Mariel (47 page)

She smiled when she sat on the huge boulder, warmed by the sun. Drawing her feet up beneath her, she reveled in her joy. For days, she had been afraid to hope Rosie was getting well. Despite Dr. Sawyer's continually optimistic words, she had been aware how many had succumbed to the epidemic in the village.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the heat of the sun. She knew the sky would be the startling blue seen only on the crispest days of the fall. The leaves crunching beneath her feet when she walked must be gold and russet and orange.

Leaning back against the wall, she did not add anything to her heartfelt gratitude. Her anger was gone. For so many years she had ranted against whatever powerful force had taken her parents from her before she could know them and had forced her to watch her beloved cousin slay her twin sister before her eyes. At some unknown time, the fury had died and the memories muted. It had dissolved so gradually, she could not remember when it had happened. She suspected Ian's love had enabled her to face the truth, which she had tried to hide in her heart to fester year after year.

The faint rustle of grass caught her attention. She sat up expectantly. “Ian?” she asked.

When she received no answer, she frowned. Everyone at the Cloister had learned to announce themselves when they came near. Again the sound came. She turned her face instinctively in the direction of the barely audible noise. Two rocks clicked against each other. She jumped in surprise.

“Hello? Who is it?” No answer enabled her to guess who skulked nearby. “Is there a problem? Hello?”

Her ears strained for the smallest noise, but there was nothing. Rising, she felt a sensation of eyes upon her. In the past few days, she had felt it too often. Her demand for the person to announce his or her identity had brought no response. She knew someone was close to her. Her ears caught the sound of steady breathing. Whoever watched her knew that she could not guess who was there if the spy remained silent.

Fear dripped like cold beads of ice water along her spine. The feeling of being invaded by something filthy urged her to flee back to the inhabited regions of the Cloister. Only her stubborn refusal to bow before the games of this sadist halted her.

How long the stalemate might have continued she would never know. From across the lawn, she heard her uncle's voice as he called to her.

“Here I am!” she answered. She was not surprised to hear the rabbit-quick scurrying of the person through the high screen of grass. The one who watched her did not want to be seen by anyone.

Her wool cloak was placed on her shoulders. Wilford said lightly, “You will note that you have been out here exactly ten minutes. Perhaps tomorrow you will allow me fifteen minutes with Rosie.”

Putting her concerns about the silent spy from her mind, she smiled. “You love Rosie, don't you?”

He laughed. “How could I help it? She reminds me so much of you when you were that age. The only difference is she is blonde. I remember playing with you and …”

“Uncle Wilford, don't,” she pleaded when his voice faded into sorrow. She placed loving fingers on his arm. “It was over so long ago. Don't be sad any longer.”

He drew her hood over her head as he had when she was Rosie's size. With his arm around her shoulders, he steered her across the garden. The scouring sea breeze blew powerfully into their faces.

“I don't know if I can ever put it behind me, Mariel,” he said with sudden seriousness. “Each time I return to Foxbridge Cloister, I see, as if it was happening again, the night when Georgie finally lost control.”

“It was not your fault.”

“No? If I had done as everyone suggested, he would have been in that asylum years before. Then Lorraine would be alive.”

She sighed. “But he was not sick most of the time. Most of the time he was my dearest friend.”

In surprise, he asked, “Dearer than your sister?”

“One should not speak ill of the dead,” she said with a sad smile, “but Lorraine and I did not often see eye to eye. The fate of most siblings, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

Stopping, she put her hands on his arms and turned him to face her. “Uncle Wilford, you should know that what happened that night was not totally Georgie's fault. Lorraine was cruel to him, so cruel sometimes it made me cry. Oh, I know she never acted that way when an adult was nearby, but she taunted Georgie horribly. She told me so often that he was a blight on the Wythes and should be destroyed like a mad dog. More than once, she said that when Georgie could overhear her.” When she felt the quiver of his strong emotions through her sensitive fingers, she said, “I'm sorry, I should not have said that.”

