Face Down In The Marrow-Bone Pie Part 15

At first she was unable to understand how the stone that covered the entrance to the family vault had come to be removed. Then she realized that she knew who had been in the chapel earlier that evening. A little sob escaped her. As much as she wished she had the strength of character to tell her neighbor everything she suspected, she did not dare speak up.

Catherine roamed her father's study, idly picking things up and putting them down again, trying to think, trying to reason out not only what had happened but why. Nearly an hour pa.s.sed, in which she came to no clear conclusions. Then her mother interrupted her, demanding to know what she was doing.

"Nothing," Catherine said.

"Then why did you start when I spoke? Why do you twist your hands together?"

"'Tis nothing." Around her mother, Catherine nearly always felt ill at ease. And sometimes guilty, too, whether she'd done anything wrong or not.

"'Tis something. Tell me now, Catherine, or it will go hard on you."

"I was only thinking."

"About what?"

"I was wondering why so many people wish the Appletons harm."

"What people?"

"Cousin Matthew. Jack the tiler. You and Father."

At first she thought her mother would not answer. Then, with a grimace, Euphemia Denholm said curtly, "You know why Randall and I disliked Sir George. That old reprobate was to blame for Jane's death."

"But-"

"Your father is . . . disturbed in his mind. He has never gotten over losing Jane. But he is still head of this family . . ." Her voice trailed off as she made a helpless gesture with one hand, as if to say, What can we do but accept our duty?

"I do not understand how you can defend actions that harm another. You-"

"Let it be, Catherine. Do as your father and I tell you, always, and all will be well." Without another word, Euphemia left the room.

She a.s.sumed she would be obeyed.

The confrontation only increased Catherine's anxiety. For a long while, in the quiet of the study, she stood with head hung low, her mind reviewing all the unanswered questions.

Why would no one explain?

Catherine shuddered, remembering what she'd been coerced into doing, but she was suddenly certain that if she tried to tell anyone that the ghost was a fraud she would only make matters worse. She would be blamed. The authorities would think she'd devised the scheme herself, that she was mad. She'd be locked up for the rest of her life.

She had no real choice. She had to continue to be an obedient daughter. She did not dare confess to Susanna Appleton or anyone else.

Guilt threatened to overwhelm her.

What if Lady Appleton died?

Tears flowed at that thought and Catherine bolted, fleeing in spite of the cold to seek what comfort she could in Denholm's dormant flower garden. But there was no respite there, nor inspiration. No escape from the terrible possibility that she might share the blood of a murderer.

Chapter Thirty-One.

A week after her fall, Susanna was ill-tempered and restless. She could hobble about on her injured leg, but it pained her too much to stay up for long. She knew rest was essential for a full recovery, so most of the time she remained in her bed, one foot propped up on pillows, thinking about all the things she'd rather be doing. For a woman who usually enjoyed good health, this was an ordeal.

She did not even have Jennet for company. With the desertion of most of the servants, her companion had been recruited to help the few who were left. Mark had gone into Manchester twice, offering employment, but he'd found no one willing to take on Appleton Manor's ghost. Word had spread far and wide that the specter was out for blood. Few wished to risk life or limb by coming near.

Gossip had also reached Jennet that Mark was taking time to pay calls on Temperance Strelley, which put the maidservant in a foul mood to match that of her mistress. Susanna did not know whether to be amused of irritated by the reaction. Since she'd been the one to suggest that Mark continue to visit the Strelley house, the better to find out what their neighbors, the Inces, were up to, she could scarce demand that he stop going there now.

When she felt better, Susanna promised herself, she would sit down and have a heart-to-heart talk with Jennet about men and marriage and compromise. She was, after all, something of an expert on the subject.

A faint rap drew her attention to the door. Catherine Denholm hesitated in the opening, her eyes darting nervously about the bedchamber as if she, too, expected to be confronted by a supernatural being.

"Ah-Catherine. Come in, my dear." If Susanna's voice sounded heartier than usual, it only reflected the fact that she was starved for conversation. Her smile was genuine. Trapped here as she was, she much preferred a visit from Catherine to one from Catherine's overwhelming mother.

"If I do not disturb your rest . . ."

