The Whispering Rocks (7 page)

She kicked her heels firmly and the horse moved away from Paul, dragging the bridle out of his hands, and then she was riding down the sloping road to the stream. The rushing roar of the swollen waters grew louder as she approached, and she gripped her knees more tightly as the horse stepped reluctantly into the foaming torrent. The force of the water unnerved it and its hooves slithered wildly. She held on for all she was worth, her face buried in the flying mane and her skirts dragging as the icy stream tugged at them.

Vaguely she heard Paul shouting her name, and then, more distantly, a frightened scream from Betty, but she could do or say nothing. The horse was almost across, its muscles rippling with the effort. And then it was out, galloping along the road beneath the overhanging branches of silver birch, its fear and panic carrying it toward some woods which spread across the road ahead.

The still of the woods seemed to calm the terrified creature and at last it stopped. The rain still fell heavily and the trees dripped. Sarah took a long, long breath of relief, secretly pleased that she had not disgraced herself in front of Paul Ransome. The tired horse had stopped by a holly tree which was aflame with berries and Sarah looked at the tree wistfully, memories of her childhood stirring. There had been a holly tree at Longwicke, a tree just like this one, the same height and shape.... She glanced back along the road wondering where the others were. The wind swept through the woods and the moisture from the trees fell loudly to the ground beneath.

At last she heard someone coming and saw Paul riding the Turk for all he was worth. He reined in, the Turk’s black coat foaming and steaming, and she saw that he no longer wore his cloak. “Are you all right?” He was breathing heavily.

“Yes, thank you.”

He lowered his gaze uneasily and something told her that all was far from well. “Miss Stratford, I’m afraid that there’s been a dreadful accident.”

“Accident?” Her hand crept to her throat and she stared at him. What had happened?

He leaned forward to put his hand over hers. “It’s your maid. I’m afraid that the stream proved too much for Armand’s horse. It lost its footing and he was too late to steady it. They were swept downstream. I followed as best I could, keeping as near as possible, but when I found her she was dead. Drowned.... I couldn’t find any trace of Armand or the horse; they must have been swept a good way downstream.” He looked at her anxiously.

A whimper escaped her. Betty? No, it could not be true. He was lying! Frantically she kicked the heaving sides of the tired coach horse, driving it back along the track through the downpour. She heard him calling her but she closed her ears to him. She must go to Betty.

Hob’s Brook filled the air with its rushing and on the far bank stood the coach, a dismal sight in the murky light of the late afternoon. The lamps burned, two small flickering flames to brighten the gloom. The coachmen were sitting inside and hastened to get out when they heard the hoofbeats returning along the track. In despair Sarah stared downstream as the splashing brook forced its way through the bending reeds and fresh green mossy banks. She turned the horse’s head along the near bank, tears running down her cheeks as her gaze searched the far bank. She did not see the Turk come up swiftly behind her, did not see Paul rein in and follow her slowly.

Then she saw the sad little shape on the moss, carefully placed beneath a gorse bush, covered with Paul’s cloak. The coach horse stopped of its own accord, bending its head to snatch at the springy moorland grass with its yellow teeth. Sarah could only stare across the torrent at that bundle beneath the gorse bush. Oh, Betty, Betty, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. She closed her aching eyes. Her shoulders shook with cold and grief, and her teeth began to chatter.

Paul dismounted and lifted her from the coach horse. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “It was all my fault, my fault. If I’d not insisted on crossing she would still be alive.”

He turned her away from the stream so that he stood between her and the maid’s body. “You mustn’t blame yourself. It was an accident.” He lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind her. The Turk moved lightly away and after a moment the coach horse followed.

Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder, her thoughts in disorder and her sense of guilt overwhelming. She tried to look back along the stream but Paul’s arm restrained her. “Don’t look. It will do you no good,” he said. She obeyed him, hiding her face against the soaking wet wool of his coat.

They rode in silence. Vaguely she heard the change in sound as they left the moor and came back onto the track which led to Mannerby.

“We’re almost there now.” Paul’s voice seemed to come from far away.

She opened her eyes to look as they rode up the long single street of Mannerby. The village sprawled up the hillside, culminating in the only two buildings of note: the church and the manor house. On the left was the dull gray stonework of the church with its squat tower and tiny churchyard filled with dark green yews which overshadowed the tombs nestling in the grass below.

