A Matter of Grave Concern (32 page)

She’d seen her brother curled up in his bed by the far wall; they all slept in the same room. “I had some accounts I had to go over at the shop. My mother has always taken care of the books, and I’m having a devil of a time trying to figure out what she’s done.”

“Ye can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Rachel? Is that you?” her mother called from the other room.

“Go to ’er before she wakes Geordie,” Mrs. Tate said.

Rachel felt little concern that she’d disturb Geordie. He slept too deeply. But she didn’t want to put her mother to a lot of effort. “I’m on my way.”

“Let me know if ye need anythin’, child,” Mrs. Tate said as she left.

Rachel forced a brief smile before closing the door and hurrying to the bedroom. Dipping her hands into the bowl of cool water on the washstand, she brought up the rag that floated inside and wrung it out so she could dab away the beads of sweat that glistened on her mother’s forehead.

“I can’t take much more.” As Jillian tossed on the sweat-soaked sheets, a spasm gripped her frail frame, and Rachel held a bowl while she vomited a clear liquid flecked with blood.

The Earl of Druridge and the physician he’d offered came immediately to mind. Could this Jacobsen help? Or was Rachel, tired of carrying the heavy burden of her mother’s illness alone, turning coward?

Eventually Jillian sank back on the bed and lay without moving, leaving Rachel to stew in frightened indecision. Was Mrs. Tate right? Would her mother die this night? Or was the worst of it over?

She glanced at Geordie, sleeping peacefully in his bed. Maybe their mother would begin to improve. . . .

Rachel embraced that last glimmer of hope as the long hand of the mantel clock swept inexorably toward midnight. The welcome respite of sleep washed over her soon after, but she dreamed of her father’s funeral: the wooden coffin, the overpowering scent of roses, the aging church, the weed-strewn graveyard.

The clock chimed one, waking her with a start. The wind had come up. Outside, tree branches clawed at the house, creating an eerie sound. A flurry
of snowflakes fell, those close enough to the window luminescent in the light of the tallow candle that sat, flickering, on the pane.

Rachel shivered. Tomorrow all the world would be white and cold . . . but hopefully not so cold as now. She rose to draw the drapes and stir the dying embers of the fire in the hearth. She had been raised in this small, two-room, wooden house. Still, late at night it could be a foreboding, lonely place.

Her mother groaned, and Rachel whirled to face her bed.

“Come sit with me, dear. I don’t have long.” Jillian’s voice cracked as she struggled to sit up.

A lump congealed in Rachel’s throat as she rushed to prop a pillow behind her mother’s back. “Don’t talk. Rest. You need to conserve your strength.”

Jillian’s hand clutched at Rachel’s. “You have been a good girl and made me proud. We might be poor since my father died, but no one could tell it from your carriage or your speech.” She gasped for breath, winded by the effort of communicating. “There isn’t a man around, even a gentleman, with a better head for numbers and letters. You would have made your grandfather proud.”

The foreboding Rachel had felt all day grew stronger. Her mother’s words sounded suspiciously like a farewell. “Mum, listen to me. The Earl of Druridge came to the shop today—”

“
What
?” Her eyes flew wide, shining with the false luster of sickness. “Oh Rachel, you mustn’t speak to him. Promise me you won’t—” A bout of coughing rendered her speechless, and Rachel took advantage of the opportunity to interrupt.

“He only wants the truth, Mum. Perhaps he has a right to know, at least as much as we can tell him—”

“No!” Her mother’s fingers curled into the flesh of Rachel’s arm. “You don’t understand . . . I have feared this day”—she swallowed hard—“tried to protect you, all of us, against it—”

“Hush.” Feeling guilty for having broached the subject, Rachel patted her mother’s hand. She had hoped to achieve release from a promise made years ago, but she now feared her mother wasn’t strong enough to withstand such a flood of emotion. “Forget I brought it up. We can discuss it in the morning, when you’re feeling better. For now, you should rest.”

