The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Pariah

  Copyright © 2012 by Catherine Gayle

  Cover Design by Kim Killion, the Killion Group

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  For more information: [email protected]

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Catherine Gayle Titles

  Sneak Peek: Seven Minutes in Devon

  To Tammy and Erin, for helping to guide me down Aunt Rosaline’s rocky path, and for convincing me I could write this story the way it deserved to be written, to Samantha for always believing in me, and to Jane for your tireless dedication and eternal honesty.

  Hassop, Derbyshire

  November, 1815

  An itchy quiet, thick and unnerving, blanketed the house like a wet woolen blanket. Silence never descended upon the Cottage at Round Hill, aside from those rare midnight moments while the rest of the household slept, leaving Bethanne Shelton with a few ponderous intervals in which to breathe.

  But this was not the middle of the night. The sun was still making its passage across the sky, hidden behind snow-filled clouds for the duration of its journey. At this time of day, silence could mean nothing but a new cause for anxiety.

  If there was one thing on this earth Bethanne did not need, it was another worry to add to her ever-growing list.

  “Aunt Rosaline?” she called out.

  No answer.

  Bethanne slipped out of the cozy parlor at the front of the house and into the entryway. She looked from one end of the corridor to the other. No one was there.

  “Aunt Rosaline,” she repeated, a bit more loudly.

  Joyce Hurd rushed in from the kitchens with her hands and dark gray worsted gown all dusted in a smattering of flour. A bit of it was even sprinkled in her rich, brown hair. “Has Lady Rosaline gone missing again? Isn’t Mrs. Temple with her? I would have brought her into the kitchens with me if I’d known… Oh, how I wish we had found someone to replace Inwood already.”

  Yet another thing for Bethanne to do—and sooner rather than later, it appeared.

  She didn’t want the entire staff to worry just now. Aunt Rosaline might be fine, after all. There might be nothing amiss. “We should start looking. If fortune favors us today, she won’t have gone far.”

  “Come on then,” Joyce said. “Let’s be off to find Lady Rosaline before she hurts herself.”

  Or someone else. Bethanne and Joyce passed a knowing look between them. Surely, the cook was thinking that very thing. She’d worked for Aunt Rosaline since well before Bethanne’s arrival. Joyce had seen Aunt Rosaline at her best. And at her worst.

  Bethanne hoped they’d all seen her at her worst, at the very least. But of late, all of her hopes had been in vain.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t just stand around hoping things would be all right. “Let’s split up, shall we? You search the house—mainly the ground floor. She can’t get up the stairs on her own very well, at least.” Thank the Lord for small mercies. “I’ll see if she’s made her way past us and outside somehow.” Bethanne shuddered at the notion, but there was no time to waste with such thoughts.

  The cook nodded and scurried off to do as Bethanne had asked. Smoothing her trembling hands over her skirts, Bethanne gathered all the resolve she could muster and headed for the back door. She didn’t take the time to don a pelisse, let alone anything more substantial, to ward off the chill. The few seconds such a task would require could mean all the difference in the world.

  The rose garden seemed a likely place for her aunt to have wandered. Certainly more likely than the front yard. Passing horses and carriages seemed to make Aunt Rosaline nervous of late, since she couldn’t always see them until they’d nearly run her over.

  With the failing of her mind, Aunt Rosaline’s fear, at least in this instance, was Bethanne’s blessing, to be sure.

  Stepping outside, Bethanne took a cursory look around. Nothing seemed to have been toppled over or knocked aside. Such things weren’t always the best indications, however. “Aunt Rosaline?” She made her way through the winding paths, scanning the ground for her aunt’s prone form. Each step increased the galloping pace of her pulse.

  A few minutes later, she’d scoured the entire rose garden and found nothing. Not even a trail of footprints in the snow. Of course, the snow was still coming down, having just started that morning—the season’s first snowfall. Why must it portend something awful? Bethanne shook the thought aside and settled back to her task. Depending on how long Aunt Rosaline had been gone, the footprints could have easily been covered over already.

  Where to look next? The path leading to the pond, or the trail through the arbor—the one leading up to the hills? Hugging her arms to her chest for warmth, she passed her eyes over her two choices. As before, nothing was out of place. Bother!

  “Aunt Rosaline?” she tried again, the force of her call increasing with each repetition. What she wouldn’t give for something to indicate which route was more likely to yield results.

  “Miss Bethanne?” Mrs. Temple’s voice came from the direction of the pond. Bethanne squinted in her direction. The housekeeper picked up her skirts and hurried forward, puffing and panting as she came. Gusts of white mist rushed out into the air before her. “Oh, thank goodness you’re out here, too. I turned my back on your aunt for just a moment, and when I looked back, she was gone.”

  Just as Bethanne had feared. “Where were you when she went missing?”

  “In the rose garden. Lady Rosaline seemed rather clear-headed this morning and wanted a bit of air. I needed to beat some rugs, so I didn’t see any harm in it.” Mrs. Temple wrung her hands. The lines around her eyes were pinched, and her tone rose with a hitch on almost every word. “Oh, I should never have taken her out of the house. I should have left her with Joyce in the kitchens.”

