Chapter Fifty-five
Swathed in stark black silk, the old woman sat sentry in a high-backed chair as her visitor entered.
The gnarled fingers of one hand curled around the oversized silver head of an ebony cane; the other, equally bejewelled, lay motionless in her lap.
Her silver hair, drawn so tightly beneath its black lace cap, made her skin appear stretched over bone — the flickering firelight carving hollows into her cheeks, deepening the lines bracketing her mouth, which seemed etched by a lifetime of perpetual disapproval and discontent.
“So,” came the voice, devoid of emotion. The single syllable seemed to echo, finding purchase in the rafters before dying into silence, as her sharp eyes swept over her visitor. “You’re the young woman who married my nephew?”
The vast room was oppressively warm, the air thick with the stifling breath of an unnecessary fire raging within the medieval stone hearth.
Shadows pooled in the corners like smoke, restless and watchful.
Heavy curtains hung half-drawn across the mullioned windows, their folds swallowing what little light dared to enter, while the feeble amber glow from the monstrous antler chandelier cast long, twitching shapes across the room.
Stuffed heads protruded from the walls, their glassy eyes peering down upon her, as soulless as the sharp, beady eyes that were critically scrutinising her from across the room.
Feeling a bead of perspiration trace down her spine, Sylvie suppressed a shiver and dipped a respectful curtsey.
“I am, Lady McDonald. It is a great honour to meet you, and I thank you for receiving me at such short notice.”
“Of course,” came the reply, her features tightening into something that might have been a smile, though it lacked all warmth.
“Come in, my dear. Don’t loiter in the doorway…
you are letting in a draft. Sit here, if you please, so I may take a closer look at you.
I rarely have visitors these days, and I don’t bite.
” She indicated the opposite chair with a prod of her cane.
Sylvie took a hesitant step forward, her pulse thudding in her ears.
“Thank you, Lady McDonald. You are most gracious,” she murmured, forcing her feet to move.
Perching demurely on the edge of her chair, she offered a faint smile, her eyes darting about the intimidating room as she grappled to regain her confidence and remember all Southerby had impressed on her.
“It… it must be wonderful to live in a place steeped in so much history,” she ventured.
“Mm, this is part of the original house. Little changed over the centuries.” The old woman’s tone was dry as dust. “Yet, I wonder it was the history of the house that brought you here. Tell me, how is my nephew?”
Sylvie’s mouth opened, but before she could form a word, Augusta continued. “He wrote me, you know. Told me he was taking a bride. Knowing him as I do, I was rather surprised by such news. Then word reached me you had… entrapped him.”
Blinking at such a direct accusation, Sylvie stammered, “Oh, no, no, it was a… an accident… a terrible misunderstanding. I never wished for such a man… to be forced to marry… I only ever dreamed of a love match, to share my life with a kind, gentle man, and now….”
“And now,” interrupted Augusta, “you are married to the Marquess of Westland. My nephew. A great honour, I would have thought.”
“My goodness… yes, yes, of course, it is the greatest honour,” faltered Sylvie. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. Your nephew… my husband… he is… well, he was most courteous and in no way unkind or cruel.”
“Was?” murmured Augusta pensively, her sharp gaze narrowing.
“Um, yes, yes, he was, before I was forced to withdraw to Wales.” Sylvie clasped her hands together, her voice trembling.
“Please, you must believe me when I say, I never set out that morning to entrap Lord Westland into marrying me. I’d never even spoken to him.
I love dancing, you see… when no one is watching, and, and,” implored Sylvie on faltering breaths, “it was such a lovely sunny day… and I had no idea he was there… and…”
“So,” cut in Augusta coolly, “just a wicked rumour, is it? Understand, my dear, when it comes to my nephew, I am rather protective. He is all the family I have left. Isabelle, his mother, my beloved sister, was taken from us in the cruellest manner, and… losing her… But let us not dwell in the past.”
“Oh, but Lady McDonald,” sniffled Sylvie, tears starting to shine in her unblinking eyes, “that’s why I have come to you.
I did not know where else to turn… the stories…
and you, the only one who truly knew them.
Who truly….” her voice trailed off as she fumbled to retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes with trembling fingers.
The faint rustle of silk as Augusta McDonald leaned slightly forward in her chair encouraged Sylvie to look up slowly.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Sylvie whispered, “I should never have imposed on you thus. It is wrong of me to ask such things, to put you in such a position. It’s just…
I knew not where else to turn. It’s too horrid to imagine.
I barely sleep at night, these stories — such terrifying stories, I know not what to believe. ”
Augusta’s eyes narrowed with measured interest. “Believe? About what, my dear?”
Leaning further forward on the edge of her chair, Sylvie lowered her voice to a frantic whisper.
“About the Westland curse. I do not know how long I can live with such uncertainty; such despair! Worrying that my husband may be… thinking he may be cursed like his father! A sickness they say… that drove him to do unspeakable things… but curses don’t really exist, do they?
Please, I beg you, tell me I am not cursed with the same fate as your poor, beloved sister Isabelle!
Please tell me Charles Westland did not…
did not turn into a madman and murder his wife! ”
Augusta sat statuesque, her lips slightly parted, her eyes unblinking.
For a moment, Sylvie held her breath, fearing she might have over-egged the pudding.
