Dark Angel (7 page)

“I am sure the lady will answer all of our questions in due time. She will know how excited we are to have this blessing from above arrive on our very doorstep, bringing with her hope and a future. In the meanwhile, we must allow her to catch her breath.” He turned to me. “Please forgive us. We are not,” he said with a wry smile, “accustomed to visitors.”

He threw a glance to the councilmen to whom he had earlier referred. They nodded as one, obviously giving him encouragement to continue. “Allow me to invite you to my home for a spot of tea. My cousin, Mrs. Mariah Howard née Pangburn, is a marvelous hostess and will be most delighted to meet you.”

At this, Mrs. Jones stepped forward. I had nearly forgotten her in all the excitement. “The master insists that Mrs. Briton’s visit to the village be a short one,” she said in a loud voice. “The lady is still recovering, Mr. Pangburn, and he is worried for her lest she endure any further shocks. He says to let ye know ye may call upon Mrs. Briton at the Hall in a day or two with a few of the elder council, and news can be shared then. We were instructed to take a turn through the village and come back straightaway.”

The vicar frowned and the councilmen exchanged portentous glances. “I see,” the vicar murmured.

I turned to her. I had no intention of allowing her, or more precisely, Gerard, to keep me from learning more about this island. I had to get home to the children. “I assure you, Mrs. Jones, I am as hale as a horse, and quite capable of looking after myself. If you need to return quickly, please take the carriage back to your master’s house. In the meantime, I shall accept the vicar’s invitation to tea. I will meet you here in one hour. If I do not see the carriage then, I am quite content to walk back on my own.”

I turned to the vicar in time to catch his astonished expression. Several of the council frowned and stroked their long beards.

The vicar quickly schooled his features while I smiled brightly at him.

“Mr. Pangburn, I am all yours. Kindly lead the way.”

After a brief hesitation, and another look back at the councilmen, he extended his arm, and I took it. I did not miss the worried glance he flicked over my head to Mrs. Jones, or her raised eyebrows in return. I hoped I had not put them in an untenable position by forcing them to disobey the lord of the manor, but I would not be put on a leash to satisfy some sense of ownership Gerard might have over me.

Better for the men, and the entire village, to know right now that Catherine Briton made her own decisions, and Gerard, for all he might lord it over these people, was no master of mine.

Just then, a man stepped into our path. Solidly built, his shoulders had the broad, thick span of a tavern brawler, his neck and arms solid as cordwood. With his square jaw and wavy, dark hair, he was handsome in a rough sort of way, with a gleam in his eye that said he was fully aware of his appeal. His clothing was that of a dandy, his pea-green waistcoat flamboyant and yet oddly old-fashioned. His shrewd gaze assessed me from top to toes.

“Here now, Vicar. Give another fellow a chance.” He grinned and tipped his hat, but his flirtatious smile did not reach his bright green eyes.

The vicar stiffened, his good humor dimming. He acknowledged the other man, but did not introduce us, something I found interesting. “As I said, Howard, I’m sure she’ll be happy to choose her company later, after she’s had a chance to settle in.”

Howard, who I wondered might be related to the cousin of the vicar, shot him a glance.

“Who died and made you the master?” Howard quipped. Nervous titters and a few gasps sounded from the crowd around us. He smiled, amused at something I did not understand, and shrugged. “Perhaps another time, then,” he said to me. Turning to Mr. Pangburn, he offered blandly, “Be sure to give Mariah my best, now.”

The vicar, a man who appeared to be naturally congenial, frowned. “I’ll hope to see you in church next week, Howard. There is a first time for everything, after all.” With that dismissal, Mr. Pangburn directed me around the fellow and toward the vicarage.

I caught Howard scowling at the vicar’s back, but he did not attempt to follow us.