Jillian ignored her protests. “If Lord Druridge has turned his attention on you, he will not leave things as they lie,” she wheezed. “He is a determined devil, that one. But you mustn’t tell him, Rachel.”

“Mother—”

“No! It was wrong of Jack to leave us with such burdens, but I will not betray him. . . . What was a woman to do? . . . Whoever thought it would come to what it did? . . . Such nasty business . . . I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. . . . wouldn’t light the fire in this cold house . . .”

Rachel grew more worried as her mother’s words became unintelligible. When she merely grunted and moaned, tossing in agitation, Rachel feared Jillian was losing her mind. She gripped her mother’s hand with a ferocity that belied her calm demeanor.

“Don’t leave me, Mum.” The howl of the wind echoed the wail of pain in her heart. “I don’t want Geordie and me to be alone. First Tommy, then Father, now you . . .
Please
try to relax. Forget I said anything about the earl. I can take care of things; you know I can.”

She fell silent. Her mother’s eyelashes rested on her paper-thin cheeks as Rachel watched the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, waiting, hoping and praying that she would survive. But then the truth crystallized in her mind, lending her fresh determination, and she accepted what she had known deep inside from the beginning. So long as there existed the smallest chance to save her mother’s life, she would do anything, sacrifice anything, promise or no.

Releasing her mother’s hand, Rachel rushed to the coat rack to retrieve a heavy, wool cape.

“Rachel . . . ?”

Reluctantly, Rachel retraced her steps as far as the door to the bedroom.

“Where are you going? We must discuss this.” Jillian gasped for breath. “Just give me a chance to recover my strength.”

“We will have all the time we want in the morning, Mother,” Rachel gently insisted, steady now that the decision had been made. “I am going out, but I will get Mrs. Tate. She will be here if you or Geordie need anything.”

“Wait,” her mother called.

But Rachel had no time to spare. She had wasted far too many days and hours already, holding herself to a promise she could not keep. “I love you, Mum. Just rest. I will be back shortly.” She tossed the last of her words over her shoulder as she rushed to the front door, where she raised her hood and plunged outside, into the biting cold.

The fire in Truman’s study popped and crackled, a singularly comforting sound as he bowed over the ledgers strewn across his desk. The servants had long since gone to bed. Even Linley had retired. Only Wythe was up; at least, Truman assumed he was up. He wasn’t home. Although his cousin never said how he spent his evenings, Truman had heard enough to know he frequented Elspeth’s, the village brothel, on a regular basis. He guessed Wythe was there now. Newcastle was too far away to visit more than once a fortnight, and country society offered little by way of late-night entertainment.

Setting his quill in its brass and marble holder, Truman flexed his fingers and stretched his neck. He was exhausted but he fought the weariness that threatened to overtake him. Sleep had become his own personal hell, fraught with memories and contortions of events he would rather not revisit.

Almost involuntarily, his gaze strayed to the painting of Katherine hanging on the wall in front of him. It was one of the few pieces of art, of anything, the villagers had salvaged from the cinders of Blackmoor Hall and, ironically, the only item that hadn’t sustained considerable damage. The blaze that had claimed Katherine’s life had left her portrait untouched to haunt him in its perfect likeness—as if he could ever forget her. And he was just stubborn enough to hang her picture where he would see it most, an unspoken challenge to unmask her murderer, even if the face behind that mask turned out to be his own.

He pulled his gaze away from her beauty and forced his mind back to the colliery accounts. Another twenty minutes passed before he finished checking his bookkeeper’s work. Then, shoving the heavy ledger away, he stared into the small flame that danced atop the candle on his desk. What other business awaited his attention?

The grandfather clock in the hall beyond his closed door chimed one thirty. He scrubbed his face with his hand. Nothing remained pressing
enough to keep sleep at bay for long, he feared, riffling through the papers at his elbow.

