Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (16 page)

Looking sleepy and cross, the scullery maid blinked and rose on one elbow.

“I apologize, but I want you to witness something. There’s a shilling in it for you.”

The girl looked less put out. “What can I do for you, miss?”

“Follow me.”

Claire returned to the bedroom where the astonished maid stripped the bed.

When the girl had gone, toting a bundle of soiled linens, the clock struck two. Exhausted, Claire decided to approach Flavian first thing in the morning. She would call in the scullery maid. If the girl failed to answer with the truth, Claire would know the household was determined to protect Abella, and then she would find out why.

As it wasn’t possible to sleep in her own bed, she tiptoed into Mrs. Gower’s room. The elderly lady snored with percussive bangs. Miserable, tired beyond measure, Claire crept under the covers and held a pillow over her ear. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow he will learn everything.

• • •

Excitement deafened all his usual fear and trepidation. Flavian sat under the copper beech and replayed his proposal to Claire over and over: his future wife, his fiancé, and soon, his bride. He took a long puff on his pipe, and studied a tiny patch of stars through the branches. A thousand times he’d gauged his position on the sea by their brilliant light. “Tonight I have truly set my course.”

“Vav?” came a plaintive voice, soft as sweet tobacco.

“There’s my darling Bella. Come, join me on the bench.”

The girl nestled beside him, squirming under his arm. “Where you go earlier?”

“Ah, that’s not a question for a girl who doesn’t spy.”

“You and the Lady Claire went walking.”

“Perhaps we did.”

Abella leaned forward as if she were about to say something, and then sank back under his arm. “Am I pretty?”

“Very pretty.”

“And you like me.”

“I love you.”

She stroked his cheek and looked longingly into his eyes. “Then why you no marry me?”

Flavian shot to his feet nearly knocking Abella off the bench. “I beg your pardon?”

She crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “But why?”

He paced away from her, too shocked to think. “Well, … because you’re too young.”

“Then you wait for me. I be seventeen in one year.”

“No!” Even in the dim light, her saw her shoulders sink in disappointment. Wanting to soften the blow, he sat beside her and took her hand. “No, my darling. I don’t love you in that way. You’re a child to me. You’ll always be a child to me.”

“But Lady Claire you think of that way.”

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Not just pretty like me.” Abella stood, and he could feel her anger striking like spikes.

“You needn’t be jealous of Lady Claire. There are all kinds of love, and love is limitless. That I want to make her my wife doesn’t mean I won’t be yours forever.”

She swung on him. “Your wife!”

“I asked for her hand tonight.”

Abella’s body went rigid. She let out a scream that was half shriek and half growl — a noise that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Before he could catch and calm her, she bolted for the house.

“I looked everywhere for you last night,” Claire said upon entering the breakfast room the next morning.

Flavian lowered his newspaper. “They put a steamboat across Lake Ontario in America. The very first.”

Claire accepted chocolate from a footman and sat beside Flavian at the table. “I need to speak with you. Have you a moment after breakfast?”

“I wanted to talk with you, too.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

Abella walked in just then, a radiant smile splitting her face. “Vav, is problem?”

“No, Lady Claire and I wish to speak later.”

The girl stared at Claire, eyes black and fierce. “You discuss now. Maybe I help.”

Heat rose in Claire’s cheeks. Trapped, she stammered, “It’s inappropriate now.”

Abella flounced into the seat across from Claire. “One of the cats gone sick,” she said, addressing Flavian. “It did toilet in Betty’s bed …”

Claire was about to say something about how the cat that got into her room remade the bed, when the butler came to the door. “Pardon me, my lord, Mr. Betteridge-Haugh has urgent news.”

“Tell him to join us in here.” When the butler left, Flavian told Claire, “Betteridge-Haugh is my estate steward.”

A stocky, red-faced man bustled into the breakfast room. “My lord,” he dipped a quick bow.

“Can we offer some coffee?”

“No time. The whole north pasture is a swamp. That Squire Radcliff’s done it. His dam broke and the backup flooded everything. The barley crop is under two feet of water right now. This year’s profits could come to nothing.”

Flavian stood so quickly he knocked his chair over. Throwing his napkin on the table, he said, “That scoundrel will pay.”

“Aye, that’s what I thought.”

