He waited impatiently for Lund to open the door ... and waited ... and waited ....
Perhaps Lund, not expecting him, was in the attic, or otherwise out of hearing of the bell.
He turned the iron ring in the hope that the door was not barred and had a feeling of satisfaction as it opened. Good.
He went in.
As he had suspected, the fire in the hall had been allowed to die down, so that it was little more than glowing embers.
He crossed the hall and went into the drawing-room. There was still no sign of Lund. He was just about to pull the bell rope that hung beside the fireplace when his eyes stopped, arrested by an unusual sight. The secret door to the side of it was ajar.
Why was the secret passage open? And who had opened it?
Lund?
Possibly. But why should he do so?
Mrs Lund?
She used the passage from time to time as a short cut through the abbey, it was true, but she would have closed the door behind her.
Esmerelda ... ?
His heart misgave him. If Esmerelda had escaped again ...
Even as he thought it, he strode towards the passage.
If Esmerelda had escaped, that would explain Lund’s absence, for the trusted servant would be looking for her. But how could she have done so? The windows of the cottage were barred, and the door bolted.
Nevertheless, someone had opened the secret door.
Pausing only to take up a candelabra and light the candles from the glowing embers of the fire, Marcus went into the secret passage. It had been a favourite playground of Esmerelda’s when they had been children. It enclosed a secret room which had been used for hiding priests in bygone days, and which, in the days of their childhood, had housed a table and chairs. They had spent many happy hours there, running into the secret passage in the drawing-room and climbing the secret stair to emerge into the small bedroom behind the tapestry, or taking fruit and tarts into the secret room and having an impromptu picnic. If she had escaped, led on by hazy memories, Esmerelda might well have run in there to play.
‘Esmerelda!’ called Marcus, holding the candelabra aloft as he went further into the passageway. ‘Esmerel—’
His voice stopped in shock.
His heart lurched.
And then there was a sickening thud.
* * * *
Hilary’s afternoon was passing pleasantly. The wet spell having given way to a period of dry, settled weather, she had decided to take the children outside for a few hours so that they could run about in the fresh air. Her idea was being rewarded by their improved behaviour. Away from the confines of the farmhouse the children no longer argued with each other, but were content to run about and play. After they had run off their surplus energy, Hilary had set them the task of finding as many different kinds of leaves as they could. They ran hither and thither, picking up the brown, yellow and orange leaves that carpeted the woodland floor.
Hilary sat on a fallen log, enjoying the scene. The sky was blue and the branches of the trees formed a delicate tracery against it. The sun was surprisingly strong for the time of year, and was warming her cheek. If not for the fact that she was missing Marcus she would have been happy.
Where was he now? she wondered. Was he in Lyme, walking by the sea? Or talking to his mother’s old nurse? Was he happier, now that he was away from the abbey? She hoped so. But for her, there had been no alleviation of her low spirits. She felt her parting from Marcus as deeply as she had done when she had left the abbey. She felt as though she had lost the vital spark of herself. It was as though she was a sleepwalker, and try as she might, she could not shake off the low spirits that had assailed her since parting from Marcus.
Her thoughts were broken into by Sara, who brought her some leaves to identify. Giving her attention to the little girl, she told her what all the leaves were, identifying the last two as horse chestnuts.
‘But they’re not the same,’ protested Sara, holding them up. ‘This one has five bits and this one has only three.’
‘That’s because this one is damaged,’ explained Hilary.
She helped Janet identify the leaves she had found, then turned her attention to Mary, who had fallen over a tree root when chasing a squirrel, and had grazed her knee.
At last, tired but happy, and clutching their collections of leaves, Hilary took the children back to the farmhouse, knowing they would sleep well that night.
As they approached the house, the door flew open and Mrs Hampson was revealed.
Hilary was startled. It was not Mrs Hampson’s habit to open the door to her, and she wondered whether anything could be wrong.
But Mrs Hampson’s first words reassured her.
‘Such news! Such good news!’ crowed Mrs Hampson.
Hilary had hardly set foot in the door when Mrs Hampson began.
‘You will never guess who’s been here?’
Hilary felt a sinking sensation. Surely Mrs Palmer had not visited her again?
‘Lord Carisbrooke! That’s who!’
Hilary’s heart began to beat more quickly.
Marcus? Here? At the farmhouse?
‘But surely he is in Lyme ... ?’
‘Not any more,’ said Mrs Hampson triumphantly. ‘He’s back. Go upstairs, girls, and take off your coats,’ she said, turning to the children. ‘Hannah will go with you. And make sure you wash your hands,’ she admonished them.
The girls groaned, but they were so tired that they only did so half-heartedly. They followed Hannah upstairs.
Hilary was glad of the few minutes Mrs Hampson’s interest in the children had given her, as it had allowed her to school her thoughts, so that no trace of consciousness remained. She felt she could now talk about Marcus without betraying her feelings by any sudden start or flush.
‘I knew you would be surprised,’ said Mrs Hampson. ‘Lord Carisbrooke has been here this very afternoon! But we can’t stand here talking in the kitchen. Come into the parlour.’
