Valley of the Ravens Read online

  “Something of the sort,” Thirza muttered. She was watching us with the vaguely anxious expression that was so much a part of her. As if she were worried that something was wrong, but could not decide quite what it was.

  “I don’t understand what Jerome can have been thinking of. Why this deception?” Nadine looked distinctly ruffled, and spots of angry color had appeared on her cheeks.

  “That,” I replied, no less angry, “is something I intend to find out—this very minute!”

  Walking swiftly from her room, I saw Rudd ahead of me in the corridor, and demanded, “Is Mr. Jerome still with his father?”

  “No, miss,” he said, his face devoid of all expression. “Mr. Jerome has returned to the office.”

  I hurried downstairs and, snatching up a waterproof cape to protect me from the pouring rain, I ran across the courtyard to the stable block. The entrance to the offices was to the right of the central archway. There was no one around, but the door of the countinghouse was slightly ajar, and I heard Jerome’s voice. I went in. He was talking to the elderly clerk, and they both looked around in surprise.

  “Jerome, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I must talk to you at once.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He gave some quick instruction to the clerk and came to join me, leading me through to his own office next door. He took the waterproof from around my shoulders, hung it on a peg, and bade me sit down.

  “I can see you are still very upset, Sarah.”

  “I have every right to be upset! Even more so now. Why did you not tell Nadine that it was I who found the porringer?”

  Jerome turned away from me and went to the window, staring out at the lashing rain, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I saw no need to complicate matters, Sarah.” “Complicate matters! But that is precisely what you have done, by making a mystery of it.”

  He swung around to stare at me. “Was there no mystery, then?”

  “Not to me, Jerome. To my mind it is quite clear that someone took the porringer and hid it in my room in order to make me look guilty. It was a deliberate scheme to get rid of me. I would be shown up as a thief, just as my sister was five years ago. But Felicity was no more guilty then than I am now!”

  “And who do you suggest did this outrageous thing, Sarah?”

  “It—it could have been anyone,” I said lamely. “Come, come! Whoever it was must have had a very strong motive for wanting you out of the way. You surely have some idea whom you suspect?”

  To give myself courage, I stood up and braced my shoulders.

  “Your father doesn’t want me here. He never did.” Jerome’s face showed no surprise. Only pain. “And how do you suppose my father made his way to your room unaided? You have seen the extreme difficulty with which he walks.”

  “He—he need not to have done it himself. Someone else...”

  “Who?” His eyes seemed to burn with the same gentian-blue light as his father’s. “I, perhaps?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “I am relieved to hear you say it, Sarah. Who, then?”

  “It could easily have been Rudd,” I said defiantly. “He is utterly cowed by your father—you can’t deny it. I am sure he would do anything that Uncle Joshua ordered him to do.”

  “I see.” Jerome raked his fingers through his thick dark hair. “Does it not occur to you, Sarah, that there is an even more valid explanation which cannot be ignored?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What you are suggesting is that this helps to prove your sister’s innocence. Perhaps, then, the theft was a plan conceived by yourself in a reckless attempt to do that very thing.” He raised his hand to silence my indignant denial. “Try to view this objectively, Sarah—if any of us can do that! You might have argued to yourself that, if you could make it appear someone had been intriguing against you in the matter of the porringer, then serious doubt would be cast on your sister’s supposed guilt concerning the pearl necklet. You’d be in a position to claim that she too must have been falsely maligned.”

  I stared at Jerome unbelievingly. “Is that what you really think of me—that I would sink to such deception?”

  “To protect the reputation of a beloved sister might appear to you a noble motive, Sarah, however questionable the action it entailed.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to fight off the misery that threatened to overwhelm me. The rain deluging down outside was thunder in my ears.

  “Oh, Jerome,” I cried, “what am I going to do?”

  I sensed him moving closer and the next instant I felt his arms go around me. He held me to him gently, and I pressed my face into his shoulder.