  Bethanne pulled the housekeeper into an embrace, stroking the older woman’s back. The small contingency of servants at Round Hill had ever been more like family than anything. “Don’t fret so. I would have done the same.” Stepping back, Bethanne turned her gaze in the direction of the arbor and steeled herself for the sloping trek. “Where have you already searched, Mrs. Temple?”

  “Both the pond and the arbor.” No wonder the older woman was gasping for air.

  With a brisk nod, Bethanne ruminated over the newest information. “And I’ve searched the garden,” she murmured.

  Bethanne and Mrs. Temple locked gazes. No words were necessary. As one, they turned and skirted around the outside of the cottage, nearly sprinting for the front of the house. Or, more precisely, for the hole in the fence where it had broken—after Inwood had left them, of course—and the grim possibility that neither of them wished to face.

  “Aunt Rosaline?” Bethanne shouted as they came around the side of the house. There was no sign of her. Two freshly fal
len pickets lay on the ground, making the hole wider than before. An ominous sign, if ever Bethanne had seen one. She swept her eyes over the road for any other sign of Aunt Rosaline’s departure. Nothing.

  Joyce rushed out of the house, apron whipping around her. Like Bethanne, she also had no coat to warm her. “She is nowhere inside, miss.”

  “Very well. I’ll take the road into town. Joyce, search along the side of the road in the direction of the lake. And Mrs. Temple, will you please visit the Forrestleys? Ask them if they’ve seen her.” She started to leave, then turned back briefly. “And perhaps the Millers, too.” Bethanne doubted her aunt had gone that far, but…

  She couldn’t waste any more time. Bethanne took off on foot before they could respond. Perhaps because she was traveling as fast as she could, her half-boots squeezed her toes in the cold. She’d have blisters in no time. But slippers would have been worse, and there hadn’t been time to prepare the carriage.

  At least Aunt Rosaline would be moving much more slowly than Bethanne was. She said yet another silent prayer of thanksgiving. These petitions were becoming more and more of a habit, of late.

  Several moments after she’d left, the clatter of a carriage traveling along the road behind her grew loud in her ears. Bethanne moved off to the side of the road. It drew up alongside her. Even with the dreary clouds overhead, the Marquess of Herringdon’s crest glinted on the side of the conveyance.

  Was His Lordship returning to Hassop House? Whatever for? He’d always been one to remain either in London or his principal seat in Yorkshire, only making visits to Hassop in the pleasant weather of summer—and those visits were few and far between. Bethanne couldn’t recall a single visit since she’d been in residence at the cottage, and she’d come to care for her aunt nearly eight years ago now.

  The carriage was brimful with trunks and other possessions, however, leaving no room for a passenger inside. Perhaps the marquess and his wife were traveling in a separate coach. Bethanne looked back, but nothing else was on the road.

  The driver slowed and called out to her, “I would offer you a ride, miss, but as you can see, I cannot find room for you.”

  “Thank you for the thought, sir. I am quite well on my own.”

  He’d never have offered if he knew what the townsfolk thought of her. Surely, he was not part of the local staff, but more likely Lord Herringdon’s London or Yorkshire staff. She oughtn’t to intentionally blemish Lord Herringdon’s name by “consorting” with his servants or some other such rubbish, whether this particular driver knew her to be the local pariah or otherwise.

  She caught his eye for a moment. “There may be another lady afoot ahead on the path. Please do be cautious.” There was no telling what Aunt Rosaline might do if she were startled by a strange carriage and driver. Bethanne waved him on his way and, after a moment’s hesitation, he flicked the reins. His team picked up speed yet again. They drove out of sight within minutes.

  After she’d traveled at least a half mile in the biting wind, perhaps closer to a mile, she caught a glimpse of bright jonquil fabric up ahead. Aunt Rosaline? But then, who else would be out on foot—particularly alone—on such a day?

  Only a blithering idiot such as Bethanne.

  “Aunt Rosaline!” She picked up her pace until she reached a run. The jonquil form before her gradually grew until there could be no doubt. She ran faster, despite the sharp bite of pain assaulting her lungs each time she took in a bracing gasp of cold air.

  When she finally caught up to her aunt, the older woman was seated on the ground. Her skirts were spread out around her, and she held one of her own boots in her hands.

  “Aunt Rosaline? What are you doing out here?” Bethanne kept her voice quiet, smooth somehow, despite her tattered nerves. Now was not the time to startle her aunt. It only took the slightest provocation these days.

  Aunt Rosaline looked up at her without comprehension. No doubt, she’d forgotten who Bethanne was again. This would not be easy. But then again, when was anything in her life ever easy? Not in quite some time, at the very least.

  “I was on my way to visit my brother, Drake. He lives just around the bend over there, you know. But my boot came off.”

  “Aunt Rosaline, Uncle Drake lives at Ainsworth Court. He’s well over a hundred miles away. It would take us days to get to him.” Weeks on foot, but there was no need to voice that. Bethanne bent to put the boot back on her aunt’s foot.

