Sandra Heath (11 page)

“But I know nothing of you, nor you of me!”

“What else is there to know, except this . . . ?” He bent his head to kiss her, drawing her seductively close, and slipping an arm around her waist in order to hold her body to his. His breath was fresh and intoxicating, as if it were he who filled her with life, and his contours cleaved to hers in a way that made her feel she had been created just for him. Her lips softened and parted, and she felt the gentle caress of his tongue against hers. Her breasts tightened with desire and she put her arms around his neck as she returned the kiss. A wanton passion surged irresistibly through her and her breath caught as his hand moved to tentatively cup her left breast. Wonderful sensations washed over her, and all the time his lips moved yearningly against hers. Oh, the pleasure, the sweet, sweet pleasure.
Marcus, I love you in spite of your cruelty. I will always love you....

A sob escaped Henrietta as she lay on the bed under the influence of the laudanum, and the maid came quickly to see that all was well. She saw cheeks that were wet with tears. “Miss Courtenay?”

But Henrietta did not hear, because she had sunk more deeply into the enveloping folds of the laudanum.

Chapter Eleven

For Henrietta, the next two days passed in a haze. The laudanum forced her to rest, and as a result she felt much better on the third morning. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the drawn curtains, and the clock on the mantelpiece read just past ten o’clock. For some reason she found herself recalling the fall she’d had in St. Tydfa’s churchyard. In particular she remembered a rather ornate gravestone next to where the fall had ended. Richly carved, its inscription read
Anno 1714. Here resteth Jane Courtenay. Buried this sad St. Valentine’s Day. May she rest in peace.

Jane Courtenay? 1714? The significance rang through Henrietta like a bell. Jane had been the name of the ghost at the ball, and she had been dressed in the fashion of Queen Anne, whose reign ended in 1714. On top of that, if ever one Courtenay had recognized another, it had been at the ball! Surely the phantom and the woman buried at St. Tydfa’s had to be one and the same!

Someone tapped at the door. “Henrietta? It’s me, Charlotte, are you awake?”

It was Charlotte. “Yes. Oh, do come in.” Henrietta sat up, and as she did she realized how much improved her wrist was; indeed it felt strong again.

Charlotte entered. She wore a loose peach velvet robe, and her chestnut hair was intricately pinned beneath a lacy day cap, but her face was drawn, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that gave the lie to the bright smile she gave Henrietta. “How are you this morning?”

“Much better, I fancy, and that goes for my wrist as well.”

“Rest is a sovereign remedy.”

“Will you remove the bandage for me?”

“Of course.” Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed, removed the securing diamond brooch, placed it on the table beside the bed and then began to unwind the bandage.

Henrietta studied her. “You don’t look well, Charlotte.”

“What nonsense,” came the brisk reply.

“You don’t fool me.”

Charlotte sighed and then smiled a little ruefully. “I never could pull the wool over your eyes, could I, not even at school.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, just reaction to what happened to you. I worked myself into such a pother that Dr. Hartley insisted on bleeding me.”

Henrietta was dismayed. “I wish I could feel confident that bleeding is always beneficial.”

“It certainly calmed me down,” Charlotte said, neatly rolling the removed bandage. “I fear that two weeks of a full house proved rather too much this year.”

“Amabel and I will leave directly, and leave you to rest properly,” Henrietta said firmly.

“I will not hear of it. Besides, would you really leave me with Amabel?” Charlotte smiled and placed the bandage on the table beside the brooch. “You wouldn’t believe how amiable she has been the past few days. Maybe I’ve been wrong about her after all.”

Henrietta smiled. “Yes, I think you have. I knew you and she would make up in the end.”

Charlotte got up and went to draw the curtains back. “Anyway, I’m happy for you both to stay; indeed I wish you to.”

The morning sun swept in dazzlingly, made more bright than ever by the crisp layer of snow that still covered the countryside because each night the clear skies brought a raw frost. The sky was a flawless blue and the high moors seemed to float against the heavens as Henrietta sat up in bed to look out. “How lovely it is out there,” she murmured.

“Yes, it is, and so clear I can actually see the smoke from the chimneys in the hamlet where Nurse lives.” Charlotte pointed beyond Mulbridge, which was out of sight in a fold of the moor.