The engraved, mahogany box sitting on the corner of the desk sheltered his personal correspondence. He opened it and set aside the ugly, accusatory letters from Katherine’s parents. The Abbotts were growing angrier as time passed. At first he’d questioned whether the fire could have happened accidentally. But with all the servants at church and the fires well banked, there was little chance of that. The fire had broken out in the empty room next to the library, a room that was hardly ever used and hadn’t seen a fire in the grate for months. The timing worked against him too, considering that he’d just learned of her infidelity. The Abbotts pointed to all these things, over and over, but he wouldn’t deal with his in-laws now, not until he could say with some certainty how their daughter had lost her life.

Tonight he craved a simpler diversion, like sorting through the myriad social invitations he had failed to answer over the previous months.

The first of the rose-scented cards received his attention, but his chin soon bumped his chest.

Sliding his chair back so he could lay his head on his arms, he decided to let himself rest for a few moments. But as soon as his eyelids closed, he was riding through the streets of Creswell when an old woman harangued his coach, sounding as though she stood at his side. “Murderer!”

He twitched but couldn’t wake as her rotten apple thumped his coach, followed by another and another until the sky seemed to be raining refuse. Calling to his driver to stop, he got out and opened his mouth to deny her words. But the instant he laid eyes on the old lady, her straggly hair turned into bright, golden tresses, her eyes into icy, blue pools and her rotting teeth into Katherine’s accusing lips.

“Murderer!” Her fingers grabbed for him, clawing the air in desperation—and suddenly they were in the library together at Blackmoor Hall, surrounded by fire.

Smoke filled Truman’s vision and burned his nose and throat. Despite the pain that seared his left hand as if he had thrust it into a cauldron of boiling water, he could think of nothing besides Katherine’s betrayal. The baby. Someone else’s child.

I’ll kill her for this
. He uttered the words over and over until they sounded like an incantation. Katherine screamed, as if in answer, and Truman jerked again. She wasn’t far; he could hear her panicked movements not two feet away.

Strangely, her suffering brought him no pleasure. He reached out, but whether to pull her to him or push her away, he didn’t know. Before he could touch her, everything went black and he didn’t come to until his cousin Wythe hefted him over one shoulder.

“M’lord?”

With a start, Truman raised his head and blinked at the wood paneling of his study, the dying embers of the fire and, finally, the small pointy face of Susanna, one of his maids.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of the sounds that echoed there, he forced himself to return to the present. It had only been a dream, a slight variation of the nightmare that constantly plagued him. No doubt the storm raging outside, making the trees knock against the windows at his back, had been the apples that thundered upon his carriage.

If only that knowledge could ease the torment inside him.

“Can I bring ye anythin’ before I retire, m’lord?” the maid asked, bobbing in a curtsy.

Truman took a deep, cleansing breath. “You’re still up, Susanna?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“I told Mrs. Poulson not to have anyone wait up for me. I certainly cannot expect my servants to keep such hours.”

“She didn’t charge me ter wait, m’lord. I”—Susanna glanced at her feet—“well, ye seem a bit troubled of late. An’ I thought per’aps ye might ’ave need of”—her gaze lifted, then darted away the moment her eyes met his—“some female companionship, m’lord.”

Was this shy, young maid offering herself to him for the night? He had taken no one to his bed since Katherine. For all his wife’s accusations, he had remained loyal to her for fidelity’s sake alone. Since her death, the fear that he would wake in a cold sweat, as he had just done, kept him from letting
anyone get too close—that and the doubt he saw in so many women’s eyes, the doubt that mirrored his own.

But this girl seemed so unassuming, so eager and so safe he was almost tempted.

“Master Wythe says I can ease a man like no other,” she added.

Her words were meant to entice, but they doused any desire her initial offer had kindled.

“He would know.”

“Beg yer pardon, m’lord?”

“Nothing.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Thank you for your kind offer, Susanna. Please forgive me if I say I am too tired . . . tonight,” he added to soften his refusal.