Wild Wood (31 page)

Sunk deep in pillows of flesh, something glittered in my brother’s eyes. “Speak plain.”

“Your wife is not here.”

“The Lady Flore’s body lies in this grave.” I was angry, and that upset the little boy.

“No.” The girl shook her head.

“Enough!” I blocked her with an arm as Aviss began to howl.

Glaring at his son, Godefroi roared, “She will speak.”

With a shake in her voice, Margaretta said, “Aviss, bow to your lord father.” The child gasped into sobs. He would not look at Godefroi’s face.

His distress touched me and I held out a hand. “Give the boy to me.”

His face streaked with tears, Aviss peered around his mother’s legs. His eyes were huge and of a brown so dark, they seemed black. Our mother’s eyes. Surprisingly, he let the skirt fall and took a step forward. I scooped him up, and as I did, he put one dirty thumb in his mouth and turned his face to my neck, hiccuping. His breath was sweet.

I do not know why, to this day, I was so affected by the beat of that small, steady heart against my chest.

The girl held Godefroi’s baby close. The child was still deep asleep. “I have some knowledge of the Lady Flore.”

I snorted.

“Then you must speak.” Maugris had returned without the priest.

“Lord Bayard thinks I will lie to you.” Margaretta did not look at me.

Low and dangerous, Godefroi said, “That would be foolish. Where has she been taken? Tell me.”

I opened my mouth, but Maugris silenced me with a look. “He has a right to know.”

Godefroi’s face leached of color. “It is true, then. She is not here.” He stared at the grave in the floor, then at each of our faces; his own was stark as any corpse. “Why have you done this?”

Maugris did not apologize. Godefroi had brought us to this pass. “The household must see that Flore has been properly buried by the priest. Rumors are dangerous things.”

Godefroi’s voice rose. “What is in this coffin?”

“Rocks.”

Silence dropped as if it were a physical thing.

Godefroi said finally, “I do not understand.”

“The Lady Flore said . . .” Margaretta hesitated.

I shook my head.

She ignored me. “Her true home is not in the houses built by men. She comes from the water and the trees and the sky. You must go to the river, Lord Godefroi, and ask at the ferry.”

“Ask what?”

“For knowledge of your wife.” Margaretta was pale; her expression said how frightened she truly was of Godefroi, of what he might do.

Our brother stared at the girl. “My wife is dead, her body is missing. Why would the ferrywoman have anything to say to me on this?”

“Lord, I have told you the truth. The ferrywoman”—Margaretta swallowed—“knew the Lady Flore.”

Watching the girl as if she were a snared animal, Godefroi plucked the baby from her arms. He went to hand her to Maugris, but the child opened her eyes. She did not cry but stared at her father. That same serious inspection I had endured.

Godefroi offered a finger. His face was tender. “You are all I have now.”

I watched Maugris’s expression congeal into shock as the baby grasped what was offered and smiled.

“She knows me!” Godefroi was transformed.

A sound grated in Maugris’s throat. He was staring at Flore’s daughter and watched, bemused, as this days-old infant reached up to touch her father’s nose.

“You wish to say something, Maugris?” Godefroi seemed to speak as he once had. Bland—and withering.

“No.” As the infant was put in his arms, Maugris glared at me as if the baby’s actions were my fault.

Over my nephew’s head, my eyes met Margaretta’s. This baby
had brought Godefroi back to the man he was; how else to explain the change?

“Hold the keep. Guard them well. I will know more when I return.” Godefroi flung the order to Maugris over his shoulder as he strode from the chapel. “Bayard. Come.”

28

C
AN I
speak with Mr. D’Acre, please?”

Alicia’s on the phone in the kitchen. She listens. “Tell him it’s just a quick call. . . . Yes. Alicia Donne. Thanks.” She waits. “Allan?”

“Lady Alicia. What can I do for you?” In his office in Newton Prior, Allan D’Acre suppresses a sigh. His wife calls Alicia one of his lame ducks. The Donnes ran out of money long ago, but he helps with legal advice from a sense of duty to the once-great family they were.

“Advise me. About Hundredfield.”

“Ah.” The lawyer’s pretty secretary puts her head around the door and taps her watch. He nods. “I haven’t got very long. Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment and we can go over the options?”

“That’s just it. It’s rained again.” Alicia stares up at the windows—it’s a bright day out there. Today.

“The roof?”