"Never think it. I've rested enough to take me into the new year." Susanna patted the side of the bed. "Come and sit down and tell me how the world outside does."

"Much the same as ever, I do fear."

As Catherine launched into an amusing anecdote concerning the escape of a milch cow from the barn, Susanna's eyes narrowed. Away from Euphemia's dominance, her young daughter was a surprise. Her narrow face and high forehead would prevent her ever having the softly rounded features that presently const.i.tuted beauty, but the blossoming of color on her cheeks worked wonders and her dark eyes were marvelously expressive.

"'Tis a dull time of year," Catherine concluded. "We have nothing better to speak of than cows . . . and your impending demise. Your fall in the chapel has sparked much speculation."

As if uncertain how Lady Appleton would take that news, Catherine shifted her gaze to the distant horizon visible through the window. She toyed with a lock of dark brown hair, waiting for some indication from her hostess that this was an acceptable topic of conversation.

"What? Am I dead and risen again?" Masking more serious thoughts, Susanna kept her tone of voice light.

A smile lifted the corners of Catherine's mouth as she met her neighbor's eyes once more. "I do not doubt it," she said with a chuckle. "You must know that gossips will invent what they cannot otherwise learn."

"I know that all too well. 'Tis true among servants in particular."

There was something about Catherine's bearing, she thought, that reminded her of another. Euphemia, no doubt. Certes it was not Randall. Though at first Susanna had thought the girl much resembled her frail father, now she was of another mind.

"I fear the servants at Denholm do eagerly await whatever news they can glean from your retainers."

"My present staff or those who have most precipitously left?" A wry twist lifted one corner of Susanna's mouth. She had no reason to expect loyalty from those servants she'd hired since coming to Lancashire, but she had counted on their staying in her service for the year they'd agreed to.

"Oh, those who fled, to be sure. They have the far more interesting tale to tell."

Susanna wondered. Jennet had an admirable imagination and she did like to be the center of attention. And it was but a short walk overland from one house to the other.

"Have they all gone on to Manchester?" she inquired aloud. "These former employees of mine?"

"I believe so. They dared not linger near Appleton Manor and its evil spirits."

"I find I cannot blame them," Susanna admitted. "They fear what they do not understand."

Catherine hesitated, then blurted. "Why are you not frightened? You have suffered an injury because of this ghost. You must know it means to harm you."

"Does it? Why? 'Tis against my nature to let mysteries go unsolved, and therefore I must continue to seek answers."

"I do not understand you."

Susanna rather thought she did, for Catherine's pink cheeks had abruptly lost all their color.

"This ghost is no ghost," she said calmly, her eyes fixed on the girl's face. "Ghosts do not need candles, nor do they leave footprints."

Her visitor's already pale complexion turned deathly white. "You know this?"

"I know this. Someone seeks to trick us and I will discover who it is if it takes the last breath in my body."

Her words hung in the air between them, a challenge and a declaration of war. It required Dame Cat, who had been curled with her kittens in a basket on the far side of the bed, moved there to keep Susanna company after her fall, to break the tense silence that ensued. She landed with a small thump on the top of the coverlet.

Catherine gasped, her hand flying to her throat, then managed a sheepish smile as she extended one hand toward the cat. The feline sauntered toward the newcomer, sniffed, then nuzzled.

"Sweet," Catherine murmured.

"I call her Dame Cat." Patience, Susanna warned herself. If she put too much pressure on young Catherine, the girl would flee.

Hesitantly, as if she longed for an excuse to linger yet feared the outcome, Catherine began to stroke the now purring creature. After a moment she ventured a comment. "I have seen this pretty puss about, before you came."

Susanna introduced the kittens, who were awake now and mewing. Catherine relaxed visibly, enough to advance an opinion that one of the area's tomcats, a pure white creature who roamed the fields between Denholm and Appleton, was likely to have fathered them.

The young woman's demeanor puzzled Susanna. Catherine did not seem impulsive, as Jennet had reported, nor in need of watching. Studying her as she sat and played with the cats, reviewing their conversation, Susanna came to the conclusion that Catherine was a shy, self-contained girl, but pleasant company when she wished to be. Did that mean she might be devious, as well?