Henrietta smiled. “Just how old
is
she? If she was Russell’s nurse ...”

“Well, Russell is sixty, and she was about seventeen when she was hired to take care of him. So I suppose she’s in her late seventies. Something of the sort, anyway.”

“I’d like to see her again before I leave,” Henrietta said.

“And so you shall. We will ride over soon.”

Henrietta was appalled.
“Ride?
With you barely a month from your confinement? Certainly not.”

“Very well, we’ll drive then.” Charlotte moved to the fire, which had been tended while Henrietta still slept.

Jane glided through the wall behind the screen. She was alone because Kit had taken Rowley for a walk along the cliffs, well out of sight of this particular room. Wondering how to proceed next with Henrietta and Marcus, the shade settled to eavesdrop.

Henrietta chose that moment to recall her thoughts on awakening. “Charlotte, there’s a tomb in St. Tydfa’s churchyard that belongs to a Jane Courtenay. She was buried on February 14th, 1714. Do you know anything about her?”

Jane sat forward alertly.

Charlotte’s brows drew together pensively. “I believe there is something about her in Lady Chloe’s journal.”

“Lady who?”

“Chloe. She was Lady Mulborough at the turn of the eighteenth century, and very diligently kept a journal. It’s rather difficult to read, but quite interesting.”

Jane’s lips twitched. Lady Chloe Mulborough had been a superior, interfering old busybody!

Charlotte looked at Henrietta. “Why do you ask about Jane Courtenay?”

“Oh, I just remembered the grave, that’s all.” On no account was Henrietta going to mention ghosts!

But Charlotte made the association anyway. “Are you also thinking about what happened at the ball? You said the lady was called Jane and looked exactly like you.”

“Yes.” Henrietta avoided her eyes.

Charlotte cleared her throat a little awkwardly. “Well, I’m sure the journal mentions a Jane Courtenay. I can’t be sure, but she was rumored to be at the heart of a scandal, an elopement, I think.” Something struck her, and her lips parted on a half gasp. “Actually, now I come to think of it...”

“Yes?”

“You said the gentleman you saw at the ball was called Kit, and was an excellent likeness of Marcus. Well, I’ve just remembered that Lady Chloe named Jane’s lover as Lord Christopher Fitzpaine. Kit is short for Christopher, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Jane was impressed. Full marks, Charlotte.

Charlotte shivered and then drew herself together. “A cold finger just went down my spine. Anyway, I can’t recall the details, but I know a good many feathers were ruffled by the elopement. Indeed, it may even have been the start of the infamous feud,”

Jane sighed. How right you are, my dear, she thought.

Henrietta was intrigued. “Could I read the journal?”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s in the library. I’ll have a maid bring it with your breakfast.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed half past ten, and Charlotte turned to leave. “It’s time for the midmorning rest Russell has decreed for me, but first I must discuss tonight’s dinner with the cook.”

“I trust you will include me at table tonight?” Henrietta said quickly.

Charlotte hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, you may feel very strong right now, but this evening is a long way away.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Then yes, of course I will gladly include you.”

“Don’t forget the journal.”

“I won’t.” Charlotte went out, and closed the door softly behind her.

Jane was still behind the screen when the breakfast tray was brought, together with the journal. The wraith regretted Henrietta’s ability to see and hear the supernatural, for it meant having to stay out of sight instead of standing at the bedside reading the journal as well.

Unaware of the ghostly presence only a few feet away, Henrietta began to examine the journal. Lady Chloe’s writing was difficult to decipher, but at the pages concerning the beginning of 1714, she soon found mention of Jane and Kit, who were among the seasonal guests who even then gathered at Mulborough Abbey. The first reference, concerning Jane’s betrothal to the then Lord Sutherton, sent a shiver through Henrietta, whose breakfast began to go cold as she read on.

Lady Chloe clearly thought Jane had done unexpectedly well for herself, for Sutherton was wealthy and very well connected indeed, whereas the Courtenays were parvenus who were only tolerated at the abbey because Jane’s mother was Lady Chloe’s cousin and because of the family nabob’s expected intentions. The first reference to Kit concerned his contract with a member of the royal family. The lady had only her portion of royal blood to commend her in the marriage stakes, whereas Kit was heir to a rich marquessate, but in Lady Chloe’s lofty opinion he had the better part of the deal. Oh, what hypocrisy, Henrietta thought, outraged at the insults heaped upon her unfortunate ancestor by the writer of the journal.

