather to grasp some prey.

Sarah rode on through the morning splendor, oblivious to the awkward sidesaddle. She absorbed the magic of Dartmoor. Ponies grazed on the lower slopes of a hill—splashes of gray, chestnut, and bay against the moor. Further away a small flock of sheep moved slowly along a ridge, surefooted and unconcerned.

Paul looked at Sarah’s rapt face. “You seem lost to the moor.”

“I am. It’s surely the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, and one which never palls.”

“Were you born here, Mr. Ransome?”

“I was, and have always lived here. Mannerby House has been in my family since it was first built. My mother was a Mannerby; the family name died out with her.” He looked away quickly and she remembered that he no longer owned Mannerby. She wondered, not for the first time, what had forced him to sell the place to her father, whom he clearly did not like.

The small market town of Bencombe nestled in a fold in the moor. In the square was the sign of the Blue Fox, a beautiful Tudor building with tall gables and chimneys, and a half-timbered frontage. It had ancient bow windows with thick, uneven glass panes which obscured the interior of the inn.

Paul led the way into the galleried yard behind and the sound of their horses brought James Trefarrin hurrying out to greet them. One glance at the innkeeper told Sarah that he most certainly was not the small, dark man she had seen with Melissa.

“Mr. Ransome, Mr. Ransome, what an honor it is, an honor indeed.” The man wiped his hands on his impeccable white apron, bowing as he spoke. He was Paul’s age, stocky, with a prematurely balding head, a large paunch and freckles on his red nose.