The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle Page 7

  Poor Caroline. I found myself startled by the thought. My sister must have found this place utterly unbearable. She was a creature of light and glitter, noise and gaiety, and there was none of that here. Nothing but unrelieved darkness and gloom.

  The dowager was wearing deep charcoal gray, unrelieved by even a touch of white. Penrose and Rosamund were dressed all in black. I would not have been surprised had they owned no clothes of any other hue.

  Roland was absent from the table, and though I missed his cheerful face, I was glad not to have the tension between him and Richard so in evidence. If Richard had not come home when he did, I should already have heard what Roland had begun to tell me. I should have known the reason for my husband's unusual animosity toward his twin. Now I would have to wait.

  But I did not intend to wait for long. I was determined to ferret out the truth. 1 meant to mend Richard's relationship with his twin as well as with his daughter. There was much work to be done at Greyden Castle, and since I was an eager and loving wife, I was the one to do it.

  Richard came down as I was striving to make conversation with Rosamund. I felt sorry for Richard's sister. Living in this oppressive atmosphere could not be any help in overcoming her illness.

  I had been talking to her for some while with no response when Richard entered. “Hello, Rosie,” he said. “How are you this evening?"

  She smiled. When I spoke to her, it was as if she didn't hear me, but for Richard she smiled.

  "You're looking very pretty tonight,” he said.

  I stared at my husband. This pale wraith of a woman with her great sunken eyes was a far cry from pretty.

  But her smile broadened, and she said, “Thank you, Richard. Jeffrey thinks so, too.” She bestowed another bright smile on the empty air beside her.

  "Have you been talking with Vanessa?” he asked.

  Her expression grew bewildered. “I don't remember Vanessa."

  Richard put an arm around her. “This is Vanessa,” he said. He pulled me closer. “She's my wife."

  Rosamund's eyes widened. “Wife? Your wife is wicked. Oh, no. The bad wife is dead. She's burning with Papa."

  Our Rosamund seemed rather eager to populate hell with her own special choices, but I did not say so. No doubt Caroline had plagued her a good deal.

  "Vanessa is good,” Richard said patiently. “She wants to be your friend."

  "Yes, yes, I do,” I added. “We can talk together. Maybe take a walk now and then. I imagine the woods are lovely in the fall."

  "Penrose takes me for walks. He's a good boy."

  "Yes, I'm sure he is.” It was a white lie, said to placate her, but it was a lie nevertheless. To my mind Penrose was not a good boy. He was evil, and what was worse, he delighted in being so.

  Richard gave his sister another squeeze. She smiled up at him as a child might. “You are so good to me, Richard. Much better than Papa was. You let me have Jeffrey here."

  "Yes, dear.” He patted her hand. “Jeffrey may stay as long as he likes."

  "He will never leave me,” she said, and strolled off, talking with great animation to the emptiness beside her.

  I faced my husband. “Richard, are you sure you should encourage her in her illusions? Will that cause her condition to worsen?"

  He shook his head. “I tried telling her that he wasn't there, that she had imagined it all, but she grew so hysterical that we had to send for Dr. Sanderson. As long as we do not contradict her, she remains docile. So that is the course we have had to follow.” He sighed. “I know that it seems strange, but so little is known of illnesses of this kind. We must do whatever seems to work best."

  I nodded. “I understand, my dear.” I looked around the room. “Perhaps I should converse with your mother."

  My husband's expression grew grim. “I'm afraid it's no use, Vanessa."

  I was not ready to concede defeat. “But perhaps I can make her see that I am not like Caroline."

  He sighed again. “It is not because of Caroline that she treats you so poorly."

  "It is not?"

  "No, it is because of me."

  "I do not understand."

  He took my hand. “Of course you don't. But I shall try to explain. My mother was married against her will. She loved another man, but her parents insisted she marry the duke, my father. Her parents thought she would grow to care for him, but she hated him with a passion some women reserve for love."

