The Haunting of Grey Cliffs Page 2

  He made me sound so mercenary, so hard. "Milord—" I wanted to explain, but he cut me off with a sharp motion of his hand.

  "Never mind. Miss Durant. At least it is a price I can pay." He gave me a severe look. "Just see that you have love enough left for Ned."

  The sharpness of his tone shocked me into indignation. "Of course I shall! As I love God, I give you my solemn oath, I shall love and care for Ned as if he were my own flesh and blood."

  The earl sighed, his expression unreadable, his eyes clouded. "I suppose I can ask for no more than that."

  Chapter Two

  And so the next morning the earl and I set forth for Cornwall. I was wearing my best blue silk, my hooded cloak that had seen better days, and my one and only bonnet. Staring down at the plain gold band on my finger, I was sore put not to imagine myself dreaming. But surely this was too much for any dream—to meet a man one day and wed him the next, setting out immediately for his castle and a son that I had never seen. It was foolhardy, this swift action I had taken. I knew it was foolhardy, and yet, settled beside my new husband in his fashionable carriage, with the lap robe tucked neatly over my knees, I did not even consider the reckless nature of my actions.

  It was, perhaps, just as well, for had I had any presentiment of what the future was to bring me, I might well have beaten a hasty retreat and remained a spinster for the rest of my life.

  But that morning as I watched the English countryside unfold before me in all its autumn splendor, I gave little thought to the icy frost of winter that was soon to follow or what, besides a new son, might await me in Cornwall.

  The earl, now that he had achieved his purpose and acquired the mother he wished for his son, had lost a little of his sternness, and he left me to my own devices, not attempting to draw me into conversation but staring out the window as though he had much on his mind.

  I appreciated his thoughtfulness, but after we had ridden some time I grew tired of my own company and turned to him. "Tell me, please, about my new— about Ned."

  He nodded. "He was always a good child, as an infant happy and cheerful."

  I liked the sound of that. I held that a child was born with a disposition that would be revealed in his character. If Ned's basic disposition tended to be cheerful, my task would be the easier. I did think of it as a task, but not in any pejorative fashion. My love for my charges had always run deep, and I believed Ned would soon hold his own place in my heart, a special place because he would be my son—and brother to the babe to come. Already, in that short space of time, the babe had become very real to me and occupied much of my thought.

  "What does Ned like to do?" I asked the earl.

  He smiled, I thought a trifle sadly. "These days he likes most to make mischief. He has driven away more governesses than I care to count, harassed them with any number of rascally tricks. So you can see why, when I ran into the marquis, I was about at my wits' end."

  He patted my hand. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am that Ned will be in your hands."

  I accepted the compliment with a nod. His touch made me feel strangely warm, but I disregarded that and continued with my questions. "Does Ned like the usual boy things?"

  The earl wrinkled his dark forehead in thought. "Well, he likes to be outdoors, he likes the sea. We are close to the sea. He has a dog—Captain."

  A peculiar change went over his face, almost as though he'd suffered some kind of pain. "The dog belonged to my father and when he—died—suddenly, the boy took the dog as his."

  A dog was good, I thought. It might give me a way to reach the boy.

  The earl sent me a penetrating look. "Ned loves horses, he rides on the moors whenever he can."

  My heart rose up in my throat and the hands I held together in my lap trembled. I was not a fearful woman, but horses ... I had nightmares still of the dreadful rearing horses, the sound of their pounding hooves. Mama clutching me to her as the carriage careened madly down the road, then the awful sensation of flying through the air, and the horrifying stillness of Mama's form when I crept to where she lay.

  I knew it was not the fault of the horses. They were frightened into the mad gallop—by what we never knew. But still I feared the beasts who were responsible for the death of my beloved mother.

  My face must have gone quite white, for the earl leaned toward me and covered my trembling hand with his. "Do not concern yourself, Hester," he said. "You needn't ride. The boy has been going out by himself for some time."

