Susan Carroll (6 page)

"Sweet Jesus!"

Gilly's exclamation drew Phaedra away from
the window. She turned around to find her cousin gripping her
manuscript, looking far from pleased.

"My essay doesn't meet with your approval?"
she asked.

"The parts about the navy's ships being
filled with dry rot, and the bit about the king and parliament
being negligent are excellent." Gilly raked one hand back through
his dark hair, further disordering his unruly curls. "But these
passages about the Marquis de Varnais! It sounds as though you are
implying he could be anything from a low-born impostor to a French
spy."

"I only hinted at a few reasons why he might
be so prickly about his background."

"This borders on libel, Phaedra, and well you
know it! Jessym will never print it."

"Jessym prints anything he thinks will sell."
But inwardly Phaedra squirmed in the face of Gilly's disapproval.
Maybe she had gone too far in her remarks about Varnais. But she
hoped that her writing would make society, and especially her own
grandfather, regard the man a little more warily.

Gilly tossed the sheets back down upon the
desk. "I'm surprised at you, Fae, that's all. Your pamphlets have
been full of masterful writing, about fine, important issues. It's
that proud of you, I've been. This is common gossip."

Phaedra gave an affected shrug, although she
felt the sting of his criticism keenly. She knew that her earlier
writings had been much better. Her secret career as Robin
Goodfellow had begun some months before Ewan's death. Then she had
written stirring condemnations of the king and his ministers for
their shortsighted dealings with both the Americans and the Irish.
Her impassioned words had supported the American colonists in their
war for independence. She had cried out for justice for the
beleaguered Irish Catholics, whose livelihood was being stolen by
greedy English landlords. All her writings had been heartfelt
because they mirrored her own despair, her own yearning for freedom
from a marriage that had become a bondage.

She responded bitterly to Gilly. "I am sorry
you disapprove of my 'common gossip.' But I had not much choice,
thanks to Grandfather and his good friend the marquis. It is not
easy to write about fine, important matters from exile in Bath. You
know I only intended to make a brief holiday when I left town after
Christmas, not to find myself banned for the rest of my days."

"But you cannot blame Varnais for that. You
are an independent woman now. You can come and go as you
please."

"What? With my grandfather controlling the
purse strings of the meager pittance Ewan left me? I had barely
enough pocket money to get to London on the stage. When Grandfather
finds me returned, he may well fling me into the street.”

The stern expression which sat so ill on
Gilly's good-humored face softened. "Well, we can become highwaymen
as we'd always planned. How have you managed to escape the jaws of
the old crocodile thus far?"

"He was out when I arrived last night. By now
I expect his beloved housekeeper has informed him of my return."
Phaedra grimaced. The mere prospect of a confrontation with her
grandfather left her feeling deflated. She crossed the room and
began to fold the sheets of her essay.

"If you don't wish to deliver this for me, I
understand. But the sad truth is, Gilly, that I rather need the
money."

"Whist now. Did I ever say I wouldn't take
it? You could malign the good Saint Patrick himself, and I'd stand
by you to the end." Gilly tugged the manuscript from her hand and
tucked it inside his waistcoat.

When she deposited a grateful kiss upon his
cheek, he groused, " All I say is, heaven deliver you if your
grandfather ever suspects that you are the rascally Robin
Goodfellow tweaking the king's nose." Gilly gave a short hoot of
laughter. "Come to think on it, it is more likely myself that'll be
suspected. I think Jessym half does already. Belike one day I'll
find your marquis coming after me with his wicked sword."

"I would never let it come to that," Phaedra
vowed earnestly. "If you were ever accused of being Robin
Goodfellow, I would-"

She broke off, interrupted by a high-pitched
scream.

"What the devil is that?" Gilly asked.

"I don't know," Phaedra said, looking up
fearfully at the ceiling above them. "But I think it is coming from
the direction of my garret."

Lifting her skirts, she dashed out of the
library, with Gilly hard on her heels. Seeking out the backstairs,
she took the risers two at a time, not pausing for breath until she
reached the small chamber at the very top of the house.

The scream had not been repeated, but when
Phaedra stood outside the door to her private sanctum, she could
hear the sound of muffled sobbing and above it, a steady thwack,
like a poker being pounded against a cushion.

