The Countess (11 page)

“Why don't ye ask his lordship?” Rucker said even as he began brushing her long silver-gray mane.

“I will, thank you, Rucker. Good-bye, Small Bess.”

“You may ask Uncle Lawrence at luncheon. He never said why he bought her, and no one really asked. The stable lads have been riding her, no one else.”

“He didn't buy her for me,” I said. “He didn't even know me then.”

“We'll see. Now, Andy, let me take you to the Black Chamber, where some say that a long-ago Devbridge countess stabbed her lover.”

I felt the unnatural cold in that small black room the moment Amelia unlocked the door and pushed it open. There was only a narrow cot in the room, nothing else, not even a rug to cover the wide-boarded floor. The walls were painted black. The single window was covered with a dark drapery. I couldn't tell what color, but close enough to black
to make my flesh ripple. Amelia raised her candle branch high.

“It's a pit in here,” I said, backing toward the door. “I don't want to stay in here. It is depressing. It invites premonition and nerves.”

“Come along, don't be a coward. It's nothing. I wish there was something strange in here, for my father's sake, but I have never seen anything amiss with the room other than some loon painted the walls black. Did a former countess really stab her lover? I hate to admit it, but it does make an excellent story—but in person, in here? No, it's just a small black room. I suppose I could have it painted white and put a nice lacy curtain on the window. What do you think?”

“It's not right. Something is very wrong here. Don't you feel it, Amelia?”

I was standing well behind her, not two feet from the door now. She was standing in the center of the room, raising the candle branch high, sending the wispy candlelight into all the black corners. “Feel what?”

“The coldness. The unnatural coldness. Cold and clammy, and it makes your skin skitter and your heart jerk. It's not right.”

She walked back to me, staring, her head cocked to one side. “What do you mean? Oh, yes, I know my father speaks about how in some rooms there will be a certain spot that makes one shiver because it is so suddenly and inexplicably cold. But I don't feel anything here.”

“I do,” I said, and quickly backed out of the room. “I don't know about any countess killing her lover, but there is something in there, Amelia, something
that's malevolent and cold, and blacker than those walls.”

She was shaking her head at me, even smiling, as she pulled the door closed and locked it. She didn't believe me, obviously, but that was all right. I didn't want to believe myself.

“Has your father ever visited that room?”

“No, Father hasn't visited me here as of yet. Thomas and I have been married a little under a year. Father would have probably come with me and Thomas and spent many hours examining each and every room in the Hall, but there's my mother, you see. She has been ill during the past year. She is fine now. I would very much like them to visit.”

I was walking quickly away from that awful room, and Amelia had to skip to keep up with me. “What was your mother's illness?” I asked when we had walked halfway down the corridor. When she didn't answer, I turned to see that she had stopped, and was staring into a room whose door was open about six inches. A wildly bright splash of sunlight shot out into the dim corridor.

“How odd,” she said, and walked into the room. “Just a moment, Andy.” I stopped, then shook my head and prepared to follow her, when suddenly the door simply slammed shut in my face.

Why had she done that? “Amelia? Open the door. What are you doing in there? Amelia, answer me.”

I heard her call out once. “Amelia!” I threw my shoulder against the door, but it didn't budge. I fought with the doorknob, but the door was locked. I felt utter terror, and for a moment, I was witless, locked into that terror. “Amelia, I have to get help.”

The wide corridor of the west wing wasn't quite
dark, but dark enough, since all the doors that gave onto the corridor were firmly closed and there wasn't a single window about. Shadows were everywhere, everyone of them coming at me, wanting to suck me inside them.

“Stop it, you idiot!” I yelled at myself, my breath lurching out hard and deep.

I finally reached the massive central staircase and went flying down the steps. I nearly tripped once, but grabbed the railing and righted myself.

“Lawrence, John! Help! Come here, quickly!”

There wasn't anyone anywhere. There were dozens of people in this huge house. I called out again, as loud as I could. I wondered, though, how loud it really could be, since my heart was pounding louder than a clap of thunder.

I was nearly down the stairs when suddenly, someone flung open both of the great front doors so wide they banged back against the walls of the Old Hall. Dazzling, blinding light poured into the dim Old Hall, more light than I could imagine, overwhelming white light that filled even the shadowed corners, that touched the ancient suits of armor against the back wall, filled everything with such blank whiteness that it was painful. I screamed at that crushing white light, lost my footing, and tumbled down headfirst the remaining three or four steps.

I must have scrambled my brains, because everything was blurry and vague, and I really didn't care. I heard a man's voice, above me, saying my name over and over again.

I managed to get my eyes open to look up at him. He seemed to float above me, this creature who
seemed all dark, yet he was in the middle of all that blinding whiteness. And then I knew. I was dead.

Thank God I'd made it to Heaven.

“Are you an angel?”

T
he angel blinked, I could see him that clearly. Those very dark eyes of his blinked yet again. He gathered me to him, so close that I felt his warm breath on my forehead, sweet and dark.

“Perhaps,” said an equally dark voice.