  “My poor little Sarah, I hate to see you so unhappy. If only I could help you to accept the truth and not try to fight against it. Facts cannot be altered, my dear, however bitter they may be. This is something I myself have had to live with—and will have to go on living with for the rest of my days.”

  I had been caught up in my own misery. But now I suddenly felt a deep compassion for Jerome. There had been such hopelessness in his voice, such utter despair, that I longed to bring him comfort.

  “You mustn’t go on torturing yourself like this, Jerome,” I ventured. “What happened to Nadine was an accident. You cannot be held in any way to blame.”

  A deep sigh escaped him. “If only it were as simple as you make it sound. But there is so much you don’t understand, Sarah.”

  Standing there with Jerome’s arms cradling me, I experienced a wondrous feeling of closeness with him. I felt more sweetly alive than I had ever felt before, and I longed for this lovely moment to go on and on. But Jerome shattered the fragile mood by saying abruptly, “You should go away from Farracombe, Sarah. You should never have come.”

  Startled, I pushed back from him, out of his arms. “You want me to go, Jerome?”

  “Want you to go? Oh, my God, no!”

  “Then why did you say I should go?”

  I had to wait for his answer. I watched the shadows fleet across his face as he sought for words.

  “Farracombe is no place for you, Sarah,” he said slowly. “It is a house of darkness, of bitterness. Of guilt. While you remain here you will be constantly reminded of the past, and you will feel a need to right the wrong which you believe was done to your sister. But away from Farracombe, you could build a new life for yourself. You could forget.”

  “I could never forget the hateful things that have been said about Felicity, wherever I might go.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He took a deep, labored breath. “Everything has been so different since you came, Sarah. Having you here has made me think of—”

  “Of what, Jerome?”

  “Of a time when I still had hopes and dreams. When I believed that life had something good and worthwhile to offer.”

  There was a long, pulsing moment of silence between us, while Jerome looked searchingly into my eyes. Then he suddenly reached out to me, drawing me into his arms again. My heart leaped and I knew that I was trembling on the threshold of a new and overwhelming experience. If Jerome intended to kiss me, could I find the strength to resist him?

  But in those ultimate split seconds of fearful joy, I glimpsed something that made me start back in alarm. A face, a pair of eyes, watching us through the small high windowpane, which gave borrowed light to the adjoining room. With a sense of icy dismay, I saw that it was Oscar. He must, I surmised, be standing on a chair or stool in order to reach the height of the window. How long had he been there, spying on Jerome and me?

  Realizing that I had seen him, Oscar grimaced humorously and dodged down out of sight. I stood staring at the empty window, shaking uncontrollably.

  “I apologize, Sarah,” Jerome was saying. “It was unforgivable of me.”

  “No, Jerome. I…”

  But I could not bring myself to tell him what I had just seen. I would need to speak to Oscar privately, to make him understand that he must on no account te
ll his sister of the scene he had just witnessed, since its meaning could be misinterpreted so easily.

  Yet what was the truth? Had it merely been a moment of madness, a swift, instinctive coming together of two unhappy people seeking comfort from one another? Or was there a deeper significance? Was Jerome, too, aware of the powerful, almost terrifying force that seemed to be drawing us closer? Was it because he feared the consequences of our runaway emotions that he had told me I should leave Farracombe?

  Abruptly, I turned and fled from Jerome’s office, forgetting the cape in my haste, and dashed across the wet courtyard, heedless that my agitated state would be observed by Uncle Joshua from his window above the porch. I did not stop running until I reached the sanctuary of my own bedroom. Breathless and trembling, I stood at the window and stared out at the dense, dark curtain of rain that swept across the moor.

  I was afraid to remain at Farracombe. Afraid of the hostile forces that surrounded me, afraid of myself, of the turmoil of my own emotions. Yet I knew that I had to stay. I was held here by a complex tangle of threads. It was no longer just Felicity’s name that I had to clear, but my own as well. Then there was Ginny—I had made her a promise to stay and become her tutor. She needed me.