"Sounds like someone is taking the devil of a
drubbing," Gilly said. "You'd best let me deal with this."

Phaedra shook her head, her mouth compressing
into a hard line. Turning the knob, she flung the door open and
burst into the room. The sight that met her eyes occasioned more
rage than astonishment, for she had already guessed what was
amiss.

The chamber, with its low ceiling and plain
white plaster walls, was a jumble of furniture discarded from the
elegant apartments below. Between a Jacobean daybed and an empty
bookshelf, cowered a tall, raw-boned maid, her flat bosom heaving
with sobs. The girl held her large-knuckled hands before her face
in an effort to ward off the blows. Her assailant, a wisp of a
woman garbed in black bombazine, brought her cane crashing onto the
girl's back with great energy, her lips stretched in a grimace of
ecstasy.

Phaedra flew across the room, catching the
woman's arm in mid-swing, and wrenched the weapon away from her.
“Mrs. Searle! What is the meaning of this? How dare you strike my
maid!"

From beneath the starched lace of her mobcap,
Hester Searle's colorless eyes glared at Phaedra with all the
malice of an adder contemplating its prey.

"When yer ladyship hears the truth, ye'll
want to beat the wicked creature yerself. I caught Lucy fixing to
burn yer ladyship's finest gowns." The woman pointed an accusing
finger toward a pile of black silks strewn before the
fireplace.

The girl scrambled over to Phaedra, shrinking
behind her skirts.

"Oh, milady," she sobbed, "I tried to
explain."

Phaedra glanced down at the purple swelling
which had begun to disfigure the girl's cheek. She shook with
anger, but she managed to place a gentle hand upon the girl's
shoulder. "Never mind, Lucy. I will settle this. You run along to
Thompson and have him apply something ointment to that eye."

With a hiccup of relief, the girl bolted from
the room, nearly blundering into Gilly in the doorway. Phaedra
rounded upon Mrs. Searle. Never had she so loathed the sight of
that woman's sharp-featured face, the coal-black hair drawn back
from her brow in a widow's peak. A distant relative of Ewan
Grantham's, poor and untutored, Hester had been hired as the
housekeeper upon her late husband's recommendation. More often than
not, Hester had served as Ewan's spy. Upon her husband's death,
Phaedra had hoped that Hester would resign her post, but it seemed
she was never to be rid of the sly creature.

"This time, you've carried your impertinence
too far, Mrs. Searle. In the first place, I've told you that I
consider this my own private room. I don't ever want you coming in
here. Secondly, that girl was acting upon my orders. I told her to
destroy those gowns. I no longer have a use for them."

Hester Searle pursed her lips. "Begging yer
ladyship's pardon. How was I to know? Such a strange command,
burning these lovely silks. If you had but told me you wished to be
rid of them, I could have-"

"You are only the housekeeper. How I dispose
of my personal wardrobe is none of your affair. "

"Aye, but Fae, I fear for once I must agree
with Madame Pester about the gowns."

Having all but forgotten Gilly's presence,
Phaedra twisted her head to glower at him. He leaned up against the
doorjamb. "'Tis more the action of a spoiled, highborn beauty than
the cousin I know, to so wantonly destroy such clothes as many a
poor woman would be glad to have upon her back. If you don't want
them, m'dear, give them away."

Phaedra bit her lip. More than anyone else,
Gilly should understand why she despised those black gowns. With
irritation she realized that Gilly was right. It was wasteful to
burn up the gowns. She had seen enough of poverty herself to know
better. Before she could reply, however, she was distracted by the
sound of Hester hissing like a cat. Her pale eyes spit fire at
Gilly.

"You. You, here in this house! If my dear
Lord Ewan were still alive, ye would never have dared.”

Gilly gave the woman a mocking grin. "What,
Madame Pester? You mean to say you are just now aware of my
arrival? Tch. Tch. Your prying little eyes must be wearing dim with
age."

"Don't bandy words with her, Gilly." Phaedra
stamped her foot. "Mrs. Searle, you will treat my cousin with
respect or I swear I shall send you packing."

But Gilly called out, "Now, Fae, Madame
Pester has reason to be shocked by my presence. A gentleman in your
private room, an Irishman and a Catholic to boot. Fie! For
shame."

