Exile for Dreamers (15 page)

We concentrated on our breakfast, eating in silence, save the scraping of forks and clicking of spoons.

In the relative quiet, Miss Stranje perused her morning post. She squinted at the address of one of the letters, flipped it over, and broke the seal. If it had been a letter from the captain or someone in the diplomatic affairs office, she would have slipped it into her pocket and read it later. I watched with curiosity as her pallor increased and she pinched the bridge of her nose as if the contents pained her.

At length, she held the missive out to me. “From your aunt Lydia,” she said cryptically.

My knife clattered to my plate, the marmalade meant for my toast splattered. In all these four years, there had been only a handful of letters from my aunt, and those were usually short. By the grievous look on Miss Stranje's face, this lengthy missive could mean only that my uncle had succumbed to his injuries and died.

Injuries that were my fault.

I closed my eyes tight against the memory of my tumble from grace, willing it away.

But it would not go.

The sound still thundered through my head of my uncle stomping up the stairs to my attic bedroom, cursing my name. “Tess, you worthless she-demon. I know what you've done. You've turned my horse against me.”

Willful child that I was, I had slammed my door and shoved the bureau in front of it. Admittedly, it hadn't been a very clever way to escape a whipping. I had trapped myself. Except there
was
the window.

That day was when I first learned to scale walls. I'd thrown open the window and crawled out, planning to climb down and escape to woods.
Or fall.
But at thirteen I had little care for caution. I'd hung from the moldy sill, dangling three stories above the ground, my skirts flapping madly in the wind as I struggled to find a foothold.

Finally, I was able to wedge my toes into the narrow mortar grooves between the stones. I'd clutched the window frame and scrambled my fingers across the rough limestone, searching for a protrusion to hold. I found a thin lip on a stone beneath the window, but my leg trembled stupidly as I lowered myself down onto the wall. I remember taking a deep, steadying breath and telling myself,
don't look down.

Concentrate.

Breathe.

The cold, reliable certainty of rock beneath my fingertips helped calm me. Stone walls and falling—these things I'd understood. They were dependable truths. Fall
, die.
Hold on
, live.

Simple.

Understandable.

Unlike my uncle. He'd baffled me. Why would my riding Orion without a bit upset him so much? And anyway, why had he insisted on using such a cruel type of bit on an animal as obliging as Orion? Didn't he see that the thing was tearing up his horse's mouth? If his beast revolted against that, it was his fault, not mine. But Uncle Martin had liked to be in charge. He'd kept my aunt completely under his thumb. Back then, I used to wonder if perhaps I was more wild animal than human. I had always been able to figure out horses and dogs, all manner of creatures, even the elusive foxes that hid in our woods behaved in ways I'd readily understood. But my aunt and uncle had been impossible to comprehend.

So I'd climbed to freedom—one handhold, one toehold at a time, down the side of the house.

He leaned out of my window and hurled the tin water pitcher at me. It clanged off the stones above my head. “First, you spoil my horse. Now, a broken door. You'll pay for what you've done!”

The ground lay more than a story away, but his scarlet rage made the distance seem short. I'd dropped and tumbled downhill, away from the house, rolling and rolling, skirts flopping, until I stopped, scrambled up from the wet grass, and took off in a dead run.

Uncle Martin came after me.

I had been fast even back then.
Very fast.
On foot, he never would have caught me, not even if he had a hundred lifetimes in which to give chase. But Uncle Martin was crafty. He came after me on horseback.

His stallion's hooves thudded against the soft soil, flinging clods of earth, thundering behind me, louder and louder. I pushed harder and faster. My lungs burned and I prayed the wind would lift me up and sail me on its current. But I'd had no wings, only frightened rabbit feet. So I'd raced for the woods.

In the forest I would've had a chance. The trees would've hidden me. After all, hadn't my mother taught me I was part of the forest? Almost to the woods, I'd glanced over my shoulder. He rode at a mad dog pace, whipping Orion into a lather. What a fool I was to have looked back. I stumbled. A hole hidden in the grass. Ironic. Me, the rabbit, tripped up by a rabbit's lair.