She sighs. “Yes. I really have to find a substantial, a very substantial, amount of money from somewhere. And soon.”

The solicitor interrupts, “I said this to you six months ago,
and I know you don’t want to hear it—sell the estate. That’s my advice.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“You may say that no one will buy it, you may say the building needs thousands spent on it . . .”

She mutters, “Millions.”

“. . .
but
it is irreplaceable, part of the fabric of the country. In the right market, that will always have cachet.”

“The land’s mostly leased.”

“You say ‘mostly.’ What remains is still a substantial amount in this world’s terms. And leases, my dear, can be broken—if enough money is involved.”

“I can’t sell Hundredfield, I just can’t.” Tears are standing in Alicia’s eyes. “Who knows what a buyer would do to the buildings?”

Allan suppresses a sigh. “Your father considered it.”

“But only half. And we didn’t agree about the sale. It caused a terrible quarrel.”

He says gently, “There’s just you now. You can do what you like. Cut your losses. Put this burden down and move on with your life; enjoy being young. You won’t be alone. Many of the grandest estates have changed hands since the war. You’ll find the right buyer, believe me. There’s always a way.”

“But”—and then she says it in a rush—“how would I begin to do such a thing?”

“Ah. Now there I can help.” His secretary is at the door again. He waves her away. “I know an estate agent who might suit.” He flicks through the Rolodex on his desk looking for one particular name. “You’ll like him, reliable and discreet. And not at all pushy. Get him to come and see the place; there’ll be no obligation to do anything more.”

Alicia grips the phone cord. Tight. “No. Yes. Oh.” This is hard. “All right. What’s his name?”

“Hugh Windhover.”

“I’ve met him.” Alicia worries her bottom lip.

“Excellent. I’ll have him call you.” There’s a pause. “You’re doing the right thing, Alicia.”

“Am I?” She puts the phone down quickly and stares at it.

“Anyone I know?” Rory’s standing in the doorway. He’s watching her.

“Don’t be so nosy.” Alicia takes a loaf from the old-fashioned bread bin. “Sandwiches for lunch.” An automatic smile.

“No need to go to any trouble. We can help ourselves.” Rory washes his hands. “Are you okay?”

“Of course. But it’s your duty to eat some of these; we have to keep up with the crop somehow. I shouldn’t have planted so many.” A bowl of tomatoes is plonked down. “How was the first session?”

“Not quite the first. We spent a couple of hours scoping parameters before Jesse left hospital.”
One way of putting it.

Shuttling between the fridge and the table with cheese and cucumbers, Alicia says brightly, “Oh?”

“Yes. And I think I should show you why.”

“I’ll just get the plates. Won’t be a—”

“Sit down, Alicia.” He’s rarely this intense.

Alicia subsides into a chair. “Yes, sir.”

Rory puts a folder on the table and takes out Jesse’s sketches, lining them up in the order they were drawn.

Alicia leans in. “But these are excellent. Did you draw them?” She’s genuinely interested.

“Look closer.” He offers her the first drawing.

“Don’t want to get it dirty.” Alicia wipes her fingers on a napkin. As she takes the sketch of Hundredfield, her face changes. It’s some time before she says, “Can I see the others?”

The only sound in the kitchen is from the kettle on the hob, winding up to a scream. Rory pulls it off. “Coffee?”

“Tea.” Alicia picks up the last drawing very, very carefully. “This is a crucifix. A Christ figure.”

“Yes. I think you’re right.” A glance over his shoulder.

“Tell me again. You didn’t draw these?”

Dunking tea bags in separate mugs, Rory brings them to the table. “No. I did not. Milk?”

She shakes her head.

“Jesse did. Though she wasn’t sure at the time.” He points to the sketches of the castle and the keep.

“What does that mean?” Alicia frowns.

“She drew these two this morning.” He ignores Alicia’s comment as he taps the portrait and the crucifix.

Her eyes widen. After a pause she says, “What is this really about, Rory?”

Rory stares into the tea whirlpool he’s made with his spoon. “I’m trying to understand what’s happened to Jesse after the accident. And I brought her here since at some level she seems to know this place, though she says she’s not been here before.”

Alicia stands abruptly. She’s pink with anger. “You’ve been conned. It’s some sort of scam, that’s what it is. This, this is just . . .” She’s staring at the suffering Christ. “It’s rubbish! You don’t know anything about her, she could be anyone, she could be a thief, and—”

“Hey, calm down. I’m just trying to help her.”

