Echoes in the Darkness (13 page)

“No! You mean she—for money? Well, I never! And her turned out so fancy and her face so pretty. Although, I did think she looked mighty cosy with Mr Cad Jago this morning, mind. Perhaps when Mr Eddie gets fed up he might pass her along? Keep it in the family…” A chorus of shocked titters followed this remark.

Enough. Blindly, my feet found the path and I hurried along it. Tears burned the back of my eyelids and I angrily blinked them away. I had heard worse, so why was I letting it affect me so much this time? My mind turned to my Cornish mother and the anguish she would have suffered if she had heard those words spoken about me by her countrywomen. And, as if making an automatic connection, I thought of Lucy and her kindness to me. I would not, for all the world, want to cause her to feel a similar shame.

“Dita!” Cad called out to me, but I hurried on, keeping my head bent. When he drew level with me, he caught my arm, halting my brisk stride and swinging me round to face him. His eyes scanned my face and, to my annoyance, I felt a single tear slide down my cheek. “I heard what they said.”

“It isn’t true.” Suddenly it mattered that he, of all people, should know that. “I have never—I wouldn’t—”

“Christ, Dita, I know that.” We were out of sight of the church, having rounded the curve of the bay. He drew me into his arms and, gradually, the trembling in my limbs subsided. “Those evil old cats have nothing better to do all day than gossip. And the Jagos are a source of endless fascination for their razor tongues. If they can’t find something to talk about, they’ll make it up. You should hear some of the activities they ascribe to me. Mind you,” he said, slipping a finger under my chin so that I was forced to look up at him. “Most of those are true. Besides, nobody knows better than I do that, if you
did
charge for your favours, you’d be the richest woman in England. No, don’t try and look prim, it doesn’t suit you.” I relented and gave a watery chuckle. “That’s better. Come on, we’ve done our duty. Let’s go home.” With a pang of sadness, I realised that it did not feel strange anymore for me to call Athal House my home, too.

It was much later when the memory of the first conversation I had overheard made itself felt like a chill and sudden gust blowing off a distant sea. This was a land of legend and superstition, I told myself briskly. Cad was right. Stories about the local nobility would always be the juiciest source of gossip. And I clung persistently to that explanation for what I had overheard, despite a cold worm of doubt that tried to twist itself into my mind.

* * *

In my dream, I stood at the cliff’s edge, so close to infinity that my heart soared painfully out over the ocean. The wind plastered the thin fabric of my dress to my legs and tugged the pins from my hair. And I waited, lifting my face to receive the moon’s caress. When the hoofbeats came at last, they were in time with my heart. The black stallion halted beside me. Eagerly, I took the strong hand that reached down to me. The rider swung me easily up before him and I slid my arms about his waist. My cheek pressed against his chest and I felt his triumphant laugh vibrate through my whole body.

I don’t know where we rode or for how long. The midnight landscape flashed by in a blur. The mighty stallion clung faithfully to the outline of the cliff, its hooves now and then skittering dangerously close to the sheer drop. This moon-drenched land belonged to us. The night air was sweet with the tang of spray and cold. Below us the grating roar of pebbles flung against the cliffs by maddened waves accompanied the pounding rhythm of our ride.

The sleepy tranquillity of dawn was approaching when I slid from the saddle and gazed up at my companion. He gave me a flash of the same fallen-angel smile I had seen when he stood at my bedside. Then he was gone.

I awoke late that day and felt curiously rested and content. Details of the dream surfaced slowly, and I stretched luxuriously, exulting in the memory. Running a hand through my hair, I found it a tangled, salt-sticky mess. My lips tasted of the sea and my face felt wind-scorched. The sense of well-being that had engulfed me vanished and, with jerky, uncoordinated movements, I rose from my bed. It was nonsensical, I told myself, studying my windswept appearance in the mirror, to imagine it was anything more than a dream. My sleep had been restless, that was all. There was nothing sinister in that. I could not possibly have been on a wild night’s ride with the ghost of Uther Jago. Could I?