  He ran a hand through his hair. “When I was born first, the heir, my father was overjoyed. But my having my father's love was enough to set my mother against me. Then Roland was born, ten minutes later, and she lavished all her love on him."

  Tears came to my eyes as I listened. Though my own mother had not been that harsh, she had been quite obvious in her favoring of Caroline over me, and the wound still festered.

  "Oh, Richard, how dreadful. But it was not his fault. Roland couldn't help it.” I thought at last that I had discovered the cause of my husband's dislike for his twin.

  "Of course he could not,” he said. “But Mother's love twisted him. It made him believe he could do no wrong."

  Richard's censure of his brother seemed too strong to me. Many a nobleman was utterly convinced of his infallibility, but Richard must be mistaken about his brother. I had experienced Roland as a friendly, helpful person. He had not appeared to be unyielding or proud. Indeed, he had been most affable.

  "Why—” I began, but Gerson announced the meal, and having no wish to discuss it in front of the others, I let the matter drop.

  After the meal Penrose and Rosamund went off, walking arm in arm. The dowager returned to her apartments without even deigning to tell us good night.

  "Is she always like that?” I asked, as Richard and I moved into the library.

  "With me she is.” The bitterness in his voice pained me. “With Roland she is all sweetness. He is her cherished son. As I said before, to all intents he is her only child."

  "But it's not fair,” I cried. “You have all the burdens of the dukedom. You have protected and cared for them all, and they treat you so poorly."

  He shrugged. “It has always been this way,” he said. “I'm sorry, Nessie. I shouldn't have brought you here. Into this household."

  I looked up into his beloved face. I only wanted for him to be happy. “Perhaps we could go somewhere else to live."

  "I would like nothing better.” He looked so wretched I was sorry I had mentioned the subject. “But I must look after Rosamund,” he continued. “She would not fare well at all in the city. Here I can protect her. I promised my father I would do that. He was not a bad man. He tried to love us all. And what he did to Rosie—it really was for her own good. The man was a fortune hunter. A bad choice for a husband.” He looked into the fire. “I'm sorry, my dear, but I cannot leave Greyden Castle. It is our home."

  This was the very thing that I had already told myself. Still, I yearned to run into his arms and plead with him to leave this awful place and these terrible people. I did not, of course. I could not adjure him to desert his solemn duty. Nor would I have loved him as much if he had.

  The evening passed slowly. I made a trip to the nursery to see Sarah tucked in for the night. I asked Richard to accompany me, but as I expected, he declined, pleading some estate work he had to do.

  The child raised her little face to my kiss. “Nurse says you will come every night to tuck me in. Is that really true?"

  "Yes, Sarah. That is what moth—” I paused. Whatever good memories the child had of her mother, they should be left inviolate. I did not intend to disturb them. “That is what I mean to do."

  She smiled. “I am glad. Nessie?"

  "Yes, dear?"

  "Why do you like me?"

  The odd question startled me. “Because—because you're my little girl."

  "My father does not like me,” she said. “Do you know why?"

  I patted the small hand. “I think you must be mistaken, Sarah. Your father is a very busy man
, but I'm sure he cares about you."

  She sighed. “I wish I knew why he doesn't like me. Maybe then I could change. So he would."

  The child's simple desire wrung my heart. She had had a mother like Caroline, and now she was denied her father's love. It just was not fair.

  I hugged her tightly to me. “Don't worry about it, my dear. I'm here now. We'll work it out."

  "Yes, Nessie.” She settled back among the covers with a satisfied smile. “I'm very glad you came here. You're better than my real mother."

  I heard the sharp intake of Creighton's breath behind me. “Your mother loved you, Sarah.” I told the lie with all the sincerity I could muster. “It was just that she was very busy."

  "I'm glad you're here,” Sarah repeated. It was obvious she did not believe me.

  I blew her a kiss and retreated from the nursery, Creighton on my heels. “Ain't no use, Your Grace. The child knows her mother weren't no good."

  "Creighton! You must never say such a thing within the child's hearing."