  I scarcely heard the second part of his speech because I saw in his eyes that he had divined my secret, that he somehow knew about my fear of horses. "How—" I began.

  He put an arm around my shoulders and I did not dislike the sensation, indeed, I found it comforting. "Jeremy and I spent many long, lonely nights waiting in camp. He talked of you and his childhood, and I talked of Ned, then only an infant."

  I was very happy that my husband had known Jeremy. My brother was still so fresh in my memory. Not like my fiancé, Charles, who had become a hazy figure to me, almost a make-believe knight. But then, I had not known him long before our engagement nor had much opportunity to know him after.

  Ours had been a whirlwind courtship. Jeremy brought Charles home with him on leave, and when they left Charles and I had an understanding. Then I did not see him again.

  But Jeremy had long been the center of my life, to my heart almost my child, for it was I who had raised him, though only four years his elder.

  I looked up at the earl. There seemed to be a sort of comfort in the sable eyes so near my own. "You are very kind," I said.

  To my amazement the earl laughed, a rough discordant sound. "Let us only hope you continue to think so," he murmured, his face averted.

  I thought that a strange thing to say to a new bride, even one wed under the peculiar circumstances of our union, but I did not pursue the matter for I found myself suddenly quite exhausted.

  We had been driving already for a long time and the strangeness of the day before's interview and the excitement of the morning's marriage now seemed to catch up with me. I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand.

  "You are weary," he said. "Why don't you nap a little? You will find you may lean against me quite comfortably."

  And, indeed, I was quite comfortable. As the carriage drew ever nearer Cornwall and the castle that was to be my home, I slept in the arms of a man who, the day before, had been an utter stranger to me. I slept and dreamt of my child—our child—smiling up at me from my lap.

  When I woke sometime later and looked up into my husband's eyes, I felt strangely warm there in his arms and more than a little flustered. Then, as I realized that my hand lay quite familiarly on his hard-muscled thigh, I straightened in embarrassment and drew it back.

  He did not comment, nor could I tell from his face if he had even noticed.

  We talked more then, as acquaintances might, of the estate and the village near Grey Cliffs, of Ned's childhood pranks, and of the time my husband had spent in Spain and his talks with Jeremy.

  And finally, just as dusk was falling. Grey Cliffs came into view. The earl had the driver stop the carriage so I might descend and look up at my new home.

  My husband helped me down and I stood staring. I had expected a castle—he had told me a castle—but I had not expected this great fortress of grim, dark stone silhouetted against the somber sky. Situated on the top of the cliffs from which it took its name, the castle brooded like some great leviathan contemplating the extinction of mankind.

  A single light shone from one window high up. The rest were dark, making the place look even eerier.

  I quieted my pounding heart. The castle only looked so foreboding, I told myself, because the earl had been absent from it. Together we would make it a place of warmth, of happiness. We would, I told myself.

  The road up to the castle twisted between stunted oaks, part of a wood that encompassed it on three sides. "The trees," I murmured. "Why are they so small, so twisted? Th
ey almost look like they are in torment."

  My husband turned to me, his face grim. "The storms from the sea are fierce in winter. The trees are battered severely, but they manage to survive."

  I glanced up at him. His jaw was set in a hard line. Was he thinking of the storms of scandal he had survived?

  At that moment the wind picked up, buffeting my cloak, tugging at my clothes like a living thing, a malignant living thing. The wind was cold, but even colder was the dismal aspect of the castle that was to be my home.

  The earl helped me back into the carriage and settled beside me. His face looked drawn and I wondered if he worried about Ned's reaction to a new mother. Impulsively I leaned toward him and, copying the gesture of comfort he had used earlier, I covered his hand with mine. "It will be all right," I assured him. "I know children. Ned will come round."

  "He hardly speaks to me," the earl muttered miserably. "He's so wild, so distant. He needs your help."