Lady Chloe soon perceived that there was something reprehensible afoot between Jane and Kit. Then, on February 12, she entered: “It has happened as I feared. Foolish Kit has been quite led astray by the scheming Courtenay minx. They have run away together to America, leaving dire social consequences behind them. The merchantman
Wessex
sailed on this morning’s tide, and was long gone before their flight was realized. Now we must face a scandal that involves the royal family itself. My sympathies lie entirely with the Fitzpaines, for the Courtenays are no better than they should be.”

The breakfast tray was totally forgotten as Henrietta read quickly on. She expected to find much more, but the next entry wasn’t until two days later, on February 14, St. Valentine’s Day. “I have not been able to bring myself to write more about what has happened, for it is too delicate. However, the truth is contained, and a solution found. Today, with full panoply, we laid them both to rest at St. Tydfa’s. Kit expired in a riding accident, the Courtenay coquette of influenza. May God forgive such profanity, but what else were we to do? Mulborough and I are relieved it is resolved, because we greatly feared being condemned at court if it should have been discovered that such a deplorable liaison took place here at the abbey.”

Henrietta read the entry again. Influenza and a riding accident? How could that possibly be? Kit and Jane had run away to America on February 12, so how could they be buried at St. Tydfa’s on the fourteenth? And why use a word like profanity? She read the rest of the St. Valentine’s Day entry. “That is the end of it, never again will their names be mentioned. As for the Courtenays and Fitzpaines, each clan blames the other, and I believe that from now on they will be enemies forever.”

So Charlotte was right, the elopement was the origin of the feud! Henrietta leafed through the following pages, and on February 26 found one last entry. “Shocking intelligence has just reached us in the
Gentleman’s Magazine,
that on St. Valentine’s Day, pursued by the dishonorable French privateer, the
Basilic,
the
Wessex
was lost upon the Goodwin Sands near Deal, within sight of Kit’s estate, Bramnells. All lives were lost. What a double irony that he and his siren should have perished on that of all days, but better empty tombs with false inscriptions than the calamity of social disgrace for all concerned.”

Henrietta’s breakfast was quite congealed as she stared in dismay at these few uncompromising sentences. Tears shone in her eyes. On the day of the so-called burials at St. Tydfa’s, Jane and Kit had actually perished some two hundred miles away on the terrible Goodwins. The two families, as well as Lady Chloe and her husband, had colluded in lies to avoid falling from favor at court!
That
was what was profane.

There was a tap at the door, and she closed the journal. “Yes?”

“It’s Amabel. I’ve come to see how you are.”

“Come in.”

The door opened and Amabel slipped inside with a rustle of sage taffeta. There was a warm cashmere shawl around her shoulders, and her rich brown hair was pinned up daintily on her head. Her green eyes were sympathetic as she came to the bedside. “Charlotte says you’re feeling much better.”

“Yes, I am. See, even my wrist has decided to get well.” Henrietta raised her right hand.

“I’m so glad.” Amabel bent to kiss her cheek, but it was the scent of roses that drifted on the air, not sulfur.

Jane’s lips pressed together disapprovingly. Mrs. Brimstone was the very opposite of a friend, and the shade wished that Henrietta could see it. Don’t trust her, Henrietta. I do not know what reason she has, but she means you great harm! Smell the sulfur when she draws near! She stole your ring and assaulted you with a candlestick, yet pretends concern! Heaven knows what else she has tried to do to you, so have a care. Have a care!

As Amabel sat on the bed, she noticed the untouched tray. “You haven’t eaten. Are you feeling unwell again?”

“Oh, no. Actually, I feel so well that I intend to go for a ride to St. Tydfa’s.” Until the words were said, Henrietta hadn’t even realized her decision.

Amabel was taken aback. “You’re what? Oh, I don’t think Charlotte will permit that, Henrietta.”

“That’s why Charlotte isn’t going to know. She’s resting now, and I can slip out the back way through the buttery and laundry.”