Mannerby House stood opposite. It was some five hundred years old, a beautiful, half-timbered building with rambling roofs and redbrick chimneys which had been added in a later century. Behind she could see the large stable block which housed the famous Mannerby stud. A walled courtyard hid the front of the house, and the double ironwork gates were closed.

Beyond the village were the vast heights of Dartmoor. The land rose dramatically toward those distant tors and craggy peaks which were half hidden in a swirl of mist and cloud as the rain continued to fall. One rock-crowned tor stood out; it was taller and more regular in shape than its fellows, and Sarah found herself looking not at the village and manor house, but at this single melancholy hill.

The Turk moved up the village street, passing the little cottages which huddled together. Paul stopped by the gates of the house and Sarah looked through them, seeing the great age of the walls and the ivy which crept stealthily up them, forcing its roots into cracks. The cobbles of the courtyard glistened with rain, and there was no sign of life anywhere. The only sound was the rhythmic tamping of the rain, and the occasional sound of horses from the stables.

“Martin! The gates!” Paul shouted impatiently as he waited by the obstinately closed framework of wrought iron.

From a tiny gatehouse, which merged so well with the walls that she had not noticed it, came a man so large he was built like an ox. He had a mane of carrot-colored hair, and freckles peppered his good-natured face. His leather jerkin strained across his broad shoulders, and he held a sack over his head to fend off the rain. He pressed close to the gates and peered out.

“Who’s there?”

“Martin, it’s me, Paul Ransome, and I demand entry to my own house!” Paul’s voice was decidedly tetchy. He was wet, tired, cold, and more than a little shaken by Betty’s death. He was now drawing on the last vestiges of his patience.

“Master Paul!” Martin was rattling the large bunch of keys at his waist and the old gates groaned as they swung open.

They closed again behind the Turk and Sarah felt almost trapped as she looked around the courtyard. There was rainwater everywhere, dripping from gutters into butts, pattering into large puddles, and most of all falling wetly from the glossy leaves of the ivy. Two bare trees stood next to the house: one was a lilac, and the other a tall ash tree which stood higher than the rooftops.

So this was Mannerby.

The doors of the house were flung open and a girl ran out into the rain. She was incredibly lovely, with almost white hair and vivid green eyes. Her face was perfect, faultless, and the pale pink woolen gown she wore suited her fresh, dainty looks. Hardly giving Sarah a glance, she flung herself joyfully on her brother as he dismounted.

“At last! You’re back! I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

He laughed, hugging her. “Keep your distance, ‘Lissa, for I’m both wet and muddy.”

Melissa looked at Sarah and then quickly away. “Where’s Armand?” she asked Paul, smiling a little. “Surely you haven’t traveled all the way on the Turk?”

Sarah could not take her eyes from the girl. She was like an exquisite doll. Her hair was pinned slightly, falling naturally into the Grecian curls which Betty had worked so hard to create out of Sarah’s black tresses. Betty. The thought of the poor little maid pricked saltily behind Sarah’s lids and she blinked the tears away. Surely it had not really happened—

Melissa touched Paul’s hand. “I asked you a question.”

“There was an accident at Hob’s Brook. Miss Stratford’s maid was killed and the coach and baggage remain firmly the wrong side of the crossing. As to Armand—”

“Yes?” The dainty voice was slightly sharp as Melissa guessed there was more bad news to come.

He cupped her chin in his hand gently. “Armand may be dead, ‘Lissa. He was your faithful servant and I know not how to break such tidings kindly. He was carrying the maid across on horseback but the current was too strong. I found the maid’s body but there was no sign of Armand.”

‘Then he may not be dead?” Her eyes were large.

“It’s possible—without tangible proof there’s always hope.” Paul spoke reluctantly, not wanting to raise her hopes.

Melissa’s lovely green eyes swung to Sarah, but it was to her brother that she spoke. “Then he’ll come back. I know that he will.”

He said no more on the subject, turning to lift Sarah to the ground. “ ‘Lissa, please take Miss Stratford inside out of the rain.” He gave the Turk’s reins to Martin, who waited nearby.

Melissa held her hand out to Sarah and smiled, but the smile did not reach those spectacular green eyes. “Please come inside, Miss Stratford.” She spoke politely enough but there was a barrier there, an almost tangible barrier.