  He turned to me, grasping me by the shoulders, gazing at me in a kind of desperation. "Hester, please, swear to me by all that you hold holy that you will love my son, stand by him—"

  I thought he was worrying again about my leaving them, or about my loving our child more than Ned. So I looked directly into his eyes and said, "I swear to you by all that I hold holy that I will never desert Ned, that he will be to me a son, my son." It was an honest promise, honestly given, but I had no idea what the keeping of it would cost me.

  My husband released my shoulders, his features relaxing a little.

  As the carriage made its way up the winding road, night fell. The darkness prevented me from seeing the stunted oaks through which we were passing, but the gloom seemed to press in through the windows, filling the carriage with a despair almost tangible.

  And then the carriage stopped. "We are home," the earl said.

  He handed me down, and as we made our way up the walk toward the door the moon came from behind a cloud. Its light should have been welcome, but it only added to the eeriness of the scene, causing the oaks to throw threatening, contorted shadows around us like so many elusive demons let loose from the nether regions.

  I shivered and drew closer to my husband. I had expected trouble, but I had expected it to come in the shape of frogs, snakes, spiders—a boy's idea of frightening—not this aura of impending disaster, of unseen evil hovering at my heels.

  As we approached it, the great oaken door swung slowly open. The interior of the castle was dark and for a moment it seemed that the door had opened of its own volition. But I had not weathered so many boys' tricks for nothing. I had strong nerves, and my steps did not falter nor my hand tremble upon my husband's arm.

  And then as we drew closer, I saw that the door had not opened by itself. A butler stood there in the gloom, dressed entirely in black. A gaunt man, his features pinched, his face expressionless, he moved like one just raised from the dead.

  "Welcome home, milord," he said in tones that conveyed no feeling whatsoever.

  My husband didn't seem to notice. We stepped inside, and as the great door started to swing shut behind us I had to battle a strong urge to break and run, back out into the threatening moonlight, down between the twisted gnarled oaks, as fast as I possibly could, all the way back to London.

  Of course, I did not run. I stood still and looked around me. The interior of the castle was even grimmer than the outside. Candelabras were stationed along the walls, but their flickering light was feeble and the place dismally chill. True, a fire burned on the great hearth, but it was a small fire and the entry hall was huge—no doubt knights in armor had once ridden their chargers up the hill and in through the front door. To tell the truth, I would have welcomed a knight, even on horseback—anything to relieve the awful melancholy of the place.

  Then I straightened my shoulders and reminded myself that God had answered my unspoken prayers, that I now had a definite purpose—I was meant to bring love to this dismal place, love and a new little life. I would remember that, I told myself, the new little life.

  "So," said my husband, his dark gaze searching mine. "What do you think?"

  Mama had taught me that if I couldn't say something nice I should say nothing at all, but that would not serve here with my husband so clearly awaiting a reply.

  I moistened my dry lips. "It is ... it is very big," I ventured.

  And my husband broke into laughter and hugged me to him.

  It was a very confusing moment for me as a riot of unexpected feeling erupted inside me. Five years had dimmed the memory of the sensations I had experienced in caring for Charles, but I did not recall ever feeling such unexpected warmth or the strange desire I now had to burrow into my husband's waistcoat and beg to stay close to him.

  Of course he released me and of course I did not beg to be held close again, but the experience heartened me. Since I did not find being near my husband upsetting, nay, found it very pleasant, the begetting of our child should come more easily.

  All of this passed through my mind quite quickly, while the earl's laughter still rang through the great hall.

  Then out of the darkness came a quavering voice, which, in spite of its feebleness, carried sharp condemnation. "Such levity is unseemly," it said. "Your father will not like it."

  I started and looked up at the earl. "You said—"

  "I said my father is dead," he replied sternly. "And he is. Cousin Julia, quit lurking about in the shadows and come meet my new wife."

  "The year of mourning is not up," Cousin Julia said querulously. "You should not be marrying."

  The earl slipped an arm around my waist and I admit to relishing its warmth. "The boy needs a mother," he said. "Hester will be good for him."

