Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (4 page)

“Safe?”

“Yes, safe. Do you all feel secure walking the grounds?”

“D’you mean, are we scared of ending up like Cecilia?”

“No, I didn’t exactly mean that—I’m speaking of
before
last night.”

“Well… ” She sounded a little reluctant but then said, “Lately it’s been a little anxious. We been told not to go a’walkin’ out after dark.”

“By whom?”

“Mrs. Hailey.”

“Why is that?” Anne said, thinking that, considering what had happened, it seemed a prophetic instruction.

The young woman’s eyes were wide, with an excited gleam in them, the first emotion other than sadness that Anne had seen. “The werewolf, ma’am!” she whispered, meeting Anne’s reflected gaze.

Anne burst out laughing. “Werewolf?” Despite having been prepared by Lydia’s letter for the absurdity, the notion still struck her as humorous.

Affronted into silence, Ellen continued work on Anne’s hair, her lips primmed into a straight line.

“I didn’t mean to laugh at you, but really, a werewolf? You’re an intelligent girl and surely don’t believe in such idiocy.”

“I seen it with my own two good eyes.” With a final tug, Ellen pronounced her task done. “How d’you like the style, milady? I never done hair before, but it seems passable good to me.”

Looking at her reflection, twisting her head this way and that, Anne had to admit it echoed a truly classic Grecian style, even mythic; Medusa was, after all, a Greek mythic creature, and Anne’s hair now resembled the snaky locks of the gorgon. “How interesting,” she said faintly and turned away from the mirror. A woman of humble appearance needed all the help a talented hairdresser could summon, so her image at that moment was shocking to Anne’s modest
amour propre.
However, she did have other things on her mind than her tortured hair. “You cannot make me believe that you saw a werewolf. What exactly
did
you see?”

“Well,” Ellen said, frowning and staring at the floor, “I were out walkin’—”

“Alone?”

“Yes… nooo… I was… uh…”

“Never mind with whom,” Anne said, watching the young woman’s pale complexion burn cherry red on her high cheeks. “You weren’t alone, but were out walking with a young man of the household. Have I guessed correctly?”

“Yes, milady,” Ellen said. “We was walkin’ near the tower—”

“The tower?”

“Yes’m. ’Twas built by the previous marquess when he was first raised up to be such. Before that he was the Earl of Staunby. The new title was given him after the trouble with Scotland.”

“After the Jacobite rebellion?”

“Yes’m.”

“About the time of Culloden Tower, then,” Anne said, naming the tower built near Richmond forty years before to celebrate the defeat of the Jacobite rebellion.

The girl shrugged and said, “We ain’t supposed to go near it, but…”

Anne eyed her with interest. “But it’s a shadowy spot, and one is able to cuddle with a young man, and no one the wiser.”

Ellen blushed and nodded, then looked away again. “Me an’ Jamey—he’s a groom, milady, one of the marquess’s men—we was walkin,’ when out of the bushes near the tower jumps this animal. On his hind legs! Never seen a dog do that!” She looked directly into Anne’s eyes and whispered, “I were terrified!”

“What time of day was this?”

“Just on twilight, milady.”

“How long ago did this take place?”

“Two months or more gone. ’Twas fearful cold, so we was seekin’ shelter to talk.”

“And what did you do when this creature jumped out at you?”

“I ran away,” she said. She picked up a brush and began to clean the hair from its bristles.

“And what did Jamey do?”

“Followed me.”

“Immediately?”

“Near enough,” Ellen said. “A minute or so later.”

“What delayed him?”

Ellen frowned and thumbed the brush, absently playing with the bristles. “I don’t know, milady.”

“What did he say when he caught up to you?”

She blushed and looked away, setting down the brush on the highly polished dressing table.

“I see. Probably nothing beyond some personal nonsense to comfort you.”

She nodded. Anne watched her for a minute, but was satisfied that the young woman was telling the truth such as she knew it. The fellow’s “comfort” was likely a few kisses and a cuddle. “You say it was an animal but that it stood on its hind legs.”

Ellen nodded but didn’t offer anything more.

“Did it growl or bark or make any other noise?”

“It howled, milady.”

“Howled.”

“Yes, the snout went up, kind of, and it howled. Jamey said since ’twas the night of the full moon, it must be a werewolf.”

