I hoped the guilt that swept over me didn’t show in my face as I murmured something incoherent. Fortunately, I was not called upon to say more as Eleanor peeped around the door at that moment.
She pulled a face as she observed Lucy’s occupation. “Can’t we just buy new shirts for the poor?” she asked, in that odd, little-girl manner she sometimes had. Coming forward, nevertheless, she gathered up one of the shirts from Lucy’s sewing basket. “Father has enough money. I don’t understand why it is somehow more charitable to darn old ones.”
“Charity, my daughter, is not simply about giving,” Lucy told her. “Ours is a privileged position and an act of humility such as this reminds us of how fortunate we are and our duty to others. If the queen herself does not scorn frugality and altruism, then nor must we.”
“But being good is so dreadfully boring,” Eleanor remarked with a rueful grimace in my direction. Although it was said playfully, I saw the swift glance Lucy sent in her direction and was intrigued by it. I couldn’t really believe that sweet, gentle Eleanor was in any way tainted by the Jago heritage.
“While I am laid up here, I may as well make myself useful,” I said, holding out a hand for a shirt to sew. My companions regarded me with matching expressions that were something akin to astonishment. “I am capable of being practical as well as decorative,” I informed them with a touch of self-mockery. My poor, dear mother, with her dresses that consisted wholly of patches and darns, could have confirmed that. Hurriedly they begged my pardon and the room subsided into silence as we all applied ourselves to the task in hand.
Chapter Five
His eyelids flicker as a bloody dream (not a memory, no, not that) surfaces. The moon gives no gift of light and the night is filled with silent screams. Malignant madness creeps into his mind, unhinging it with grief. But still he must assuage the demon of anger that feasts on his soul. His master, that darkly beautiful monster, leads and guides him like a parent with a child.
When he sees her, his blood stirs, his pulse quickens, his eyelids droop and his lips draw back over white teeth in a smiling snarl. His blade knows no mercy. It bites deep, inflaming him further. Her eyes roll white. When the first rush of blood warms his hands, he wears another’s face. A mask of ancient evil.
* * *
November drear gave way to December ice. Summer was a sweet memory, like the first touch of a lover’s hand. The sky was hung with pale grey drapery, and a low, heavy mist made mountains out of hills. The coastline glowed with pearly light that would set the poet scurrying for his pen, and the artist yearning for his palette. Waves boomed against the cliffs like distant gunfire while winter touched my face with her cold, wet hands. As my strength started to return, I insisted on taking a walk each day, despite the weather. I was glad to escape the claustrophobic confines of my room. Eleanor often escorted me on my afternoon stroll about the grounds. During one of these perambulations, I was surprised to hear a commotion from the gatehouse. The windows in the upper floor were open, and the sound of voices drifted out to us as we passed beneath the arch that spanned the drive.
A feminine laugh, high pitched and excited, rang out. It was followed by a man’s growled command. “For God’s sake, take that bloody thing off.”
“And what if I won’t? How will you make me, sir?” Her voice was low and provocative. Almost immediately her tone changed and an outraged cry of protest drifted out on the wintry air. “A knife? Ah, no! Please, I will do as you wish. I beg you, do not…”
“Shouldn’t we do something?” I whispered to Eleanor in consternation. Before she could answer, however, a blue silk corset, its laces slit neatly down the middle, flew out of the window and landed at our feet.
“I’ll buy you a dozen others. Now come here.” It seemed that the only mutilation we had overheard was that of an item of underwear. I smiled at Eleanor in weak relief and she shrugged, apparently unperturbed by the whole incident. The woman’s shrieks became soft, contented sighs and, minutes later, the unmistakable sounds of passionate lovemaking drifted out to us.