Nina Coombs Pykare (31 page)

“Edwina! Wait.”

The breath left her body in a whoosh of relief. Charles! It was Charles. She barely kept his name from leaving her mouth, she had no right to use his Christian name. Not aloud.

She turned and he came hurrying up to her.

Charles could hardly believe his eyes. Edwina wandering the halls again! At first he’d thought the figure ahead of him was Catherine—Catherine’s ghost come to haunt him. He’d almost wanted it to be, to get this thing over with. So he’d followed it. And found not his dead wife, but the governess who— “Miss Pierce! What are you doing out here?”

 Her eyes wide, she stared up at him. “Nothing in particular, milord. I—I couldn’t sleep, you see. So I—”

She should be more careful. He glared at her. “Is that any reason for wandering through the castle in the middle of the night?”

“Well, actually the storm woke me and—” She faltered and looked down, avoiding his eyes. “And I came to check the door to the tower. To be sure it was locked.”

Did she know how adorable she looked with concern in her eyes like that, concern and something that looked like- Stop! He couldn’t think like that. He was Catherine’s husband. Still Catherine’s husband.

In spite of himself his voice softened. “You couldn’t sleep because you were worried.”

She looked up for a moment. “Yes.” She bowed her head again, but he saw the softness in her eyes, the tremble in her lower lip. “I was wakened by the thunder, you see. I couldn’t go to sleep again.”

“Because you were worried about me.”

When he put it so bluntly, she couldn’t deny it. She looked up again. “Well, you had said—Catherine was calling you and—”

He stiffened a little. He was a gentleman. His word was his bond. Didn’t she believe his promise? “I gave you my word, Edwina. You should know I don’t go back on my word.”

She bowed her head again, plainly embarrassed “I know, milord. I’m sorry.”

“Fine.” His voice softened still more. “Then return to your room.”

She turned back toward the inhabited section of the castle. “Yes, milord. Right away.”

But before she could move away, he called, “Edwina, wait!”

She raised her gaze to his face. “Yes, milord?”

He searched her eyes. He had to make her understand. “I want a promise from you. Will you give it to me?”

“From me, milord?”

“Yes. I don’t want you wandering around the castle in the night. It’s too dangerous. Will you promise? Promise me you won’t to do it again?”

She didn’t want to make such a promise. He could see that in her eyes. “Please?” he went on. “I won’t be content until I have your word on this.”

She hesitated, but finally she sighed and said, “Yes, milord,” her delectable little mouth twisting in a moue of distaste.

He took a step toward her, but stopped himself in time. He couldn’t endanger her further. It wasn’t right, even if . . . “Good night then, Edwina, rest well.”

“Good night, milord.”

He watched her go down the hall, her slippers silent on the stone floor, his heart shuddering in his chest. He set his mouth grimly to keep from calling her back. Edwina Pierce was innocent. She bore no blame for any of this. She shouldn’t come to harm. Catherine had to leave her alone.

He was not innocent, though. It was right that he pay for what he’d done. Maybe if he paid, maybe that would be enough, maybe then Catherine would leave Edwina alone, let her go free.

Chapter Thirty-two

Edwina’s heart pounded all the way back to her room.

Thank God Charles was safe. Her throat went dry. He was safe -and he cared about her, about her safety.

It wasn’t till she got back into her bed that she realized that Charles had still been fully clothed. But why? Why was he wandering the halls at this hour of the night?

Lying there while her single candle burned lower and lower, she tried to make some sense of the things that had been happening. Perhaps the story was true, perhaps Catherine’s mind had become unhinged by this dreadful place and she had leaped to her death as everyone seemed to think. But even if that had been the case—and Edwina wasn’t at all sure it was—she saw no need to believe in the supernatural, to believe that Lady Catherine’s ghost had come back to haunt them. Surely no right-thinking person would believe that a loving mother wanted the rest of her family to join her in death.

Edwina frowned. She wouldn’t believe in ghosts—no matter how many moans she heard or how many white shapes she saw flitting down the hall. Some human was responsible for these things that had happened—for the stone and the rat and the moaning voices. Some living human being was behind it all. The question was—which one? And why?

