Dark Obsession (18 page)

Wasn’t Thomas proof of that? Wasn’t Jonny? One dead, the other silent and hurting. What would happen to Nora if she stayed with him? How could he even attempt to use anything so lovely, so alive and unsullied, to try to salvage a piece of his dead spirit?

He could not. He knew that of a certainty now. From the moment he had taken her in his arms last night, something frightening and out of control had wrenched through him. A raging energy, like the mindless rutting of a stag in season. No, worse. A stag acted purely on instinct, all part of some divine plan to ensure its survival.

Not so for him. He seemed hell-bent on destruction, his own and that of everyone around him.

What was happening to him? Was he cursed? Did some evil spell hang over Blackheath Grange, as people whispered when Thomas died?

After pulling on clothes and ignoring the aromas rising from the kitchen, he mounted his favorite horse, a black Thoroughbred named Constantine, and set off across the moor. The sky overhead shone black and starless, lightened only in the far west where a pale moon silvered the watery horizon. The air hung damp and heavy, the landscape huddled in predawn shadows and bathed in trailing wisps of fog.

A reckless impulse spurred him on. If Blackheath was cursed, he’d put it to the test. At a breakneck gallop he disturbed dozing cattle, sent sheep scattering and raised angry shrieks from a roosting falcon. Badgers and hedgehogs skittered through the damp grass, frantically seeking their burrows. Grayson dodged branches and splashed through streams, raising plumes of mud in his wake.

It wasn’t enough to shake loose his demons. To the east, a cold sliver of sun struggled to penetrate the clouds. In the wan light he saw Thomas’s face everywhere—in the shapes of the craggy hills, in the long shadows they cast across the moors, in the swirls of mist pooling in the bottomlands.

Thomas had loved this place, every blessed inch of it, nearly as much as life itself. It had been from this rugged, unpredictable, wide-open land that he had drawn his energy, found fuel for his soul. Now, even in death, Thomas was here, a visible, palpable memory at every hairpin turn Grayson took at top speed.

A rock wall, some five feet high and three across, separated one grazing pasture from another. Grayson gave Constantine full rein and urged him on, taking grim satisfaction in the lengthening strides beneath him, the power of muscle and sinew bunching and then stretching, elongating as the animal lunged and left the ground.

For several exhilarating seconds he experienced the liberating sensation of soaring, with a bracing wind in his face and the graying sky arcing over him. Then the jarring
oomph
of hooves hitting the ground, pounding out the pace as, with nary a pause, they continued across the fields.

He half hoped he’d be thrown and break his neck. Yes, the very notion had spurred him over that wall and pushed a defiant whoop from his lips. What was a neck, after all? Especially when nearly every bone in Thomas’s body had broken in his fall from the headland . . .

Still, despite the urgency of his ride and his need to test fate, he wouldn’t run his horse lame. He kept to higher ground, avoiding the low-lying wetlands where, without warning, firm terrain often gave way to perilous bogs that could bring a horse crashing down.

Finally, where Blackheath Moor rose to meet the Goonhilly Downs, he turned Constantine back toward the coast, slowing to a canter as they skirted the clusters of tenant farms near the tiny village of Millford.

Here lay the true evidence of the recent years’ decline. Weathered cottages, once brightly whitewashed, dotted the winding lanes, their thatched roofs worn and thinning, many no longer able to keep out the rain. They needed replacing, but that took time away from the more important business of feeding families.

These particular fields had seen the worst of last autumn’s flooding. A good portion of grazing pasture had washed away, while the crops had rotted from excess moisture. Even now many of the fields stood bare, their boundaries encroached upon by the heath rush and sedge grasses spreading from the moor.

The home farm hadn’t escaped damage either. The herds were dangerously depleted, not only from harsh conditions and lack of feed, but also from a lingering malaise that had rendered many incapable of breeding.

He followed Millford’s main road past the church, the blacksmith and carpenter’s shops, the harness maker and the tannery. The stream meandering several dozen yards beyond the north side of the road provided power to the water mill about a quarter mile inland, where local farmers brought their grains to grind. Ironic that after the flooding, months of near drought had run the stream nearly dry. Even the most basic staples like bread had become scarce and expensive for months afterward.