“Maybe I was wrong about Heaven. Is this Hell instead? You're all dark, even your voice, like sins kept secret for a very long time. Are you one of the devil's angels? Grandfather always believed that the devil had his angels just like God had his. Is that what you are? Your eyes are nearly black. How can you bear all that white light?”

“It isn't all that strong. Hush now.”

“It's like Heaven has split apart, and everything is gushing out of it. It's too much, really, it's just too much. I don't understand any of this.”

And I closed my eyes again. My brain went blank, but deep down, I didn't want to be in Heaven or in Hell. I didn't want any angel at all to be with me, and if it turned out that he was one of the devil's angels, then I was in big trouble. I tried to remember
major sins, but my mind only managed to dredge up the time I had stolen a shilling off the vicar's desk. Surely even the devil couldn't remember back to a sin that I'd committed when I was seven years old. No, surely not. “I don't want to be dead,” I said to that dark face that seemed to fade in and out just beyond my nose. “I want to stay right here in Yorkshire and ride Tempest.”

“You may only do the first, not the second.”

Then he picked me up easily, and I realized this angel was very strong. He turned, and the incredible white light shown fully in my face.

Then the white light was gone again. “I want both,” I said against his shoulder.

“I promise that you are still in Yorkshire. But you won't ride Tempest. If you try it, I'll thrash you. Now, just hold still.” Everything fell suddenly into place. I knew then, all of a sudden, in that very instant, that it was John, and the fear pounded deep and steady. I hated it. I just didn't know what to do about it.

He said, his voice calm and deep, “That's it. Don't fight me. I know you're afraid of me. I don't know why, but perhaps soon you will tell me. Trust me, Andy. I'm not going to hurt you.”

I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek. It was strong, steady, a bit fast. He was very much a man, never an angel. I opened my eyes to look up at his chin. My brain slipped a notch, whirling me back to uncertainty, and I said in a thin wispy voice, “Where are we going? Why aren't you simply flying me?”

“I am not a damned angel. I don't have any wings. I'm your damned step-nephew. Your cheek is against
my heart. Can't you feel the human beat? No, don't say anything. Just be quiet, you're still half-witless.”

“All right,” I said, closed my eyes, and simply drifted away. The fear wafted away as well, and that was a good thing. I didn't think I was unconscious, but everyone who was suddenly around me did. There were so many voices, all of them speaking at once. Amelia, I thought. I had to tell them that Amelia was locked in a room on the second floor.

I forced my eyes open, felt a stabbing pain behind my right ear, and said, “John, please, I was running to get help. You must help Amelia.”

Thomas nearly leaped on me. “Heh! What's this about Ameila?”

I focused on his suddenly pale face. “West wing,” I whispered, “a room about halfway down the corridor on the right. It was open, and Amelia seemed surprised that it was. She went into it. I was following her, but the door slammed in my face. I couldn't get it open or break it down. Amelia cried out. I don't know why. I'm all right. Go to Amelia. Please, I don't know what's happening to her.”

And then I just folded down. I knew now that I was very much still a part of this earth because the pain was building and building, and I just closed my eyes and let the pain take me deeper and deeper until finally I managed to ease away from it and slip into beautiful deep darkness.

I don't know how long I was away, but I woke up again, in that sort of twilight that was calm and soft, and there were no demands on me, no one talking loudly. I was just lying there, a nice cool damp cloth on my forehead. When I opened my eyes, my angel, who just happened to also be a man I was afraid of,
wasn't there. It was Lawrence, no angel, but rather my husband, which meant I wasn't dead, but back here on earth.

“I hope I stay alive this time,” I said.

“You're very much alive,” he said, and smiled down at me. I felt him squeeze my hand. “How do you feel, Andy?”

“Amelia,” I said. “Where is Amelia?”

He was silent a moment, turning away from me. I heard quiet voices. Then he was there again, so close to my face that I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.

“Amelia is sleeping. When Thomas and John found the room, the door was open just a bit and there was Amelia, lying on her side in an empty room, and she was sleeping.”

“She was carrying a branch of candles,” I said, trying to find any sense at all in what he had said.

“Yes, the candles were there as well, no longer burning, just there, lying beside her.”

“What happened to her?”

“Nothing happened, Andy,” Lawrence said, squeezing my hand again, like I was some sort of brain-numbed invalid.

“She cried out.” I tried to pull myself up. “The door slammed shut, and she cried out.”

“No, don't move, it's too soon.”

“Let me go,” I said, and forced him to move away as I pulled myself up. I was lying on one of the sofas in the drawing room, a cream-colored throw covering me to my waist. I swung my feet off the sofa and sat up straight. There were a lot of people in the room, but only one of them a woman. I stared at her, and she said after a pained moment, “I'm Mrs.
Redbreast, the housekeeper, my lady. We haven't met yet, well, now we're meeting, but it is rather strange this way.”

Strange, indeed.

There were John, Lawrence, and Lawrence's valet Flynt, a man I detested with every ounce of dislike in me. He had the flattest eyes I've ever seen, black and opaque.

