Midnight at Mallyncourt (15 page)

“I—” She hesitated, still scowling.

“Yes?”

“I don't believe you
have
a doll named Amanda! I believe you made it up. And even if you do, I'll bet you never made clothes for her.”

“I beg to differ with you, dear. I might be out of practice
now
, but at one time I was the best doll seamstress in all of York. Why, I even made clothes for
other
girls' dolls. It was such fun—gathering up pieces of cloth, hunting for bits of bright ribbon. The other girls would bring their dolls over, and I'd sew for them, too. Of course, I
charged
—” That, I thought, was a very realistic touch. “A penny a hat, tuppence a dress. I made quite a lot of spending money that way.”

Totally uninterested, or at least pretending to be, Lettice began to gather up the other dolls and place them in the carriage alongside the ugly rag doll. When they were all lined up, she pushed the small black hood in place, took hold of the handle and turned to me with a sour, derisive expression.

“If you
do
have a doll named Amanda, you may bring her up to the nursery to visit tomorrow morning at ten. I don't believe you do, though. I still think you made it all up.”

Pointed chin at a haughty angle, long brown hair streaming down her back, she left the garden, the wheels of the doll carriage creaking noisily as she pushed it ahead of her. I was in rather a fix, I reflected. I had made the first tentative step toward breaking through Lettice's crusty shell and winning her friendship. However snippy her voice may have been, she
had
invited me to come to the nursery, but I couldn't go without Amanda. Amanda, of course, had been created from whole cloth. As a child I had been interested in books, not dolls, and I had no earthly idea how I was going to obtain one before tomorrow.

Chapter Eight

I
WORRIED
about it the rest of the morning, and after lunch I sent word to Lord Mallyn that we wouldn't be able to have our regular card game that afternoon. Someway, somehow, I had to find a doll. When I explained my dilemma to her, Susie solved it promptly. Although she couldn't understand why I would want to make friends with a thorny, 'ateful brat like that Miss Lettice, a regular terror if ever there was one, she informed me that there was a small shop in the village that sold a few toys and said I could probably find a doll there. She would send George down to the stables immediately and have arrangements made to drive me there.

“It's such a lovely day—I'd rather walk,” I told her.

“Walk!” Susie was horrified. “That idn't
think
able, Miss Jenny. Mr. Edward's wife can't
walk
to the village—unescorted, too! It'd cause a bloomin' scandal!”

“Don't be absurd. Besides, no one in the village knows who I am, and in this old dress I'm wearing they'd never guess.”

“Mr. Edward wouldn't like it either. 'E'd be furious if—”

“No one need ever know,” I said calmly. “I should be back by four at the latest, Susie.”

Seeing that any further argument would be futile, Susie gave an exasperated sigh, told me where to locate the shop and added that if I'd walk through the woods and over the fields behind the tenant farms I could save a good half mile both ways. I set out, amused by Susie's sense of propriety. I supposed it
was
rather unconventional, but then I had spent four years in the theater and was quite accustomed to breaking conventions.

The walk was lovely, the woods thick and green and dark, filled with glorious smells and rustling noises. The fields I crossed, far from the road leading to Mallyncourt, were uncultivated, rather stark, going to waste. Lyman, I knew, wanted to buy this land and add it to the estate, claiming it could be made to yield a good profit, but Lord Mallyn refused to authorize such an expenditure. Pausing on a grassy knoll, the wind whipping my skirts about my legs and tearing at my hair, I looked down at the tenant farms almost half a mile from where I stood. They were lovely, lush, squares of gold, green, brown, all enclosed with their low gray stone walls. I saw a flock of sheep moving up a rolling green hill, fleecy white lambs gamboling after the ewes, and the sky was like a clear, incredibly blue canopy stretching overhead.

The village was busy and bustling, for it was market day, farm carts from all over the county pulled up around the square, the air filled with noisy bartering. I was enchanted by the rustic charm of the place. The cobblestone streets were steep and narrow, and the old stone shops, brown and gray-brown and mellow gold-brown, had painted wooden signs dangling over their doors. Tall trees spread soft violet-gray shade over the pavements, thick green leaves rustling overhead. There was an ancient church with a tarnished copper spire rising over the treetops, and from the blacksmith's shop came the monotonous clang of iron on iron. Although the village was crowded today, no one paid any attention to me as I moved past the market stalls and headed toward the shop Susie had told me about.