Anne pondered that, remembering the eerie howling she had heard the previous night. “And that is all you saw before you ran?”

“Oh, yes, milady. I ran toward the back kitchen garden and through the gate.”

“And that’s where Jamey caught up with you?”

She nodded.

“Ellen, I no more believe you saw a werewolf than I believe that people can sprout wings and fly. Your young man and a confederate are in the business of frightening young women into their arms, no doubt, a shabby trick but meant just as a lark.”

“Oh,
no,
milady,” Ellen said, sitting down on a nearby stool. Such a breach of proper behavior seemed out of character for the reticent maid and spoke to her complete absorption in the topic. “Others since have seen the werewolf, milady, and for longer’n me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Anne again considered the howling she had heard, a precursor to the young woman’s screams. “Ellen, tell me who else has—”

“Ellen!” A peremptory female voice from the hallway beyond the door harshly repeated the girl’s name.

The maid leaped to her feet and rushed out to the hallway, where two voices, hers and the authoritative woman, could be heard, Ellen murmuring apologies and the other scolding.

Anne marched to the door and flung it open.

A plump woman with protuberant eyes whirled and adjusted her expression from one of command to a more complaisant look. “Milady,” she said, softening her voice, “your portmanteaux have been brought to the lodge by a neighboring gentleman. Andrew will bring them upstairs momentarily.”

Anne eyed Ellen, and then, noting the return of tears to the maid’s eyes, turned to the housekeeper. Levelly, she said, “You are the most excellent Mrs. Hailey, of whom I have heard so many good things. You were helpful to poor Lydia last night in her distress. Thank you for the loan of Ellen—I would not have been able to dress without her, and thank you for your own services in rendering my limited wardrobe wearable once again.” She waved down at the skirts of her traveling dress.

The housekeeper curtseyed and said, “You’re welcome, I’m sure, milady.” She fingered her chatelaine and added, eyeing Anne’s snaky hairstyle, “I was pleased to do it. I only hope Ellen has been helpful.”

“She has, thank you. Is Lady John better this morning?”

“Poor lamb,” the housekeeper said in a confidential tone as Ellen slipped away down the hall. “Still sleeping. Gave her another sleeping draught in the middle of the night, for she was having dreadful nightmares.”

“Let me know when she’s able to see me. Now, you say a neighbor has brought my portmanteaux to the house. May I express to this gentleman my personal gratitude?”

“Yes, milady—he’s in the morning parlor with Lady Darkefell.”

Anne found her way there and entered. It was an elegant room, the walls hung in yellow silk damask, and furnished in modern oriental style. The dowager marchioness was by a table in a bay window, earnestly speaking with a portly, jovial-appearing gentleman. “Good morning,” Anne said to announce her presence to the oblivious duo.

Lady Darkefell straightened and moved away from the man, who turned and bowed low.

“Lady Anne Addison?” he said, his voice pleasantly timbered and musical.

“Yes, but I don’t have the pleasure of your name, sir?”

The marchioness nodded to Anne. “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

“Adequately.”

“Lady Anne Addison, may I introduce to you Mr. Hiram Grover?”

Anne nodded to the gentleman. “Thank you, sir, for bringing my baggage up to Ivy Lodge. How did you happen to find out from that villainous postmaster that they were to be delivered here?”

“I am the nearest neighbor to the lodge and the castle, and often bring the mail up—neighborly courtesy, you know. Jacob Landers, the postmaster, sent me the bags with a note, along with the mail for both myself and the castle.”

“What an easy method for the post employee to slough off responsibility,” she commented.

“Lady Anne,” the marchioness said, “I had just invited Hiram to dine with us. Will you join us in the breakfast room?”

Nothing had been said of the awful murder, but Anne assumed that the marchioness had already filled in her neighbor. She was right. They removed to the breakfast room, a smaller octagonal room with cherry silk on the walls and various gilt-framed paintings of roses, and the servants had, at the marchioness’s request, left them to their meal.

Mr. Grover said, “I am horrified that you were subjected to such an experience last night, Lady Anne, as finding that poor, unfortunate girl. The fragility of a lady should never have been put to such a brutal test—as the Italians say,
una signora dovrebbe essere protetta.
I congratulate you on your hardiness, for I am in amazement that you should be on your feet and not prostrate.”

