A squat, white-haired woman stood in the kitchen door, raising a lantern to light the way as the carriage came to a stop.
Feeling that the discovery of the woman and her babe was for him alone, Charles gruffly ordered, “Leave the light, woman, and get ta bed.”
The cook grumbled but did as she was told, and only after she had left the kitchen did Charles carry the unconscious woman through to his quarters. “Must see ta the living first,” he mumbled. Laying her upon his bed, he left the room to retrieve a wash bin and warm water. He returned and washed the blood and mud from the woman. Once that was done, Charles dressed her in one of his own night shirts and tucked a blanket around her.
“Aye, now to see to the babe.”
He led the horses into the barn, dismissed the stableman, and retrieved the lifeless infant from the carriage. The endless rain beat on the old man’s back as he dug a shallow grave amidst the trees behind the barn. Mumbling a few words of prayer, he pounded the dirt down on the small mound and returned to the barn to take care of the horses.
Returning to his room, his glance fell upon the small woman in his bed. He wondered what had led her to be stranded on the road during such a storm. Ignoring the fact that he was wet and cold, Charles gave into the curiosity that led him to inspect the contents of the woman’s bag. He found nothing of interest, only some odd looking clothes and a few little bottles of what he took to be toiletries. Her bag revealed little, but while draping the woman’s clothes to dry before the fire, Charles discovered a packet sewed into the lining of her cloak. Gently, he pried the frail stitching loose. Nervous, thin fingers then separated the ink-smeared papers that he found there. The outer pages were illegible, but one thick document wrapped in the middle of the others remained untouched by the rain and the mud. Squinting, he brought it over to the light cast by the fire and read its contents.
“What be this! The master wedded agin?” He cast a wrinkled frown upon the woman in the bed and studied her face. But married to a foreigner? A new idea ran through his mind. She might be a fraud. Maybe she was only the servant of the new wife. She looked like a servant. No, he decided, if she t’were a servant, she wouldna have been carryin’ sech papers as th’ weddin’ paper aboot her. But still if she were the master’s wife, where then were her servants? And why was she left to die out in the elements?
“Aye, the master had gone off ta India to seek his son. But wed a foreigner? An’ how did she fin’ her way here?” Charles brushed a strand of black hair from the woman’s ashen face.
“Aye,” he uttered, “she be Indian an’ a young one!” Staring at her countenance, his mind bent first one way and then the other in consideration. He wanted to believe that his master had left a part of himself to return to Wistmere. Yet, how could he accept a heathen as his mistress? But she was Sir Craig’s wife! The papers proved that. Befuddled, Charles shook his head and placed the papers on the mantle. He decided that he would have to accept her as his mistress. “It would be what the master would have wanted.”
“Poor thing,” he muttered, spreading another blanket over her, “ta come all this way only to birth a dead bairn.” The Master was dead and all his sons were dead, but his new wife wasn’t. She was there lying before him. The old man then vowed his life and loyalty to the new mistress of Wistmere.
“Ah, now she be need’n nourishment. An’ I’ll tell her o’ the legacy when she awakens. It be hers now.” He grew befuddled again. Something nagged at him, something about the jewels. What was it that he was to remember? His face twisted in confusion. He shrugged it off and left the room. Charles chuckled all the way into the kitchen, pleased to have kept Lady Edythe’s secret for so long, the secret that he swore to take to his grave.
The soup took longer to heat than the old man would have liked, but he felt confident that the woman was in good hands now and didn’t worry much about taking his time. With his hands shaking, the bowl and spoon rattling on the tray, he shuffled back to his room. As he entered, an unnatural quiet filled the air. The bed was empty, and the woman was gone! The bag, her clothes and papers were also missing. Charles panicked, dropped the tray, and set about searching the lower rooms, wondering where his new mistress could have gone.
* * *
The long, silent journey to Wistmere was filled with dust and the endless rocking of the carriage. But May-Jewel Belwood, to wile away the silent hours of travel with a mute companion such as Miss St. Pierre, directed
