“Melissa was not content with that slander but had to pursue her vendetta continuously. Using her maid, whom I’ve now dismissed, she spread her vile tales around the village, and even as far as Bencombe—which at last proved her undoing. She had it said that you’d been Jack Holland’s mistress and that you’d set him against Ralph Jameson merely for the pleasure of seeing them fight over you. She said also that you’d confided in her that you were not even truly Sir Peter’s daughter, but an imposter out to gain all you could.”
He hesitated briefly. “You were really, so you’re supposed to have revealed, a London whore. Oh, my dearest Sarah, forgive me for saying all this.” He looked at her, his brown eyes pained.
“No, no, please tell me everything.” Her voice was small.
“There’s not so very much more; just the matter of the deaths of Armand and Betty. Melissa claimed that you’d told her Betty was terrified of water and that it had greatly amused you to send her across Hob’s Brook that day. That Betty’s drowning had not concerned you, nor the fact that Armand had apparently lost his life too for he ‘was just a Frenchie and so deserved to die like a rat.’ They’re gullible people and they were bound to believe her, being the daughter of the manor house.” He was silent at last.
Sarah closed her eyes, shutting out the firelight and the shadows, and also shutting out Paul’s face as he gazed so intently and sadly at her. Now at last she knew, she understood why everyone in Mannerby so obviously disliked her. She knew too why that grotesque wreath had so offended everyone at Betty’s funeral.
Believing what they believed, it must have seemed an unbelievably callous thing to do, sending so extravagant a gesture of grief when they all knew what she was supposed to have done. She also knew why Martin was so determined that she should not have one of Kitty’s puppies—she was too evil, too unspeakably bad. She opened her eyes and looked at Paul. “And how much of this did you know?”
“None, with the exception of what she claimed was in the letter. I knew, well, at least I sensed, that folk didn’t like you, but I didn’t give it much thought. Sarah, I’ve said and thought some very erroneous things, and all I can say is that I’m sorry—from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”
She could not think. “I must go away from here. I cannot stay now that I know what they all think—”
“They no longer think those things, Sarah. I’ve seen to that. I’ve had all the servants together and have told them precisely what Melissa has been doing. By the morning the whole village will be eager to put the matter right with you. They’re good people, Sarah, only easily led, and they’ll be horrified to know that they were so wrong—just as I’m horrified at myself. As for Melissa, well, she leaves Mannerby tonight. I’ve told Marks to have the coach prepared and her things are being packed right now. I’m sending her back to Aunt Mathilda in London, for her to deal with her as she thinks fit. You won’t have to face my sister anymore.”
“But would it not be better if I left tonight instead? After all, Mannerby is Melissa’s home. I’m the stranger here.”
“No, Sarah. Melissa has heaped disgrace upon my family and it’s something I’ll find hard to forgive. I’d have sent her away to my aunt even if you weren’t here, so please don’t think that the wrong person is leaving tonight. Melissa must go.”
He stood up and crossed the room to stare out of the window into the dark night. “There’s more, you see, and my aunt is the one to deal with it. Melissa has a lover, a man she has been meeting on the moors. Those meetings were the reason for her frequent rides.” He shook his head as if unable even now to believe he had been so gullible.
A thought struck Sarah. “Does he have a bright chestnut horse?”
He glanced around. “Yes. Why?”
“Oh, it’s just that I’ve noticed a man on such a horse out there and he seemed intent on observing this house. He watches sometimes from the woods.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
She shook her head. “No. I’d really only recognize his horse. It’s a very distinctive animal, finely bred, very costly. As to the man, well, beyond the fact that he was most fashionably dressed, I couldn’t say anything about him.”
Paul was gazing out of the window again, past the slowly moving branches of the ash tree. “She met him at the Blue Fox once, and James came upon them unexpectedly. It was that which finally made him decide to tell me all the rumors which had been rife in the neighborhood, both about you and about my sister’s meetings with her lover. They were very careful—Melissa probably feared that somehow Edward might hear of it and her chances of marrying him would be ruined forever.”