  Creighton frowned, but she was not to be denied her say. “Ain't me as says it. I know a child needs her mother's love."

  "Then who?” I demanded.

  "The dowager for one. And that Penrose. He's a mean one."

  My temper started to rise. My boiling point had always been low, and my first day at Greyden Castle had not improved it. “Penrose has been saying hateful things to Sarah?"

  Creighton nodded. “Ain't no one in this household as hasn't said hateful things about the child's mother.” She hesitated. “And begging your pardon. Your Grace, you being her sister and all, but she deserved every bad word as has been said about her."

  "Perhaps. But it's not necessary for the child to know that. She should have good memories of her mother."

  Creighton shook her gray head. “'Tis hardly any memories she'll have. Truth is, like I told you afore, her mother rarely came near her."

  "And her father?"

  Creighton's creased face reflected distress. “Him I don't understand. I had the raising of that boy. The dowager—she would have let him die, she would."

  "Oh, no!” I couldn't help myself. The thought of Richard so abandoned by his own mother made me want to cry.

  I turned to the servant. “So you raised him?"

  "Aye. Me and his father. That man surely did love the boy. But it weren't like the dowager said. The duke, he loved all his children.” She sighed. “He did all that he could for them. That's why he paid off that man who was after his daughter. Weren't no way to know she'd take it like she did."

  "Yes. It's a sad case."

  Creighton frowned. “And so is the way the present duke treats his child."

  "Has it always been this way?"

  Creighton shook her head. “No, Your Grace. When the child was newborn, he doted on her. Came every day to hold her and play with her. And then—one day he just stopped coming. She could just talk then. She was saying Dada."

  She wiped at a tear. “Pitiful, it was. Her calling after him all the while like that. She did it for months, but finally she stopped."

  I swallowed over the lump in my throat. How could Richard do this to his own child? Didn't he remember what it had been like to be virtually motherless?

  I patted the old nurse's hand. “Thank you, Creighton. You have been a good friend to Sarah. And to my husband."

  She sighed and wiped at her eyes again. “'Tis sorry I am about the duke. I thought I'd raised him better than that."

  I put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Don't worry, Creighton. I am here now, and whatever is wrong, I will fix it."

  She sniffled. “I hope so, Your Grace. He was a dear lad, he was. So bright and loving in spite of that mother of his. And now, to do the same thing to his own babe—I can't make it out, I can't."

  "It will be all right,” I repeated. “You just keep on loving Sarah."

  I left hurriedly, before I should break into tears and fall to weeping on the old servant's shoulder.

  Perhaps I should have let myself weep then, for tears were surely to be my lot that second evening in my new home.

  I returned to the library, but Richard was not there. So I went looking for Gerson.

  "His Grace has gone out,” the butler told me. “A message came from the vicar, and the duke ordered his horse."

  My heart skipped a beat. “He rode the stallion?"

  "Of course, Your Grace."

  "Did he say how late he'd be?"

  "No, Your Grace.” It was plain from the butler's tone that he thought this a poor question from a lady of quality, but I had not been a lady long, and I was every inch a woman in love with her husband.

  Nevertheless, I asked Gerson no more questions, but went back to the library to await my husband's return. I let my gaze travel over the expensively bound books.

  I sighed. The late duke's taste had run to volumes on the proper conduct of military campaigns. It was not a subject I could find to my liking.

  Finally I selected a volume by Dr. Johnson about a mythical kingdom where everyone was supposed to be happy. But somehow I could not concentrate. My ears were ever alert for the sound of my husband's footsteps, and my eyes often left the printed page and turned anxiously toward the door, but Richard did not appear.

  My eyes grew heavier. The previous night I had not had much sleep. Twice my eyelids fluttered shut, and the book falling from my hand startled me awake. The second time the fire had died down, and the library was no longer cozy and cheerful. Shadows lurked in every corner, and I found myself feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  Before I could decide what to do, there were sounds in the front hall. My heart leaped in anticipation, then fell again in disappointment. It was not Richard who had come home, but Roland.