  And Jerome, too. If I took him at his word, if I went away, I should find no peace. I would suffer, as I believed he also would suffer, an aching sense of loss, of emptiness, of desolation.

  * * * *

  It was not until an hour later that I tracked Oscar down. He was coming out of Nadine’s room, and my heart sank. Was I already too late?

  “Please, I must talk to you,” I said urgently.

  “By all means, Sarah. Shall we go downstairs?”

  We went into the salon, which was lit only by a single lamp that stood on the marquetry side table. Oscar carefully closed the doors and turned to me with the smile of a conspirator.

  “So you wanted to talk to me, Sarah, my sweet? Perhaps I can guess why.”

  “Oscar, have you spoken to your sister about— about what you witnessed in Jerome’s office?”

  “Should I have?”

  “If you haven’t, then I beg you not to do so. There is no point in distressing Nadine unnecessarily.”

  “Unnecessarily, Sarah?”

  “Yes! It—it was not in the least what it must have seemed to you. I was upset, and—and Jerome was comforting me.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “I wish that I might be permitted to comfort you like that. I wish I could be favored with the sort of look that was in your eyes when you gazed up at Jerome. He is indeed a lucky fellow.”

  “Please, Oscar—listen! You can’t honestly believe that Jerome and I—it is monstrous even to suggest it. Anyway, what were you doing, spying on us like that?”

  Oscar chuckled, without any sign of shame. “Oh Sarah, no man could be blamed for desiring you when your eyes flash with anger. What price will you pay, I wonder, for my promise to keep silent?”

  “I—I don’t understand what you mean,” I faltered.

  “Don’t you, Sarah? I was thinking of a kiss. A kiss to keep the secret of a kiss—that is surely a fair bargain?”

  He took a step toward me, his arms outstretched, and I felt a flurry of panic. Dodging swiftly past him, I ran for the door and heard Oscar’s mocking laughter following me as I rushed from the room.

  For the second time that day I fled upstairs to the privacy of my own room. Heart beating fast, my thoughts in wild confusion, I remained there until Ginny tapped on my door, and it was time to go down to dinner.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Of all the gardens and grounds of Farracombe Court I loved best the rose walks, where the rich-hued gallicas and autumn damask roses floated their fragrance upon the soft September air. I was wandering there one morning when I saw a footman approaching.

  “Excuse me, Miss Sarah. Mr. Smallbridge asks if you will be kind enough to receive him?”

  “Mr. Smallbridge? This is not one of his days for coming. Anyway, it will be Miss Ginny he wishes to see, not me.”

  “No, miss, he particularly asked for you. He is waiting in the morning room.”

  My heart plunged. As the days had gone by with nothing further said about the ridiculous notion of a match between Horace Smallbridge and myself, I had come to hope that it had all been forgotten. But I could think of no other reason for him to call upon me formally. For an instant I considered whether to decline to see him. But that would only be wasting an opportunity to make my views crystal clear.

  “Thank you, Smerdon,” I said. “Will you please tell Mr. Smallbridge I will join him in ten minutes?”

  I made my way slowly back to the house, deep in thought, not in the least relishing the coming interview. I went first up to my bedroom in order to check my appearance, but that was purely for my own reassurance. I did not intend to titivate for Mr. Smallbridge’s benefit.

  As I entered the morning room, he hastened forward. Today he was resplendent in a smart frock coat of fashionable cut, a dazzling white collar, and boots gleaming with newness.

  “Ah, my dear Miss Haddow,” he said, bowing stiffly from the waist. “How good of you to see me. I trust I have not chosen an inconvenient moment.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Smallbridge. Won’t you please be seated?”

  I sat down myself, and he drew up one of the lyre-backed chairs to face me, sitting on its very edge.