I turned my attention to the vicarage, which had likely seen better days in its prime. It was charming, but obviously in want of funds for proper upkeep. Still, the rooms had been swept and scrubbed clean with ruthless efficiency. Someone had tried hard to impress a sense of warmth with stitched pillows and hand-tooled lace scattered about the place. Over the mantle of the cheery fire, a gleaming, antique rapier mounted on a polished wood cradle held pride of place. I thought it an odd addition to the otherwise serene image of domestic tranquility.

I wondered also that Gerard did not provide more funds for the vicarage, as I had no doubt it must depend upon the manor for most of its needs.

I was distracted, however, for Mrs. Jones decided to accompany me after all. In fact, the entire village trailed after us, first attempting to squeeze into the vicar’s home and then being required to wait outside while the footmen guarded the door. Finally, after much leave-taking, we were settled in while he went in search of his cousin and the neighbors pressed their noses to the window from without, eagerly watching our every move and chattering amongst themselves. Their reaction to my presence supported Gerard’s assertion that there had been no newcomers here in a very long time. I struggled with my waning hope, determined to keep my spirits up despite the mounting obstacles to my departure.

Within moments, the vicar’s cousin arrived behind him like a fresh wind off the water, sweeping into the room with her hands outthrust, the same beautiful blue eyes and blond-brown hair distinguishing her otherwise plain features. She appeared to be a few years younger than her cousin.

“Mrs. Briton! How pleased I am to make your acquaintance. My cousin says you are to take tea with us.” She smiled at him with affection. “I am Mariah Howard.” She clasped my hand in a gesture of familiarity to which I was beginning to become accustomed. “Oh, to see a new face, and such a lovely one besides. I am so excited to meet you, dear lady, I hardly know where to begin.”

The vicar pressed a cautioning hand to her sleeve. “Mariah, the master has expressed his wishes that we tread lightly with the lady. She is lately recovering, and he wants any interview with her to be delayed until he may be in attendance.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Howard, I am quite healthy,” I insisted. “It is likely I have as many questions for you as you have for me. Perhaps, when tea is ready, we might indulge each other shamelessly, regardless of what the gentlemen prefer.” I smiled to soften the rebuke of her master and her vicar, and her eyes twinkled in a conspiratorial response.

“Oh, I like you already. We shall get on famously. You have a rebellious streak in you.” She grinned. “I am told I do as well. Please, please, sit.” She gestured to a comfortable-looking chair by the fire, and rushed off to fetch the tea.

Mrs. Jones fidgeted nervously. She and the vicar exchanged wordless glances rife with communication. I let them have their intrigue, for I was determined not to be put off, and in Mrs. Howard, I believed I had found an ally.

She came back bearing a tea tray laden with a flowered porcelain service, delicious-looking miniature cakes, and triangle-shaped sandwiches with the crusts off. The vicar leaped up and relieved her of her burden, laying out the service between us on a small sitting table. Whatever their circumstances, at least they did not want for food.

I wondered again if the man we had met outside, Roger Howard, was related, or if the surnames were simply a coincidence. But if they were relations, perhaps even married, surely Mr. Pangburn would have invited him to take tea?

“Shall I be mother?” Mrs. Howard asked, and when I agreed, she poured the tea and dribbled in milk and honey at my request. She then served the vicar and Mrs. Jones.

“Well,” she said, settling back in her chair and ignoring her neighbors staring at us through the windowpanes, “isn’t this nice?”

“Yes, quite,” I responded, not entirely certain where to begin.

“Tell us, what is the state of the world abroad?” Mr. Pangburn asked.

“Yes, are we at war? Is there peace? Who is England’s regent?” Mrs. Howard interjected.

“Do forgive me for coming quickly to the point, Mrs. Howard, Mr. Pangburn, but while I understand your natural curiosity about the world outside, and will be happy to answer your questions later, I urgently wish to know about your island and its inhabitants. I must admit that what I wish to know most, however, is how to leave it. I hope you do not think me terrible for saying so.”

This brought a smile to Mrs. Howard’s face and a round of self-conscious laughter from the other two occupants of the room.