The servants waited in the hall to greet their master. The butler, Marks, stepped forward, a genuine smile of pleasure on his old, wrinkled face. As Paul spoke to each one in turn, Sarah could see how well he was liked and respected by all, down to the meanest scullery maid and kitchen boy. Yes, and by the adoring glances of the maids, he was not only liked and respected! He stopped to converse with the butler, listening closely and then giving some orders. Marks nodded, calling two of the maids and sending them scurrying up the dark, narrow staircase to the first floor, calling instructions by the dozen as he went.

Sarah looked around the entrance hall. How different Mannerby House was from Rook House. Both were old, but Rook House had been gutted inside and rebuilt by the finest architects in a gracious gold and white style which was more fitting to a new house than one so old.

 Mannerby was as it always had been, bringing a breath of medieval times to Regency England. Dark wooden bannisters lined the staircase and oak beams ranged across the low ceilings. Red tiles covered the floors, tiles polished so much that you could see your face in their uneven surface.

Small tapestries hung on the walls, just as if left there by the original owner of the house, and everywhere there was the subtle gleam of copper and brass. A tall old grandfather clock stood against a wall, ticking the minutes away steadily and slowly, its face having a rather surprised look as if permanently startled by life. Ancient portraits were hanging on every conceivable space, interspersed by brackets which held thick yellow candles.

Halfway up the stairs, on a small landing, was a narrow window at the side of which was a huge portrait of a woman in Elizabethan dress. A stiff ruff framed the thin, hawk-like face and she stared down her beaky nose at the group in the entrance hall far below her. On a table beneath the portrait stood a large, fat, porcelain Buddha. The Buddha was green, gold, and white and had emerald eyes which glittered as his head moved. From where she stood Sarah could hear the tiny chink, chink of that uncanny wobbling head.

Paul returned to speak to his sister. “ ‘Lissa, Miss Stratford will be happier in your care than in mine, so please take her to Mother’s rooms. Marks is having them prepared now. Oh, and see that she has some of your clothes, for hers are still the other side of Hob’s Brook.”

“But, Paul!” Melissa’s voice was urgent, “There’s no need for Marks to prepare Mother’s rooms. I’ve already set aside accommodation for our guest—aired and waiting.”

He was impatient to be away, his quicksilver mind turning over various other problems which had to be attended to. “ ‘Lissa, Miss Stratford is an honored guest and so Mother’s rooms shall be hers.”

Sarah felt awkward, and the very last thing she wanted now was for Melissa to be offended. After all, perhaps the girl did not want someone sleeping in her mother’s rooms. “Mr. Ransome, I shall be well satisfied with the accommodation your sister has—”

“No. You will have Mother’s rooms, and that’s the end of it.” With one hand unfastening his limp cravat he turned away, hurrying up the stairs two at a time and calling the butler. The servants melted away from the hall and Sarah was left alone with the strange Melissa.

The girl’s warm smile was fading rapidly as her brother turned his back, and she bowed her head coldly to Sarah and, picking up her skirts, swept regally up the stairs.

Sarah followed, miserably conscious of the poor figure she cut as she walked behind the dazzling girl in pink. She was made even more miserable by Melissa’s obvious dislike of her. But why should Melissa behave like that? She had never known Sarah and could surely have no just reason. The Buddha’s head tinkled melodiously in the draft caused by her passing and Sarah shivered.

Her skirts clung horribly to her legs and her shoes squelched unpleasantly as she hurried along the dark, beamed passageway. The light figure ahead paused, and to Sarah’s surprise she saw that Melissa was somehow hesitant of going into the room where the maids’ voices could be heard. The girl took a deep breath and then walked in, vanishing momentarily from sight until Sarah too reached the doorway.

The dull winter afternoon gave the room a chill look, but already a maid was lighting a fire in the hearth and the leaping flames sent out a warm glow. The walls were covered with a silk wallpaper painted with magnificent birds and flowers of Chinese design, and the pageant of delicate colors seemed to move the firelight across their dull blue background. A four-poster bed stood against one wall, a golden bed hung with aquamarine curtains of velvet. Everywhere was the touch of Melissa’s mother, now dead, but obviously when alive a woman of taste and a love of elegance.