moment longer!”
At his very public complaint of her, Miss Avery’s face turned a pink that did not recommend itself to her other features and in haste left Manning’s side. Striking out in the opposite way, she avoided the rest of the party and went off alone toward a large, singular stone that brooded over the landscape some yards away.
Darcy watched her progress for a few moments before turning to the rest of the party, his jaw clamped down in anger at Manning’s callous display of contempt for his own flesh and blood. He really could stomach it no further.
“Shall we hear them whisper, Mr. Trenholme?” asked Lady Felicia, cautiously brushing the tips of her glove- clad fingers along the side of the largest stone.
“I cannot say that I have ever heard them,” Trenholme confessed, “but I would hazard that we will not hear anything in broad daylight. Such things,” he dropped his voice into a menacing register, “belong to the dead of n ——”
A scream of abject terror cut off Trenholme’s words and froze the smiles on his listeners’ faces. “Bella!” shouted Manning. Again the scream was heard, jolting them out of their icy trance. Finding the use of their limbs returned to them, Darcy and Manning broke into a run across the ground that separated the stones. Heedless of Manning’s claims, Darcy quickly outstripped him and, reaching the great monolith, rounded it to behold Miss Avery. She stood as one bewitched, her hands clasping and unclasping, her face drained of color. If she recognized him, she did not show it but continued her screaming until Darcy was nearly upon her.
“Miss Avery!” Darcy stood between her and the stone, taking up the entire window of her vision. “Miss Avery!” he repeated and grasped her arms. Finally, she looked at him, her eyes wide with terror; and with a pitiful wail, she cast herself against his chest, burying her face in his coat and clutching at the lapels. Without a thought, he brought his arms around her just as he had done countless times to comfort Georgiana. “What is it?” he probed gently. She only shook her head and clung to him more tightly.
The others must be almost upon them, Darcy reasoned, as he looked back over his shoulder. What in the name of Heaven had frightened this girl who trembled so in his arms? The King’s Stone loomed behind him. Its ancient, weathered solidity challenged his sweeping gaze and silently compelled his attention, drawing it down… down to its piercing claim upon the earth. The blood in Darcy’s veins turned to ice.
“Good God!” Manning’s voice trembled with horror as he swayed away from the base of the stone and looked up into Darcy’s eyes.
“Yes,” Darcy agreed tersely. Miss Avery still trembled and sobbed so into his coat that he doubted she could stand on her own strength. “Manning!” he called sharply to the Baron, whose attention was once more transfixed by the grisly bundle at his feet. “Manning!” He had to shout again before the man’s head came up, his visage almost as pale as his sister’s. “Miss Avery is in need of you,” he continued in a firm but subdued tone. “She must be taken from here immediately and the others warned away.”
“Yes…ofcourse,” Manning agreed hoarsely, shaking himself as if to awaken from a nightmare before stepping toward Darcy and his sister. With more gentleness than Darcy had before seen him employ, Manning eased her grasp on Darcy and transferred her weight to himself. He held her tightly for a brief moment, whispering something in her ear, then bent down and took her up in his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. With a nod to Darcy, he began to make his way down the hill to the fire. As soon as Manning and his sister were seen, the rest of the party surrounded them. From his vantage point, Darcy observed Manning’s vigorous refusal of assistance. Sheltering her closely, he bore his sister free from their clinging curiosity and continued to the fire, the others trailing after him in agitated confusion.
Satisfied that they were well occupied, Darcy turned back to the monstrosity lying at the base of the stone. His stomach revolted at the sight, but he resolved to ignore it as well as the icy prickings down his spine that urged him to flee the task before him. What confronted him could only be called what it was: Evil, monstrous Evil. The bundle of blankets wrapping the tiny figure was stained with blood. Despite the cold, perspiration stood out on his forehead as he carefully drew off the first layer of swaddling, revealing the infant face turned away toward the stone. His gorge rising in his throat, Darcy gently tipped its head back, then sucked in his breath, his eyes narrowing in surprise and thought. What was before him was certainly a mask. Made of a flesh-colored fabric and cunningly stitched, it was fashioned to imitate the face of a child. Its delicate, cherubic features stuffed with cotton wadding enhanced the illusion and completely covered whatever was beneath it.
“Darcy!” Trenholme’s shout caused him to look up just as its owner rounded the stone. “Darcy,” he repeated when he saw him, “I say, what — Good God!” Trenholme’s hand went to his mouth as he unwittingly repeated Manning’s horrified exclamation, his shoulders jerking so convulsively that Darcy fully expected he would hurl his breakfast. To his credit, Trenholme regained control of himself and dropped down on his haunches beside him. “Is it…a child?” he asked in a whisper.
“I am not yet certain,” Darcy answered, his voice constricted with the effort to contain his own trepidation. “Look here, Trenholme.” Darcy pointed at the head. “It is wearing some sort of mask.” Trenholme stared at him in stupefaction. “I was about to remove it when you arrived.” At Trenholme’s glazed nod, he took a deep breath and, reaching over, grasped the top and pulled it away. For a moment the two men could only stare in perplexity at the sight before them.
“Thank God!” Darcy closed his eyes and leaned back, embracing the flow of relief that was easing the tight hold he had maintained upon his nerve.
“It’s a pig!” Trenholme croaked. Then, his voice rising in anger, “It’s a damned, bloody baby pig! Oh, this is beyond everything! I’ll not have it! Where is my horse?” He scrambled to his feet and would have run for his mount had Darcy not risen swiftly and caught his arm.
“Do you know who did this?” Darcy’s piercing examination bore down upon the man. “Trenholme! Do you know?” Trenholme looked back at him in outraged anger, but he could not conceal from Darcy the shadow of fear in his eyes.
“What do you mean, sir? No! No, I certainly do not know who did this…this filthy…Gaaugh!” He wrenched his arm from Darcy’s grasp and fell back a few steps. “The Stones have always drawn those who hold with the old ways…as well as lunatics who dance around them in the middle of the night. Love potions, cures, curses — the whole lot — but not this!” He shook his head as he gestured toward the stone. “Never this!” Under Darcy’s narrowed gaze, Trenholme turned away and stumbled down the hill to the others, leaving him to the solitary contemplation of their awful discovery.
Darcy cast one more look over the scene before the great stone. Although its horrors were materially lessened by the knowledge that an animal lay beneath the bloody wrappings, he could not suppress the shudder that passed through both his body and his mind.
Darcy looked down the hill to the confused gathering at its foot. A roar from Sayre reached his ears. Although he could not understand his host’s words, Sayre’s meaning was obvious as all the servants scurried to pack the food and other amenities that had been provided for their master’s guests. The outing was over, and it was expedient that he rejoin the others. There was nothing more he could do here.
Except for Trenholme, who brooded over a mug of hot cider at the fire, the party was divided into two groups near the sleighs. Manning had retired to one group, his sister still within his embrace. Around them, the ladies clucked or cooed over Miss Avery, trying to entice her face from the folds of her brother’s greatcoat. The remaining gentlemen formed another group, but Monmouth and Poole, seeing his approach, broke from them and strode over to meet him.
“Darcy, what happened?” Poole gasped out as he came to a halt. “Manning will only say it is something horrid, and Trenholme will speak to no one!”
“We apply to you, old man.” Monmouth nodded his agreement with Poole’s words. “The ladies are imagining all sorts of lurid scenes a la Mrs. Radcliffe. ‘No such thing,’ I told them. ‘This is England, not Italy or the deep reaches of Carpathia. Probably tripped over a dead rabbit or bird,’ I said. But truly, Darcy, what happened?”