They went through into the parlour, where Mrs Hampson handed Hilary Marcus’s letter.
Hilary took it with trembling fingers. The letter would no doubt be nothing but a formal note, telling her that he had managed to find her a well-paid post. Still, it would be in his own hand, and she longed to see it.
‘What do you think?’ asked Mrs Hampson. ‘He didn’t even go back to the abbey first, but came straight from Lyme just to see you. Hannah asked his coachman. But I must stop talking and let you read. It says you’re to go to the abbey as soon as you can,’ she went on, as Hilary perused the brief note. ‘No doubt he’s found you a position. I knew he would. He’s always been so helpful. He’s a wonderful landlord, that’s what my Peter says. Perhaps he heard of something when he went to Lyme. I wonder what kind of position it is ....’
Hilary scarcely heard her as she rattled on. Her one thought was that Marcus wanted to see her. True, it would be about a position, and true, that position would in all likelihood remove her from his neighbourhood for ever, but she could not stop her heart beating faster. She would see Marcus again ....
Was it wise to go to the abbey? she asked herself.
Assuredly not, came the reply.
But she chose not to listen, for at that moment wisdom was unimportant to her. What mattered was that she would see Marcus one more time; hear his voice; be in his company; feel him near.
‘You will be wanting to set off straight away,’ said Mrs Hampson. ‘And you will be needing the trap. Will you be back for dinner, do you think, or will you be eating at the abbey?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hilary. ‘If I am not back in time, pray start without me.’
‘Now what about the trap. Will you keep it at the abbey?’
‘No.’ Hilary shook her head. ‘I will return it once I have arrived. I am sure Lord Carisbrooke will arrange for me to be brought safely back to the farmhouse.’
‘And so am I, for never a better man lived, and this is the proof of it, that he
’s found you a position so soon.’
They went out into the farmyard, where Tom, one of the farmhands was working.
‘Fetch the trap, Tom,’ said Mrs Hampson. ‘Miss Wentworth is going to the abbey.’
Tom put down his pitchfork and wiped his hands on his breeches, then departed.
Mrs Hampson continued to talk as Tom brought the trap, then Tom helped Hilary up beside him and they were off.
She should focus her thoughts on her prospective position, Hilary knew, but they would not do her bidding, and instead of asking herself whether the position was that of a governess or companion, she found herself wondering how Marcus would look, what he would say, and whether he would be filled with a longing to kiss her, as she was filled with a longing to kiss him.
She tried to turn her thoughts aside as the trap made its way along the country lanes to the abbey, but they kept returning to Marcus. She had hoped she would be able to quell her feelings for him, but she was perturbed to find they were as strong as ever.
At last they reached the abbey. How different it looked, compared to the first time she had approached it. Then it had seemed a gloomy pile, seen in the dismal light of a stormy day. Now, with the sun shining, it seemed less oppressive. In fact, if not for its tragic secret, it would almost have seemed welcoming.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said, as he handed her out of the trap.
He climbed back into it and geed up the horse, then drove away down the drive.
Hilary climbed the shallow steps that led to the massive door. With beating heart she pulled the rope and heard the bell clanging through the house.
As she waited for Lund to answer it, she reflected that it was not only the appearance of the abbey that had changed. She, too, had changed. She was no longer the same young woman who had arrived there not long ago.
Lund was slow in answering the door. It gave her time to adjust her reticule and smooth her pelisse. But the minutes passed, and still Lund did not come. She rang the bell again. Again there was no reply.
She tried the door, and it opened.
She went in.
An eerie stillness greeted her. She was suddenly apprehensive.
But that was ridiculous, she told herself. There was no reason to be apprehensive. Marcus must be in the abbey somewhere. There was nothing to fear.
She crossed the hall. With no sign of Caesar and the fire banked down it seemed cold and empty. She pulled her pelisse more closely about her and made her way to Marcus’s study. The door was open. She went in, hoping to find him, but there was no sign of him. She stood for a minute, and then decided to go to the library, but it, too, was deserted.
The abbey’s emptiness was beginning to prey on her nerves. Where was Marcus? And where was Lund?
Rallying herself, she decided that in all probability Marcus had taken Caesar for a walk and that Lund was in some far flung corner of the abbey where he could not hear the bell. She decided to wait for Marcus in the drawing-room.
Once in the drawing-room, she went over to the fireplace and warmed her hands at the banked-down fire. As she did so she noticed that there were drips of wax on the floor, next to the fireplace. They must have been dropped by Marcus’s candle on the day he had dragged Esmerelda, spitting and struggling, into the secret passage, she reflected. She would have thought that Mrs Lund would have cleaned them up by now, for the housekeeper usually managed to keep the main rooms clean and tidy, even if she did not manage to maintain the rest of the abbey.
Hilary bent down, meaning to scrape the wax from the floor, but to her surprise she discovered that it was still soft. She frowned. It must have been dropped recently. She stood up, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. As she did so, she looked at the secret door.