  Her aunt swatted at her hands. “Oh, you ninnyhammer! We’re just around the corner from him now.” She squinted off in the distance, staring at a massive hill and pointing. “It’s right there. Behind that hill. I grew up in the manor, you know. I should think I know what it looks like.”

  Bethanne ignored the hands trying to force her to stop. She tied the laces on her aunt’s boots. “Of course, you’re right. But I’m afraid he is from home at the moment.” Maybe taking a different tactic would work. “I believe I saw his carriage heading away. Perhaps we should return to the cottage and send him a letter.” She had seen a carriage making its way down the road moments before, after all. It hadn’t been Uncle Drake’s carriage, but maybe Aunt Rosaline would believe it had been her brother’s. Surely she’d seen it as well.

  “Oh, you’re quite right, of course.” Aunt Rosaline fussed with the remnants of her chignon, which had long since fallen loose about her shoulders. “Drake will call on me later, I’m sure.”

  Bethanne exhaled a silent breath, though the chill in the air betrayed her. Thank goodness Aunt Rosaline would be reasonable today. Maybe she could get her home without any more complications. She straightened herself and reached out a hand to assist her aunt. Once they were both on their feet, Bethanne tucked Aunt Rosaline’s hand into the crook of her arm and tugged her in the direction of the cottage.

  The house came into view none-too-soon. The cold had enveloped Bethanne to the point that her teeth were chattering and her fingers felt numb. If she were this cold, heaven only knew how long it would take to warm Aunt Rosaline again.

  When she turned up the lane and tried to lead her aunt into the yard, their smooth journey came abruptly to an end.

  “What is this place?” Aunt Rosaline stopped short and pulled her hand free. “This isn’t my home. Who are you?” Her eyes darted about frantically. Any moment, she would run. Bethanne had seen this precise reaction far too many times to count.

  Joyce hurried out of the house just in time. “Oh, thank goodness you’ve found her.” Mrs. Temple came out only a moment later, carrying blankets to wrap around them.

  “Come inside, Aunt Rosaline,” Bethanne coaxed. “We’ll explain everything when we’re in the warm house. Joyce will make some tea and your favorite biscuits. It will be lovely.” She ever-so-carefully reached out a hand to grasp her aunt’s arm.

  Aunt Rosaline snapped her arm back in a surprisingly strong movement for her frail form. “Don’t touch me. I don’t know you. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Her wide, fearful eyes bored through Bethanne, like she was attempting to accost her.

  Joyce and Mrs. Temple joined them. As a group, Bethanne and the servants formed a circle around Aunt Rosaline so she couldn’t escape again without a struggle.

  “Here we are, my lady,” Mrs. Temple said. She draped one of the blankets over Aunt Rosaline’s shoulders and smoothed her hands over her back.

  As soon as the blanket was in place, Bethanne pulled it tight around her aunt, making it impossible for the older woman to use her arms against them. “Come along now. It will all be better inside.”

  With Joyce on one side, Bethanne on the other, and Mrs. Temple taking up the rear, they attempted to move the lady into the house, but Aunt Rosaline dug her heels into the ground. She wouldn’t budge.

  “They’re kidnapping me! Someone help! Call the watch!” Aunt Rosaline struggled against them, kicking out with her foot and connecting with Bethanne’s ankle.

  She bit back a blasphemy and kept trying to propel her aunt forward before
the entire neighborhood came out into the street to witness the commotion. The three of them were able to lift Aunt Rosaline bodily and carry her inside, despite the constant thrashing resistance she put up.

  “Ooh, pretty horsey.”

  Bethanne froze. The front door swung closed, shutting Finn outside in the cold with the racket of a horse galloping hell-for-leather along the roadway for company.

  “Master Finn!” his nurse, Mrs. Wyatt, called out. She rushed down the stairs as fast as her arthritic legs would carry her. Which, admittedly, was not all that fast. “I’m sorry, Miss Bethanne, he got away from me.”

  Bethanne loosed her grip on her aunt and left her in the care of the servants. With her blood freezing to a trickle in her veins, she bolted out the front door.

  The beast reared back when Roman ripped against the reins, nearly unseating him in the process—but at least it came to a stop. More than enough crimes could already be attributed to Lord Roman Sullivan, youngest son of the Marquess of Herringdon and former major of His Majesty’s Fifth Dragoons. Today of all days, he would not add Trampler of Toddlers or Decimator of Dwarves to the myriad names he’d already come by naturally: Murderer of Men Much Better than Himself, Betrayer of his Best Mate, and Widow-Maker, amongst countless others.

  He bit back a curse and shook his head, bewildered. What nurse worth her wage would allow her charge to run free like that? If one of his men had dared such a thing—

  But no. Those days were in the past. He had no more men serving beneath him, nor would there ever be again. At least not in that manner. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t have nearly trampled a child, wouldn’t have been caught thinking of the blasted vial tucked securely in his coat pocket, just over his heart.

  Roman ought to have been paying attention to the road before him, to his surroundings. Where had his training gone? A soldier should never neglect his situation. A lack of awareness could mean death, and not only in the midst of a war.

  He could have killed the boy.