The Deathly Portent (35 page)

A choking sound drew Ottilia’s attention to Mrs. Radlett across the table. She had her handkerchief to her mouth and was retching.

“You had best have some of my brandy, Mrs. Radlett,” Ottilia said, pushing the glass across. “Pardon me, I should not have asked about Molly in front of you.”

The widow shook her head and was presently able to raise it. Her eyes were watering, and she swallowed painfully, but there was consternation in her gaze.

“Stabbed?”

“I am afraid so.”

Mrs. Radlett shuddered. “Horrible!”

“Yes.”

Ottilia did not take her eyes off the woman. Was it an act? In her mind’s eye, she pictured the widow Radlett dragging Molly Tisbury’s body around the back of the Blue Pig. Had she the strength? Molly had been a small woman, but a dead weight was hard to shift. One need not be fooled by Mrs. Radlett’s overt femininity, which did not preclude an ability to act outside that role. Ottilia would not have credited the creature with the wit to think up this devil’s plan, but for the skilled acting earlier in the day.

“I think you should take a cup of tea, Mrs. Radlett,” said Meldreth. “It has the property of calming the stomach, as coffee does not.”

The widow nodded, rising unsteadily from her chair. “I had best beard young Patty in the kitchen.”

“If she is there,” said Ottilia drily. “I should not be surprised if the whole contingent had not run out to join the fun.”

“Fun!”

The exclamation came explosively from Francis, and Ottilia belatedly recalled she had yet to make her peace with him. She had been feeling so much more herself, but the reminder served to pull her down a little. She reached out for the brandy, which the widow had not touched.

“Mrs. Radlett.”

The widow checked at the door and turned to Francis.

“If you do find anyone in the kitchen, would you be so kind as to request them to make up a tisane and send it up to my chamber?”

The widow assented with alacrity and vanished through
the door. Meldreth followed her, and Ottilia was left confronting her spouse.

He met her gaze, but his voice was bland. “Shall we go up?”

Ottilia did not speak but rose a little unsteadily. Francis must have seen it, for his hand came instantly to her elbow. The shock of his touch went through Ottilia, and she shivered.

“You do need rest,” he said, a gentler note in his voice.

Ottilia’s throat thickened unexpectedly, and she did not trust herself to speak. She avoided meeting Francis’s eye and began a slow progress towards the door.

“Are you able to manage, Tillie?”

She nodded, sighing out a breath. But Francis paused, bringing her to a halt. Next instant he was before her, still supporting her with one hand. The other reached to her face, and his fingers tilted her chin. Ottilia had perforce to look at him.

“You’re weeping.”

Ottilia sniffed. “I am not.”

His expression softened, and his lips twitched. “Redoubtable as ever.” He leaned to swiftly kiss her forehead. “Forgive me! I very nearly lost my temper with you, and that was cruel, after what you had suffered.”

Ottilia tried to smile, but it went awry. “I know why, Fan.”

“I was crazy with fear, that’s why.”

“It is the way of relief.”

His eyes darkened. “I can’t let you stay here, my dearest one. Not after this.”

She drew a breath. “As to that, let us discuss it later.”

“So that you may have leisure to devise arguments to persuade me? I think not, Tillie.”

She allowed herself to be shepherded from the room and said nothing to the purpose as they climbed the stairs, only responding to his frequent queries as to her condition that she was perfectly able to make it to their room.

When they reached the privacy of the chamber, however,
she found she was glad enough to sink down upon the four-poster.

“I am more shaken up than I had realised.”

“I am glad you admit as much.”

Ottilia looked up at him. “You are angry with me, and I don’t blame you.”

He shifted his shoulders in that way he had which signified discomfort. “I am not angry with you.”

She held his gaze. “I disobeyed your express command, and I am sorry for that. But what would you have had me do, Fan? Every man in the place was gone upon your own errand.”