“Not at all. I think it is a question we all would wish the answer to if we could discover it. I am certain the master has told you of the impossibility of leaving the island?” she asked.

I set my teacup into its saucer with a heavy
clink,
the air deflating from my lungs all at once. “So it is true, then. I had hoped…”

Her glance flickered to her cousin, whose expression filled with concern. “Yes, I am sorry,” she said. “Many have tried to leave, and none have succeeded. Mannanan’s mist prevents ships from approaching, and the reefs keep us from leaving. Much of our food comes from the sea, but we cannot sail farther than a half mile away from our shores before we are forced to turn back.”

Something she said caught my attention. “Mannanan’s mist? The name sounds familiar, though I cannot place it.”

The vicar answered for her. “’Tis the name of the Celtic sea god Mannanan Mac Llyr. He is said to be a descendant of the mythical god Llyr, ruler of time and space. Llyr gave Mannanan dominion over the seas, and he lays a thick cloak of fog around his islands when he wishes to hide them from passersby. The Isle of Man was named for him.”

“I remember now. I heard of Mannanan’s mist from my late husband’s relatives. The fog can be so obscuring, one cannot see two feet in front of one, and it can drop over the hills or lift within moments.” I shrugged. “It is a fanciful moniker for a phenomenon science cannot yet explain.”

“Yes, well…” Mrs. Howard looked at the vicar, who said no more.

I clenched my fingers over the teacup and saucer I had rested in my lap. “Still…I can see how such myths take hold. The storm I sailed in when my ship was wrecked… I glimpsed
Ynys Nos
from the bow of the lifeboat, and then it just seemed to disappear from view, as though it was never there. I could imagine how easily the imagination could run wild with such an effect. Our captain was quite agitated by the idea of your island even existing. It could be chilling if one were to believe in such superstitions.”

Again, the others exchanged looks all around, and all but Mrs. Howard dropped their gazes to their teacups.

I stared at them. “Mr. Pangburn, do not tell me you believe in such nonsense. Surely, you do not mistake myths for truth? How would you reconcile such a thing with your religious views?”

The vicar flushed, his handsome face wary. “I believe in Divine Providence and that all of Earth’s creatures are under God’s dominion. We call Him by many names, but only He knows His true one. Still, I will tell you, Mrs. Briton, I have seen things in my lifetime neither science nor religion can explain. And I will say no more about that.”

There are more things in Heaven and Earth…

Gerard’s words came back to me. It was true there was something strange and otherworldly about this place. If myths were to take form and walk among us, this would be the place to do it. “How long has
Ynys Nos
been isolated? It cannot always have been so.”

Mrs. Howard started to answer, but her cousin laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Mariah, perhaps it is best if we leave this to the master’s discretion. There is so much to tell, and we do not want to run ahead of his wishes.”

She shook him off. “She has a right to know, Matthew, and she will learn soon enough.”

Her sharp retort surprised me, and I sensed an old argument between them that had origins long preceding my arrival.

She turned to me. “Yours is a difficult question to answer. From what we can observe, we believe the passage of time here is different. Outside
Ynys Nos
, time moves along like a river, carrying its inhabitants down the stream like leaves on the water. Within
Ynys Nos
,” she struggled for the right words, “we float
above
the river, only occasionally interacting with the flow of time as one might dip one’s finger in the water while it rushes by. As a result, we do not age in the same way, nor perceive time as you would.”

“What nonsense is this? Time is time,” I sputtered. “It moves the same for everyone.”

“Not here,” she insisted. “Not any longer.”

“Mariah—” Her cousin tried again to interrupt.

“No, Matthew, I will not be silenced. Mrs. Briton, how old do you think I am? Or my cousin? Or Mrs. Jones, for that matter?”

I gazed at them all, surprised at the question. “Well, I do not know exactly, but I would think your cousin in his latter thirties, and you perhaps his junior by several years. And Mrs. Jones would appear to be about seventy.”

“You are very nearly right, dear lady. That is quite close to the ages we all were…one hundred years ago.”