  “Miss Haddow,” he began ponderously. “I have not had the honor of knowing you for long, but even in this short time I have come to feel the deepest regard for you. I would like, if I may, to speak a little of myself. As you know, I shall shortly be leaving Farracombe to take up duties in a parish of my own. It is in Birmingham—in a district of worthy artisans, you understand.”

  “I am sure I wish you every success, Mr. Small-bridge,” I said. “You will find it very different from Exmoor. I daresay it will be rather like the industrial town in which I lived with my father until recently. So much needs to be done for the working people in such areas. There is dreadful poverty and overcrowding and ignorance on all sides ...”

  In my nervousness, I was talking too much. But Horace Smallbridge was listening as though enraptured. As I paused to draw breath, he chimed in quickly, “I am touched to hear you speak so sympathetically about the condition of the poor, Miss Haddow. But I have every reason to believe that my stay in Birmingham will not be protracted. More lucrative preferment is certain to follow after a short interval. I envisage a future of considerable promise—a cathedral city or a spa, or perhaps a fashionable resort by the sea ... I feel that with you at my side I could achieve my highest ambitions.”

  “Mr. Smallbridge!” I exclaimed. “What are you saying?”

  “Forgive me, I was quite carried away. But I will not apologize for admiring you, Miss Haddow.” He sprang to his feet. “Sarah—may I call you Sarah? I shall not dissemble—I have come to ask you to be my wife.”

  Although I had been prepared for this, it still came as a shock to hear the actual words upon his lips. It cost me an effort to remain calm.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Smallbridge, but it is out of the question. I am flattered that you should ask me, but I cannot accept.”

  He pressed his palms together. “Alas, I have put it to you clumsily. I lack finesse. But do not refuse me on that account, my dear Sarah. If only you will agree to be my wife, you will make me the happiest man alive.”

  I feared that in another moment he would be on his knees before me. To forestall him, I stood up and moved away.

  “I regret that it is impossible, Mr. Smallbridge. Quite impossible.”

  “Are you saying you have no regard for me at all?” he demanded.

  “Not in the way you mean—not as a prospective husband. I am very sorry, but there it is.”

  If I had expected him to be cast down, I was quite wrong. He merely looked bewildered.

  “I cannot understand this. I was led to believe—”

  “Not by
me, Mr. Smallbridge,” I interposed quickly. “Never by me.”

  “But surely I have been right to read encouragement in your manner toward me? You have always been so charming, so gracious, so considerate.”

  “I have always tried to be courteous, Mr. Small-bridge. Nothing more than that, I do assure you.”

  He frowned at me uncertainly. Then the frown cleared, and he assumed a pontifical air. Hands clasped behind his back, he took measured strides to the window.

  “I do not demand an immediate answer, Miss Haddow, if you wish to have a little time to consider.”

  “No, that will not be necessary,” I said. “You already have my answer, and it will never change. If anyone has suggested to you that it would be otherwise, then you were misinformed.”

  But it seemed that Mr. Smallbridge could not bring himself to believe I seriously meant what I said. He persisted in seeking some hidden reason for my rejection of his offer.

  “Perhaps I have been guilty of misleading you, Miss Haddow,” he suggested. “Perhaps you feel that I should be taking you to an insalubrious neighborhood, and that our home would not be of a standard you would find tolerable. But I assure you that though the area is an industrial one, the parsonage itself is a commodious modern residence standing in its own grounds of at least a couple of acres, and—”

  I committed the rudeness of breaking in upon his flow. “Mr. Smallbridge, if you imagine I refuse you because I am afraid of coming into contact with poverty, you do me a grave injustice. I refuse because—I am sorry to be blunt—because I do not feel a proper affection for you. In short, I do not love you.”

  “But Miss Haddow,” he persisted, “there are more important aspects to a marriage than love. A respected place in society, an assured future—these things count for far more.”

  “Not to me. I could never marry a man except for love.”

  “If I may say so, Miss Haddow, that is an excessively romantic conception.”

  “Then I am a romantic, Mr. Smallbridge, and I am not ashamed to admit it.”