Chapter Nine

He turns his mind resolutely away from the girl. The young one who held a basket in one hand and struggled to keep her bonnet in place with the other. She had looked up at him with timid eyes and reddening cheeks. “Thank you, sir.” The shyly whispered words had been her last. But, no! Do not think of her. She was a mistake. That was why he had hidden her away instead of displaying her like his other grotesque works of art. Think of them, the nameless whores who hoisted their skirts for the first man to toss them a coin.

A different picture intrudes into his mind. A woman’s face. So beautiful you can’t
not
look at her. He clings to her familiar image, as dear and comforting to him as a remembered kiss.

“Dita.” No sooner has he breathed her name than he feels his master reach into his brain with hell-black fingers, probing and twisting.

“Forget her. She is a treacherous bitch.” The voice drips menace.

“No,” he whispers weakly, but the pressure building inside his skull is too great. Even for Dita, he cannot fight his master.

“Yes, I tell you. Just like all the others, she uses her womanhood to get what she wants. To trap an unsuspecting man into spilling his seed inside her whore’s body so that her belly is filled with the only thing she really craves. Now put the Hungarian slut out of your mind and do as I say. You have more work to do this night.”

* * *

I reached the bottom of the stairs as Porter, with a long-suffering expression, was eying a large box that had just been delivered. “From the estate of Lady Una Jago,” he said, distaste making his thin lips disappear. “Cousin of his lordship’s father, a lady who passed away a month or two ago. She liked to hoard.”

Lucy appeared then and requested the butler carry the offending item into the parlour. “Lady Una fancied herself as something of a family archivist,” she told me when the box had been placed on a side table and Porter had cut through its seals with a letter opener. “I have no idea what is in here, but her will apparently left certain items to Tynan. I told him I would see what the contents are and decide how best to dispose of them.”

The box contained a number of paintings, each wrapped in several protective layers of newspaper. Lucy drew them out of the box and I removed the paper, lining the pictures up on the table so that they could be clearly seen. The first picture, by far the largest, depicted a man, standing on a wide staircase with a stained-glass window behind him. He was tall and powerful with hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes that glittered gold even on canvas. There was a masculine grace about his beauty that lent it a sharp, pure edge so that it was hard to look away from him. His clothes were from another century and the artist had skilfully captured the careless arrogance that oozed from his every pore.

“Arwen Jago,” Lucy said quietly, gazing at the picture. I had overheard that name after the church service but knew nothing else of him. Yet, for some reason I could not explain, a chill—almost of recognition—ran through me. The face staring back at me from within the gilt-edged frame could have been Cad’s.

“Who was he?”

“At the time of the Restoration, he was a member of the clergy. He was the younger brother of the earl, until he tired of that situation and murdered his brother. His reputation for evil was legendary. The most famous account of his infamy is the story of a young girl called Lucia.” She smiled at the surprise on my face. “I was named after her,” she explained. “My mother was a distant cousin of the Jagos, so she knew the tale well. While out hunting one day, Arwen is said to have encountered Lucia in a nearby glade. He was stunned by her unearthly beauty and offered her money to become his mistress. When she refused, he abducted her and locked her in a tower at Castle Tenebris. He became obsessed with her, to the point where he eschewed all other women. Which was remarkable, since he had previously had a veritable harem of lovers. He must have thought he had tamed her because he began to allow her a little freedom, and Lucia escaped. He hunted her down like one of the deer he loved to kill. He found her in the glade where he had first seen her, and when she told him she didn’t love him, he killed her by firing an arrow into her eye.”

I shuddered. “How horrid.”

“But then he was seized with remorse. Not remorse that he had committed murder, you understand. That was nothing new to Arwen Jago. No, his regret was that he had lost Lucia, whom he believed he loved, and he felt his life was meaningless without her. His sadness was for himself. Legend tells us that he leapt from his horse and ran to her, only to find that her body had vanished. Arwen shrieked wild curses to the skies and swore that he would find her again. He is said to have made a pact with Satan involving the sacrifice of children. In return for their innocent blood, the devil promised him eternal life so that he could be reunited with Lucia throughout the ages to come.”

“I can see why you would not want his portrait on display in your home,” I said, studying the painting with renewed interest. “But the likeness is remarkable.”