Anne eyed him while she chewed a mouthful of eggs with mushroom ketchup. He was a fleshy fellow, porcine in countenance, with friendly features and a perfectly coiffed wig on top of an egg-shaped head. His cheeks were ruddy, the redness like a rash, but not from the cold; rather, it appeared to be redness associated with good food and drink, too much of both. And a choleric disposition? He seemed pleasant enough, so perhaps not.

Despite his words, he likely considered it no compliment to note that she was well after such an occurrence, and no doubt felt that Lydia was more the ideal of feminine fragility for keeping to her bed. “I’m stronger than that, sir.”

“But to have stumbled over the bloodied body! It’s dreadful.” He shuddered delicately and bit into a forkful of ham. He chewed for a moment, while Lady Darkefell sipped a cup of tea and broke a piece of toast into bits on her plate. “Whatever possessed you to venture so far off the lane, my lady?” he asked.

“So far off the lane?”

“Why, you must have been quite a ways off the lane to have found the body, for I understand it was well concealed.”

“Who told you that?” she asked.

He bridled. “My lady,” he said, clearly insulted by her briskness, “I have heard all about it from Lady Darkefell.”

The door to the breakfast room was flung open just then, and Lord Darkefell and Lord John entered, intent on some conversation.

“… insist she receive a proper burial in the servants’ cemetery,” the marquess rumbled, his handsome mouth pulled down in a scowl. “I’ll not hear of any nonsense from Lydia about it.”

“But Lydia’s concerned about what the others will say, for with Cecilia being…” Lord John broke off when he realized they were not alone.

Anne watched the two brothers, but then focused her attention on the elder, the marquess. His eyes were on Mr. Grover, and his expression was not friendly. Grover, for his part, appeared completely at ease until Mr. Osei Boatin entered a few moments later. He then got up, pulled out a pocket watch on a too-short chain, examined it closely, then dabbed at his lips and bowed to the gathering. He took Lady Darkefell’s hand, kissed the air above it, and murmured a farewell.

With a fulminating look, Darkefell watched him go.

“What is all of this nonsense?” Lady Darkefell demanded, glancing between her sons.

“It will keep until later,” Darkefell said, grabbing a plate from the sideboard, filling it randomly with eggs, ham, and bacon until it was heaped high, and taking a seat by Anne. “How do you fare this morning, my lady?” he asked, casting her a sideways glance. He eyed her hairstyle with an awed expression and suppressed a quick smile. “You seem in excellent good looks this morning, none the worse for your awful experience.”

“Your enthusiasm for my appearance is a paean to the lack of my lady’s maid, Mary, who will arrive tomorrow, I hope,” Anne said, her tone as dry as his was humorous. “Though if you think this style suits me,” she continued, patting her snaky locks, “I’ll be sure to have Mary copy its intricacies.”

“I’m humbled by your reliance on my opinion of the mysteries of feminine hairstyling.”

“What’s going on, Tony?” Lady Darkefell pressed, impatient in the face of her eldest son’s absorption in their guest. “Why were you and John arguing about where Cecilia will be buried?”

“I’d rather not go into it right now,” the marquess said, then wolfed down a rasher of streaky bacon. His secretary, Mr. Boatin, was taking a plate from the sideboard and slowly adding a piece of toast to it. His expression was solemn. He didn’t appear hungry but seemed to Anne to be focusing on the sideboard as a way of avoiding the others. That he ate with the family was no surprise, for though a secretary was a kind of servant in some households, he was also a valuable member of the household and privy to matters of the most intimate nature. No man kept secrets from his valet or his secretary.

“Mother, Lydia just doesn’t think it’s right for Cecilia to be buried in the castle graveyard with the other servants,” Lord John said primly, sitting down at the table without taking any breakfast.

“Whyever not?”

“There’s no need to answer that, John!” Darkefell said, mumbling around a mouthful of food.

“I’ll answer if I want to!” the younger man said indignantly.

Darkefell glanced over at Boatin, who had paused, ham-laden serving fork in hand. The marquess swallowed and hastily said in a loud voice, “Shut your
mouth,
John, if you please!”

But he was overridden by his younger brother, who angrily said, “Why should I? All will know eventually, to the shame of our household. She is not
fit
to bury with the others, for she was carrying a bastard child.”