Page 83 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
Well. I’d known he’d identify us, I just hadn’t cared overmuch at the time. “If you’d please just let me pass.” My heart raced in my chest. Why would the foolish man notmoveout of the way?
“Well, it’s no matter, Miss Vaughn, as I propose we trade, you and I.” His eyes wetly raked their way over my body and I took a step back out of instinct. “You see, I have heard some delicious things about you and Lady Chenowyth. Things I’m most certain you would not want spoken of. Thatshewould not want spoken of and I’d be more than happy to keep to myself. For a price of course…” Good God, did the man have no moral center? Evidently not. He rapped the crop again on his hand with a slap and at long last I lost my temper. The one my mother had always cautioned me to guard. I jerked the crop from his hands and threw it behind me into the garden where it disappeared beneath some leggy chamomile.
“I have asked you enough. If you do not move, I will have no other choice but to make you move. Now, please, let me pass,” I gritted out, my fingers moving to the revolver tucked in my waistband.
The vicar let out a laugh, deep and sickening. “As if you’d have the stomach to strike down a man of God.” He reached down, lifting the latch, and took a step inside the gate, closer to me, his pink tongue running roughly over his lips. Theman’s breath reeked of liquor, which explained his sudden loquaciousness. He eyed the stand of chamomile where the crop had fallen. “Spare the rod, Miss Vaughn… I’m sure you’ve heard that adage. And I have a mind to—”
But before he finished another word, I’d balled my fist, pulled back, and punched him with a decade’s worth of unspent anger. The man dropped like a sack of Irish potatoes. I’d knocked him clean out, likely doing irreparable damage to my immortal soul in the process. Then again, I doubted God—if he even existed—cared much for blackmailers.
I hurried down the lane, and for the first time in my life I wished that I believed in something beyond reason. The figure from my dream danced through my thoughts. How she’d leaned over the child. Could it have been a warning? Would Tamsyn harm her own son? I couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t—but I’d been wrong before. So many times that I could not take the chance. Not again.
The sky was dark as a sound of low thunder rumbled over the distance.
There was nothing for it.
I ran.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIXA Waking Dream
THEhalls of Penryth were eerily quiet in the dwindling daylight. My lungs didn’t want to take in air and my body ached from lack of food and my recent exertions. But I had to get to the nursery. Had to know that my dream was just that—a dream and nothing more.
I skidded to a stop, slipping on the kitchen floor. Blood pooled beneath my feet in the doorway to the servants’ stair. I took in a bracing breath and proceeded slowly, afraid of what or who I’d find on the other side of the wooden frame.
The broken and beleaguered object within my chest stuttered as I followed the oozing dark substance into the kitchen to find Mrs. Penrose sprawled out on the floor. In the same room she’d been drawing shapes with Jori days before. I dropped to the ground beside her, laying a hand on her chest. She was breathing but her eyes remained closed. Her graying hair was matted to her head with blood. She must have surprised her attacker. A basket lay on the floor with the contents upturned, teacakes and biscuits mingling promiscuously with her lifeblood on the dark flagstones. I gently probed the wound on her head. It was hot. Sticky.
She jerked upright, eyes flying open.
“Oh, maid, it’s you.” Her body relaxed slightly and she drew in a shaky breath, her eyes dazed and unfixed. “She’s gone mad I tell you. Completely mad. I couldn’t stop her.”
I nodded, reaching up for a cleaning cloth to wrap around her head to slow the flow of blood. It wasn’t serious, at least I didn’t think so. Her eyes weren’t dilated, they were clear and bright. “Go. Go, maid. Get the boy. I’ll be fit in a moment.” She rolled over onto her hands and knees before pulling herself to stand. “Go!”
“I’ll come back. I promise.” I pressed a kiss to her bloody temple.
Fingers wrapped around the revolver, I bolted from the kitchen and ran up the back servants’ stair to the nursery, taking the steps two at a time. My thighs strained from the effort, but I couldn’t feel them now. I would tomorrow.
If I see tomorrow.
I started down the third-floor hallway, floral wallpaper precisely as I’d seen in my dream. The only difference was that the ground beneath me was firm as stone. Though my weary legs begged to differ. Wobbling slightly, I stumbled against the wall like a sailor just returned from a year at sea.
Dammit, Ruby, there’s no time for weakness.I braced myself for a moment and paused, sucking in a breath. Then a second. Hoping that whatever moments I stole wouldn’t make the difference in life or death.
Footsteps creaked ahead on the old wooden floors, and I took in a final breath. It was time. The nursery door was only a few feet away and I had to believe—trust—in my dreams, as I’d not allowed myself to since I’d watched my entire family drown. I summoned the memory again, of the figure leaning over the cradle. There was no time to tarry.
I rounded the corner and turned the knob to the nursery.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVENThe Wraith Revealed
MYeyes adjusted to the dimness of the nursery, the scene before me playing out exactly as it had in my dream. Light barely came in through the pulled dark curtains. And in the center was the woman from the orchard. Shrouded in white, leaning over the cradle and humming something low and soft. With her back to me, the creature was unaware of my presence.
A muted shuffling came from the corner, and I turned to the sound.Tamsyn.She was strung up precariously balanced on the tips of her bare toes. She wore only her chemise. Nothing else. The thin muslin damp with sweat. Wrists bound behind her back. My gaze slowly traveled upward, to the cloth shoved into her mouth. Her eyes wide. Frantic as she gave her head an imperceptible shake. I followed the sinister, yellowed rope wrapped around her delicate neck all the way to the rafters. She begged me silently, darting her gaze from me to the cradle.
I gave her a slight nod. She’d asked me from the beginning to protect Jori. She’d been right to be worried, in ways she was incapable of knowing then.
The shrouded figure remained still, softly singing an oldCornish folk song. One I’d heard sung before late at night. I could only make out a fraction of the words but I recognized the cadence all the same. And the voice.
Alice. Alice Martin. My heart and head and eyes were at war with one another. Alice Martin? I didn’t want to believe it, she’d seemed so kind and gentle.
“Oh, Georgie. That wicked woman stole you from me,” she cooed against the boy’s struggling form.