“Perhaps it is Edward. After all he dresses in the height of fashion and—and he owns a horse like that.” Sarah’s eyes widened as she remembered the horse Edward had ridden to the hunt at Rook House.
Paul pursed his lips. “I wish it was Edward, but he’s not even in England at present. Your father sent him away, probably to cool his ardor for Melissa. Edward has been attached to the Duke of Wellington’s army for some weeks now. So whoever it is that Melissa has been meeting, it isn’t Edward Stratford.”
Sarah pondered. The man she had first seen with Melissa had looked like Armand, but the stranger on the bright red chestnut had been a taller man, better built, and very definitely dressed in the fashion.
Paul turned away from the window, looking thoughtful, and then at last he sat down and leaned toward her. “Sarah, I think perhaps I should confide in you some of the affairs of my family, for they touch upon your own family and I believe would explain my behavior a little.”
She drew away, embarrassed. “There is no need to tell me such private things, Paul.”
“But there is, there is.”
“Very well, if you’re sure you wish me to know.”
“I am sure.” The flame of the single candle sizzled and a droplet of molten wax coursed slowly down the stem, dripping to the base of the candlestick and solidifying. Sarah watched it intently as Paul began to speak.
“Mannerby was my property until last autumn. I was the owner and not merely the tenant. A short while after my sister’s return from London I received a letter from your father telling me that it would be in my interest to visit him immediately. I went, for the tone of his letter left me in no doubt that something serious lay behind it. He told me that he knew something about my sister which would ruin our name if it became public knowledge.”
Sarah stared intently at the wax pool. How very like her father this sounded. She glanced at Paul then. “But what did he know? What was there to know?”
Paul lowered his eyes. “I did not ask him.”
“You didn’t ask him—? But why not?”
“Because I knew what he had discovered.” Paul sighed and leaned back wearily in his chair. “There is something in my sister’s past which even now I cannot bring myself to speak of. Suffice that it never comes out.”
Sarah conquered the urge to reach out and comfort him. He looked so tired and shaken, and so very unhappy. Her hand dropped back. “Does it concern her nurse, Mother Kendal?” she asked quietly at last.
His eyes sharpened. “It is in the past.”
“Forgive me.”
“It’s not that, please believe me. You are right, and someday I shall be able to talk of it, but not yet. It is done with, over and long since set aside. Except that your father somehow came upon it all. He had a price for his silence, and the price was Mannerby. He demanded that I sell him the house and neighboring lands for a price he fixed on. It was agreed that I should remain as tenant.”
“But that’s blackmail, Paul. He blackmailed you!”
‘I know it. But there would be no such crime if humankind was not so frail and susceptible. I agreed to your father’s price. I felt that I had no choice under the circumstances. He’s a very ruthless man, and determined to acquire whatever he covets.”
“I’m sorry, Paul, sorry that he is my father and that he did this to you.”
He smiled thinly. “Oh, he came out of this excellently—he managed to break up the affair between his nephew and my sister, and he managed to acquire Mannerby into the bargain, a most admirable state of affairs as far as he was concerned. The land here does not amount to much. It was the stud he was after and the prestige ownership of it would bring.”
Outside in the courtyard they heard the rattle of carriage wheels on the cobbles. The swaying light of carriage lamps slanted in through the window and Sarah stood up to look out. Martin was carefully opening the gates, trying not to touch the still sticky paint. Marks was supervising the loading of Melissa’s trunks and baggage on to the coach, and from the stables Melissa’s horse was led out and tethered to the rear of the coach.
She heard the door of the room close and looked around. Paul had gone. She waited by the window and soon saw his tall figure emerge with his sister. Melissa’s emerald green skirts were silvery in the half-light and she clung to her brother’s arm, but he removed her hand firmly. His every sense of right had been outraged and now he could hardly bear to be near her. Her head was bowed miserably as the door closed.
With a lurch the carriage moved away, out into the village street and away down the hillside. The whip cracked occasionally to bring the horses up to a good pace. Sarah watched until the darkness swallowed it.
Melissa was gone ... and yet she felt no surge of gladness or triumph. Turning away from the window her glance fell upon the writing table where Janie had set out the paper, pen, and ink. She knew that she would never write that letter now.
