Mally : Signet Regency Romance (9781101568057) (12 page)

Chapter 18

It was raining as the landau moved slowly up the lane, and the window was awash, distorting the shadowy trees outside. The wind had strengthened; moaning through the woods, sending stray dead leaves to cling to the glass as Mally looked out into the night. They slid slowly down until the wind caught them again, spinning them away into the wild darkness.

Annabel shivered. “Had I begged for an
atmosphere,
I could not have hoped for better.”

Chris tucked the traveling rug around her knees again. “Imagination is a wondrous thing.”

“You are jealous because you have none. Oh, I wonder if the ghosts sense my approach.”

Mally groaned. “Yes, they are at this very moment hurrying out through the back door, their chains rattling in terror.”

“Castles don't have back doors, they have posterns. Nothing you two say will deflate me, I am
determined
to be in a state of goose-pimpled anticipation for the whole of my stay.”

“Will your constitution withstand such an onslaught?” Chris grinned at her.

“I have the constitution of an ox.”

Mally raised an eyebrow. “You said it.”

“To save you.”

“You didn't seem to have much resistance to anything out of the ordinary earlier today, wilting here and there like some fading blossom.” Mally tugged some of the traveling rug back.

“I know. I'm ashamed of myself, actually.”

“So you should be. Constitution of an ox indeed.” Mally gave a final tug and recovered her portion of the rug. She felt Chris glance at her and steadfastly avoided his eyes.

Annabel looked out at the wind-lashed woods. “This is like some nightmare land, isn't it? All howling wind, heavy rain, and whispering trees. Not for anyone of an even
vaguely
nervous disposition.”

“Which must include your good self for a start,” said Mally. “But then, you must be the only person in the land who actually looks forward to being scared witless. Oh, just look at how the wind is bending those trees over there, the gale is getting stronger with each minute. I'll warrant Dr. Towers is glad he returned to Llanglyn when he did.”

Chris nodded. “He set up a spanking pace down the hill, I can tell you. We could see the storm approaching across the northern mountains, watching the cloud and rain swallow each one in turn. The baron who built that castle certainly knew a vantage point when he saw it, for there's nothing for miles which cannot be seen and overlooked from up there.”

“Who is ill up there?” asked Mally casually.

“A groom. Richard and Towers were worried.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“Couldn't say. When I asked, Richard said that they'd taken the advice of the best doctor in the land—”

“Stiller?”

“Perhaps. He is acknowledged one of the best.”

Annabel looked surprise. “Dr. Stiller for a mere
groom?
How very eccentric.”

The landau slowed to a halt and immediately the rushing and hissing of the trees was louder and more menacing. Lanterns swayed on the walls of the lodge, casting moving light and dark over the lane and making the raindrops on the windows glisten like diamonds. The lodgekeeper came out, his cloak flapping, and a heavy metallic creaking cut into the night, making the landau's team start nervously.

“What's that?” said Annabel immediately.

“The portcullis,” said Chris. “Even the lodge has a portcullis and a drawbridge. The gateway to Castell Melyn is one of the most extravagant I've come across and I've come across a fair number.”

“More extravagant than Lord Hayldon's Eastern-palace affair?” asked Annabel.

“Hayldon would be put to shame.”

The landau lurched forward again, echoing hollowly beneath the narrow arched gateway with its squat towers. Torches flared on the walls, their flames tipping and smoking in the storm, and then the wheels were rolling over wood.

“The drawbridge,” said Chris before Annabel could speak. “There is a false moat and a drawbridge which is lowered to let anyone in. I tell you, if that drawbridge was raised, then no one could get in or out of the park, for every inch of the castle's land is well and truly enclosed. With a wall.”

“Then there is no going back, is there?” Annabel turned up the rich fur collar of her pelisse and wriggled further back in the seat.