It was wonderful to feel so carefree, so alive, to be Jenny Randall again and forget about the role I had been playing for the past weeks. The strain of those weeks had been worse than I thought, but now I could revel in freedom, if only for a short while. I stopped to peer over the wall at the old, moss-covered marble tombstones in the churchyard, moved on up the street to see the loaves of freshly-baked bread in the baker's window. The shop I was looking for was located on the next corner, a dim, dusty place with a charm and character all its own. I found the doll immediately. It was very old-fashioned, a bit shopworn, but that suited my purpose nicely. I wouldn't want anything too grand. The shopkeeper wrapped it up in a neat parcel for me, and, my mission accomplished, I left the village just shortly after three o'clock.

Moving down a narrow, sandy lane with wild hawthorns, ablaze with red and pink blossoms, growing thickly on either side, I soon reached the wooden stile that led into the fields. I climbed over it and stood there for a moment, marveling at the sight unfolding before me. To my right, as far as the eye could see, were the cultivated tenant farms belonging to Mallyncourt, while the fields on the left were gray green, moorlike, making a striking contrast. In the distance, a mile and a half away, I could see the rooftops of the great house, just visible beyond the woods. Silhouetted against the sky, a darker blue now, gray clouds drifting and casting great rolling shadows over the land, it all made a magnificent panorama. Something inside of me responded to this land, unlike any I had known before. It was so vast, so lovely. I could see why Lyman loved it, why it meant so much to him. Unlike Edward, he
belonged
here. He was a part of all this, as his ancestors had been before him. It meant nothing to Edward besides a source of income.

I was in a thoughtful mood as I wandered slowly across the fields. How strange life was, I reflected, and how unpredictable. Five years ago I had been living in a genteel country house, surrounded by friends and two loving parents, a completely typical product of our age with a typical future in store: a husband, a home, children. That had changed so quickly, so abruptly, and now, after four years in the gaudy, flamboyant world of a ramshackle theatrical company here I was, strolling across a rough, grassy field with a doll under my arm. Six weeks ago I had never heard of Mallyncourt, yet now my whole life was centered around the house and the people who lived there. What did the future hold in store for me next? Would there be another abrupt, dramatic change? I wondered what I would be doing a year from now.

Not paying much attention where I was going, I stumbled down a grassy slope covered with gay yellow buttercups and tiny, delicate pink flowers I didn't recognize. The fragrance was delicious. I stopped to gather a handful, holding them up to my nostrils. A shadow fell over the land as another cloud passed over the sun, and everything was dark for a moment, gradually lightening again as the cloud rolled on. The sunlight was dimmer now, a pale, misty white, and the sky an even darker blue, blue gray. Moving on across the fields, I saw an old, deserted barn ahead, a weather-beaten relic of more prosperous days. The great doors sagged open, revealing the darkness within, and damp, ancient hay spilled from the loft. Absorbed in my thoughts, I drew nearer and nearer the barn, the ground rough and soggy underfoot.

“'Ey, lassie, what's your 'urry?”

The voice startled me. I dropped my parcel. The wildflowers scattered over the ground at my feet.

“She's a ripe 'un, ain't she, Burt? Ain't never seen '
er
around these parts before.”

“I ain't either. Maybe she's a new maid at th' big 'ouse. Yeah, that's it. I 'ear th' dandy nephew got 'im a new wife. This 'un's probably 'er maid.”

Completely lost in thought, I hadn't heard them approaching, and now it was too late. There were two of them. The blond was tall and muscular, a leather jerkin hanging open over his coarse white linen shirt, his faded tan breeches tucked into the tops of tall, muddy-brown boots. He looked at me with good-natured blue eyes, but there was a smile of anticipation on his sensual pink lips. His companion, similarly dressed, was thin and wiry with a pale, ugly face pitted with pock marks. A fringe of thick black hair fell over his brow, and his black eyes were sullen. They were yokels, obviously illiterate, and I blanched as I remembered the tales Susie had told me about their like. Rowdy, usually out of work, they rojmed the countryside getting into fights, stirring up trouble, and any girl who fell into their hands was considered fair game.