“Have Killen saddled immediately.” He was about to charge from the room when he came to a dead halt at the door. “Claire … I’m so sorry, would you permit me to speak with you this afternoon? This crop is absolutely vital to our future.”

On the verge of asking for just one minute of his time, Claire was cut off by the steward. “And the constable, my lord?” said Betteridge-Haugh, looking hopeful.

“Send someone to fetch him.”

Halfway to the door, Abella scurried in front him. “Vav, I go with you.”

Betteridge-Haugh shook his head. “His lordship needs to see the damage right away so he can testify in a court of law.”

“Please Vav — it so dull here. I take Lady Claire. She keep me out of trouble because I take the medicine.” Abella took the decanter of remedy and poured a liberal dose. Before the girl could raise it to her lips, Claire snatched the glass. “What you do with my remedy!” Abella shrieked. “You give me — I want to take.”

“Taste it, my lord,” Claire said, “She’s substituted sugar water.”

Flavian reached for the glass, but Abella slapped it out of Claire’s hand. Glass burst on the floor, sending a spray of red liquid onto Flavian’s boots. “I’ve no time for this nonsense,” he said, swatting his boot with a napkin. He glared at them both, and swept toward the door. Abella hung on his arm. “We come with you!” He shook her off and she crashed dramatically against a sideboard. “Please, Vav,” she pleaded, tears in her eyes.

Without looking at her, Flavian turned in the doorframe, “Betteridge-Haugh, you’ll bring the ladies. We’ll meet at the north pasture.” He disappeared leaving the steward, mouth agape, to deal with Abella.

“There’s no carriage can take the two of you,” the steward said, clearly hoping to discourage them. “Do you fancy yourself a rider then, Lady Claire?”

“That’s all right. I’ll stay behind.”

“Then I stay, too,” said Abella. The steward nearly danced with relief.

Mrs. Gower had declared herself too exhausted from Claire’s presence in her bed to come down for breakfast. That meant the chaperone would insist that Claire not disturb her this morning. Staying alone with Abella was out of the question. “On second thought, a ride might be nice. I am curious to see what’s happened.”

“Oh, then you come with me,” Abella cried, taking Claire’s arm and leading her out. The steward’s face fell.

“Saddle my mare. We come to barn.”

• • •

A fine fog enveloped them on the ride to the north pasture. Shrouded in dingy tulle, the sun struggled to unveil even a meager light. Only occasional treetops poked above a landscape blurred to mist.

Robespierre, an ancient, battle-scarred chestnut horse, lifted each hoof as if it were a twenty-stone weight. White hairs frosted his muzzle, and his spine jutted like a mountain range down his back. Claire had tried to appeal to Betteridge-Haugh for a better mount, but Abella insisted. The girl’s mare, Julitta, was very attached to Robespierre. She nickered for him whenever Abella pushed her ahead, slowing her young springy strides to match his plodding ones. Time after time, Claire had to apply the whip to Robespierre to catch up with the steward. Despite her efforts, the old animal lagged, making every attempt to turn back to his stall and bucket of oats. Her heart went out to the old horse, but fear of being alone with Abella drained her sympathy. “Sir,” she called out for the umpteenth time, “can you wait, please?”

Betteridge-Haugh jerked his horse to a standstill and turned to glare in frustration. “There’s men out there don’t know what to do about the water. I knew it wasn’t good to bring the ladies.”

The whir of a whip sounded, landing with a whap. Robespierre bolted forward into a ragged canter, nearly unseating Claire in her sidesaddle.

“Atta girl,” cried Betteridge-Haugh.

“I make him run!” Abella called with a trill of laughter.

The steward spurred his mount and they all cantered down the lane. In short order, Robespierre, wheezing and grunting, slowed to a trot. Abella whacked him again and the antique animal made his best effort but stumbled badly on a pothole. Claire pulled him up, so angry she could spit. “Why did you give me this mount?”

Abella’s eyes went wide. “He a sweet, old horse. You say you no ride too fast.”

“I did not mean I wished to crawl.”

“Julitta, she like this old horse. Make her happy.”

Sides heaving, Robespierre coughed, his shaggy head drooping with exhaustion. “This is useless,” Claire said. “I have to go back.”