“How very fatal that sounds,” said Mally, glancing from the window at the wide park. There were few trees now, only the park stretching up toward the castle. The unfettered wind buffeted across the mountainside and the landau shook with each gust. She could see the castle against the sky; at least, she could see that single light in the southwest tower—

Mally was trembling as the landau moved even nearer, and with each yard covered she could make out more of the fortress. The towers were just visible now, standing square and strong, and the curtain wall plunging down to the rock on which it was built. As the landau swung around the drive, the lights on the drawbridge glittered in the rippled water of the moat, and smoke from the chimneys of the newly restored living apartments was caught and spun down over the water, threading and tearing like cobwebs. It drifted into the landau, sharp and acrid, and once more the rain splattered the windows as the landau turned against the wind.

Chris wiped the moisture from the glass. “Annabel, you have your atmosphere—with a vengeance, eh?”

“Yes. It is perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

The teams drew the carriage over the drawbridge and the wind was suddenly closed off by the great barbican. The uneven old stones made the carriage sway and jolt, and the team's hooves sent sparks flashing from the paving.

Servants ran from a doorway as the landau halted, and the flambeaux they carried burned steadily in the almost windless courtyard. The door was opened and the sound of the rain was immediately louder, but the great walls and towers shielded the courtyard from the worst of the storm. Chris helped Mally and Annabel down and an old man in a powdered wig and rust-colored coat and breeches bowed politely, indicating a doorway with the sweep of his hand. His face was wizened and dark, and his brown button eyes were sharp and bright.

“Mesdames. Milord.”

Mally grinned at Annabel. “You've been demoted.”

“Blue blood will out,” retorted Annabel as they stepped thankfully into the warmth of the converted buttery where the cask racks now held a collection of colored glass and porcelain. A sole remaining butt stood in one corner, and on it a large polished copper bowl containing tumbling sprays of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, with here and there the bright red berries of the rowans which lined the lower half of the drive. Annabel surveyed the arrangement in surprise. “Berries in the house! How very novel, don't you think so, Chris?”

“An American notion, I believe. There's an arrangement of brambles, old man's beard, and holly in the solar. Takes getting used to, but I confess I like it.”

There was a smell of cinnamon and wine in the buttery, as if all the old spices had seeped into the walls over the centuries. The stone floor was scrubbed clean and some Eastern rugs lay here and there, bright designs of color and tone to soften the stark whitewash of the walls. Mally looked around.

“It's so different. The last time I was here, this was all cobwebs, dirty old casks, and dust. The door was half off its hinges and creaked most horribly with each tiny draft.” She shivered.

Daniel, you let me out of here this instant! Do you hear me? Please, I'm frightened!

The old man took their cloaks and mantles, and then bowed. Without a smile he indicated that they should follow him once more. Mally glanced at Annabel, who looked as if she could have a fit of the giggles at the strange, silent little man. They left the smell of cinnamon behind as they walked further into the castle, passing a grandfather clock which ticked slowly and loudly, its walnut cabinet soft and rich in the lamp light. Beside it was a portrait of a woman in a rather old-fashioned pink gown. Her name was on the frame. Gillian Vallender—1806. Mally paused, looking up at Richard Vallender's wife, at the wistful, lost smile of the woman he had never truly loved. The sadness was there in the sweet face. Perhaps Gillian had not been as unaware as he had thought—

They went up some winding, worn stone steps where the bare walls were hung with swords and daggers. The air was musty, and as they passed the newly glazed slit windows they could hear the storm raging.

Richard Vallender stood by the fireplace in the solar, and he smiled at them. “The storm did not deter you then?” His hand was warm as he greeted Mally. “Welcome to Castell Melyn.”

Annabel looked around. “What a very pleasing room, Mr. Vallender.”

“The only pleasing room in the place, apart from the bedrooms. The great hall is just that—great! And drafty, and gloomy, and sadly lacking its attendant forest of retainers, serfs, boarhounds, minstrels, and so on. Does the new Castell Melyn meet with
your
approval, Mrs. St. Aubrey?”

