The Scandals Of An Innocent

CHAPTER TWENTY

ALICE SAT TRYING TO READ the tea leaves and trying not to feel too impatient. In the week since Miles had gone to London to the Doctors’ Commons to fetch a special license, she had been cooped up in the house under strict orders from him not to venture abroad unless escorted by Nat Waterhouse or Dexter Anstruther. It had been intolerably boring. She hated to be so constrained.

She missed Miles dreadfully. She had had no idea that she would feel so bereft. Before he had left on the morning after her sojourn in the Fortune’s Folly jail, he had held her tightly and told her he would be back soon, and she felt sure that he loved her. She had felt it in his hands as he held her and seen it in his eyes. The lovemaking they had shared the night before had bound them close. Dazed and dazzled by it, she had drifted through the first few days of Miles’s absence as though in a dream, but gradually reality had intruded and now she felt on edge and anxious. Lydia had still not been found, Tom Fortune was still at large and there was an air of tension about Fortune’s Folly. Each day Mrs. Lister would return from her trips into the village, bringing the most astonishing scurrilous gossip, and each day Alice was obliged to sit quietly at home whilst the rain poured down outside and she mangled another piece of embroidery and tried not to snap at the servants. In a vain effort to settle her nerves she made endless pots of jam from the stores she had laid down the previous summer. They would be eating plum conserve until Christmas at this rate.

The scandal of her seduction and subsequent night in jail had swiftly been superseded by another piece of tittle-tattle so delectable that the Fortune’s Folly gossips had been overcome with excitement. Lord Armitage had jilted Mary Wheeler and her fortune of fifty thousand pounds and had disappeared off to London with Louisa Caton. Mary was said to be heartbroken. Then, before that on dit had been passed around the whole village, Celia Vickery had been caught with Frank Gaines in the library at Drum Castle, writing novels. This was a piece of news so shocking that even the most hardened scandalmongers whispered it under their breath. Lady Celia had been an author of adventure stories for boys for several years. Mr. Gaines had allegedly found out and had been assisting her with her plots.

The Dowager Lady Vickery had been in a terrible state for several days.

“How could Celia possibly have written such things?” she had bemoaned. “Adventure stories for boys? It is most inappropriate, especially as she is a girl!”

“She said that she was inspired by Robinson Crusoe,” Alice said. Privately she thought that Lady Vickery should be grateful that her daughter had so successfully subsidized their household budget.

Lady Vickery looked scandalized. “Inspired or not, she is utterly compromised. Whatever will Miles say when he returns to discover that his sister is betrothed to Mr. Gaines?”

“I imagine that he will wish them happy,” Alice said. “Dear ma’am, it might not be what you wished for your daughter, but can you not see how much pleasure they derive from each other’s company? He is so very proud of her.”

Lady Vickery’s expression softened slightly. “I suppose he is. But adventure stories? Utterly shocking.”

It was interesting, Alice thought, that Lady Vickery was conveniently able to erase the entire scandalous memory of her son’s former mistress accosting him in the Pump Rooms, the subsequent seduction of her future daughter-in-law and her incarceration in jail, simply because she thought that Alice was rich and would save them from the poverty. Frank Gaines, in contrast, was considered a poor match for Celia because he was a lawyer with little money and no social standing. Alice liked Lady Vickery but she doubted that they would ever see eye to eye on such matters as rank and consequence.

The wind hurled another barrage of rain at the windows and Alice sighed. Was that a tree she could see in the tea leaves or a tower? Was it hope or disappointment? She could not be sure. Actually it looked like a large splodge of nothing in particular. She thought Mrs. Lister probably made the whole tea-leaf-reading thing up as she went along.

There was a knock at the door, and Marigold entered with a letter on a little silver tray. The silver tray had been one of Mrs. Lister’s innovations. She had wanted to employ a butler to carry it, but Alice had insisted that their household was so small that they did not need one. Mrs. Lister had grumbled but complied. The tray was a compromise since Alice thought it simple enough to carry a letter in one’s hand but Mrs. Lister thought it a necessary sign of rank.

“A letter for you, miss,” Marigold said superfluously.

Alice took the note and unfolded it. It looked as though it had been dashed off in haste. Alice, I need your help. Meet me at Fortune Windmill. Come quickly. Lydia.

Alice’s heart started to race. It was Nat who was acting as nursemaid for her today and just at the moment he was out at the wood pile helping Jim chop the logs. Alice did not want to deceive Nat but equally she did not want to tell him about Lydia’s note. He and Dexter would go marching up to the windmill to arrest Tom, and Lydia would know that Alice had betrayed her confidence. She looked once again at the note. The writing was definitely Lydia’s and the undertone of desperation was quite clear. This could be no trick. Her friend would never play her false like that.

Putting from her mind the knowledge that Miles would be absolutely furious with her when he heard that she had deliberately ignored his instructions, Alice whisked out into the hall and grabbed her coat and boots from the cupboard by the door. All was quiet, but she was shaking with nerves as she slipped out of the house and down the drive. The wet gravel slipped and slid under her hurrying feet.