  He came into the library, smiling pleasantly. “Vanessa. Are you still awake?"

  "Almost,” I returned with an attempt at humor. “I'm afraid Dr. Johnson has been putting me to sleep."

  Roland chuckled. “I find he has that effect on me too."

  By then I was more fully awake. I leaned forward in my chair. “This afternoon you were about to tell me—"

  "Yes,” he said. “But it will have to wait. Richard was only a little behind me on the road. He'll be in shortly."

  I sighed. My every effort to untangle my husband's life seemed thwarted.

  "I will tell you,” Roland said. “I promise."

  Richard came in five minutes later. “Vanessa,” he said as I went to greet him. “There was no need to wait up for me. You must be tired."

  "I am fine,” I said, vainly trying to smother a yawn.

  "Of course. But we shall go up anyway. Good night, Gerson."

  "Good night, Your Grace."

  I could hardly believe it. There I was, my arm through my husband's, climbing the stairs to our wedding chamber. At last. I leaned closer to him. “I missed you,” I whispered.

  He looked almost startled. “I'm often called away, Nessie. The local magistrate calls on me for help. And the vicar."

  "Yes, I know."

  We had reached my door. Richard opened it for me. My heart almost stopped in my chest. “Oh, Richard,” I breathed.

  He dropped a kiss on my forehead. “Go to bed, Nessie."

  There was something about his voice that warned me. “But Richard—"

  "I have to speak to my mother."

  "Now?” I could not help it. I could hear the outrage in my voice.

  He did not respond to it. “Yes, Nessie. Now."

  "But—"

  Richard did not wait to hear my comments. He left quickly, shutting the door behind him.

  My temper erupted. I threw my pillows on the floor. I uttered every masculine curse I had picked up from Papa's cronies. I stomped and raged around the room.

  Finally, after I had paced for some time, I summoned the maid to help me out of my gown. While she was there, I controlled my tongue, but as soon as the door closed behind her, I gave vent to a string
of curses that would have done credit to the lowest cutthroat.

  Then I climbed into bed and prepared to wait. Richard had to sleep. Sometime tonight he would return to his room, and when he did, I meant to thrash this matter out.

  Sitting there, propped up among my pillows, I fretted and fumed. Richard had made no mention of a marriage of convenience. Indeed, he had led me to believe that he cared for me. Not, of course, with the passion he had felt for Caroline. I understood that, or I tried to, but 1 also understood that Richard had made me his wife. And I meant to be just that—or know the reason why!

  The hours passed. I was weary, but I could not sleep. I did not intend to let another night pass in which my marriage remained unconsummated.

  Finally, after midnight, when I had just about despaired of ever achieving my purpose, I heard sounds coming through the connecting door.

  The moon was full, and it silvered the coverlet and reflected off the intricately chased back of the mirror that sat on my dressing table. A beautiful romantic sight—except that I was viewing it alone.

  My unstable temper slipped the rein again, and I felt ready to explode. I threw back the covers and leaped to the floor. The cold stone chilled my bare feet, but did not cool my temper. I marched across the room and yanked open the connecting door.

  "Richard, I—"

  He had removed his coat, his cravat, waistcoat, and shirt. My startled eyes came to rest on his naked chest, and I forgot what I intended to say.

  "Nessie, what are you doing here?"

  I struggled to find my tongue. “I have come for some answers."

  He sighed. “It is late. You should be sleeping."

  My anger came back to me then, full-fledged. “Sleeping? How shall I sleep?"

  He did not seem to comprehend my meaning. “Is something wrong with your bed?"

  "Yes!” I lost all sense of decorum then and blurted it out. “Yes! My bed is empty! You are not in it!"

  He stared at me. “Vanessa, such—” he faltered.

  I was beyond caring about politeness. I meant to have some answers. I crossed the cold floor till I stood directly in front of him. “Have you changed your mind?” I demanded. “Do you no longer wish me to be your wife?"