Not expecting to fall upon the subject with such rapidity, she’d panicked.
Had she been too eager and pushed too soon?
Then — slowly — Augusta leaned back. The lines of her mouth twisting into grim satisfaction, the glint in her eyes no longer suspicious — but righteous.
“Oh, but he did,” she breathed, “then the coward shot himself.”
Sylvie’s hand flew to her chest. “So, it wasn’t an accident as some claim? He didn’t shoot himself because he was so broken-hearted, he couldn’t live without her?”
“Ha! Romantic nonsense,” sneered Augusta.
“The man was completely mad, always had been. He had strange ways, certain oddities about him. Yet, oh… he could be charming when it suited him. Isabelle was taken in at the first smile. As much as I loved her, Isabelle was a na?ve, impressionable creature, full of romantic notions, and Charles smothered her with empty promises of love.”
“Oh?” whispered Sylvie, wide-eyed, perching further forward on her chair.
“Hm, and she wasn’t the first he tried to fool with his insincere charm, but she was the one who believed him.
” Warming to her subject, she continued.
“She hung on his every word. It was enough for his ego to fancy himself in love, and his mind to descend further into madness. He became obsessed with her. Jealous if she even looked at another man, and cruel, he was always a cruel man beneath the charm, but the sickness, well, it just made him worse.”
“Really?” breathed Sylvie.
“My word, and Isabelle, being the romantic fool that she was, sought solace in the arms of another man.”
“No!” gasped Sylvie.
“She was leaving him,” Augusta said, her voice hardening. “The day he chased her down and throttled the life out of her. Snapped her neck with his bare hands.”
“Nooo!” cried Sylvie, her shock now quite genuine. “How truly terrifying for you… to witness such a thing and be powerless to stop it! No wonder…” she murmured, shaking her head in consternation, “no wonder you rewarded the groom that day… for trying to save her, as he must have done.”
“Whatever are you talking about! I wasn’t witness to…”
“I understand,” interrupted Sylvie softly, leaning forward in a conspiratorial hush.
“If people had known — to face their questions, making you relive such horrors — to have to endure such judgment and prejudice. I know how cruel society can be. It all makes sense now… how brave and selfless you were. Forgive me,” she said, hurriedly reaching into her reticule.
Clasping the object, she withdrew it and held out her hand, slowly uncurling her trembling fingers.
“I meant to return this immediately upon my arrival. I believe it is yours.”
Augusta McDonald did not move. Her eyes, hard and unblinking, fixed upon the sapphire and diamond pendant resting in Sylvie’s outstretched hand as if it were about to grow venomous fangs. The only sound was the steady crackle of the fire, a low growl in the silence.
“Please,” Sylvie urged softly, “take it… it is yours, is it not?”
“Where… where did you get that?” murmured Augusta, her voice scarcely a whisper, unable to draw her eyes away as her hand reached forward.
“Oh, um, it came with a letter from a London solicitor… oh, I know I put it in here somewhere,” she said, fumbling again with her reticule.
“It was bequeathed back to its rightful owner by, um….” Still fiddling in the bag, she finally waved her hand in dismissal and looked up.
“A Peter Sheers, if I remember correctly. The solicitor wrote that Mr Sheers had been given it in payment for his service. Though, at the time, he’d been too distraught — frantic to get the little Lord back to the house after the accident — to realise what you had given him.
Because of the circumstances, he never felt comfortable keeping such a piece.
It weighed heavily on his conscience, so he wished it returned. ”
“A solicitor, you say?” Augusta’s tone had flattened to ice, though a tremor betrayed the strain beneath it.
“Mm, yes, he’d had it drawn up as part of his will, and there was…
oh, where is it…” rummaging in her bag again.
“I’m so sorry, there was a sealed letter addressed to the rightful owner, though I fear I have left it at the Inn.
I’ve been such a scatterbrain of late, consumed with worry over my husband…
and oh! Lady McDonald, if he were to know I had come… ”
“Angus does not know?”
“No… goodness no. I… I fear it would displease him greatly if he were to find out I had been… well… asking questions… and…”
Augusta’s chin dipped, her eyes sharpening. “And, he knows nothing of the sapphire?”
“Gosh no,” Sylvie said quickly. “Call me foolish, but I was so desperate, you understand. I thought if I were to return it in secret, it might afford me an opportunity to speak with you privately… in confidence. And now… now I’ve made a blundering mess of everything, forgetting the letter and…
I… I suppose it was merely a note of gratitude, thanking you for your kindness that day.
I can have it delivered the moment I return. ”
“Yes,” murmured Augusta, settling back in her chair. “I’m sure that is all it is. But have it sent along regardless… as soon as you return.”
“Of course,” Sylvie nodded eagerly. “And you think it best if Lord Westland knows nothing of my visit? Or… or of the sapphire?”
Augusta leaned forward once more, her expression softening into something that almost resembled maternal concern.
“My dear,” she said, her voice low and honeyed, “I am grateful for the return of my sapphire, but for your sake — and for all concerned — I think it best we keep the reason for your visit, and what we have discussed to ourselves. No good would come of any others knowing.”
Sylvie swallowed, a nervous flutter in her chest. “Yes… Yes, of course. I understand.”
“Good,” Augusta whispered, her lips curving in a thin, satisfied smile. “Then let us speak of it no more.”