Sarah could not face going downstairs again that night, but she had not eaten all day and felt sick with hunger. At last Janie suggested bringing a tray up to her room, and this she did. Sarah ate her solitary meal and then Janie drew the blue velvet curtains around her in the bed.
She lay there, sheltered and warm. But sleep was elusive and she watched the small movement of the curtains as a draft stole through them, tinkling the Buddha’s head on its way. The dying fire glowed amber as it settled lower and lower in the grate, and the old house creaked occasionally, as if shifting in its own peculiar sleep.
Across the moorland the owls hooted, flying silently through the night with large, bright, all-seeing eyes. The wind whispered over the bracken and heather, murmuring its mournful little song as it eddied around the peaks. Mannerby slept, a lonely lantern swinging on the wall of the big house, casting its light over the shivering ivy leaves. The yew trees in the churchyard loomed black against the silvery light of the moon which rose now and sent a cool grayness over everything. Far away a dog barked, and Sarah lay there listening, wide awake.
The sound which disturbed the night was distant at first. Down in the gatehouse Kitty sat up, her ears pricked, a growl deep in her throat. The noise grew louder; it was a rattling, creaking, rumbling sound, and Kitty’s growl of warning became more intense. A whip cracked through the darkness and Kitty began to bark.
Martin sat up sleepily, rubbing his eyes and cursing as he fumbled to light a lamp. What was Kitty making all that noise for? Then his sharp ears heard the noise and he got quickly out of his narrow bed.
Upstairs, Sarah pulled aside the bed curtains and peered toward the window. What was happening? Kitty was barking her heart out! Janie crept into the room. “Oh, you’re awake, miss. I came to see if the noise had disturbed you.”
“I wasn’t asleep, Janie. What is all the din? Do you know?”
“No, miss, but listen to it now! Just about every dog for miles is barking!”
They listened, and then suddenly Sarah recognized the sound which disturbed the slumber of the village. “It’s a carriage, Janie, and driven at some speed too!” She climbed out of the bed and hurried to the window, pulling aside the curtains to look out.
Lights were flickering in several of the cottages now and down by the gatehouse Martin was pulling on his leather jerkin as he moved toward the gates to look out. Up the village street came the carriage drawn by four sweating horses.
It was Paul’s carriage, the one Melissa had left in earlier. The coachman reined in by the gates, shouting to Martin to open up. The coach swayed on its springs as the horses danced about, foaming and wide-eyed. The gates creaked in the dampness of the night air and the whip cracked as the coachman urged his tired horses into the courtyard. It was then Sarah noticed that Melissa’s horse was missing.
Paul hurried out of the doorway as the straining horses clattered to a standstill. Sarah opened the window, shivering as the night air swirled in icily. The ash tree rustled its branches as if it sought to conceal the words of those down in the yard below.
“Mr. Ransome, she’s gone. Miss Melissa’s gone!” The coachman’s voice was high with worry and fear.
“What do you mean, gone?” Paul seized the bridle of the lead horse to steady it.
“We failed to see a deep rut in the road, sir, and the carriage stuck fast, up to the boards. Jim and me, well, we had to both get down to see what could be done. It was more than we thought we could manage. Miss Melissa was in the coach then, for we heard her ask if she should remain where she was. Jim thought he heard horses coming along the road behind us and he went into the track with a lantern to hail whoever it was, for more hands would have done the trick, so they would.”
“Yes, yes. Then what?” Paul spoke sharply and impatiently. Would the fool never get to the point?
“Well, they came closer, sir, close enough for us to see by the light of the lantern that one was riding a chestnut, a real bright red horse it was!”
Sarah felt her heart begin to beat more swiftly and she leaned nearer to hear the coachman’s voice, which had dropped a little. “Mr. Ransome, the man on the red horse stopped on the edge of the lantern light, and his companion behind him. We called to them, asking them to help, but they stayed where they were. Then the man we couldn’t see called to Miss Melissa. ‘Mamselle ‘Lissa’ he called her, and well, Jim and me we reckon it was that Froggie groom of hers. For he called her that.”