“What's your name, lassie?” the blond asked.

I tried to speak. I couldn't. My throat was dry. My heart began to pound.

“She's shy, Burt,” the other replied. “My name's Charlie, lass, 'n this 'ere's Burt. We're a couple-a sparks, we are, always lookin' for a bit of fun. You like a bit of fun?”

“Don't pay no 'tention to '
im
, lass,” Burt said, grinning. “'E's full of talk, nothin' but talk. Me, I'm a man of action. 'Ow's about a friendly little kiss? Hunh? The girls 'round 'ere, they say there ain't no one can plant-a kiss like Burt Brown, 'n that's me!”

“Don't—don't come near me,” I stammered.

“'Ey, Charlie, she don't wanna be friendly.”

“That don't matter to me. It don't matter at all. She's a beauty, she is. I ain't waitin' for no invitation.”

I was terrified, positively terrified. During the past four years I had grown very adept at dealing with men—rowdy students, fresh salesmen, pseudogentlemen who had had too much to drink—but I had never been confronted with this sort. Burt was like a great, overgrown puppy who could turn vicious at a moment's notice, and the other, Charlie, had a sharp, mean look. Rape would be second nature to either of them, a bit of frolic all in a day's fun. I tried to still my pounding heart. I tried to think. Burt grinned. Charlie glared at me with smouldering black eyes.

“You—you're making a big mistake,” I said. There was a tremor in my voice. I fought to control it. “You—you'd better go on about your business. You don't know who I am.”

“Yeah? Just who are ya?” Charlie asked in a mocking voice.

“I'm Edward Baker's wife. You know who
he
is, surely?”

“Yeah, I know. A regular bastard. 'N I know about 'is wife, too. She's a fine lady, I 'ear, all elegant 'n swell. She don't go traipsin' across th' fields in no grass-stained cotton dress.”

“I am Jennifer Baker,” I said coldly. The tremor was gone now.

“Yeah, 'n me, I'm th' Prince-a Wales.”

“Charlie—” Burt's voice sounded rather nervous. “I 'eard she 'as red 'air. Angus Crow, 'e saw Baker 'n 'is wife gettin' off th' train. 'E said she 'ad red 'air.”

“So?”

“Maybe—”

“You gonna let some lyin' wench cheat-ya outta a bit of fun? She ain't no swell Edward Baker's grand wife. Look at 'er! You're a maid, ain't-ya, lass? You work at th' big 'ouse. Come on, Burt, we're wastin' time standin' 'ere talkin'.”

“Look, if she works at th' big 'ouse, maybe we'd better lay off. Them footmen, they're a rough bunch. One of 'em's bound to 'ave 'propriated 'er for 'imself already. That George—I tangled with 'im last month at th' pub. I ain't lookin' forward to no rematch.”

“Go on, then. Run 'ome to your mother. I can 'andle this 'un all by myself.”

“'Ey,” Burt growled. “You sayin' I'm scared?”

“I ain't sayin' nothin'. You wanna stand there gawkin', it's fine with me. I got better things to do. Yeah, I'm feelin' real randy. Come on, lass, you 'n me 're goin' in that barn.”

Frantic, I backed away. Charlie advanced, his eyes glowing like angry black coals. He seized my arm, but I managed to pull away. That made him even angrier. His mouth turned down at the corners. He lunged at me, flinging his arms around me, and both of us tumbled to the ground, Charlie on top. The impact of the fall knocked my breath away, but I was possessed with fury and a strength born of desperation. I fought. I pushed. I shoved. I caught my nails against his cheek, raked them down the length of it, and Charlie rolled off of me, yowling like a madman as blood poured from those four long gashes on his face. Burt was delighted. He stood there with his legs spread wide apart, balled fists planted on his thighs. Deep laughter rumbled from his chest as I climbed to my feet, panting. Charlie grabbed at my ankle and missed. I kicked him squarely in the face, putting all the strength I possessed into that kick.

Burt stopped laughing. He scowled.

“'Ey now, you play rough, little lady. That ain't no way to treat my friend Charlie. Looks like I'm gonna hafta teach you a lesson—”

“You—you'll be sorry. My husband—”