The Deathly Portent (5 page)

“I have my family to thank for my name,” returned Mrs. Dale in a tone that sounded immediately more normal than hitherto and showed a hint of childish irritation. “It amused them so to dub me. But I am Charis.”

“But how charming,” said Ottilia at once. “Perhaps you should insist upon others employing your given name.”

“It makes no matter,” said the girl, with a return to the darkness that seemed habitual to her.

“Miss Cassie, come out of there, I beg of you.”

Mrs. Dale looked back. “I am coming, Tabby.” Then she turned back to Ottilia, and the ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “You have been kind. I will not forget.”

With that, she flitted away and was instantly enveloped in a strong arm that tugged her out into the daylight. Ottilia found Francis at her elbow.

“You believe her innocent then?”

“Oh yes. Unless I miss my guess, the girl is too fey for the precision this murder seems to have needed.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised she is stigmatised a witch. A stranger creature you could scarcely hope to meet.”

Ottilia nodded. “She reminds me of your mother’s maid.”

“Venner? Yes, I remember you said you thought she was half mad.”

“But I don’t think Mrs. Dale is in the least mad. She is rather of that ilk of person who feels things too deeply and who lacks the social veneer that we commonly use to hide our feelings from others.”

Francis looked sceptical. “Which is as much as to say that she is out of the common way and does not behave as others do, and is therefore half mad.”

“Or merely eccentric, like my godmother.”

“No one is like your godmother,” returned her husband feelingly.

Ottilia laughed. “You cannot have lived in a village, my dearest. I defy you not to discover a veritable hotbed of eccentrics in a place of this kind, and at least one to prove a copy of my Lady Edingale.”

As if to underline this statement, when they had walked not ten yards from the smithy and were about to cross the bridge, they ran into a pair of middle-aged women coming the other way. Either of whom, Ottilia instantly decided, could have walked into a roomful of eccentrics and no questions asked.

The taller of the two, clad plainly in a greatcoat dress of brown linen and an unadorned beaver hat, walked with a mannish stride, while the other, despite her obvious span of years, was the picture of femininity in a sprigged gown, a beribboned straw bonnet, and a voluminous shawl of some diaphanous fabric clustered about her shoulders. They had clearly espied the strangers, and Ottilia took immediate advantage of the situation.

“Pardon me, if you please,” she said in a friendly way, going towards them, “but could you direct us to a suitable hostelry?”

She was treated to a frowning stare from the taller female, but the other’s glance went from Ottilia to Francis and back again.

“Goodness, how did you come here?” she uttered in a manner that betrayed an avid curiosity.

“Only one decent inn,” said the other, turning to point across the green. “That’s it over there. Take the right fork.”

“Thank you,” Ottilia said pleasantly and turned to the one more frivolously dressed. “We came on foot. Our carriage broke down on the post road.”

At this, the first woman addressed herself to Francis.

“What happened? Wheel off? Or a broken trace?”

If Ottilia was surprised, it was plain her spouse was astonished.
He concealed it well, however, merely replying, “My groom believes it is the axletree.”

“You’ll be wanting a blacksmith, then.” She waved a hand towards the ruined forge. “No use hoping for ours, as you can see. Fellow was killed last night.”

“So we have been informed,” said Francis.

“Gracious, who told you? I thought you must have been looking at the smithy, but I could not conceive—”

“Evelina!”

The sharp tone had the effect of making the other woman colour up, and Ottilia felt her sympathies stirred. She smiled and played her trump card.

“You are perfectly right, ma’am. But do forgive me. So rude of us not to make ourselves known to you. Allow me to present my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.”

Ottilia had already noted the appreciative look cast upon her personable and lean-figured spouse by the more feminine member of the duo. She could not blame the woman, for she had herself been somewhat bowled over at first sight of his strong countenance with its aquiline nose and high-planed cheeks, his deep dark eyes, and the rich brown hair tied in the nape of his neck. But the name, as she had confidently expected, exercised an even more powerful effect.

“Fanshawe? Gracious! I do believe—or no, perhaps I should not—”

“Evelina, do be quiet,” snapped her mentor. She tapped herself on the chest. “I am Miss Beeleigh. My friend here is Mrs. Radlett.”