She allowed her gaze to wander slowly around. The large windows overlooking the courtyard were concealed behind heavy ruby-red curtains, and the walls had been plastered and whitewashed. The wooden floor was stained dark brown, and before the fire a thick carpet patterned in wine and cream was lit by the huge, licking flames in the ancient fireplace. The furniture was richly upholstered in pale green, and arrangements of flowers and berries stood on the many tables, their highly polished copper bowls gleaming in the half-light. High above hung an old, iron-rimmed candleholder, throwing up a ring of brightness to the rafters in the gloom of the ceiling. There was a painting of a large white house above the fireplace, and many smaller paintings and portraits hung on the walls. At the far end, one large tapestry covered the entire wall, a beautiful scene of medieval lords and ladies, hawks and dogs moving across a landscape of strange trees and plants.

She looked at Richard again. “It's very, very beautiful, Mr. Vallender, far more than pleasing.”

He smiled. “That is praise indeed. Louis,
ypocras, s'il vous plaît.”

The butler bowed.
“Oui, monsieur.”

When he had gone, Annabel sat down in the chair closest to the fire. “Is your Louis a Frenchman then?”

“No. A Creole. From New Orleans.”

“How very superior, quite a talking point in many a drawing room. I envy you.”

“I wouldn't know, Lady Annabel. Please sit down, Mrs. St. Aubrey—would it be presuming upon our friendship at all if I begged permission to call you Mally? Daniel was a grand fellow, but his name was ever a mouthful.”

She smiled, allowing him to lead her to a chair. “Please call me Mally. But then I must call you Richard, must I not?”

“That would be fair, yes.” He smiled again as she looked up at him. His eyes were so very dark, that try as she could she could not see into them.

Louis returned with a tray of warmed glasses and a jug of spiced wine. The
ypocras
was perfect, just the needed warmth for the cold night, and Annabel sipped hers appreciatively. Her face shone with the glow of the fire as she turned to Richard.

“Have you seen Lady Jacquetta, Mr. Vallender? Richard.”

“Not a whisker.”

“No rattlings, moanings, or unearthly shrieks?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Not one, I fear.”

“Oh, dear, she will have to do better than this. This is my great sallying forth into the realms of the afterworld, and the very least she could do is send an icy chill over the room or something.”

As she finished speaking the door flew open, banging loudly against a chair. The cold air from the steps swept over the room, fluttering the candles and dragging a cloud of smoke from the fire. Annabel's eyes were huge and she swallowed the last of the wine in one mouthful. Mally shuddered, for the timing had been uncanny. Chris smothered a laugh.

The butler's wrinkled face was expressionless.
“C'est la porte extérieur, monsieur, pardonnez moi.”

Richard grinned.
“Cą ne fait rien,
Louis.
Merci.”

“Monsieur.”

When the door had closed again, the fire stopped smoking and the candles settled back to their steady burning. Annabel breathed out loudly. “I'd swear that man knew the door would blow open! Does he understand English, Mr.—Richard?”

“Oh, perfectly. But he persists in speaking French and I'm afraid it's easier to do things his way than it is to try to change him.”

Chris was still laughing at Annabel's pale face. “So, it was no chain-rattling ghost, just a medieval door with a medieval latch!”

“Stop laughing, Chris. You have to admit it was
most
alarming, coming just when I had spoken. Almost”—she looked sharply at Richard—“almost as expertly timed as that dreadful goddess with staring eyes.”

He put his hand to his heart. “Now would
I
be guilty of such a heartless joke?”

“Yes. You and Chris together would be perfectly capable of dreaming up countless such coincidences to keep me squeaking. What have you set up in this place, eh? Look me in the eye and say you are innocent!”

Richard leaned closer, looking straight at her. “I am innocent, my sweet lady. Absolutely and completely.”

Mally watched him. He was outwardly relaxed, smiling, and being a perfect host. Yet there was still a slight tension in him whenever he looked toward Mally, something reserved, although he spoke charmingly and smiled a great deal. No matter how he tried, he could not completely conceal the unease Mally's presence caused him, and she sensed it strongly.

“Tell me, Richard,” she said, “how is poor Abel now?”

“Recovered. And bruised. But Nathaniel assures me no damage has been done.”

“And the groom? I trust there is good news there too.”