He bent and kissed her cheek. “Mariel, you love too well. For more than a decade, you have protected your dead sister from my wrath. And what is more, you guarded her demented cousin from the harsh world by welcoming him into your childish one. Thank you for telling me this. It is many years in the past, as you said, but it comforts me to know that my son was loved.”

“Always.”

She could not see the dampness on his cheeks as he turned her toward the house. They walked silently, lost in their remembrances of the past and disregarding the threat to their future, which stalked them as steadily as the sun moving in its exorable path across the sky.

Chapter Twenty-One

Slowly, the epidemic passed. Although many still suffered and died, fewer new cases appeared. Once Rosie was well enough to sit in the solarium to be entertained by her great-uncle, Mariel spent more time helping the others of the community. Each day she was driven out to the orphanage with supplies and medicine. She knew how desolate Mrs. Parnell was with the number of sick children there. Never did she mention why Dr. Sawyer submitted no bill to the board of directors. Only Mariel knew that Lord Foxbridge was paying for those services, to enable the orphans to receive the same care his darling Rosie had.

With her days so busy, Mariel had little time for relaxation. She tried to devote an hour to Rosie each morning and in the evening. The little girl was so accustomed to Mariel's full schedule, she did not complain. She simply delighted in the time they had together.

Ian was seldom able to spend any time with them. Occasionally his buggy passed Mariel's on the road to the Cloister. On more than one day, that was the only chance they had to speak before dropping wearily into bed. Several nights even those hours of sleeping in each other's arms were interrupted by an emergency call. He refused to consider his own health as he went to comfort one of his parishioners. Over and over, he told Mariel he would rest when the crisis was past.

The eerie feeling of being watched clandestinely continued to plague her. The feeling grew as each day passed. When she turned to catch the observer, no one answered her call.

She still did not mention her uneasiness to Ian as the fourth week anniversary of the smallpox epidemic passed without notice. That night, she sat in a bedroom chair, waiting for him to come home, exhausted. He started to refuse to eat, but she insisted on ordering a tray while he bathed.

Knocking on the door of the bathroom, she asked, “May I come in, Ian?”

“Of course, my love.” His voice sounded fatigued.

She sat on the edge of the high tub and massaged his tired muscles while he relaxed. The slippery feeling of his wet skin beneath her fingers enticed her to lean forward and place teasing kisses on his ear.

“Mmm … that is wonderful.” He turned so his mouth was directly below hers. “Do you want to join me, Mariel?”

With a laugh, she kissed him lightly. “Offer me that invitation some night when you want to do something other than sleep.” She dipped her hand into the warm water and dribbled it over his head.

Wet hands gripped her arms and brought her to lean precariously over the edge of the tub. She squealed in shock. “Ian! Don't! I am fully dressed.”

“I can see that. Why don't you take off those things, and I will show you exactly how much I want to do something other than sleep with you?” He laughed before he drew her closer to kiss her with the passion they had been able to share so seldom during the crisis.

“First, you take your bath. After you eat a good meal, we shall see if you feel the same.” Standing, she straightened her clothes, marked with wet handprints. “If you fall asleep, as you have lately each night—”

“Wake me up with your kisses,” he finished as he took her fingers and teased them with the tip of his tongue.

“You are impossible,” she scolded with a chuckle.

“Do you want me to change?”

She shook her head. “Never. Oh, there is your tray. Hurry and rinse off. I ordered enough for two.”

They continued with their light jesting while he ate. She nibbled on some carrot sticks and a slice of the luscious Smithfield ham they had had for dinner. When they were finished, she volunteered to take the tray back to the kitchen.

“Let me, Mariel,” he said as he rose. “I have been away from the Cloister so much, I think I need to reacquaint myself with the hallways.” He stroked her hair tenderly. “Why don't you get ready for bed?”

“My harem costume?” she teased.

Bending, he kissed her on the nose. “Keep that thought, my love. I will be back in just a moment.”

