And even-tempered Tysen Sherbrooke, a man of cool detachment and sound judgment, leapt off the edge. He said, his voice utterly clipped and cold in his fury, “You are a malicious old woman. I do not wish you to remain here any longer, ma’am. You and Mr. Griffin will leave in the morning. Have I made myself clear?”
The black mustache quivered in outrage. Mrs. Griffin roared to her feet in a welter of black skirts and a great deal of energy. She swung up her black cane and aimed it at him, as if it were a blunderbuss. “You are a vicar, sir. You have insulted me, you have insulted my dear Mr. Griffin in absentia. You will beg our pardon.”
And Tysen, still furious to his toes, said in a voice as rigid as his father’s was whenever he’d been angry with his mother—not an unusual occurrence at all, “I apologize, ma’am. You and Mr. Griffin will still leave in the morning. I bid you good night and a pleasant journey back to Edinburgh.”
“We’ll just see what Donald MacCray has to say about this, my lord,” she shouted after him. “He is the Barthwick solicitor, a man of singular and impressive standing, and he will pin back your wretched little English ears for your horrid behavior to me! Vicar—ha, I say! A plague on you, sir.”
It was a fine parting shot, but he didn’t turn back to the miserable old besom. He just walked out of the drawing room, nearly knocking over his daughter, who had obviously been plastered against the door. He saw a glass of milk on the floor beside her.
“If I could send you away as well, Meggie, I would,” said Tysen and took the stairs two at a time, not looking back.
Two hours later, Reverend Sherbrooke was praying to God to forgive him for his illogical and highly odd anger, his unusual and passionately felt display of temper, his unquestioned rudeness in the face of rudeness that had, for whatever reason, driven him right over the brink. He’d landed facedown in an emotional quagmire. He’d wallowed in it, shamed his calling, riddled holes in his name. But, surely, what had come out of that dreadful woman’s mouth still was of sufficient weight to justify what he had said to the old bat.
He realized in that moment that he was trying to justify himself to God. It appalled him that he had sunk so low, had let himself fall off a righteous path so easily. God was an integral part of his life, His presence and strength filled Tysen’s very being. He was graced by God’s love and it gave him endless joy. And yet he had left Him in a ditch somewhere in this wretched country and continued on alone. Look what had happened to him.
He finally said, his soul stripped of false pride, of pretense, “God, the fact is, I have sinned royally. I lost my temper, and there is no defense that is at all worthy. I was an ass. I brayed, loudly. I will try very hard not to do it again.” There, he could think of nothing else to say. He was no longer angry at Mrs. Griffin, no longer wanted to swat Meggie’s bottom. Well, maybe a bit.
No. He had to exercise better control of himself. He realized then that he was out of his element, far away from what he knew and understood, from everything familiar to him, all of it lying many miles to the south. He’d been tossed into an utterly different pocket of the world, where, to this moment, nothing was what it seemed. He felt like a blind man on a narrow path.
He finally opened his eyes, blinked, and saw that darkness had fallen in this land so very far north that it had to be nearly ten o’clock at night before the light finally faded away and the land was blanketed in blackness.
He felt at peace. He still had no intention of asking Mr. Griffin or Mrs. Griffin to remain. He wasn’t a coward, though. He would show himself to them when they left. He would keep his mouth closed, no matter the provocation.
Mary Rose Fordyce was another matter entirely. She was a bastard. But that wasn’t relevant. Saying that marrying Erickson would be a triumph for her made his belly twist and cramp with the unfairness of it. Evidently, though, it was of primary importance to everyone else hereabouts. No, he would not allow Erickson MacPhail to force himself on her.
He had come to a decision, and he meant it. He also realized, just before he fell asleep that night, that he would be pleased to have the old bat and her silent, disapproving husband gone from Kildrummy. Actually, he wondered what she would say to him when he stood there, perhaps giving a farewell nod and a little smile as their carriage passed out of the inner courtyard. He would, perhaps, even wave both of them happily on their way.
He smiled into the darkness. When the scream came, jerking him out of a deep sleep, he nearly fell out of his bed.
9
Tutene? Atque cuius exercitus?
You? And whose army?
TYSEN DIDN’T EVEN think of his dressing gown. He ran out of his huge bedchamber into the long corridor, his nightshirt flapping against his ankles. It was near dawn, the light dim and gray.
Another scream.
It wasn’t coming from Meggie’s bedchamber. It was coming from the guest chamber at the far end of the corridor. It was Mrs. Griffin, and she was yelling her head off.
Maybe Mr. Griffin, pushed beyond reason, was strangling the old witch.
Not a proper thought, he told himself as he ran down that corridor, wincing with each footfall since the floor was very cold. Not even a remotely acceptable thought for a vicar.
He threw open the door and dashed into a very dark room, with all the draperies clos
ed, and he stubbed his toe. He drew up short, gritting his teeth at the shock of the pain, when he suddenly saw a candle flickering in the darkness, just a small circle of light, and in the center of that small circle of light was Mrs. Griffin’s face. White as new snow; the mustache that topped her upper lip as black as a man’s funeral armband. Her hair was tied in rags. It was a terrifying sight.
His toe still hurt. He called out, “What is wrong, Mrs. Griffin? I heard you scream. What is the matter? Where is Mr. Griffin?”
“Oh, it’s you, Vicar,” she said, gasping for breath. “I saw her. For the first time since I have been in this accursed castle, I finally saw her. Just last year I wanted to see her, I actually spoke into the empty room, asking her to show herself, but she did not come. She had to wait until I was furious and under great duress because I wanted to smack you in the head for ordering me to leave. I did not want to see her. I was not prepared to see her. Yes, she waited until I would be terrified into the grave with my fear. Mr. Griffin is right here, beside me, probably still asleep.”
“Who came, Mrs. Griffin?”
“Why, the bloody Kildrummy ghost, of course,” she yelled at him, her harsh, churning breath making her candle flicker. “She is right over there, in the corner, sitting there on top of the bloody commode.” She shone the candle toward the corner. There was nothing there. “No, don’t tell me that I am quite mad, sir. You know nothing at all. She was there, sitting right on the edge of the bowl, swinging her leg back and forth, just looking at me. I think she was whistling. I heard her whistling, surely a strange sound in the middle of the night, and so I lit the candle. And there she was. She kept whistling and now she’s gone.”
“I say, Mrs. Griffin, what is going on here? Why is the vicar standing in our bedchamber in his nightshirt? By all the bloody saints, man, I will not let you seduce my wife! How dare you, sir! And you call yourself a vicar? You have gall, sir! I will kill you with my bare hands!”