Miss Ryder's Memoirs (12 page)

I could easily believe he would leave. If Mama couldn’t see how much he was making up to Amanda, then Sir John was keeping it from her. The sly devil. And he convinced Amanda that he was, to some extent, making up to me. Decidedly there was something suspicious going on and I had a burning desire to discover what it was. Tonight I would wait, not in the hall, but in the downstairs passage that he would have to traverse to leave the house.

* * * *

I made sure that there was a candle burning in the passage so that I would be able to see any trespasser clearly. As one came down the back stairs, there was a tread that creaked so loudly it would give me a chance to move farther under the table where I had placed my blankets. This time no one was going to leave without my seeing who it was.

It was a wretchedly uncomfortable bed I made myself, but I did manage to doze off once or twice. Then, at a little after midnight I heard the sharp crack of the noisy tread. I drew back so that only my head remained visible. Anyone leaving the house would have to swing almost full around to see me. The step on the stairs was light and sure, as if this person had trod them many times before. The door at the foot of the stairs swung open as though there were not the least need for caution.

But the person who emerged was cloaked from head to toe in an enormous black cape and wore riding boots. For a fraction of a second the face seemed to turn slightly, and to my astonishment I saw that this nighttime adventurer was wearing a black mask. A mask, for heaven’s sake! I meant to cry out, but something prevented me and the fellow was gone, the door closing sharply after.

The only thing I could be sure of was that it hadn’t been Sir John. The masked person was not nearly tall enough. And yet, who else could it be? The only other people staying in the house were Cousin Bret, Mama, and Amanda. That it could conceivably be one of the servants hardly occurred to me. Our servants would not so much as borrow a horse from the stables without permission, and this masked adventurer was obviously intent on riding out.

I was struggling with this dilemma when a second noise came from the stairs. Not that the stair creaked. Apparently this person knew how to avoid the noisy tread and was already pushing open the door slowly and soundlessly. I drew back under the rim of the table again and strained to see who had appeared.

There was no mistaking the size and solidity of him. And I saw his face as he turned to close the door silently before his long strides carried him swiftly through the passage. He had disappeared in a matter of seconds, though he hardly seemed to hasten. In the candlelight his face had looked extraordinarily determined and intelligent, lacking the lighthearted frivolity with which he was wont to regard Amanda and me during the days.

It was only then that I realized my mistake. The most logical place for me to have positioned myself would have been in the tack room of the stables. One or both of these people intended to ride out, and I was way behind them now, trying to pull on my boots and fetch up my riding jacket over my nightclothes. I was determined to follow them even though I had lost a lot of time.

With a sort of desperation, I slipped out the back door, running down the path toward the stables. I could see and hear nothing in the black stillness of the night. If there were hoofbeats, I didn’t hear them. I could only hear the pounding of my heart and the scuffle of my boots on the gravel path.

There was no light on in the stables. The door, I could see even from a distance, was closed. But I had no difficulty in opening it. Our coachman didn’t believe in barring the door, in case of fire. He was insistent that no one would dare come in to steal a horse with himself and his staff so close by. I let myself in and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust further to the dark.

Nothing broke the silence except the shifting of an animal in its stall somewhere down the line. And yet I wondered if there wasn’t someone else in the dark with me there. I could almost feel a presence, lurking in one of the stalls, or a loose box, or even in the tack room. It was not that I felt frightened, merely that I was aware of a prickling on my neck that was like hackles rising. I had every right to be there; whether my invisible companion did or not remained to be seen.

As I walked down the length of stalls, I checked to see which horses were missing. The first horse not in its stall was Mama’s Antelope. My own Lofty seemed to sense my presence, for she lifted her head and whinnied softly, moving to thrust her head over the wooden gate for my attention. Without thinking, I reached up to rub her forehead, right on the spot she most approves of.

Sir John’s Apollo was missing, which didn’t surprise me, of course. And Robert’s Thunder. No other horses were gone. Not that three wasn’t quite enough! I hurried to the back entrance and opened the door a few inches, but there was nothing to be seen. Sir John and the Masked Rider were long gone.