Chapter Six

My teacup jerked in my hands and the hot liquid splashed my skirt. Mrs. Howard jumped up and took a tea towel to my dress, while I sat, dumbfounded, and simply stared at her. I could not believe what I had just heard.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she murmured, dabbing the tea from my skirt.

I took hold of the other woman’s wrist and stopped her flustered fussing. “Mrs. Howard, do you mean to try and convince me you and your cousin here are over
one hundred
years old? That indeed, all the inhabitants of this village have been suspended in time and have ceased to age?”

Mrs. Howard clutched the tea towel and exchanged a pleading look with the vicar. He sighed deeply and set his cup aside. “It is true, madam. At least my cousin has told you the truth as we know it. Time is suspended here, and we are trapped in it like flies in amber.”

“I see.” I glanced at Mrs. Jones, who hung her head, avoiding eye contact. I took a calming breath, released Mrs. Howard’s wrist, and laughed delightedly.

Their expressions clearly indicated
I
was the mad one and not them. I smiled at Mrs. Howard.

“You played that
very
well. I almost thought for a moment you were serious. Do you jest with all of your island’s visitors in the same way?”

Mrs. Howard blinked and sank into her chair. “We have not had outside visitors for one hundred years, and it was no jest, I assure you, Mrs. Briton. I am one hundred and thirty-two years old, as God is my witness.”

I winked at her. “I must have your beauty secrets, then. Your skin is quite youthful.” I put down the teacup and made a moue of distress at the stain now spoiling my skirts. “Oh, dear. Nothing for it,” I murmured, realizing I had ruined the fine material of the apple-green dress I had chosen from those provided by Gerard. Perhaps later I would ask Mrs. Jones if she had a remedy for stains. But for now… “I wonder if we may get on with our discussion about the island. There really is a great deal I want to learn.”

Mr. Pangburn rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Madam, we are not making sport of you. We truly have been suspended in time.”

He and Mrs. Howard gazed at me with similar wide-eyed expressions of innocence while Mrs. Jones squirmed in her chair.

I tasted bitter disappointment in my mouth. Why would these people, who had behaved so kindly to me, be so unkind to me now? There could only be one reason—
someone
must have gotten to them first. “Well, then. I suppose there is nothing more to be said.” I rose.

Mrs. Howard rose too when she realized I meant to leave. “B-but don’t you even want to know—”

I clasped my hands before me, pasting a smile on my face. “Mrs. Howard, I realize I am a newcomer to your island, and I appreciate your hospitality, but I must say I do
not
appreciate being made the subject of your little jokes.”

The vicar stood in alarm. “Oh, but that is not—”

“Perhaps this is some sort of initiation ritual you people engage in, but really, it is rather mean-spirited.” I turned to the elderly housekeeper. “Come, Mrs. Jones. I believe we have overstayed our welcome.”

Despite her age, Mrs. Jones sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and rushed out the door. I swept behind her to the protestations of our hosts. “I will see myself out,” I called over my shoulder and strode past the villagers on my way, my head down in an attempt to hide the threatening tears. They swarmed behind me, shouting questions and impeding the progress of the vicar and his cousin while I headed toward the carriage.

I climbed in, not even waiting for the footmen to assist me but using the handy butter-cross to mount the step. Mrs. Jones climbed in behind me, and once the footmen hopped on board, I instructed the driver to return to the Hall straightaway. I heard my hosts’ voices rising above the noise of the villagers, calling my name.

The press of humanity around us impeded the carriage’s progress. Mrs. Howard’s face bobbed among them, flushed with exertion, as she hurried alongside the carriage.

“Wait, Mrs. Briton, there is something else you must know! Your very life may depend upon it,” she called out breathlessly.

I pressed my lips together, hurt that she would continue to play such a cruel game with me. “What, Mrs. Howard? I suppose now you will tell me that your master is some sort of dark creature of the night who plans to murder me in my sleep?”