Had Marcus used the secret passage that afternoon? And had he somehow been shut in? No. It wasn’t possible. The door had an opening mechanism on the inside, as well as on the outside.
But what if he had been attacked by Esmerelda? What if he was unable to open the door because he was hurt?
Worried by the thought, Hilary took a candle from the silver candlestick on the console table, thrust it into the fire and waited until the wick caught light. Then, replacing it in the candlestick, she pulled down the wall sconce and opened the passage. It did not look inviting. It was dark and dusty. She shivered. She had never liked the dark. But telling herself not to be so lily-livered, and reminding herself that Marcus might need her, she went in.
It was dank in the passage, and the air was stale. She grimaced. But still she went further in, shivering as the cold, damp atmosphere closed around her.
She stood still for a minute, giving her eyes time to adjust to the gloomy light, then began to make out the shape of the passage. It was no more than four feet wide and seven feet high. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. They were grey and ghostly in the flickering candlelight. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust. On the wall to her left was a shelf running the length of the passageway. Candlesticks placed at regular intervals showed that it had been once used to provide light, but the stumps of candles, encrusted with solidified wax drippings, were not lit.
If Marcus was in the passage, then would he not have lit them? she asked herself. Not if he had been intending to do no more than go through, she realized.
She took a deep breath and went on. The floor was uneven, being made of earth, and she moved cautiously, not wanting to risk a fall. Fortunately, her curiosity had led her to study the plans of the abbey she had found in the library when she had been staying there, and she knew the layout of the passage. Ahead of her there would be a side passage, which would open to her left and lead to a secret chamber used for hiding priests in centuries gone by. If she ignored it she would soon reach the spiral staircase which led to the room behind the tapestry.
She glanced over her shoulder for reassurance. Behind her, she could still see a glimmer of light from the open door. Even so, she was glad of her candle, and put her hand round it to protect the flickering flame.
Slowly she progressed. The daylight from the doorway became dimmer, until at last it disappeared and she was left with nothing but the candlelight to guide her.
She went on ... and then let out a cry of fright. Something had brushed her face! For one heart-stopping moment her imagination took flight, and she imagined ghosts and ghouls and other monsters from the novels she had read. But when she hit out at it she found herself laughing, for it was nothing but a cobweb, brushing against her face.
She continued on her way. At last she came to the turning to the secret chamber. She was just wondering whether she should follow it, or whether she should continue towards the stairs, when she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. There was a noise ... coming from the room!
M ... Marcus?
She tried to say the name, but nothing came out.
It must be Marcus, she told herself. But her heart began to thud in her chest.
The noise came again, a scraping noise.
She tried hard not to think of all the ghostly things it could be, but the darkness frightened her.
Then there came a rushing of air and a pair of strong hands grabbed her in an iron grip.
‘No!’ She almost dropped her candle in her terror and fought to break free.
‘Hilary!’
The voice was startled.
‘Marcus!’ This time she had no difficulty in saying his name. ‘Oh, Marcus,’ she gasped in relief as she turned to face him. ‘I thought ... but never mind what I thought. It is you.’
And it was. It was Marcus, with his massive frame and his grizzled hair, his deep-set eyes and his jutting brow.
His face softened.
‘It is,’ he said.
His voice was warm and tender, and made her melt inside.
And then - she did not know how it happened, but between him reaching out for her in order to soothe her, and her swaying against him in the aftermath of her fear, she found herself in his arms. r />
Their embrace was awkward, for they were both clutching their candlesticks, but still it felt wonderful.
Until Hilary remembered that she was not meant to be in his arms.
Reluctantly, she pulled away, then lifted her candle so that she could see his face more clearly. In the flickering light of her candle, it was altered. There were dark shadows at the side of his face and yellow highlights on his nose, forehead and cheeks. And yet it was still his face, and she found it wonderfully comforting.
Even better, she saw that he was smiling.
She had rarely seen him smile. His troubles had cast a darkness over his countenance, but now his face was softened by the unfamiliar expression.
‘My love ...’ he began.
My love. The words were wonderful to Hilary’s ears. But they were also perilous. Sensing the danger, she took a step backwards and ignored his words.
‘I came in here hoping to find you, but when I did so I thought ... never mind what I thought,’ she said.
‘You thought I was a ghost?’
His voice was warm and teasing.
There was something so reassuring about his tone that she smiled.
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘There are no ghosts in here, my darling.’
Again, a term of endearment. It sent shivers down her spine. It was wonderful to hear him calling her love and darling, but she must not let him. Especially not here, away from other people, when they were trapped together in a confined space. If she gave in to her emotions, as he had given in to his, there would be no stopping, for her feelings were burning inside her even now, growing and swelling and threatening to overflow the walls she had built around them. So she must stop him speaking to her in such a way. But it was hard for her to be strong. She wanted to match his loving words with loving words of her own. She wanted to reach out and touch him; stroke his grizzled hair; trace the contours of his face with her fingers; let them linger on his lips.
But she must not do it.
She must push him away from her, not with her hands but with her words. She must make them formal. Aloof.