I stood there pondering what I should do. My chances of encountering someone if I waited in the stables were reasonably good, but it might be hours and I was already shivering in my nightclothes, despite the riding coat. So I decided to return to the house to contemplate my next move.

Disgruntled, I made my way back to the house and started to gather up my blankets from under the table. I was so jumpy by this time that I was starting to hear all sorts of creaks and groans in the old house. Once I thought I heard the stair creak again, and I slid under the table so fast I grazed my head on one of the leg corners. This caused a great deal of pain and, as I soon discovered, had drawn blood as well. It didn’t help that the noise turned out to be a false alarm.

By the time I had trudged up the stairs my head was pounding abominably. I couldn’t bear to think about who the Masked Rider might be, since no matter who he was, it was going to mean trouble for us. I kept trying to remember if Cousin Bret had been here long enough to be the guilty party, but my aching head wouldn’t obey me. The only hope, it seemed to me, was that the villain was a friend of one of our servants, hiding out in our house, but somehow that seemed terribly unlikely.

A drop of blood splashed onto my hand as I reached the upper landing. I’ve always been a bit squeamish about the sight of blood and this blob made me feel slightly faint. In the hall closet I found a plaster for my head, and in my room I rinsed the cut with water from my ewer. The cut smarted like anything, and it bled profusely for some time. That’s what scalp wounds will do, and I felt rather ill by the time the flow had been stanched. The cut was back of my hairline and with luck no one would notice it in the morning.

Exhausted and depressed, I climbed into my bed, drew the covers up to my chin, and tried to forget that my aching crown was only one of the headaches that faced me. Mercifully, I quickly lost consciousness.

* * * *

In the morning it took me a matter of moments to wrap myself in a robe and slide my feet into slippers. My knock on Mama’s door was soft to the point of being hardly a sound at all, but she called out in a firm cheerful voice, “Come in!”

She probably thought I was her maid bringing chocolate, but she didn’t by the flicker of an eyelash show that she was surprised by my arrival. Nothing seemed the least suspicious or out of place in her room. I don’t know if I expected to find a black cape tossed over a chair or a mask on the dressing table. “Why, Catherine, dear, what a surprise to see you at this hour. Is something the matter?”

Closing the door carefully behind me, since I had no way of knowing if any of the others were abroad, I nodded and took up a position at the end of her dressing table, where she was seated. “Mama,” I began, wondering how someone had this sort of conversation with her mother, “I was in the back hallway last night.”

“Were you, dear?” she asked absently as she tucked a wisp of graying hair behind her ear. “Whatever were you doing there?”

“Well, I was intent on finding out what Sir John is really up to, but that doesn’t seem to be as important now as what else is going on.”

She turned her head so that her eyes met mine directly, rather than in the mirror. “What
is
going on, dear?”

“Someone in this household is a highwayman,” I announced with my natural flare for drama. “I saw it with my own eyes, a figure come down the back stairs dressed in a black cape, with a mask. And then there was Sir John, who followed that person out of the house.”

“Did he?” I could tell she was startled. Then a small frown drew together the brown brows that usually made perfect crescents over her eyes. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Well, because he wishes to find out who is going out to rob innocent people on the high road,” I said. “And, Mama, there is no ignoring the fact that it must be one of three people: Amanda, Cousin Bret, or. . . you.”

She gave a cheerful laugh. “Now, now, dear. You are exaggerating. Or perhaps you are suffering from a nightmare that seemed extremely real to you. I’m not surprised that you dream of Sir John. No doubt he’s very much on your mind.”

“This was no dream,” I insisted. “And it’s a very serious matter, Mama.”

“Well, I don’t see how you can expect me to take seriously the idea that your sister is a highwayman. I’ve never heard anything so ludicrous.”

“Not Amanda specifically. Though it could have been her, I agree that it is highly unlikely. Which leaves only Cousin Bret . . . and you.” It was hard for me to press her this way, but it had to be done.

Mama cocked her head to one side, as though considering the matter. “I don’t believe your Cousin Bret is quite brave enough to be a highwayman. If you see what I mean. After all, someone might actually point a pistol at him or laugh in his face. No, I shouldn’t think it would be your cousin, either.”