At the foot of the sand dunes the road took a sharp turn, veering south where a curve in the shoreline hugged a small harbor. Fishing vessels, most little bigger than skiffs, bobbed stiffly at their moorings. A few sat anchored out beyond the breakwater, fishing lines cast to the murky tide. Most farmers in the area supplemented their dwindling incomes by fishing, which meant their farms suffered further neglect. But even the sea let them down; for unknown reasons, the bay’s fish populations had diminished at an alarming rate.

Thinning herds, sparse crops, scant fishing . . . no wonder people whispered of curses; no great surprise so many believed the spirit of Blackheath Grange had died along with its young earl.

Grayson guided Constantine along a path twisting between the grassy dunes to the beach. Here, with nothing between him and the sea, the wind shuddered in off the water to slap his face and yank at his hair. Constantine bobbed his head, meeting each gust with a restless snort. Beneath deep stacks of clouds, iron gray waves rolled long and low until they reached the sandbar, where they frothed and shattered. A father and son waded knee-deep in the water, dragging in a net.

A few feet from the shoreline, a little girl with a head of tangled blond curls sat waiting with the buckets, absently sifting sand through her fingers. Tugging at the frayed shawl tied around her shoulders, she stood up as the other two trudged out of the water, their net swinging like a hammock between them. The catch dangling inside appeared modest at best.

Fishing was not the only opportunity offered by the sea. Traditionally, the earls of Clarington, Thomas included, had turned a blind eye to coastal smuggling, provided the activities didn’t turn violent.

Some people believed that had changed in recent times. About a year ago, a ship ran aground along this rocky stretch of shore. Grayson had heard rumors of wreckers being responsible, but as far as he knew the customs officials hadn’t turned up any incriminating evidence. As long as there continued to be none, if local men wished to bypass import taxes by bargaining for black-market goods with foreign sailors, who was he to judge?

Then again, with Zachariah Thorngoode’s money at work, the villagers would soon have little reason to trade illicitly or even fish for other than recreational purposes. But could mere money and new farm implements revive the heart of this place and restore faith in its future?

Reflecting on the tasks that needed immediate attention, Grayson sat watching the family until the boy happened to look up and see him. Both children grinned and waved as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Wishing to God they hadn’t, Grayson waved back. He walked Constantine over to them.

‘‘Good morning. How’s the fishing?’’

A snap of emotion flashed in the father’s bloodshot eyes, then vanished with a blink. Had Grayson imagined it? He believed he might have, especially when the man touched the brim of his cap in greeting and offered a smile that revealed two missing bottom teeth. ‘‘Fair enough, Sir Grayson, fair enough. Far better now than last winter, to be sure.’’ He nodded at the silver bodies writhing and flapping in the net. ‘‘The missus’ll fry these laddies up good and proper and make a fine supper tonight.’’

While they dumped the fish into the buckets, Grayson experienced a cool slither of embarrassment, for two reasons. One, that this villager knew his name, while he could not remember ever meeting this family before. Were they new here? Or had he simply failed to extend his notice to them, their farm perhaps having not been among the Grange’s more productive properties even in good times?

The other reason for his discomfort had nothing to do with such mundane matters as names or whether he’d made someone’s acquaintance. It was the fact that this man, this hardworking father whose children hovered but a few meals away from starvation, would answer his question politely, even cheerfully.

Somehow, that stung more than any scalding accusations could have.

If Grayson had been alert to the signs of financial decline sooner, would things be different now? If he had been more of a help to Thomas, rather than the aloof and critical scoundrel he’d been, could the disaster of this past year have been avoided? Even . . . that last hideous day?

No, it would have been too damned easy to think that, to believe things had gone wrong in a whirl of events too quick to have been foreseen or avoided. But he would have been lying to himself.

It had begun in their boyhood, the rivalry and the antagonism, festering even in their schoolroom days when Tom had struggled through the same lessons Grayson had completed with cocky ease.