Susanna remembered the first time she'd seen Catherine, at Denholm Hall. The girl had given an impression of drifting when she walked. All in all, she possessed exactly the right physical qualifications to be Appleton Manor's ghost.

The two properties were close together, especially if one traveled on horseback and overland. It would not be difficult, even at night, to come to Appleton Manor from Denholm Hall and slip away again without anyone being the wiser.

But why would she? There had been a scheming, conniving mind behind the ghostly appearances. Unless Susanna was much mistaken, Catherine was too sweet-natured to have devised such a plot.

Looks could be deceiving, as Susanna well knew, but to do such a thing on her own, to lure Susanna toward what might have been her death? No, if Catherine was the ghost, and that was by no means certain, then she had not conceived the idea of haunting Appleton Manor on her own.

Susanna wanted the ghost to be someone else. She could think of two other girls who could have played the part of the supernatural being, at least for size. Both Bess and Grizel were slender, though neither had Catherine's gracefulness.

One of the three. That seemed sure. It only remained to discover which one. And why. And who had put her up to it.

"Does your injury pain you?" Catherine asked.

"Not so much anymore. My leg suffered most of the damage and it is healing well."

She had come back to consciousness in the chapel just in time to prevent Jennet from sending for medical help. She'd taken charge herself, giving instructions to both Jennet and Mabel.

Between them they had nursed her admirably, first applying sicklewort to stanch the bleeding from the cut, then washing the wound with comfrey juice to guard against deadly inflammations. She'd been obliged to send Jennet out for more comfrey roots, the only part of the plant that was available fresh at this time of year. On her return, Susanna had supervised the reduction of the roots to pulp, making sure that Jennet strained the pulp through linen cloth before she used it to make the poultices that would stave off infection. Susanna acknowledged that she had been most fortunate. Fever had troubled her only during the first night.

"Can I give you something for pain?" Catherine sounded genuinely concerned. "I have heard that poppy syrup is effective."

"I save my poppy syrup for more urgent needs. For the times when my leg troubles me, I use lettuce cakes." She plucked up a thin brown wafer from the table at the bedside. "These are made from the white juice of wild lettuce. When it dries to this form it becomes a mild narcotic. One of these cakes is enough to allow me to sleep even when the pain is troublesome. It is also an additional preventive against developing fever."

"I wish I could do something to make your recovery easier." Catherine continued to stroke Dame Cat.

"Only finding out the truth about the ghost will do that," Susanna said gently. She considered asking Catherine outright about her part in this. Would she admit to being the ghost? Or would she flee?

Patience, she warned herself again as she saw a haunted look come into Catherine's eyes. This confrontation must wait until she was back on her feet. Then she could deal better with this young woman's reaction to the accusation, hold onto her with physical force if necessary.

In spite of her desire to find Catherine innocent, Susanna reluctantly admitted that her neighbor was the most likely suspect. The time would come when she would have to force a confession from her, and then deal with whatever fiend had inspired this dangerous mischief.

"Mayhap there is some errand I can run for you," Catherine suggested. "We go to Manchester tomorrow." At the thought, she abruptly brightened. "I could take messages to my cousin!"

"Your cousin?" Susanna was not aware that she knew any of Catherine's relatives, aside from her parents.

"Matthew Grimshaw. The lawyer. He is my mother's sister's son."

"How odd."

"Odd?"

"That I did not know. I'd have thought either Grimshaw himself or your mother would have mentioned the relationship ere now."

The expressions that flickered in rapid succession across Catherine's face were impossible to interpret, but at her first opportunity she bade Susanna farewell and all but fled the bedchamber.

"Odd, indeed," Susanna murmured.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

"It is about time you got back," Jennet complained.

Mark scowled at her and hung his coat on a peg by the kitchen door. "I've had a long, cold ride. If you've naught good to say to me, pray be silent."

"Is she more amenable?"

"She?"

"Do not play games with me, Mark Jaffrey. I know you visit a woman when you go to town."

"In truth, Jennet, I did not have time. I've been too busy looking for new servants to hire, and trying to talk Master Grimshaw out of writing to Sir Robert."

"What?"