What was she saying? I could feel a shiver race down my spine. With the utmost fortitude I drew a deep breath and asked, “And was it you, Mama?”

A tinkling laugh escaped her. I hadn’t heard that happy sound since before my father died. “Really, Catherine, is it likely that your poor, aged mother would do such a wild, unprincipled thing? You are grasping at straws, my dear. One of the servants may be up to some mischief, but I doubt very much that he would be a highwayman. That doesn’t sound at all like any of our dear helpers, does it? It was probably some costume meant to impress one of the maids.”

Not a likely scenario, by my lights. I would have pressed her on the point, except that she had turned to stare at herself in the mirror, caught up in the perusal of the crinkles at the edges of her eyes.

“Am I such an old-looking woman?” she asked. “Your father always made me feel so young that I never thought much about aging. And yet here I am, with these cracks in my face, and my sagging neck, and my graying hair. Do you suppose I will die soon?”

Astonished, I gave her a startled shake. “Don’t talk that way! Whyever would you die? You’re healthy and not the least bit old, for heaven’s sake.”

“Harold died. He wasn’t old either.”

“But his heart was bad. You know the doctor said his heart was bad.”

“Perhaps my heart is bad,” she suggested, almost hopefully. “Perhaps there is some disease even now eating away at me. That’s possible, you know. Mrs. Standon was eaten up inside that way. She just shriveled up and died. It only took three months.” She gazed off into the distance. “I could be gone in three months.”

“You’re not going to die!”

“Well, of course I’m going to die. Everyone dies. Don’t be such a ninny."

“You’re not going to die
soon
,”
I shouted. When Mother was in one of these moods, it was hard to get things through to her, and one was always tempted to shout. It did no good, of course, but I seemed always to manage to do it anyhow.

“Hush! You’ll disturb the whole household. And frighten your sister. Amanda doesn’t know I’m going to die.”

“You are
not
going to die!” I whispered this time, but fiercely. “You’re perfectly healthy, and you’re just trying to avoid answering my questions. This is very important.”

“Is it?” She still sounded vague. “I shouldn’t think anything would make much difference, since I will no doubt be dead soon. But I shall come and talk to you, my dear, when you need comforting. As my friends do, and your father. So many people are afraid of ghosts. You needn’t be, you know. They only come to keep you company, to give you advice, sometimes. If you think I would be of no use to you, of course, you must simply tell me.” She brought her head up sharply, eyeing me as if I’d given her offense. “I don’t wish to be where I’m not wanted.”

“Mama, you must stop this playacting. There’s something very much amiss here and I must get to the bottom of it. Do you know what you did last night?”

She blinked at me as though I had lost my mind. “Well, of course I know what I did last night. Do you think I’ve lost my mind?”

Just then we were interrupted by Amanda, who wandered in, clutching her head. “Oh, Mama,” she said in the most pitiful voice. “I have the most abominable headache. Could you give me one of your powders for it?”

Mama began to fuss around her, completely ignoring me, except to say, “Why don’t you run along now, Catherine? I’ll be with your sister for a while.”

With a despairing shake of my head, I left.

* * * *

At least Amanda was out of the way for a while. Not that I didn’t feel sorry for her when she had the headache, but she seemed to milk it for all it was worth. Besides, she was much more interested in my mother’s sympathy than in mine. Anyhow, I got dressed and went down to the breakfast room, where I found Sir John seated in lonely splendor, as it were.

He rose when I entered and held a chair for me, with just the tiniest trace of a smile on his lips. “How pleasant to have you join me,” he remarked as he resumed his seat. “Usually your mother and sister are here before you."

“They won’t be down this morning; Amanda isn’t feeling well and Mama is taking care of her.”

“I’m sorry to hear of her illness. I hope it isn’t something serious.”

“Merely the headache. Apparently it is very painful for a few hours and then gradually disappears. Nothing she can’t handle,” I added callously, not wanting him to think Amanda was some sort of weakling. “Robert used to have it occasionally, I recall, but I don’t seem prone to it myself.”