Come quickly…

Was Lydia in desperate trouble? Had Tom betrayed her again? Alice lowered her head against the driving rain and quickened her pace.

Fortune Windmill stood on the hill above the village. It had only recently gone out of use, replaced by the new windmill built by the villagers a mile or so distant. Now it crouched in the rain like a great dark bird, the water dripping from its silent sails. Alice looked up at it and shivered. She wondered whether Miles and the other Guardians had already been there in their search for Tom Fortune. It seemed an obvious hiding place. The track up to it led away over the moors to Drum and beyond that to the village of Peacock Oak and eventually to Skipton. It was rutted and muddy in the spring rain. A curious, wet sheep stuck its head through a gate to look at her, but apart from that there was no one in sight.

Alice ducked in under the low lintel and stood waiting for her eyes to adjust to the interior. The air was thick and still. There was no sound but for the rain beating on the roof above.

“Lydia!” she called.

A startled bird flew out with a flap of wings. Nothing else stirred. Alice started to climb the twisting wooden stair up to the top floor.

When she got to the room at the top, Alice paused, looking about her. It was clear that someone had been there, for there was an old rug lying on the floor with a scatter of cushions and the remains of a meal. A mouse was feasting on some of the stale crumbs. Alice looked around, wondering if someone had already surprised Tom and Lydia here and if they had fled as a result. If so, they could not be far away. Perhaps she would wait. But there was something about the old windmill, crouching there like a malignant beast, creaking with the wind in the old beams, which was making her feel nervous. It was as though someone was watching-and waiting.

It was then she heard a footstep on the stair. Thinking-hoping-that Lydia might have returned, Alice went out onto the landing and peered down the stairwell. She could not make out any movement in the shadows below. The landing was quite dark, with light filtering in only from the cracks between the shutters on the platform above. Alice hesitated, aware of the silence in the building broken only by the creak and groan of the old sails in the wind. The darkness pressed in on her, and suddenly the quiet seemed so alive that it almost felt as though it was breathing.

Panic pounced on her suddenly, and Alice caught her breath, grabbed the handrail and started to descend the stairs rather more quickly than sense and caution prompted. She could not see clearly in the gloom and once or twice her foot slipped on the rotten stair. Her heart was beating in short sharp jerks and she could feel the panic rising in her throat. She wished she had not come. She had only wanted to help Lydia, but now, suddenly, it did not seem so impossible to imagine that Tom Fortune was the villain everyone believed and that Lydia had made a terrible mistake in running away to him and that she, Alice, had made an equally grave one in going to look for them.

On the first landing Alice stopped and tried to calm her breathing, telling herself that she was almost back on the ground and that soon she would be out in the daylight. She could see nothing but blackness below. The main door must have blown shut whilst she was upstairs, although she could not recall hearing the sound of it closing. She looked quickly over her shoulder, but there was nothing but darkness and silence above. She shivered, unable to shake off the feeling that there was someone watching her. Miles had warned her not to go out alone and she had done exactly as she had been told until her desire to help Lydia had made her forget her common sense. But now, with her hand gripping the rail for dear life and the blood pounding through her veins she could feel the gooseflesh tiptoeing along her skin and for a moment felt absolutely terrified.

She began to count the steps down to the bottom.

One, two, three…

She paused and heard the echo of her steps above. But was it an echo? Or was there someone on the stairs above her, following her down into the dark?

Four, five, six…

She paused again, listening intently, every nerve and muscle strained and tense. There was silence and then the stairs creaked above her under the soft footfall of whoever was following her down.

Panic washed through her again. The footsteps had stopped when she stopped, and the building was deathly quiet, but she thought she could hear the soft breathing of whoever was above her in the dark.

Seven, eight, nine, ten…

Those quiet, furtive footsteps echoed hers, getting quicker and closer. Alice hurried down the stair, slipping, losing her footing for a moment as a tread gave way, every second expecting to feel someone reaching out for her or perhaps that push in her back that would send her sprawling down into the dark. She stumbled down onto the hard earthen floor, scrambled up and searched desperately around for the crack of light that would show where the door was. She heard someone behind her, breathing in sharp, short pants, and then her hand was slipping on the wooden latch and the door opened abruptly and she fell out into the daylight and ran.

After the darkness inside the windmill even the pale March light seemed too bright and blinded her eyes. Alice had lost the footpath and found herself stumbling across the moor, tripping in the heather and old bracken, cutting her stockings to shreds on the twisted roots and hidden rocks. She stumbled down a ravine and almost fell onto the road where she half sat, half lay winded for a moment on the verge until the rumble of approaching wheels roused her.

A carriage. Thank God. Someone would help her.

She scrambled up, waving her arms like the sails on the windmill itself, to indicate to the coachman to slow down.

The carriage passed her, then slowed to a halt, and the door opened from within.

“Miss Lister?” It was the Duchess of Cole’s voice. For the first time in her life, Alice realized that she was actually pleased to see the duchess. It was an entirely new experience.