“No, of course not, dear lady,” she responded, huffing and puffing as she jogged alongside, holding her skirts out of the way as we began to outpace her. She cried just as we pulled away, “Not of the night!”

I rolled my eyes, and the carriage trundled its way back in the direction from whence we had come. At the high road, I saw Mr. Howard leaning against the thick trunk of an oak tree watching our progress, his black hair lifting in the breeze. He held something in his hand and I realized he was whittling a small figurine, little curls of wood drifting to the ground with long, lazy strokes of his knife, a dangerous activity because his eyes were not on his work. I could not tell what the figurine was, but he did not seem concerned about losing a finger to the blade. He saw me watching him and, with a knowing smirk, tipped his hat as we passed.

I frowned. I did not care for him, and was surprised at my own prejudice. I generally tried to give people the benefit of the doubt upon first meeting. In order to make up for my reticence, I acknowledged his greeting with a tip of my head but then turned my gaze deliberately away.

I glanced over at Mrs. Jones, whose skin had taken on a rather ashen hue. “Are you feeling quite well, Mrs. Jones?”

She nodded but said nothing. Probably too embarrassed at the treatment I had received at the hands of the vicar and his cousin.

“Is there a history of insanity in their family?” I asked her.

“No, mistress. They are good people. They meant ye no harm.”

“Well, they certainly have an odd way of showing it.” I sniffed and turned my face aside, only then noticing how cool the air had become and how a heavy curtain of clouds had lowered over the hillside. Even now, it bore down upon the village.

“Fog rolling in,” I murmured, and thought about the legend of Mannanan’s cloak. “It is best we left when we did or we could become quite lost.”

“The horses know the way,” Mrs. Jones offered, then lapsed into silence.

As the horses clip-clopped along the road, I again saw the graveyard we had passed earlier on. The mist had not yet thickened this far south of the village, and I could still make out the rows of tiny crosses lined up side by side.

I pointed to them. “What is the story behind those crosses, Mrs. Jones? Are they a memorial of some kind?”

Mrs. Jones did not answer me immediately, and when she did it was with great reluctance. “Ye do not want to know about those, mistress. Ye truly do not. Ye will never sleep well again if ye do, I warrant.”

A chill went up my spine at her remark. I stared at the crosses as we approached, then called up to the driver to stop. He turned round to look at me, nervously eyeing the approaching fog. “Best not to stop, ma’am. Best to hurry home.”

“Please. I will be but a moment, I assure you.”

Reluctantly, he pulled the carriage to the side of the road. The footmen scrambled down from their perch.

“You needn’t bother to attend me,” I told them. “I am just going into the cemetery for a moment.”

The footmen said not a word, but went lockstep with me when I turned toward the white-picket fence. I spun on my heel and stared mutinously at them.

“Master’s orders,” one of them finally said, blushing to his red-haired roots. “Sorry, ma’am. We aren’t to leave you unprotected for even a moment.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, then gestured at the graveyard. “Whatever does your master think I need to be protected from in
there?
”

He turned an even deeper shade of red and would not meet my eyes. “Just following my orders, ma’am. You’ll have to ask the master about that.”

I nearly growled in frustration. Apparently, Gerard had tight rein over every person on this island, with the possible exception of the potentially unbalanced Mrs. Howard. Well, I would ask my questions of him tonight, that much was certain.

I marched briskly into the cemetery, footmen in my wake, and approached the first row of crosses. Each bore an inscription: a surname, a day and month, but no year, and a phrase that, if I remembered my schoolroom Latin correctly, translated as “We give him (or her) back.”

I walked slowly up and down the rows. There were fifty or so crosses, perhaps more. I realized with a dawning horror what they were: the headstones of infants. The single date inscribed on each cross represented both the birth and death date. Beneath each was a miniature grave plot.

Stillborns.

My mind reeled as I gazed at the rows of graves and felt the visceral pull of grief. How their parents must have lamented the loss of their newborns. How their mothers must have wept. At least I had known my dear child before she was so cruelly torn from me. These poor infants never had the
chance
to be known.

