Night of the Candles (21 page)

She had known what to expect, and yet she was unprepared for the terrible, anonymous menace of the sheeted, hooded figures on horseback. They milled below the gallery, the blank faces with holes for eyes turned up toward the man who confronted them. The moonlight gave an unearthly glow to their white covering and silvered the sweating shoulders and flanks of their horses.

Nightriders!

What could they want here at Monteigne? What business could they have with one who sprang from the same ancient, privileged class they sought to protect?

Hard on these questions came a realization she had been too stunned to allow into her consciousness. If Jason Monteigne was here, within the house, while the nightriders milled on his front doorstep, he could not be one of them. By the same token, Theo with his nightshirt tucked into his trousers, must also be held exempt. Nathaniel had not truly been suspect, of course.

Her relief was so great she found herself smiling, and sobered instantly as Nathaniel turned to give her a puzzled stare. Only the sound of Jason speaking outside prevented him from making some comment she was certain she would not have liked.

“What may I do for you, gentlemen?”

The leader of the nightriders rode closer, staring up at Jason who stood with his hands braced on the gallery railing. “We hear you’re harboring a scalawag lawyer name of Sterling. We’d like to have a little … er … talk with the gentleman about his politics with a view to changing his mind.”

“Come tomorrow in broad daylight, share a meal, and a drink with us like gentlemen, and you may talk with Mr. Sterling about anything you like.”

“I’m afraid that will not be convenient,” the other man said. “We prefer to have our discussion now.”

A murmur ran through the other horsemen, punctuated by a coarse call or two.

“It would scarcely be polite to wake a guest for anything less than a matter of great urgency.”

Rising in his stirrups, the other man uttered a curse. “You are stalling, Monteigne, and you damned well know it. Are you going to give us Sterling or not?”

“Even if I wanted to do so, I would not … as a matter of principle.”

“To hell with your principles!”

“Along with yours?” Jason asked, his quiet voice easily overriding the other’s strident tones.

Now a second hooded rider joined the first. “We have nothing against you, Monteigne, but you don’t know what you’re up against. We mean to point out the error of his ways to this two-bit lawyer, and we won’t be stopped by anyone. If you’re not with us, then you’re against us, and will have to look to yourself if you get in our way.”

This speaker had the sound of being older than the first. His words came slower, but carried more weight.

Near Amanda, Nathaniel stirred uneasily. Afraid he was about to step out and offer himself up as a sacrifice, she put out her hand, laying it on his arm. Jason, she knew, would not allow Nathaniel to become a martyr to save himself from a clash, and the sight of Nathaniel might bring out the violence that Jason had managed to control until now. The glance Nathaniel sent her held no small degree of gratification, but she hardly noticed.

Jason had leaned his rifle against the railing. Now with movements slow and deliberate he picked it up, allowing the butt to rest on the balustrade with his fingers inside the trigger guard. “This,” he said slowly, “is a Springfield repeating rifle, a gift from my late wife while we were traveling in the northeast. As much as I would hate to see it turned on my own kind, I will use it if you leave me no choice.”

The uneasiness that ran over the group was readily apparent. There were rifles among them, their stocks protruding from saddle boots here and there. There were none to equal the repeating Springfield, the gun that had helped to turn the tide against the South in the recent conflict.

The saddle of the first rider creaked as he swayed sideways to speak to the older man. The latter nodded, and the first rider turned to signal to the others. The horsemen began to spread out. For an instant Amanda thought they were retreating, then she saw that their movement would make them harder to pick off.

Regardless of the quality of his weapon, Jason was one man facing overwhelming odds. As he stood at the railing with the moonlight pouring down upon him, grimly watching the deployment of the nightriders, Amanda knew a painful constriction in the region of her heart. Without conscious thought she removed her hand from Nathaniel’s arm, releasing him to go to Jason’s aid.

He did not move. His face pale and eyes wide, he stared out at the nightriders.

From whispers behind her, Amanda thought Sophia was remonstrating with Theo, whether to keep him from going or urge him on, she could not tell. Something had to be done quickly — at once — or it would be too late.

“This is your last chance, Monteigne,” the older man was saying. “We can settle this easy, or we can do it the hard way.”