Why couldn’t she figure it out? There weren’t that many people living in the castle: the girls, the earl, the viscount, Lady Leonore, Wiggins and Simpson, the coachman, the cook, Lady Leonore’s dresser Clinthorn, and the viscount’s valet Smithers.

She had only had glimpses of Smithers and Clinthorn, but they seemed harmless enough, shadows whose only reason for being was to keep their aristocratic employers well dressed. She couldn’t believe mere servants would have reason to do the awful things that had been done. The coachman and the cook looked to be ordinary English servants, too. The same reasoning applied to them. What reason could any of them have for trying to frighten off another servant, a mere governess?

She couldn’t doubt Wiggins and Simpson, either. Though perhaps it was a little strange, their staying on when all the others had left, it wasn’t really that odd. They were both set in their ways, and too old to be looking for new positions.

That left the titled members of the household. She didn’t like Lady Leonore. She never had. The woman was cold and uncaring, totally unfit to raise anything, let alone two lonely little girls. But how could a delicate lady like that move a stone as large as the one that had fallen? By no stretch of the imagination could she see Lady Leonore handling dead rats—or even going anywhere near one.

The viscount was shallow, too, a man for the ladies, obviously, but he seemed a good enough sort, hardly the kind to go about killing people.
If
Lady Catherine had been killed. Besides, he’d been in the courtyard when the stone fell.

That left Charles—the earl. A strange man, given to dark moods, suffering from a heavy burden of guilt. He’d admitted to the guilt. She’d heard him herself—it wasn’t just what Crawford had said. But why, if Charles wanted to drive his governess away, why hadn’t he just dismissed her? He could do that easily enough. Or why had he let her stay in the first place?

Edwina swallowed. He had offered her that sum of money to go to London. Several times he’d told her she should leave the castle. But Lady Leonore had said the same thing to her—and even the viscount. Besides, Edwina admitted to herself there in the darkness of the night, she loved Charles. He couldn’t be the wrongdoer.

She rolled over and pounded the pillow. This kind of thinking wasn’t getting her anywhere. It only made her suspicious of everyone around her. The first thing in the morning she would start asking questions. Maybe she could find the cloak—or whatever it was that the scrap of material had come from. Maybe she could discover something useful. At least she would be
doing
something. She wouldn’t have to feel so

utterly helpless.

* * * *

Edwina had made up her mind, and morning light didn’t change it. Right after breakfast she left the girls in the nursery doing sums and went to search out Wiggins. She found him in the kitchen, in his rocker by the hearth, nursing a mug of hot tea.

“Morning, Miss Pierce,” he said, bobbing his balding head.

“Good morning, Wiggins. I have come to ask for your help.” She looked around the kitchen. “Where is Mrs. Simpson this morning?”

“She be somewhere doing fer someone,” Wiggins said.

“Oughter be back soon.”

He motioned toward the old rocker where Simpson usually sat. “Sit if you be pleased to, miss. There’s tea if you wants.”

“Thank you. No tea, just conversation.” Edwina sank into the chair. “Wiggins, I am most concerned about the girls.”

He sipped his tea and frowned. “The little ones be all right, ain’t they, miss?”

“In a way, yes. But in another way, no. I need to talk to you.”

“‘Bout what, miss?”

“It’s this ghost I keep hearing about.”

Wiggins’ face paled and the hand that held the mug trembled. “Ghost, miss?”

“Yes. And the curse.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout no curse, miss. An’ I don’t want to. Not atall. I jest do me work. Do me work and don’t ask no questions.”

Edwina nodded. “I understand that, Wiggins. But if you don’t know anything about the curse perhaps you can tell me something about Lady Catherine. What sort of person was she?”

Wiggins looked relieved. “Lady Catherine? She were a good soul, poor thing. Quiet like. Happy at first, she were. But then she changed. After she heard them stories ‘bout the curse, ‘bout the earl’s mother. After that she didn’t laugh no more. Not atall.”

He heaved a great sigh. “And then she were gone and them poor babies left without no mama. Simpson and me, we hadda care fer ‘em. Her ladyship—” He looked around sheepishly. “Meaning no disrespect, miss, but her ladyship ain’t one fer the little ones. Her being such a great lady and all.” He shook his head and sighed. “She jest ain’t got the feel fer it.”