Though the fog had lightened since they set out, Claire still couldn’t see the tower at Bingham Hall. Nonetheless, she was sure that Robespierre would take her back safely. Horses possessed an uncanny instinct for finding their way home. “Tell me about the flooding when you return,” she said. Deliberately turning her back on Abella, she reined the old horse toward home. Robespierre’s head immediately came up, his ears perked forward, and life came into his plodding stride.

“Watch yourself in this fog,” Betteridge-Haugh said, calling after her as the old horse headed down the lane.

Abella rode between them, cutting Claire’s view of him. “I take her home.”

“I’ll find my own way, thank you.”

“It’s best if you go with her, Miss Abella,” Betteridge-Haugh chimed in, clearly relieved to be rid of them both. The steward put his horse into a trot and drew quickly away.

“Go with him,” Claire said, glowering at Abella.

The girl smiled. “No, you get lost.”

“Mr. Betteridge-Haugh, don’t leave me with … ” but the steward was already too far down the lane to hear.

Abella grasped the reins of Robespierre’s bridle just under the bit and pulled him into a stiff-legged trot. The change in stride forced Claire to concentrate on staying in the sidesaddle. “Release the reins. I’m capable of steering my own horse.” Claire tried to keep the hostility from her voice, but failed.

Abella ignored her. “We go this way,” she said, turning off the lane. Robespierre shook his head and pulled to go back.

“This is not the way we came.”

“Is short cut.”

“But it’s taking us onto the moor.”

Abella pretended not to hear.

“Give me the reins,” Claire demanded, trying to yank them from the girl’s grip. Her frantic struggle sent Robespierre into a ragged canter. “
Apuro, apuro
!” Abella screamed.

A sudden lurch pitched Claire onto Robespierre’s neck. Her jaw snapped hard — teeth on teeth — thoughts shattered by the blow. When her senses collected, she found herself slipping from the sidesaddle into a fetid bog. Time crawled as she struggled to stay on her mount, but Robespierre, panic stricken, plunged and heaved in the muck. When she hit the mud, it closed over her head, black, cold, and horrifying.

She fought her way to the surface, the heavy skirt of her riding outfit weighing her down. One breath and she went back under.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic!
Her mind screamed. With frantic fingers, she undid the suspenders and found the hooks on the skirt. Already her lungs begged for air.

First hook undone, she pulled down, but the skirt would not go over her hips. Lungs bursting, she yanked on the second hook. It wouldn’t give. Her body shrieked,
breathe
.
Open your mouth and breathe
! As she fumbled with the fastener, reason whispered to give up, to let the muck take her in its welcoming arms. Then the hook came free. She flailed at the surface, swimming against the weight and suck of ooze. The skirt fell away and her hand hit Robespierre’s side. She found the edge of the saddle, and with all her strength, hauled her head above the watery surface. Gulp after gulp of air filled her lungs. She coughed bog mire; spitting, gasping, yet so happy to be breathing, she could have laughed.

When at last she scraped the mud from her eyes, she realized Robespierre wasn’t struggling. “Poor old horse,” she said, turning toward his head.

Astride her mare, Abella sat watching: blurry, beautiful, framed by a haze of moss, heather, yellowed grasses, and beyond, the clamshell sky.

“Help!” Claire cried.

“I find someone,” replied Abella. But she didn’t move.

“Quickly!”

Robespierre snorted. Making another attempt to free himself, the old horse’s eyes flashed white, spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth and he thrashed heavily in the mud half way up his belly. The animal’s jerky movements sucked Claire closer to its hooves.

She kicked to get away and went deeper into the mud instead. Frantic, she looked to see how far Abella had galloped. The girl was still there — watching with an odd, distracted look.

“Go! You must get help,” Claire screamed. “Ride for Lord Monroe.”

“Oh yes,” Abella said eagerly. But still she didn’t turn the mare away.

With the clarity of a whip cutting the air, Claire knew Abella wanted to see her die. The thought terrified her. And with the terror came a wave of despair so great it chilled her deep to the bone. “Please,” she begged. “Please, please help me.”

Abella’s mouth opened then closed.

Panicked, Claire struggled in the mire. She threw her body away from the horse, but the mud held fast. “Turn away!” she screamed. “Don’t look at me!” But the girl shook her head as if she didn’t understand.