The timbre of the voice was calm, unhurried. It came to Amanda that its owner was positive that when it came to shooting Jason would not turn his gun on them. She, watching his grip tighten on the Springfield, was just as certain he would.

Without conscious thought she lifted her chin and stepped out onto the gallery. She moved unhesitatingly to Jason’s left. The moonlight threw her shadow behind her, and yet it seemed to be noiselessly flitting at her side.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Her voice was low and musical, awakening curious, murmuring echoes in the sudden stillness. Jason made an abortive movement, as though he would shield her, then relaxed.

“A bit late for a ride, wouldn’t you say?” she went on. “Still, the autumn moon makes one restless.” Wry amusement curved her mouth. There was a singing strangeness in her veins as she stared down at the riders on horseback, one after the other, and saw them look away. She felt a power beyond the physical within herself. Though she swayed a little where she stood, she had the feeling that if necessary she could leap the railing and land on the ground below with all the gentle grace of a falling leaf.

“Jesus!” a rider muttered. “I thought she was dead.”

“She is,” another said. “I know she is. I saw her buried.”

She bit her lips. She caught her breath and held one fist to her midsection. It did not help. The soft trill of her laughter rose, joyous, infectious, so that Jason turned to stare and could not forebear smiling.

Before the sound had died away Theo joined them, and then Sophia. The blonde man hoisted one leg up to sit on the railing. Eyes narrowed, he surveyed the men below before giving a nod or two, almost as though he recognized and greeted the men under the hoods.

Finally, when it seemed nothing could release them from the odd spell which gripped them, Theo spoke: “Permit me, Amanda, to present to you the Knights of the White Gardenia. Gentlemen, this lady is Madame Monteigne’s cousin. Miss Amanda Trent, the fiancee of the man you are seeking. This lady, with Mr. Sterling, will soon be leaving us. Her beauty, and the folly of man she is to marry, will no longer trouble us. That being the case, don’t you think your efforts tonight to encourage her fiance to re-evaluate his thinking, will be enough?”

The two men who had constituted themselves the leaders of the group looked at each other. The elder made a chopping gesture and gathered up his reins. For one long moment more he stared from Jason to Amanda, then he wheeled his horse and galloped away. The others followed after, streaming down the drive to the road. Seconds later, all that was left was the distant rumble of hooves and a cloud of silvery dust boiling in the light of the moon.

Amanda shivered, closing her eyes, and wrapping her arms about her rib cage. Firm hands turned her back toward the hallway, and she was aware of the warm support of an arm about her shoulders. Jason, she thought, and did not question the certainty of her knowledge.

Nathaniel, fully dressed, was just emerging from his room. “I refuse to let them take me in my robe,” he said, settling the watch chain across the front of his waistcoat

“They have gone,” Jason told him.

“Gone?” Nathaniel sounded vaguely cheated, as if he felt he had gone to the trouble of dressing for nothing.

“Gone,” Jason repeated, and moved past him with Amanda in the circle of his arm and Sophia trailing grimly behind.

“But how? Why?”

Theo clapped him on the back. “Let me find you a drink, old man, and I’ll tell you.”

Back in her bedchamber, Amanda climbed the steps up to the high mattress of the tester bed and turning, sat down. Despite the fact that Jason had seen her in nothing more than her nightgown before, she had no intention of divesting herself of her dressing gown in his presence.

“Are you all right?” he said, eyes narrowed as he peered into her face, trying to see her expression in the light of the candle Sophia had lit.

Sophia tossed the spent sulphur match into the fireplace, then turned. “Why shouldn’t she be all right? She has just played the heroine. Did it never occur to you, dear Amanda, that you might make things worse instead of better by appearing on the gallery in your night-clothes?”

It was a minute before Amanda took her meaning. “No,” she answered simply.

“It should have. A fine thing it would have been if Jason had been forced to protect you as well as himself. Anyone but a ninny could have seen that at once. It was my first thought.”

“If a man must fight,” Amanda said, choosing her words with slow care, “I hardly see what it matters how many he is called upon to save by the battle.”

“Your presence was a distraction. He could not have concentrated on returning their fire because of his fear for your safety.”