And another man, standing next to John. John said, “This is Boynton, my batman in the army and now my valet.” This man looked hard and tough, his face darkly tanned, the texture of leather. He was nearly as short as I was. Then he smiled, and I saw the big space between his front two teeth, and despite what was happening here, I smiled back. He was old enough to be my father and a good ten years younger than my husband. The smile slid off my face.

I pulled the throw up closer and said, very slowly, very precisely, to the room at large, “I have told you what happened. I heard Amelia cry out. When I could not get the door open, I yelled to her that I was getting help. Even though I fell over my feet when John came through the front doors, I wasn't unconscious for very long.”

“No, not long at all,” John said. He frowned at me, and there was something in those nearly black eyes of his I didn't like. Maybe it was pity. Yes, pity. If I'd had a rock at hand, I would have thrown it at him.

He said, “The fact of the matter is, we got to that chamber very quickly. Uncle Lawrence is telling you what happened. The door wasn't locked. Amelia was sleeping on the floor. She woke up and told us that
she had seen the door open, was curious because that door was always closed, and had gone inside. She remembers you were in the corridor. Then she simply doesn't remember anything else. Nothing.”

“She cried out,” I said again. “And that door slammed in my face. It was locked. I pulled and pushed at it, but it just wouldn't open. I'm not insane or still addled.” And I was tired of repeating the same thing over and over, particularly since no one appeared to believe me.

“I'm sure that's exactly what happened, my dear girl,” Lawrence said. “Now, we're expecting our local physician at any time. He will ensure that you are all right.”

I rose slowly. I felt only briefly dizzy, then it cleared. I was nearly back to being myself again. “I don't want a doctor. I want to see Amelia.”

“Certainly,” Lawrence said. “It is obvious you are very worried about her. However, she is asleep again. She was so tired, she said.”

“Does any of this make sense to you? Why would Amelia be tired? And say she was tired, why in heaven's name would she decide to take a nap on the floor in an empty room? Why would the candles all be out, like someone snuffed them out?”

No one said anything.

I didn't like this at all. I looked from one face to the next, from Lawrence, who looked faintly concerned, to John, who had the look of a dark angel who didn't know what was happening, to Flynt, Lawrence's valet with his flat black eyes, a bad man, I was sure of it. He looked at me like I was a liar, nothing more than that, a liar and of no account at all. As for Boynton, John's valet, there was a deep
frown on that brown leather forehead of his. He didn't understand any of it, just like his master, and I didn't, either. I smiled at him again. This time he didn't smile back, his frown remaining firmly in place. As for Mrs. Redbreast, she looked mildly alarmed. Was she afraid that her new mistress was a loon?

“I'm going to my room now,” I said. Dragging the beautiful cream throw behind me, I walked from the drawing room, in my stockinged feet, since someone had removed my shoes.

“Let her go,” I heard my husband tell one of them. “I will see to her later.”

I didn't do anything but keep walking until I heard George barking his head off through the closed door of The Blue Room.

Miss Crislock was walking down the corridor toward me, waving a delicate white hand. “My dear, what are you doing? I was just coming down to see you. I heard that you had fallen. What happened?”

“Just a small tumble down the stairs into the Old Hall. I'm quite all right now, Milly. Everything is just fine. I am just here to get George.”

“I suppose George must have sensed that you were near—you know how acute his hearing is—and so he will raise the dead if you don't open that door quickly.”

I opened the door to see George standing right in front of me, and in his mouth he held a small yellow mitten.

I went down on my knees in front of him, the beautiful cream throw falling to the floor around me, and began the game of “give it to Mama,” to which George locked his little teeth firmly around the
object. In this instance, I was afraid he would tear the glove, which looked quite well made and expensive. I cajoled and offered him more bacon for his breakfast tomorrow morning if only he would give me that glove. Finally, I managed to distract him, clicking my fingers together over his head, and he unlocked his jaws. I got the glove. It wasn't an adult glove. It belonged to a girl.

But who? There were no children here, were there?

I said over my shoulder to Miss Crislock, “Milly, I am truly all right. Why don't you find Mrs. Redbreast? Tell her that I am not mad. Yes, convince her that I am quite harmless. I have this feeling that she and Brantley run things around here.”

“Certainly, dear. It's true, isn't it?” Miss Crislock patted my shoulder and left me, her lovely pale blue eyes narrowed. What else could I tell her? Reassure her? I couldn't even reassure myself.

Once in my bedchamber, I realized the last thing I wanted to do was leave it. I felt safe in here, even with all those bar holes in the window casements. I thought and thought about what had happened. I couldn't think of a single thing to explain it. When Amelia awoke, I would snag her. Surely she would recall something.

I stayed in my bedchamber for the next hour, until George jumped on the bed and sat himself right down on my chest, his nose an inch from mine. He wuffed.

“You need to go outside, don't you? Well, I feel more alive than otherwise, so let me put some shoes on and we'll be off.”

Thankfully, I saw no member of the family as I let myself out of the drawing room French doors that
gave on to a small back garden whose brick walls were covered with flowering roses, at least they would be in the spring.

I threw George's favorite stick across the garden, and he was off, yapping until he realized he needed all his breath to run after that stick.