* * *
Dawn was a stain of dull pearl in the east, shades of lemon and pale pink fingering across the skies. For the first time in that little valley they heard the sound of the birds beginning their morning song. The flowers of the gorse bush were brighter with each passing moment, turning from a soft primrose to a deep blaze of gold.
High above, the breeze wove in and out of the rocks, whispering a single word over and over again. She closed her eyes, holding Paul tight. “I know what they’re saying. Listen—they’re calling her. Can’t you hear them?”
He looked up at the bright, dawn-lit rocks.
Melissa, they whispered to him. Melissa. Melissa.
He pulled Sarah to her feet. “Let’s go from here,” he said. “I’ve had more than enough of this place.”
They went to where the horses were tethered to the gorse bush, and she turned to him. “Hold me again, Paul.” She stretched her hand out toward him.
He kissed her, holding her as if he thought to lose her. “I shall not let you leave Mannerby,” he murmured, kissing her again.
Mannerby. She swallowed and stepped from his arms to untie the reins of Melissa’s horse. Mannerby was her father’s property now, and Sir Peter Stratford would never give it up.
He saw the sadness in her face and said nothing more. They rode out of the valley toward the village, leaving Hob’s Tor behind them in a blaze of fresh morning light, and gradually the sound of the whispering rocks faded until they could hear it no more.
As they reached the incline above Mannerby they heard hoofbeats behind them and turned to see Martin riding along the road from Bencombe.
He reined in, nodding at Sarah. “You are recovered now, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Martin.”
Paul leaned forward in the saddle. “Did you get Holland to the jail?”
Martin’s eyes flickered. “No, sir.”
“What happened?” Paul’s brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“An accident, sir.”
Sarah held her breath, her eyes wide.
Martin’s expression was bland. “Strange thing that, there being two fatal accidents on the moor this fine morning. There was the thieving ruffian from up by Hob’s Tor, shot, accidentally of course, while stealing another sheep. And then the fine gentleman from London having that nasty fall from his horse. Oh, a very nasty fall it was, Mr. Ransome. The whole of Bencombe is rattling with the tales right now.”
“Martin—”
“His horse took fright, you see, sir. There was nothing I could do.” Martin’s mane of carrot-colored hair moved in the breeze and his eyes did not waver before Paul’s close scrutiny. “Justice was done, Mr. Ransome, no more and no less. Don’t ask any more for you’ll get no answer.”
Sarah’s fingers tightened over the reins. Jack was dead. She stared at her horse’s ears, expecting some great anguish to engulf her. But nothing happened. She felt nothing.
Martin smiled faintly, seeing Paul’s hand reach out to enclose hers. “Looks like we can forget everything then, sir. There’ll be no trial, no nastiness, no unpleasant truths raked out before curious, prying eyes. Just a poacher shot and Mr. Holland dying in a riding accident. No one need ever know all the rest. Need they?”
Paul nodded, turning his horse, and all three rode down the hill to Mannerby.
On the following morning Sarah stood with Paul in the doorway of the house, watching as Martin and some of the men began to saw down the ash tree. They had said nothing of what had really happened up by Hob’s Tor, Jack’s yellow phaeton stood in a shed by the stableyard, and his horse was in a stall now after taking an early morning gallop with the rest of the string.
The farrier from Plymouth had been and gone, pronouncing his opinion that the French horses were fine enough, but that Mannerby stock was still the best no matter what the nobs from London might have to say on the subject.
Sarah crouched down to pat Wellington, who sat by her feet watching the sawing of the ash tree with great interest. She looked up at the shivering branches. For a while she had grieved for Jack Holland, but now she could not weep for him. It seemed so callous, so hard, and yet she could not command herself to weep, to feel a grief which was no longer there. Knowing what he really was had destroyed her dream of him. She felt she had suddenly grown up.
And yet, once before she had thought herself over her love for him, but that love had come tumbling back the moment she had seen him again. If he should walk across the courtyard toward her now— No. No, it was truly ended. She smiled as Paul took her hand.
The sound of the saw drowned the noise of the coach coming up the village street. It was drawn by four superb grays and was painted dark red. Its brass-work sparkled brightly and on its door a crest was painted, a proud, fierce rook. The coach rumbled to a standstill in the courtyard and the coachmen in their dark blue livery jumped down to open the door and pull out the steps. Paul released Sarah’s hand as soon as he saw the crest.