And then there was Chad, usually with them during the summer months, and always the mediator.
Gray, you go distract old Norris—ask him a question or two—and I’ll let Tom copy my figures. No, don’t worry, we won’t get caught. . . .

A chill breeze shivered across the water. The slap of waves broke Grayson’s reverie, thankfully. Mercifully. Once, he had told himself all brothers disagreed, that their boyhood rows were merely part of what it meant to be brothers. He’d always assured himself that beneath it all Tom knew how much Gray had loved his older brother. . . .

He snapped his attention back to the villager, his children and their half-filled buckets of fish. The boy blew into his hands to warm them, stamped his bare, wet feet against the sand. His trouser legs were soaked through. His shirt and worn woolen coat could hardly have sufficed to shield his thin body from the wind.

‘‘Can . . . can I do anything for you?’’ Grayson asked, feeling awkward. The Cornish were nothing if not proud, and he must couch his offer carefully. ‘‘I understand the flooding especially took its toll here-abouts. I’ll be making a concerted effort in the coming year to bring the productivity of all the farms back to what it was in . . . well . . . in my father’s day. If you need any assistance with repairs or buying seed or . . . anything . . . you come up to the house and see me.’’

‘‘Well, now, thank ’e, sir. If need be, I’ll do that.’’

The acceptance of the offer had come too quickly, too easily, to be sincere. He guessed nothing short of the impending death of one of his children would send this Cornishman seeking anyone’s help.

He and his son began stretching out the net to drag it back into the water. From beneath their brows they angled impatient looks at Grayson, sentiments they’d never dare voice to a gentleman perceived to be their superior. He realized his presence only detained them from their task. They needed to get on with their fishing quickly, and return home to the farm chores awaiting them.

Grayson turned Constantine to go, but an altogether different impulse than the one that earlier had sent him over walls and splashing through streams prompted him to tug the reins and bring the horse to a halt.

The man squinted up at him. ‘‘Milord?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘I’m no lord.’’ He swung a leg over the horse’s neck and slid from the saddle. ‘‘Tell your son to go home and change into dry clothes. And a warm pair of stockings.’’

‘‘But—’’

Puzzlement turned to astonishment when Grayson relieved the boy of his edge of the net. Astonishment became gaping alarm when he gave the net a shake to dislodge a dangling ribbon of seaweed.

‘‘Milord, surely ye can’t be thinking o’—’’

‘‘I’ve already told you—I’m no lord. Besides, your boy’s feet are nearly blue from cold.’’

‘‘But those be fine London-bought boots, if ever there was. Ye can’t be thinking of ruining the likes of those.’’

He’d bought them in Italy a year ago last spring, but he didn’t think it worth mentioning. He gestured at the water. ‘‘The sun is nearly well up, and soon the fish will head for deeper water.’’

His allusion to their limited opportunity failed to produce the desired effect. The little family merely continued staring at him with horror-glazed expressions.

He stooped to address the boy. ‘‘What’s your name?’’

After a prod from his father, the youth replied, ‘‘Daniel, sir.’’

‘‘Well, Daniel, you and your father make it look easy, but I’ve a hunch there’s more to this than appearances suggest.’’

‘‘Aye, sir. It’s not so easy a t’all.’’

‘‘I’ve a fancy to give it a go. You’d be doing me a favor, then, if you’d take your sister home, warm up, and return in half an hour’s time to help carry the buckets in from the beach.’’

Daniel’s indecisive gaze slid to his father, who gave a shrug and nodded.

Grayson tossed his coat over his saddle, pushed up his sleeves and spent the next half hour slogging through the waves. His companion drew the line at allowing Grayson to handle the fish with his hands, insisting on transferring their catch from net to buckets by himself. Still, by the end, Grayson’s boots were more than likely ruined, for though the water would dry, the salt would undoubtedly corrode the buffed finish.

It didn’t matter. What most assuredly did matter were the five-gallon buckets now brimming with cod and haddock—enough to fry for dinner today, with plenty left to salt as well. Dan Ridley, as he had introduced himself to Grayson, would not have to postpone morning chores on his farm for perhaps another week or more.