Ottilia replied suitably and watched Francis make his bow. There could be no doubt that the story of last year’s events had penetrated even this backwater. The name of Fanshawe had appeared alongside that of Polbrook in more than one newspaper column. Only initials had been used, of course, but the scandal that had rocked the family had been widespread, and anyone who paid attention to such things would have known immediately who was meant by Lord F— F—.

Her new acquaintances were exactly what Ottilia needed, and she lost no time in consolidating her advantage.

“I hope we may meet again. I fear it will be a tedious wait until our coach can be repaired.”

“Won’t matter,” said Miss Beeleigh. “Hannah Pakefield will be only too delighted to put you up. She can do with the custom, poor woman.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Mrs. Radlett, “for there are few travellers through Witherley. We take coffee at the Blue Pig nearly every day. To help poor Hannah, you must know.”

“Then perhaps you will take coffee with me a little later on?” said Ottilia, seizing her cue.

If she’d had qualms, Mrs. Radlett’s effusive acceptance would have reassured her. But Ottilia had taken her measure and was confident of having found one of the more prolific of the village gossips. Any doubts would have concerned Miss Beeleigh. It was plain, however, that she was in the habit of indulging her unlikely friend, even if she did not share a passion for tidbits about others.

Having made their assignation, the two ladies passed on, and Ottilia guessed they were making for the smithy on their own account. She was drawn back from contemplation by her husband’s dry tone.

“The Blue Pig?”

Ottilia stifled a giggle. “Well, we are in the vicinity of Bosworth Field.”

“This is in compliment to the villainous Richard, then?”

“An omen, Fan, can you doubt it?”

“Heaven help me!” He offered his arm, and Ottilia tucked her hand within it and began to walk with him across the bridge. “I trust there will be pork on the menu.”

Ottilia bubbled over. “A vast platter of ham, I make no doubt.”

“At this present, however, I have a more than passing interest in a tankard of ale.”

“It shall be forthcoming,” said Ottilia demurely.

C
assie eyed her visitor with rebellion in her heart. Was it not enough to be riven with remorse and despair on the blacksmith’s account? Must she also be taken at fault for accepting the vicar’s hospitality? She owed much to Lady Ferrensby. Yet it hurt to know she was so little understood.

“I realise you were a trifle distraught, my dear,” pursued her ladyship in her low-pitched musical voice, “but this should have been thought of.”

“I was in no condition to be thinking of the proprieties,” Cassie said tightly.

“That I appreciate.”

“And Mr. Kinnerton was kindness itself.”

“His kindness does not excuse your remaining in his house overnight. If you do not care for your own reputation, you might at least think of his.”

Silenced, Cassie stared at her. Suspicion nagged at the edges of her mind, for she knew
Lady Ferrensby too well. Yet if she had brought Mr. Kinnerton to Witherley with the object of securing a sacrifice at the altar, however unwilling, she ought rather to have been pleased. Cassie’s eyes ran over her, and immediately she felt, as ever, the stark contrast of condition.

The great lady of the village was stylishly if simply dressed for the country, in a gown of Canterbury muslin worked in coloured sprigs and a pretty beribboned bonnet with a neat little brim. She wore her years with elegance, the grey wings to her temples adding distinction to a countenance invariably stigmatised, not undeservedly, as handsome.

Cassie’s old cotton chemise gown, with its pleated skirts buttoned from bosom to hem and its tight long sleeves, was outmoded, a relic of happier years. Not that she cared for fashion, although it was a relief to have been able to put off the disguise of her blacks.

Lady Ferrensby’s cool gaze was running over her, and Cassie put up her chin as she met it head-on.

“Tabitha says you are bruised.”

Cassie shrugged. “Tabby is exaggerating. It’s nothing very much.”

A kinder note crept into her patroness’s voice. “I gather a number of stones found their mark. I am sorry you suffered that.”

It was nothing compared to the suffering of her conscience, but Cassie held her tongue. Lady Ferrensby was ever impatient of the distresses that accompanied the curse of Cassie’s visions.

“Still, you got off lighter than Duggleby,” pronounced her ladyship.