“True, but—”

She rode over him, speaking fast and low. “But I don’t mean to excuse myself on that score. When Miss Beeleigh showed me what was happening, I did not pause to think of your injunction, nor anything but the urgent need to stop them.”

“I understand so much, Tillie,” cut in her spouse. “Pray don’t distress yourself.”

But Ottilia was not finished. “No, you don’t understand, Francis! You suppose it possible for me to consider my own safety at such a time, but it is not. I may be a woman, but no less than you do I seek to act when there is something urgent to be done. You did not hesitate. Why should you imagine I might do less?”

It was not what she had intended to say, but the rush of passion proved too quick for her. Ottilia had not recognised the state of her own mind, nor seen the rebellious spark for what it was. She felt her breath shorten as she stared up at this man into whose keeping she had committed herself—her person and her life. For the first time, she felt a flicker of question at the wisdom of her marriage. The doubt was so unpalatable that she was thrown into speech.

“I was not wrong, was I? I have not been mistaken in you?”

Francis had not attempted a response, only standing above her with mute question in his face, as if he weighed his answer. But at this, a swift frown descended.

“What the devil do you mean, Tillie?”

Ottilia threw out a hand, shaking her head as a fresh threat of tears tightened in her throat.

“I don’t know,” she uttered, dismayed by the hoarse note. “I spoke unthinkingly.”

“Yes, it is a habit with you,” he returned gruffly. “But it does not mean you had no thought behind your words.”

Ottilia balked at an explanation she dreaded to make. She dropped her gaze to her lap and discovered her hands there, fingers gripped together.

His tone softened. “Tillie, what is amiss? What have I done?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Everything that is good and true.”

The bed creaked as he sat beside her. A strong hand reached to cover her tense fingers. Ottilia stared at his hand, her heart thumping a slow beat that echoed in her head.

“It will never be all roses, Tillie,” he said gently. “We cannot honeymoon for the rest of our lives.”

A sob wrenched out of her throat, and she turned into him, throwing an arm about his neck as she felt the welcome haven of his embrace close about her. She was permitted to weep silently for the space of several minutes, until her breath calmed and she moved to sit up.

Francis released her and found his pocket-handkerchief. Ottilia took it with a word of thanks and made use of it, struggling to restore herself to her usual sangfroid.

“I have been for too long my own mistress,” she ventured, looking to see how he took this. She was relieved to see his quirked eyebrow.

“A poor excuse, Tillie, but let it stand.” He reached out a finger to tuck a stray strand of hair back into her cap. “I might likewise justify myself for being protective, not having
been obliged to think first of my wife’s safety for many a long year.”

Ottilia drew a shaky breath. “But I am not a girl, Fan. I am well able to take care of myself.”

He frowned a little. “Yes, under normal circumstances.”

She took one of his hands and held it between both her own, meeting his gaze. “They were intoxicated. And I very nearly succeeded in bringing that tapster to his senses. Had it not been for Miss Beeleigh—”

She broke off, struck by sudden suspicion. Had it been deliberate? But for the woman’s intervention, Ottilia felt certain she would have broken through Will’s drink-crazed purpose. Was Miss Beeleigh simply maladroit? Or could there have been a fell intention in the attitude she chose to adopt? There could be no denying that her brusque manner of addressing the men had contributed in no small measure to their ire. Could she have meant them to turn on Ottilia?

“What are you thinking?”

The brief altercation with her husband faded into insignificance as she turned to him. “Fan, have I been blind? Have I missed it altogether?”

F
rancis’s mind jerked. Was she at that again? He reacted without thought.

“Oh no, Tillie. Have you learned nothing today? This cannot go on.”

To his instant dismay, she shifted back, away from him. There was anger in her face, and he braced to withstand it.

“You are not going to hold by your scheme of leaving? Francis, for heaven’s sake!”

He threw himself up from the bed and strode a couple of restless paces. Why could she not realise how impossible it was? Had she no inkling of the cold horror he had felt at her danger? Was his suffering nothing to her? Frustration consumed him as he turned to confront her.