"You are guilty on the last two counts,"
Phaedra retorted. "But upon my authority as a spoiled, highborn
beauty, let me tell you, sir, that you are no gentleman. Now be
off. I am certain you have a rather pressing errand to attend." She
glanced pointedly toward where her manuscript bulged in his
waistcoat pocket. "I can pack away these gowns for the almshouse
without your interference."

A smile of approval lit Gilly's face even.as
he swept an exaggerated bow, encompassing both Phaedra and Mrs.
Searle. "Oh, yes, your ladyship. Right away, your ladyship. And
Madame Pester, charmed as always to be making your acquaintance
again." Still bowing and scraping, Gilly backed out of the
room.

When his grinning countenance had disappeared
from view, Phaedra turned her attention back to Mrs. Searle. The
woman had successfully disguised any rage she felt at Gilly behind
her normally morose expression. Her hands folded before her, her
strangely wrought fingers peeked out of her black lace mittens,
crooked only at the first joint like the claws of a vulture.

"I regret having disturbed yer ladyship with
my error," she said. "If I am excused, I will be about my
work."

"Oh, yes. I am sure you are just dying to go
see my grandfather and tell him all about my having Gilly here.
"Phaedra was well aware that Sawyer Weylin despised her Irish
cousin nearly as much as her late husband had.

"Nay, I shouldn't dream of disturbing the
master when he's holding his levee," Hester said. Although she
lowered her lashes, her thin, blue-veined lids did not hood her
eyes enough to disguise a glint of malicious anticipation.

"Get along, then. And when Lucy has
recovered, send her up here to bundle these gowns. But if I ever
catch you striking her or prowling through my room again, I swear
I'll wring your scrawny neck with my own two hands. And not even my
grandfather will be able to stop me."

Her face emotionless, Hester nudged several
of the black gowns aside with her toe, uncovering a cloak.
Retrieving it from the pile, she prepared to slip out of the
room.

Phaedra sharply drew in her breath. "And
where do you think you are going with that?"

Hester shrugged, shooting Phaedra a sly
glance. "I only thought as ye be now giving these things away, I
would have it for myself. Being but a poor housekeeper with no
wealthy grandfather to ease my way."

"Oh, no, you don't. Give me that." Phaedra
wrenched the cloak from the older woman's grasp. "You think I'll
let you walk off with this, so I can find it turning up amongst my
things again one day? Don't think for a minute I don't know that it
is you who keeps slipping this back into my wardrobe."

"Why, ma'am, ye seemed to cherish it so,"
Hester purred. "I couldn't believe ye meant to discard it."

"Liar!" Phaedra's fingers tightened on the
soft folds. "I will tolerate no more of your tricks, do you hear
me? Now get out of here. Go make your report to my grandfather. And
keep your sneaking face out of my sight."

"Yes, my lady," Hester sneered, her stiff
skirts rustling as she glided out of the garret, the door clicking
shut behind her.

Phaedra trembled with anger. Meddlesome old
witch. She did not doubt for a moment that the housekeeper's true
purpose had been to snoop amongst Phaedra's most private
belongings.

Anxiously, Phaedra hastened toward a small
cabinet lodged in one corner of the room. One of the few pieces of
furniture she had brought with her from Ireland, the cabinet was
fashioned of blackened bog oak, the sides carved with fanciful
figures like those found in the Book of Kells. Within its locked
drawers resided her notes, first drafts of the pieces she had
written under the name of Robin Goodfellow and the copies of the
Gazetteer, the newspaper that printed her essays.

Reassuring herself that the cabinet had not
been tampered with, she resolved to take even greater precautions
in future to keep Hester Searle out of her rooms. She'd endure no
more of the woman's prying and malicious tricks.

Phaedra's gaze dropped to the garment she yet
clutched in her hands. She wanted to fling the cloak from her, but
instead she smoothed it out, the cloth exercising the same terrible
fascination for her it always had. Fashioned of dove-colored
cassimere, it had a folding hood that expanded to frame the
wearer's face in layers of ruffles. Phaedra hugged the cloak close
to her body, the inches of fabric falling far short upon her. The
garment had been designed for someone daintier than herself.