Edwina nodded. She was certainly in agreement with that sentiment. “Well,” she said. “You needn’t worry about the girls any more. I’m here to take care of them. And I intend to stay.”

Wiggins nodded, his eyes bright. “We figured that, miss, the first day we seed you. And glad I am of it, miss. Real glad. Simpson too. She told me so more ‘n once.”

That was balm to Edwina’s heart, but there was another question she had to ask. She’d never have a better time than now. “Wiggins,” she lowered her voice. “Wiggins, do you think—is it possible- Do you suppose Lady Catherine had any enemies?”

“Enemies, miss?” The old man’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. “That good soul? No, miss, not as I know of.” He peered at her over the rim of his cup. “Why, miss? What you be thinking now? What’s this talk about enemies anyhow?”

Edwina took a deep breath. “I wondered—that is I thought perhaps—well, I thought it possible that Lady Catherine might not—have killed herself.”

Wiggins stared at her, his eyes goggling. It was obvious the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. “Not killed herself, miss?”

“Yes.”

The old man blinked and clutched his mug tighter. “But she’s dead, miss. We found her — under—” He gulped and hurriedly set down his mug. “You meaning to say, not jumped? You meaning maybe someone mighta — maybe — coulda — pushed her?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Edwina said, letting out a sigh of relief. “I don’t know of course. I’m just wondering if such a thing could be possible.”

Wiggins shook his head. “No, miss. I don’t know ‘bout nothing like that. Like I said, she were a good sort.” He gulped again. “Wouldn’t nobody want to do her in. Not Lady Catherine. Didn’t no one have no reason, you see.”

Edwina sighed. Perhaps she was wrong about this. “Well, thanks for—”

The squeak of a door made them both turn to look. Simpson came in, a dark cloak slung over her arm. “Morning, miss,” she said, flashing her toothy smile. “You got any mending as needs done? Today’s me day fer doing it.”

Edwina swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the cloak. For days now she’d been surreptitiously examining every cloak that came within her sight. “No thank you, Mrs. Simpson. I take care of my clothes myself.”

Simpson nodded. “Looks like you does a good job, too, you not having much to start with. Leastways till you got them new gowns. You done a good job on them, you did.”

“Thank you.” Edwina tried to make her voice casual, not to let on that her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely hear her own voice. “Are you mending for Lady Leonore?”

Simpson gave her another toothy smile and cackled. “Naw, miss. Her ladyship’s dresser does fer her. This be his lordship’s old cloak. His lordship now, he ain’t knowing nothing ‘bout mending. So I got to do it.” She looked down. “Found it crammed in his closet, I did.” She shook her head. “He oughter be more careful. Somehow his lordship got him a tear in his cloak. ‘Tis an old one, but still good, so I figured as I’d mend it and put it back. He probably don’t even know he tore it. Him being the way he’s been.”

A tear! Edwina’s heart was pounding in her throat, but she kept her face as calm as she could. “How do you suppose he got a tear in it?” she asked with a forced chuckle. “He rarely goes outside.”

Simpson shrugged. “Happen it’s been teared fer a while. I only just chanced upon it today whilst I was looking fer something else.”

Edwina nodded. Her mind raced, but all her thoughts went in circles, making little sense. The cloak belonged to Charles. It was torn. But why should Charles try to kill her? At the time the stone fell he hardly even knew her. And now . . .

She made conversation with Wiggins and Simpson for a while longer, but she hardly knew what she was saying. Finally she excused herself and left to take care of the girls. At least, that was what she told the servants. In reality she could scarcely think. A tear in Charles’ cloak. Could Charles possibly have tried to kill her? But why? None of it made any sense.

* * * *

By dinner time she had regained a little semblance of sanity. She was sure, though, that the poor girls sensed something was wrong. She could tell that from the curious looks they gave her. She’d bluffed her way through the day. Now she dared not miss dinner. She never missed a meal and if she didn’t appear—it would surely alert everyone that something was wrong with her. Besides, nothing could make her lose her desire for food completely.

So she made her toilet for dinner, donning the green gown which had washed up nicely after its dunking in the ocean, and finally took herself downstairs. She had lingered a little there in her room, more or less unwilling to face them all, so she found the rest of them already at table.