Stupid!
It had been a stupid mistake. I should never have looked back. My ankle snapped. Pain, hot and sharp, shot up my leg and brought me down in a crumpled heap. I drew up my knees and clutched my ankle.

Uncle Martin jerked Orion to a sudden stop, leapt off, and marched toward me, slapping his riding crop across his hand. “Not so high and mighty now, eh, you little witch?”

I remember shaking my head and scooting backward, uncertain how to ward him off. He'd slapped the whip again, this time against his thigh. Orion shied. Martin should've known better than to threaten me in front of that horse. It was because of that very stallion that my uncle hated me with such passion. He should've known. How could he have not known what would happen?

He raised the crop, intending to thrash me. Orion reared. My uncle turned.

There were three screams that day.

Mine.

My uncle's.

And Orion's.
Right before his hooves struck my uncle's head.

A stallion's scream blots out all reason. The sound plunges the hearer into a dark, echoing cave of fear. When I'd regained my senses, the big brown horse stood beside me, snorting, stamping, and shying like a confused child. My uncle lay unconscious on the ground a few feet away from me.

“Shhhhh,” I'd crooned, beckoning Orion to me. “It's all right, boy.” He tossed his head, agitated, afraid. “You didn't mean it. I know you didn't. You were just trying to protect me.”

Even as I said it, I knew the sad truth. When Uncle Martin awakened, he would shoot Orion for his actions that day. It wouldn't matter that the horse was a superb hunting mount and a valuable breeding stallion. I'd struggled to my feet somehow and limped to the agitated horse, smoothing my hand down his neck to quiet him, leaning my head against his withers. I'd murmured words from the ancient Welsh language my mother had taught me, telling him how much I loved him for trying to save me.

My guardian still hadn't roused. “Uncle Martin?” I edged toward him. Any second, I'd expected his hand to flash out, snare me, and I would've been in for the beating of my life.

Only he didn't move. Apart from the wind ruffling his hair and neckcloth, he lay completely still. His mouth gaped open, a silent echo of the scream he'd uttered before Orion kicked him. I saw then how his head rested at an odd angle against a small boulder.

Suddenly dizzy, my stomach spun through empty air, falling like a baby bird from the nest. “No,” I whispered. “No. Don't let him be dead. Please. Not dead.”

I knelt beside him. “Uncle Martin?” Blood had pooled at the base of the rock, a thick burgundy ooze, staining grass and soil. “Uncle Martin, wake up!” His chest lifted ever so slightly. He was alive.

Barely.

I ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of my underdress and wrapped his head to slow the bleeding. Then I'd hobbled back to the grazing stallion and heaved myself onto his back.

“Run, Orion,” I'd shouted. The stallion's ears flicked up sharp. “
Rhedeg,
” I'd said in the old tongue, and he took off, racing for the house, galloping across the field so fast that half the time his feet scarcely touched the ground.

“Lydia!” I cried out for my mother's sister, praying she would hear my call for help.

As soon as I'd explained, she'd sent servants to unhinge a door and they'd used it to carry him back to the house. Martin still breathed, but the doctors could not wake him. “Any day,” the doctor had said, and then he'd shown Lydia how to squeeze broth from a cloth and let it drip down my uncle's throat. But as the days passed, the doctor's expression had grown more solemn. His words “any day” had changed to a death watch.

My uncle's family had arrived already wearing black. It was not long after that they exiled me to Stranje House. Not Aunt Lydia; she'd wept when they carted me away with my hands bound. It was Uncle Martin's prune-faced sister and his fat sweating father's doing. They'd sent me here to be punished, to be beaten into submission, to learn to conduct myself in a manner befitting a proper young lady. Beneath their fine words and stiff speech, it was as if they had thought I truly was a demon child. And Miss Stranje had the perfect reputation for being able to exorcise the devil from unmanageable girls like me.