“Help?!”

Rory says patiently, “It’s what I do. And besides, you said there was nothing worth stealing.” He’s trying for a joke.

The flush is gone. Alicia is icily polite. “It’s been delightful having you stay. Unfortunately, I now think it best if you both leave and . . .”

A pause before a cool shrug from Rory. “Forgive me, I think you’re overreacting.”

Alicia snaps, “That’s enough.” She brandishes the drawing of the crucifix and then slaps it down. “She’s sucked you in with this . . . whatever it is. People do that, they inveigle their way into old houses, they take photographs and come back and rob the place!”

Abruptly, she marches out.

“Alicia, there’s no need—” Rory half stands. But he hears her boots on the stairs.

“Rory?”

He swivels.

Jesse’s standing inside the back door of the kitchen. There’s no way she hasn’t heard at least some of the conversation. “I should leave.”

“Sit down. Make yourself a sandwich.” Rory starts slicing cheese. “Why don’t people sharpen their knives?” He riffles through a drawer looking for the knife steel. “I’ll start on the transcripts this afternoon, by the way.” He strops the edge of the blade with vigor.

Jesse’s misery deepens. “I’m not staying, Rory. Alicia wants you to leave too. You heard her.”

“She’ll get over it. She’s a bit surprised, that’s all—I was too when I first saw your drawings.” Rory runs a finger along the knife edge. He eyes a tomato and with four quick strokes opens it like a flower.

Jesse feels a breeze as the door to the house opens. Alicia is carrying a large, leather-bound book. She doesn’t acknowledge Jesse. “This is
A History of Hundredfield
, written by my great-grandfather.” Alicia leafs through it rapidly. “In this book, a crucifix is described.” She darts a look at Jesse. “The figure was worked in silver and it hung on a carved screen in the chapel of the keep. It was lost almost seven hundred years ago.” The tone is icy. “And this is a sketch he made of this crucifix constructed from historical records.” Alicia places the open book beside the drawing. She taps Jesse’s sketch, then the illustration. The similarities are clear. “Garnets. Here. And here too. The gash from the spear, the gore from the crown of thorns, the nails, that’s what they represented. You’ve shown them as he did. Did you know the figure was greater than life-size?”

Jesse swallows. “No. That is, I don’t know anything about it.
And I didn’t copy the drawing, Alicia. I’ve never seen this book.” Jesse can just imagine how guilty she looks. It will be written on her face, it always is, when she tells the truth.

Alicia flips through the pages. “You replicated these images of the castle too.” She holds them up, one, another, and another. “What do you want from me?”

Jesse protests helplessly, “I didn’t know about Hundredfield or your great-grandfather’s book. How could I? I’ve lived in Australia my whole life. I don’t understand what’s happening.” She fades off unhappily.

Alicia just stares.

“Can I borrow your car, Rory?” It’s the coward’s way out, but Jesse’s too upset to stay.

“Um. Sure. If you think you’re up to it.” He stands, patting his pockets. “Have a look on the table in the hall.”

“Thanks.” Jesse can’t meet Alicia’s eyes.

They hear her footsteps disappearing up the stairs.

Rory coughs. “I should let you know a couple of things.”

Alicia sits back with her arms folded and a
this had better be good
look on her face.

“So, in the hospital after the accident and when Jesse had been taken off the ventilator—”

“I’m not interested in what happened at St. Barts.”

“That’s just it, though. Jesse’s accident, the fractured skull, that, I think, is key and . . .” He hesitates. “I don’t see she’s after anything. I suggested we come here, and I’ve seen her actually draw with her left hand and nothing to copy from. The crucifix, for instance. I watched her do it this morning. And I know she’s naturally right-handed.”

Alicia opens her mouth. And closes it. Then, stubbornly, “She’s setting you up. Setting us both up.”

“To do what? Jesse’s not faking, Licia. I think she’s become a savant after the accident, and though that’s incredibly rare, it does happen. Besides, if this
is
all some sort of elaborate performance,
it’s worth an article in
Psychology Today
, but I can’t understand why she’d want to do it. She’s doing
me
a favor because she’s curious. And frightened by what’s happening to her. And because, at least geographically, she’s closer to finding her parents here.” He hesitates. “Don’t you want to know more, Alicia? Because I tell you, it’s gone past research for me, it’s . . .”