Cassie’s resolution failed, and she hit out. “You mean I deserve it more.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Silly? To regret having spoken? Having seen?” Cassie shivered at the memories. “I knew what must happen. I warned him. He would not believe me. He became surly with me, as they all do.” In her mind she heard again the rough words, the hatred in his voice, and saw again the contempt in Duggleby’s eyes. “But now he’s dead, and I am to blame. And you tell me not to be silly!”

She threw her hands over her face, as shudders racked her. A hand reached to grasp her fingers and pull them down. Lady Ferrensby’s eyes were kinder, and her voice had softened. Cassie gripped her fingers, fighting back the threatening tears that tore at her throat.

“Calm yourself, my child. There is nothing to be gained by falling into a passion. That will not mend matters.”

Cassie shook her hair away. “I know, but I cannot help it.”

“You must help it, Cassie. You must learn to control yourself.”

A heavy sigh escaped Cassie’s lips. “I try. But it is so very hard.”

The gentler look from the other warmed her heart a little, and she tried to smile.

Lady Ferrensby released her fingers. “There now; that is better.”

Cassie did not speak, afraid she could not maintain the spurious air of calm that seemed to satisfy her patroness. She was anything but quiescent inside, but she knew Lady Ferrensby disapproved of “Cassie’s wild ways,” as she chose to think of them.

“Besides, your visions notwithstanding,” went on her patroness, “it is no use anyone blaming you. Everyone has been telling that fool of a man forever that his roof was in need of repair, but he would do nothing about it. If he had been one of my tenants instead of holding the freehold, I’d have given him snuff.”

Remembering the woman in the smithy, Cassie spoke without thought. “If he did not die from the roof coming down, then I did not kill him.”

Lady Ferrensby’s brows rose. “You are speaking of Meldreth’s suspicion? Oh, he must be mistaken. I cannot suppose anyone in the village would deliberately set out to kill the fellow, brute though he was.”

Cassie stared at her. “Yet everyone in the village thinks I would do so.”

Her patroness tutted. “You are being quite absurd, my dear. If one or two persons are foolish enough to—”

“One or two?”

Was she blind? Or merely refusing to see? Cassie knew the village to be Lady Ferrensby’s especial concern, for her son was rarely to be seen in the place, young Lord Ferrensby declaring life at his country seat to be sadly flat. Cassie thought him remarkably selfish, to be leaving the running of his affairs in his mother’s hands. But she knew Lady Ferrensby cared deeply for the welfare of those who dwelled in the Ferrensby estates, whether tenants or no. More deeply than she cared for Cassie! No, that was unfair. A flood of contrition
enveloped Cassie, and she reached out to seize one of the lady’s hands.

“I never remember to thank you. You’ve given me a future.”

A sigh was drawn from her patroness. “I wish I had, Cassie. Sometimes it seems all I’ve given you is a burden too great to bear.”

Cassie’s throat tightened. “It’s not your fault I am cursed.”

“No.” There was regret in the tone. “But I have made it impossible to protect you as I ought. I never thought at the time. It seemed the best solution to keep our secret.”

“You couldn’t have known I might see so much. I know you don’t believe in it.”

“Unfortunately, others do.”

Anguish clutched at Cassie’s heart, and the words wrenched from deep inside. “I wish you were right to disbelieve me. I wish I saw nothing. I wish I had ordinary dreams like an ordinary person.”

Her eyes were closed, but Cassie felt the arms that went around her and briefly held her close. A momentary comfort.

“Your charm, my child, lies in being extraordinary.”

Cassie would have refuted this, but she was distracted by a knock at the front door, which opened directly onto the lane. Rising, she went to answer it. The Reverend Kinnerton stood without.

“You are here,” he uttered, a little out of breath. “Thank the Lord! I was concerned when I returned to the house and found you gone.”

Cassie could not speak for a moment. Her hazy recollection of last night’s rescue had not prepared her for the vicar’s appearance in the full light of day.

His cheeks were lean, throwing his nose into sharp distinction. She judged him young despite etched lines that spoke of recent suffering. A flashing picture formed in her mind, of this same face, its leanness near skeletal, its pallor grey and cold.

“You have been ill.”

A pair of dark brows rose above eyes as blue as the sky. Cassie had not seen them in the candlelight, but now their clean colour made a mockery of the image that had entered her mind.