Sir Peter Stratford got stiffly out of the coach, brushing down his coat and straightening his red satin waistcoat. Sarah saw immediately that he carried no cane and that his knee did not seem to be paining him now. He looked pleased with life, his gooseberry eyes almost buried in the creases of his face as he beamed at her. “Ah, Sarah, my dear, there you are at last. Ransome.” He nodded at Paul.
She inclined her head. “Good morning, Father.” What did all this mean? Had he come to take her back? Back to marry Edward? Hardly knowing that she did so, she stepped nearer Paul.
It was then that two more people descended from the coach. The first was Edward, as ever a rainbow of clashing colors. His baggy cossacks were brick-colored and tied with mauve ribbons. His waistcoat was of indigo brocade and his jacket lime green. His cheeks were carefully rouged, as were his full lips, and each of his golden curls was set stiffly into its allotted place. His collar was so high that he could scarcely move his head, and his cravat blossomed magnificently at his throat, almost hiding the lower part of his face. He fiddled with his cravat as he turned to help the third and last occupant—a girl—from the coach. She poked him sharply.
“Leave your cwavat, Edward. Don’t make such a mess of it.” She spoke familiarly, and Sarah wondered who she was.
She was tall and ungainly, with a horsey face and protruding teeth. Her straight brown hair was swept back beneath her yellow bonnet and her bony figure was laced tightly into a yellow gown of dainty sprigged muslin. Her only claim to beauty was her eyes, for they were large and blue, and framed by long, curling lashes.
She stepped down from the coach, her haughty expression rather unpleasant as she glanced around the courtyard and then up at the house. She obviously regarded herself as a Superior Being, and her glance was withering as it fell on Sarah. Sarah disliked her on sight, without a word having passed between them.
Paul bowed politely. “Please come inside. I’m afraid it’s rather noisy out here.”
Sir Peter lifted his quizzing glass and surveyed the men and the tree. “That’s an ash tree, isn’t it? Why all this mania for chopping down ash trees these days? Eh? First Edward, and now you.”
Edward shifted uncomfortably, glancing nervously at the horsey girl. He fiddled with his cravat again and was rewarded with another prod. Sarah was instantly reminded of Lady Hermione.
Inside the house the girl sat down on the edge of a seat in the drawing room, staring around disparagingly. “It’s vewy small, isn’t it?”
Edward nodded inanely, arranging himself carefully near her and smiling at nothing in particular.
Sir Peter took the glass of cognac Paul offered him. “Thank you, my boy, delighted, delighted. You always did keep an excellent cellar. Where’s Holland? How are the French horses?”
Paul glanced at Sarah. “The horses are very well, Sir Peter. Did you wish to see them?”
“In a while, in a while. There’s much to talk of first. Where’s this Mrs. Ransome who wrote to me about Sarah’s wardrobe?”
“Aunt Mathilda? She has gone for a walk, I think.”
“What’s wrong with her, Ransome? Is she a little ... you know ...” Sir Peter tapped his head.
“No. As far as I’m aware, my aunt is perfectly sane.” Paul looked surprised,
“Well, she rattled on in her letter about Sarah’s clothes being unsuitable for a young lady. I mean to say, those gowns were the finest London had to offer.”
“My aunt does not approve of today’s fashions, Sir Peter.”
“After reading her letter I fully realized that, my boy.” He put down his glass, beaming at the horsey girl. “But I was forgetting my manners. You haven’t been introduced to Harriet, have you? This is Harriet Stratford, Edward’s wife.” He looked beatifically around the room, seeing Paul’s surprise and Sarah’s parted lips.
Edward’s wife? Sarah gaped at the girl.
Paul recovered quickly and took Harriet’s hand, raising it politely to his lips. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, madam.”
“I am the Duke of Annamore’s daughter,” she said, in a tone which seemed to suggest that this was the ultimate in birthrights.
Sarah found herself smiling. So that was it; that was why her father was apparently so pleased with himself. He had managed to marry Edward into one of the oldest families in the land.
Sir Peter took a deep, satisfied breath and turned to look at Sarah. “Now. Where’s Holland, eh? I’ve some excellent news for him ... and for you too, Sarah, m’dear.”