“You want me to let you continue? You expect me to stand by, after you’ve been all but sacrificed, while you solve the mystery for these wretches? They don’t deserve it!”

With a sinking heart, he took in the disbelief in her stare.

“You would have me walk away, knowing who will be blamed if I don’t uncover the true murderer?”

He swung away, not looking at her. Yes, he would, if it meant he could rest easy to know she was secure. He grasped at straws.

“Cassie Dale has Kinnerton to protect her. Not to mention Lady Ferrensby.”

“But it took you and Ryde and Pilton, not to mention Sam Hawes. And what can Lady Ferrensby do?”

Francis had no answer to that. He was well aware of the difficulty, but nothing mattered, he told himself, except his wife’s security. He fell back upon the simple truth.

“I don’t want you involved, Tillie. I want you out of here. I want you
safe
.”

She got up and came to him, and Francis felt his resolve lessening as she set her hands to his shoulders. He clenched his teeth against the pull of her need.

“I am involved, Fan. Guard me, if you will, but don’t ask me to leave.”

Almost he gave in, but the thought of that cursed stake and the flaming brand sustained him. He must be firm. Taking her hands from his shoulders, he gripped them hard.

“I’m not asking you. I know your answer already.”

Her eyes darkened, and he struggled against a flush of remorse.

“You are commanding me, is that it?”

She tried to pull her hands away, but Francis tightened his grip, obliged to speak almost through his teeth to hold on to his determination.

“Yes, that is it, if you insist upon it. You may risk your life if you choose, but I will not. If that makes me a tyrant, then so be it.”

She blanched and stilled, deep reproach showing in her clear gaze.

“You can’t mean it, Fan. You haven’t thought. How can I go? How can I? Don’t you see what must happen next?”

“Yes, too well I see it,” he retorted. “I see your beloved face, like Duggleby or Molly, devoid of life!”

Tillie wrenched her hands away. “Not mine! Not mine, Fan. But there will be another murder—unless I can stop it. Whoever took that message to Molly is in mortal danger.”

Arrested, Francis stared at her. “You think the killer will strike again? But Cassie Dale has not had another vision.”

“And must not. Therein lies my only hope.”

She was right. He knew it. Yet in his fear for her, Francis hunted his mind for refutation. Or some other way to defeat the enemy. He found it.

“Leave it to Kinnerton. If anyone can keep that silly girl from blurting out whatever crazy prophecy she thinks up next, he can.”

“Then what?” Tillie’s clear gaze held steady on his, overlaid with a luminous film that cut him to the heart. “Do you think it will all blow over? Will there be peace in the village while each man eyes his neighbour askance, wondering? While the killer waits, seeking the right moment? No, Fan. There is a mind at work in Witherley that is bent upon destruction. As you love me, don’t try to make me act against my conscience, for I cannot.
I cannot.
”

Francis reached out a finger and gently wiped the wet from under her eyes. He smiled. “I am a soldier, Tillie. I know when to recognise defeat.”

With a little cry, she almost fell against him, and Francis gathered her close, tucking her head into his chest and holding it as her body trembled in his arms. His heart twisted as he heard her valiant efforts to stifle sobs.

“Hush, my dear one,” he murmured, moved beyond endurance. “Since you will have it so, we will see it through.”

He offered up a silent oath to keep her from harm, come what may. His Tillie had a soldier’s instinct, he reflected. Yet he swore, if his own life depended on it, that she would not be called upon to fulfil a soldier’s duty and die for strangers.

A
idan kept a firm hold of Cassie’s arm as he escorted her from her cottage towards the Blue Pig. The rumpus had died down, and most of the villagers had retired to the Cock and Bottle, having at last wearied of standing around the little lock-up in which Will the tapster, his closest accomplice, and the Staxton boys had been incarcerated.