A wry smile touched Amanda’s mouth. “I am afraid such logic was beyond me at that moment. The idea, in so much as there was one, was to distract the others.”

Jason made an abrupt movement as Sophia opened her mouth once more. “You succeeded, for which I am grateful. We will let it go at that for the moment, I think. You are not in pain?”

Amanda shook her head. Surprisingly, she was not, though she was aware of a strong need to lie down before weakness overcame her.

“Good. Sophia, don’t you think you should see to Marta? She was beside herself with terror.”

“Marta? Anybody who makes their room and board seeing to other people ought to be able to take care of themselves.”

“Nonetheless, I think you should look in on her.”

Sophia stared at him, suspicion in her light brown eyes. He returned her gaze with silent, unrelenting strength of will. After a brief struggle, she moved her shoulders in a petulant shrug, then sauntered from the room.

Jason waited until her footsteps had faded. He stepped nearer, bracing one hand on the post at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long time before I forget this night,” he said, his eyes dark as they rested on her upturned face.

The breath caught in her throat. She tried to smile, but the effort went sadly awry. “It was nothing,” she whispered. “I only did what I had to do.”

“I wonder.” Reaching out, he touched the frill that edged the yoke of the dressing gown she wore — Amelia’s dressing gown.

When he did not go on, she said, “Yes?”

His eyes held hers for a seemingly endless time before they moved to study the expanse of her forehead, the straight line of her nose, and the tender curve of her mouth. “Amelia might have joined me on the porch; she might have laughed, but she would have expected praise, gratitude, some appropriate acknowledgment of her effort.”

“Would she?” Amanda whispered, her voice no more than a thread of sound.

“She would. And now, at this moment, she would be teasing, trying to force me to admit my debt, demanding payment.”

Amanda’s eyelids flicked down, and she turned her head away. “That doesn’t sound very … nice.”

“Amelia was not always nice. She tried to be, but often the feat was beyond her.”

The face of the priest, and his hint of sealed confessions passed through her mind. The idea distressed her, and she gave her head a shake, as though she would dislodge it.

“You disagree? Even though it has been at least three years since you last saw her? A great deal can change in that length of time.”

“I … I did not disagree,” Amanda said, putting one hand to her head. Confusion crept like a cloud into her eyes, and she swayed a little as she sat.

Suddenly Jason pushed away from the bed. “Lie down,” he said. “Forget what I said, forget everything. Perhaps tomorrow will be different. It doesn’t hurt to think so.”

The pained cynicism of his tone only added to her distress.

Her fingers trembled as she tugged at the knot in the sash. Tears, weak, useless tears hovered behind her eyes, threatening to blind her.

For long moments he watched her unavailing struggles before he stepped forward. His capable fingers released her with ease. Face impassive, he stripped the sleeves of the dressing gown on her arms. When she lay down, he reached for the covers where she had thrown them back earlier and drew them up to her chin.

“Good-night,” he said, his voice abrupt, almost harsh. Turning, he went quickly from the room.

He had left the candle burning. Amanda lay for a time watching the living flame dance upon its wick, mesmerized by the warm yellow glow. Even when her eyelids fell, she seemed to see the flickering point of fire.

Candle flames. Carl. On the edge of sleep she remembered the capering figure beneath her window only a few nights before. Tonight he had not been in evidence. That did not mean he was the nightrider from Monteigne, for on that memorable night when he had held his vigil she had seen both him and the sheeted rider from her window. Who, then, used the barns at Monteigne to hide his nocturnal rambling, if all the men were accounted for?

Morning came at last. Despite, or perhaps because of, the overwhelming events of the night, she had slept. She did not feel particularly rested, or able to deal with what was happening at Monteigne, still she felt stronger than she had the evening before.

In the light of morning the runaway gig, the sleepwalking incident, the visit of the nightriders, had a feeling of unreality. That they had actually occurred seemed beyond explaining. That there was no apparent reason for them made them even more frightening, though Amanda would have been hard pressed to decide which incident distressed her more. Marta was not in evidence. With fingers that trembled, Amanda put away Amelia’s clothing and took out a day gown of blue cambric piped in gray. The costume did nothing to add color to her face but, since it was doubtful anything less than a rouge pot would help in that area, she did not allow it to trouble her.