Mariel curled up in the chair and leaned her head against its back while she listened to his footsteps, accented by the beat of his cane. Happiness. This must be happiness. A contentment so rich she could not imagine wanting more. Her loving husband, a sweet child, an adoring uncle, and the others around her who made her life important.

Rising, she went to the cupboard. She withdrew her favorite nightgown. The heavy lace at its deep neckline did not detract from the soft clinging of the material. What she enjoyed most about it was the sensuous caress of the fabric when Ian's hand moved in heated circles across it.

Without haste, she changed into it. Even if Ian hurried, it would take him five minutes to go to the kitchen and back. She was sure Mrs. Puhle would delay him by asking for the latest news.

She sat at her dressing table. Although the mirror in front of her was useless to her now, she never changed the habit of brushing her hair here each night. Suddenly, the feeling of the eyes piercing her back returned.

“Who is it?” she cried. A door creaked, and she knew it was not her imagination. Lifting her heavy silver hairbrush, she rose and stepped away from the table.

In the silent room, she could hear her fear-heightened heartbeat and the steady rhythm of the intruder's breath. A trinket dropped from a table behind her. She whirled, wondering if there was more than one stranger in her room. A heavy arm went around her neck. She tried to scream, but it was impossible. The arm squeezed until her clawing fingers dropped to her side.

Mariel moaned. She coughed as she put her hands to her tender throat. Leaning against the damp stone wall, she waited until the paroxysm passed. When she could stand with wobbly knees, she slid her hand along the wall to find a clue to tell her where she was. That she had been imprisoned somewhere she did not doubt. Her attacker had rendered her senseless with quick precision. If he had wanted her dead, she would be. Obviously, he had some other use for her.

Counting her steps, it did not take her long to discover her prison was four paces long on two sides and eight on the other two. Nothing interrupted her journey along the stone wall. She discovered neither door nor window. Her attempts to touch the ceiling proved futile. There was a ceiling over her head, for the air moved stagnantly in the room, but she could not reach it. The floor beneath her sloped gently toward a metal grill plate less than five inches square.

Although she knew the dimensions of her prison, she had no idea where she was. As unpopulated as the Cloister was, her abductor could have entered and left with little difficulty.

Cold bit into her bare toes, and she shivered. She was somewhere outside the Cloister. Exactly where, was something she could not guess. If she had some idea of how long she had been unconscious, she would be able to narrow the list of possibilities to within a certain radius from the Cloister.

Panic teased her to submit to it. Mariel knew how easy it would be to allow the hysterical tears to fall, but she feared they would never stop. Someone aimed to hurt her, or one of those closest to her, by abducting her. She feared the worst awaited her in the invisible shadows of the future.

Trying to stay warm, she paced the narrow width of her cell. Her feet ached with the cold. Her shoulders cramped with the fear she refused to acknowledge. She made and rejected several plans of escape. All of them were useless until she learned where she was. She could not guess who wanted her here.

A half-forgotten conversation blared in her memory. After the fire, Ian had asked her if she had any enemies. Jokingly, she had named the school board, for she could think of no one who hated her enough to destroy her home. They had not spoken of it again. As they had become enraptured by the love they found, and caught up in the events of their lives, the fire in the old Cloister lost its importance.

She wondered if she had been foolish to push aside what she considered only an accident. In her opinion, the fire had been started by two lovers trysting in the Cloister. It had been a common practice. A candle left burning could have ignited the building, and the culprits would not have dared to come forth and admit to illicit love and igniting the Cloister.

Perhaps she had been as wrong about that as she was about having no enemies. Someone had taken her from her rooms to bring her to this place. Over and over, her mind demanded to know why. It was something she could not answer.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a scratching sound. She wrapped her arms around herself and backed against the wall. Fear eclipsed all her thoughts as she prepared to come face-to-face with the one who wanted her here.

Straining, she fought to hear other sounds or to discern clues that would allow her to know where her captor stood. All she could hear were the reluctant sounds of stone against stone. What it meant, she was scared to speculate.