“I know. He exulted in it.” Trancelike, she reached out a finger to trace the contours of the high cheekbones. With an odd little laugh, she shook herself, adding, “You mean his resemblance to
Cad
is remarkable, don’t you? I was thinking of someone else.” Resolutely, she lifted the painting and, turning it away from her, propped it against the wall. The action restored her composure.

The next items were a pair of cameo portraits in matching silver frames. Lucy placed them side-by-side on the table. Curious, I glanced at the one nearest to me. My breath caught in my throat.

“That’s odd,” I commented, keeping my voice carefully under control. “This picture of Arwen Jago appears to be of a much later date than the other one.”

“That isn’t Arwen Jago. It’s Tynan’s uncle, Uther Jago.” Her voice was curiously flat. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to the man in the portrait. Uther’s image unnerved me for two reasons. Firstly, the artist had captured an impression of a stunningly handsome man. Secondly, a faint, familiar scar marred his left cheek. Lucy nodded, misinterpreting the surprise in my eyes. “Cad is the living spit of Uther. Who, in turn, was said by many to be Arwen restored to life. So very alike they were. Uther enjoyed the comparison, but Cad does not,” she said quietly. Her eyes were troubled, and I wondered why her son’s resemblance to his great-uncle and another ancestor should cause her such apparent pain. But my mind was preoccupied with the shadowy figure I had seen at my bedside. At the time I had dismissed it as a hallucination induced by my illness. Suddenly, I was less sure.

Thoughts of Uther Jago were quickly driven from my mind, however. With a hand that shook slightly, I reached for the other silver-framed picture. The woman it depicted was—without doubt—the woman I had seen on my balcony. It slipped from my uncertain hand and clattered back onto the table.

“What is it, Dita?” Lucy’s voice was full of concern as she scanned my face.

“Who is she?” I asked, pointing to the miniature with a hand that, despite my efforts, still refused to remain steady.

“Demelza Jago,” she replied. “Tynan’s aunt. She died in the fire that destroyed Tenebris on our wedding night. Why, my dear!” She reached out to clasp my hand. “You have gone quite dreadfully pale. Are you feeling unwell again? Can I get you something?”

I bit my lip. “I have seen her,” I said, and Lucy’s hand stole to the base of her throat in a gesture of horror. “Truly, I have. She has tried to get into my bedroom from the balcony. Oh, dear God, Lucy! Did I see a
ghost?
” She didn’t answer, and I continued, “She told me that I can’t have him, whoever ‘he’ may be, that he belongs to her. She carried a knife.”

“There is a great deal you don’t know about the Jago family, my dear,” Lucy said quietly, collecting herself. “Which is why it was unfair of Eddie to rush you into this engagement without warning you.”

“Warning me of what?” I asked. But I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

She tapped the picture with her fingernail. “Demelza loved her brother, Uther, to desperation. She would have done anything for him. She
did
anything he asked her—including murder. Uther killed Tynan’s parents. Then, between them, they tried to make it appear that Tynan was mad. Demelza administered poison to him to make it look that way.” She paused, taking in my stunned expression. “It is unbelievable, I know. But it’s true, Dita, I do assure you. They concocted a plot to bring me here and get me to marry Tynan so that there was an heir to the title before they had him locked away for good. Uther’s plan was then to kill Tynan and make it look as if, unable to live with his own madness, he had killed himself.”

“But that’s…” I searched around but could not find a word that was strong enough.

“Villainous? Evil? Unhinged?” she supplied for me. “Uther was all of those things. He was a beautiful, irresistible monster. He was also obsessed with me. I suppose he would have called it love in the same way that Arwen thought he loved the first Lucia. And, for a while, I was mesmerised by him.” The distant look drifted across her features again. Composing herself again, she continued. “When Demelza discovered his feelings for me, she killed him and set fire to the castle. That was how much she loved him.” She paused. “You see, they were brother and sister, but they were also lovers.” I stood up jerkily and went to the window to gaze out, with unseeing eyes, at the churning ocean. Her words had stirred something in me, an elusive, obscure fear that had been lying dormant. “There is darkness in the Jago past.” Hearing Lucy’s gentle tones speak of such horrors somehow made them sound worse. “I wish Eddie had told you of it before your betrothal, because there is more—much more—besides.”