Or so they had thought.

I glanced at the headmistress I'd come to respect and with shaking hands reached for my aunt's letter. I had no desire to read it, but just as traitors must face a firing squad, I knew I must face the sad truth that another death would be laid at my door.

Lydia's handwriting is challenging under the best of circumstances, as it is small and fraught with a great many decorative flourishes. Add to that the dread and guilt blurring my sight, and as a consequence I stumbled along, scarcely able to make out the words on the page. Upon the second reading, my disbelief settled, and here is what it said:

My dear Niece,

I have news.

My husband's family has given up hope that Martin will ever recover. What black thoughts his people have. They persist in ignoring the fact that he is greatly improved. I was not sorry to see them pack up their belongings last month and leave. They have gone home to Middlesbrough, saying they will not return until Martin's funeral. The good Lord willing, that occasion shall not take place for a great many years.

Now that a month has passed, I believe they are well and truly gone. That means you may return here without fear of being locked in a closet, tied to a bedpost, or anything else. I feel simply wretched about all the horrid thrashings they wrought upon your person. You must understand, it is just their way. They are rather stern folk.

I confess, it has been duller than old porridge and twice as sticky having them so frequently underfoot during the past few years. Especially his sour-tempered sister. They have been constantly in and out, arriving unannounced, staying for weeks on end, and bringing all manner of physicians with vile treatments to inflict upon poor Martin.

His father's parting words were unbearably cruel. He lamented that there is nothing left of his son save a sniveling, useless child. He refused to even kiss Martin farewell. “My son is dead,” says he.

It isn't true.

In point of fact, I find my husband's company quite pleasant these days. What does it matter if I must wipe spittle from his chin now and again? Martin no longer yells, nor does he drink too much, and he no longer broods. It is miraculous how he seems to delight in the simplest things. He will sit for hours in the yard playing with the kittens. He would never have been content to do so in the past. In my opinion, he is vastly improved. You will see for yourself when you return home.

There are a few minor problems, which I must explain. For instance, I cannot allow him to go near the stables. He seems to have forgotten which end of the horse is most likely to kick. Sometimes even the sight of a horse will throw him into a terror and we find him cowering in a corner. We must also watch that he doesn't wander off into the woods. These problems are not usually burdensome because most days his legs will not support his weight as they ought. I had a bath chair constructed for him so that we might roll him around with ease. Martin quite enjoys riding in his chair.

After another week or two I think we can be fairly confident his family will not return unexpectedly. At that time it will be safe for you to return to my house. Surely you are longing for release from that horrible school to which his sister exiled you. Nor have I forgotten my promise to your dear mother that I would take care of you 'til the end. I mean to keep my word.

Aside from that, Martin's father has decided he will not send any more funds for your tuition at Miss Stranje's establishment. So, as it stands, there is no alternative but for you to return here to Tidenham.

I will arrange with Miss Stranje for your transportation.

Fond regards,

Lydia

My chest felt heavy. I couldn't sort my thoughts. They tumbled and rolled and collapsed in a chaotic heap.
Martin was alive.
Not dead. That much filled me with relief. Lydia was making the best of it, but my uncle had been reduced to a helpless child because of me.

My fault.
That turned my relief to remorse.

Lydia had promised my mother to take care of me
'til the end.

I knew what she meant. She would take care of me until the madness swallowed me up and I died. My mother had known that would be my end, just as she had known it would be hers.

Lydia wrote of my death. Not Martin's. I was to return home until I died. Remorse changed to fury.

Home.

That had never been my home. The forests of Wye Valley, maybe. The trees and brooks where I'd played as a child. But not the manor. Not really. Not now. It belonged to my uncle now. I had no home except Stranje House. My stomach lurched, fisting up around breakfast.

I dropped the letter on the table as if it burned my fingers. They were all watching me. All of them. Gabriel, too. I needed to run. I wanted to spring up that instant and dash out of the room.