Paul cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, Sir Peter, that it will not be possible for you to speak to Holland—for he is dead. There was an accident yesterday.” He glanced at Sarah’s downcast eyes.
Sir Peter’s mouth dropped and then clamped shut again. “Dead? But Sarah ... Only yesterday—and yet you sit there looking as calm as if you felt nothing! Damn me, the fellow had intimated to me on more than one occasion that he would not be averse to marrying you! Not an outright offer, I’ll admit, but enough to make me think he had an understanding of some sort with you. That’s why I’m here—partly. I also want to see those French horses.”
Sarah turned helplessly to Paul. What could she say now? She had no idea that Jack had ever mentioned her to her father. Her apparent lack of grief now must look odd, to say the least.
“Father, I did at one time entertain the notion of marrying Mr. Holland, but—
“Notion! Is that what you call it? Damn it, he only snuffed it yesterday.” Sir Peter’s cold little eyes went from one face to the other. “What’s been going on here? Eh? I didn’t like it when I read about your sister’s death, Ransome—questionable, that’s what it was. And now I find you two acting strangely about Holland’s death as well! What’ve you got to say?”
Paul poured himself a glass of cognac, offering the others a drink, too, but everyone declined. All eyes were on Paul as he slowly swirled the liquid in the large glass. “There’s nothing you would really wish to know, Sir Peter, and it’s most certainly best left well alone. Believe me.”
“No! By all the saints you presume too much! I think that there’s something going on here and I want to know about it!” Sir Peter thumped his fist down on the table.
Paul put down his glass angrily. “Very well!” he snapped. “Very well, you shall know, and much good may it do you!”
Sarah looked anxiously at him “Paul—”
“No, Sarah. He demands to know everything and so he shall!”
Uneasily Sir Peter sat down, beginning to wonder if perhaps he had been rather hasty. He rubbed his knee absentmindedly, and then took his hand away irritatedly as he remembered that the knee no longer hurt him. As Paul commenced the whole sorry tale, Sir Peter’s face grew more and more taut. Edward’s eyes boggled and Harriet’s lips became a straight, tight line. At the mention of Edward’s association with Melissa, she closed her eyes faintly and then opened them to glare furiously at her waxen husband.
Paul spared them nothing. He spoke openly of Melissa’s activities in Mother Kendal’s cave.
Sir Peter’s jaw dropped. “Witch, d’you say?”
“Yes, and your knee suffered on account of it!” said Paul, staring in surprise at the other man’s reaction. “But then you knew about Melissa, didn’t you?”
“No! No, I did not!” snapped Sir Peter, loosening his cravat and getting up to pour himself a very large glass of cognac.
Paul looked in amazement at Sarah.
But Harriet was on her feet. “Papa will be vewy cwoss about this, vewy cwoss indeed. He does not like scandals.” She looked at Sir Peter, who downed his drink in one gulp at the thought of the formidable Duke of Annamore.
“Damn it, Ransome, what were you playing at?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you let me know about it? I had a right to know my family’s name was being bandied about in a way which would have displeased me considerably!”
Paul smiled thinly. “I was not about to let my sister’s murderer escape my clutches. I thought Edward had done it and intended proving the fact.”
“Oh, I say!” spluttered Edward, crossing and uncrossing his legs agitatedly.
Sir Peter’s eyes were inexpressibly cold as he looked at Paul, “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Ransome. Your thirst for revenge has led to this and by God you’ll pay. You’ll lose Mannerby for good!” His glance slid to Harriet briefly. “I could have put an end to the speculation, for Edward was with Wellington’s army.”
Sarah stood, her eyes blazing with anger at the injustice of this. “Oh no, Edward was not! He was sent home in disgrace. We all know it, so don’t pretend otherwise, Father!”
Her father blanched, for all to see. Clearly he had known already.
Harriet swayed in her chair. This was the first she had heard of Edward’s discharge from the army. “Oh no—not disgwace! Oh, Papa! What will he think? He would never have let me mawwy you, Edward Stwatford!” She turned her baleful glare on Sir Peter. “Do something, Sir Peter, and let’s leave this dweadful place and these dweadful people!”
He was irritated. She reminded him too much of his sister-in-law Hermione. If it was not for the fact that she was Annamore’s daughter ... “Great Heavens, woman, what do you expect me to do? It’s all happened now, and even
I
cannot turn back the clock!”