“Dear ma’am…Your Grace…” She was scrambling up into the carriage before she had been invited, before the steps were even down. “If I could beg for your assistance…”

She collapsed on one of the plush red seats, breathing hard, one hand pressed to the stitch in her side. She was vaguely aware that her mud-encrusted boots would be dropping little flakes of dirt all over the carriage, but that was probably no more than the duchess expected from one brought up on a farm. Henry Cole swung the door closed behind her and tapped sharply on the roof. The carriage set off again.

“You seem to be in some disarray, my dear.” For once the duchess sounded almost benign. She was smiling at Alice. “Here, take a sip from this.” She rummaged in her reticule and extracted a hip flask. “It is brandy and most restorative.”

Alice accepted it gratefully and took a deep swallow. The spirit was fierce and burned her tongue but she was sure it would soon revive her. She smiled to think of the Duchess of Cole carrying a flask of spirits around with her. Wait until she told Mrs. Lister about that. Her mother would demand her own hip flask, with the family crest engraved on it of course…

“I am most dreadfully sorry to burst in upon you both like this,” Alice said.

“No matter,” Faye Cole said. Still there was that pleasant, almost warm, tone in her voice, which Alice had never heard from her before. “We were coming to find you anyway, my dear. There is something that we need to discuss with you.”

Alice looked up. The sharp pain in her side was fading now, her breathing steadying, and now that she had time to think, she realized that there was something in the duchess’s voice that sounded quite wrong, as though it had struck an odd note. Yet Faye Cole was still smiling in that gently benevolent fashion, as though Alice was the one person in the whole world that she most wanted to see, and Henry was nodding like a generous-minded godfather.

“Were you coming to see me to discuss Lydia’s future, ma’am?” Alice said hesitantly. “I am sure she would be delighted to be reconciled with you both.”

A pained look crossed Faye Cole’s face. “Dear me, no,” she said. “We want nothing further to do with that little strumpet. No, no.” She smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile now and suddenly Alice felt a ripple of fear down her spine. Really the duchess was looking quite unhinged, sitting there like an enormous spider in her voluminous skirts, with that rictus grimace on her face.

“So unfortunate for you that Lord Vickery left you all alone for a few days,” Faye Cole was saying. “But young men in love…Their judgment suffers as a result and I am sure he felt he simply had to get a special license after the events of last week. He has been so very attentive, has he not?” Her tone was indulgent. “Always at your side. Very devoted.”

“Seduced you easily, I suppose,” Henry Cole put in with a knowing smile. “We all know Vickery’s reputation.” He shifted a little closer to Alice so that their knees were brushing. “Scandalous,” he added, smacking his lips, “but you are a ripe little peach for the plucking-”

“Be quiet, Henry,” the duchess said as Alice recoiled. “There’s no time to indulge your hobbies now. I want to talk to Miss Lister.” She turned back to Alice. “Oh, I have watched and waited, Miss Lister,” she said. “I knew that in the end I would have my chance. I knew that if Lydia called, you would come running.”

Alice’s head was spinning. She thought of the note, crumpled in the pocket of her skirt. “You mean that you knew Lydia was at the windmill-”

“Lydia was never at the windmill,” Faye said sharply. “Really, Miss Lister, I thought that for all your dreadfully low antecedents you were still a clever girl! Did you not guess? The note was from me. I can do a fair copy of Lydia’s hand.”

Alice stared. Her heart had started to thud against her ribs. Her head was aching all of a sudden. The carriage had picked up speed without her noticing. It was ricocheting along the rutted country lane, rocking wildly from side to side. The pounding in Alice’s head seemed to echo the sound of the horses’ hooves. Surely one mouthful of brandy could not make her drunk, and yet the interior of the coach was now starting to spin in a manner that made her feel extremely sick. On the floor, tiny seed grains spun and danced, the same grains that had been on the dusty floor of the windmill, the same chaff that was clinging to Faye Cole’s cobwebbed skirts… Even as Alice registered surprise that the high-in-the-instep Duchess of Cole would venture abroad in dirty skirts, the significance of those grains of wheat hit her so violently that she gasped.

“It was you! You were in the windmill! You were the one who tried to push me down the stairs!”

“You have led something of a charmed life, have you not, Miss Lister?” Faye Cole said, baring her teeth in a smile that chilled. “Lord Vickery’s quick reflexes saved you that day on Fortune Row, and after that he would not let you from his sight. He even managed to spring you from jail when we were so sure that we had managed to have you locked up and out of the way. And today, on the stairs, you were almost within my grasp!” Her hand moved with the swiftness of a striking snake to whip a knife from beneath her skirts and level it at Alice’s throat. “Well, not anymore. Lord Vickery is not here and you are in our power now.”

Alice put out a hand to grab the duchess’s wrist, but even as she did the coach lurched again and her head whirled and she tumbled from the seat onto the floor. Henry Cole picked her up, his hands suddenly offensively intimate, his breath hot on her face.

“Opium,” the duchess uttered. “My dear Miss Lister, you are going to sleep now.”

Alice tried to wrench herself away, but she could not breathe, could barely think, and then the darkness came rushing in so quickly that it seemed all the stars went out.