A deep chill touched my bones, and for a moment, a shiver of awareness passed over me. Something else was in that little graveyard, something dark and hopeless and eternal. I’d known it as a child once, when I’d taken sick with pneumonia and had hovered, my father had said, near death for days. The doctor had been astounded when I recovered, but the strange attraction for what lay beyond the veil of death had intrigued and disturbed me, even then.

I stared above the little crosses but I saw nothing. Then a shape moved in the periphery of my vision—a blur of motion, and my heart sped, and though I turned and turned, I could not catch its view. The hairs rose on my arms and I knew that I did not
want
to see it. That to see it would shred hope from my heart, and that I could not bear.

I staggered back from the graves, the bile rising in my throat, and pressed a hand to my mouth, nearly colliding with one of the footmen in my haste to be away from the place. He helped me back to the carriage and I sat down within, putting my head in my hands until I was steady enough to speak without bursting into tears. Finally, I gazed across at Mrs. Jones, who watched me mutely, a look of sympathy on her face.

“I told ye, Mrs. Briton,” she said softly. “No one can look on it and not be moved.”

“What—what happened to them? You must tell me.”

She hesitated. “I cannot.”

“Because of Gerard?” I was upset, and I felt more uncharitable toward him at every gathering moment.

“The master has his reasons, ma’am. He’ll tell ye everything he can when he knows ye are ready to hear it.” Her gaze strayed back to the sad little graves. “But I will say this. There is no one on the island who mourns those wee ones more than he does. Ye cannot know the burden he carries, Mrs. Briton. Ye cannot.”

Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, but she pressed her lips together. I would get no more information from her without Gerard’s permission.

I was determined to know why the island’s infants were dying, and as equally determined to put a stop to it.

The mist rolled in, the sun beginning its descent into twilight. A silver blanket of fog obscured the cemetery from my view as we pulled away. I thought of Eliza, and of the thing I had done which had lead to her death, and pressed my fingers over the hidden cameo pendant.

Though I could not believe it, a small part of me wondered if Gerard was in some way responsible for what had happened to those babies. God help him if he was, for it was the one act for which I could never forgive him.

Because if I could not pardon it in myself, how could I ever pardon it in someone else?

…

Jeffries met me at the door as I swept into the great entry hall, my nerves near the breaking point.

“Where is your master?” I asked, depositing my outer garments in Jeffries’s outstretched arms while Mrs. Jones slunk away.

He raised a bristly gray eyebrow. “May I inquire as to why, madam?”

“I wish to speak with him. Please tell him I await him in—in the library.”

Jeffries cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, madam. The master is not at liberty to join you at this precise moment.”

I narrowed my gaze at him, yet another obstacle to my path home. “At which precise moment
will
he be available to join me?”

He glanced surreptitiously out of the narrow mullioned window beside the entryway, then checked the fobbed watch he wore on his waistcoat. “Thirty-three minutes, madam.”

“I will give him thirty-
four
. If he does not arrive therein, I shall come looking for
him
. Do you understand?”

Jeffries blanched and suppressed a strangled cough.

“What
is
it, Jeffries?”

“Madam, perhaps it would be wiser to phrase your request of the master in more…conciliatory terms. If I may be so bold as to suggest I tell him you are most enthusiastic about discussing an issue of great concern?”

“You may tell him whatever you wish as long as you
tell him to come
.” I turned away, and then brought myself up short. I had no idea how to get to the library from here. Jeffries seemed to sense my dilemma and signaled one of the footmen to direct me.

“Thank you,” I said stiffly, embarrassed at having been thwarted in my grand exit. I meekly followed the footman, paying particular attention to the corridors through which we walked, noting the landmarks as we went: a fawn statuary here, a vase of roses there, a gilt-framed painting on the wall across from the library door. I thought with satisfaction I should be able to make my way back on my own if need be.