  The words were about the boy and yet underlying them I seemed to hear something else, an unspoken plea—and I remembered him saying so seriously to me that he, too, needed love and affection. And in that moment I wanted to give them to him. Smiling, I leaned a little closer into his warmth and strength. "Good evening. Cousin Julia," I said to the vague shape just emerging from the shadows. "How kind of you to come to visit."

  Because I was close to him, the length of my side against his, I felt the slight stiffening of the earl's body. "Cousin Julia lives with us," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

  I fixed a smile on my face, reminding myself that the castle was the earl's; he was its lord and had the right to provide homes for any relatives he chose, even this old woman who, now that I could see her, looked as though her principal occupation in life was stuffing herself with anything edible.

  Cousin Julia's bright blue eyes gazed at me above cheeks that swelled out like two great rounds of unbaked bread and looked about as puffy. "You're the new wife," she said, nodding sagely. 'The earl said you were coming."

  I turned to my husband. "How could you say that? You didn't know I would accept."

  "Not him," Cousin Julia said in disgust, her face wrinkling up so that her eyes all but disappeared. "His father."

  "But—" I was thoroughly bewildered. Your father is dead."

  The earl nodded gravely, but Cousin Julia ignored me. "Just last night," she continued in that quavering voice that contrasted so oddly with her bulk, "your father was telling me—"

  A violent fit of trembling overtook me. What kind of woman was this who thought she could speak with the dead?

  My husband drew me closer still. "You are chilled," he said. "Come nearer the fire. Hillyer, bring us some hot tea—and something to eat with it."

  "Yes, milord."

  The butler disappeared into the gloom and the earl led me toward the hearth and several great chairs grouped around it. The fire's warmth was welcome but it did not reach far enough into the great damp room to do anyone much good.

  "I believe I'll have a spot of tea myself," Cousin Julia said and plopped herself down on one of the chairs. In an effort to bring myself back to my usual sane sensibility I set myself to making an inventory of her person. She did not look li
ke a madwoman, but neither did she look like a lady. She was short, perhaps five feet, no more, and very round. She wore a gown of some ugly shade of yellowish-green—in the firelight it was difficult to tell its exact color, though it was easy enough to see that the gown should have been larger. Her hair she had powdered and piled high on her head in an elaborate style much favored in the previous century. Evidently no one had told her that ladies no longer wore wigs or the enormous panniers that made her look as round as she was high.

  My husband drew a chair closer to the fire for me and, feeling quite weary, I settled into it gratefully, clutching my cloak tighter around me.

  Cousin Julia peered at me from her little eyes. "If someone you love is dead," she said, as calmly as she might have mentioned it was raining outside, "I can reach them for you."

  "Reach?" My mind refused to consider this possibility, and yet my heart cried for Jeremy!

  The earl put another chair beside mine and sank into it. "Cousin Julia has lately been studying the spiritualists," he explained. "They believe that the spirits of the dead may be contacted. By some people at least." His tone, too, was conversational, as though he thought such chicanery actually possible.

  "But—" I began.

  "However," he went on smoothly, "should you choose to let your dead rest in peace, she will respect your wishes. Will you not. Cousin Julia?"

  His voice did not change, did not lose its conversational tone, yet the threat was there, not to be ignored.

  Cousin Julia heard it and nodded glumly. "Yes, yes. But it really is a great opportunity, my dear. The dead are so enlightened. They can tell us much, divulge such knowledge."

  "Knowledge?" A deep voice came booming out of the darkness. "The best knowledge comes from old Lucifer, Beelzebub himself. Just wait till I call him up! Then we can know anything we want!"

  Chapter Three

  The great hall was quiet for the space of some seconds and I considered the possibility that I had arrived not at a castle but at a madhouse. Then a little man walked out into the firelight. He was about the same height as Cousin Julia, but that was the only resemblance between them. Where Cousin Julia was round, this man was thin, thin as a sapling. It would take six of him to make a Cousin Julia.