Chapter Fifteen
In all her life, Hestia had never felt so humiliated.
"Slow down, my lady," Catherine called from behind her, as they raced along the rugged cliffs by Pemberton Hall. "Even Henry can't keep up!"
Indeed, poor Henry was looking a little tired, as he moved his short legs as quickly as possible to keep up with them.
"I'm sorry," Hestia cried, coming to an abrupt halt. So abrupt, that Catherine thusly ran into her.
"Whatever's the matter, my Lady?" the girl asked, in her gentle lilt, as she saw the tears on Hestia's cheeks.
She could not tell Catherine what was bothering her, no matter how kind the girl's intentions, for it was too humiliating to bear. Last night, she had offered herself to her husband, only to have her overtures coldly refused.
The moment that she had invited Alex to share her bed, his face had taken on a strange expression and he had wordlessly shook his head in response.
"I shall remain on the floor tonight, my dear," he had said, through clenched teeth. Hestia, who after all their passionate kisses, had been expecting a rather warmer response, had nearly died of mortification. She had lain in the bed, stiff as poker, willing the silent tears of shame to stop, before her new husband heard and realised how much he had upset her.
That morning she had decided to be as cold as he, and had refused his offer of visiting St Jarvis, instead opting to walk along the cliffs.
"Something's the matter, my Lady," Catherine said gently, reaching into the pocket of her skirt and extracting a handkerchief. She passed it to Hestia, who noted the initials "RBM" embroidered in the corner, before she patted the tears from her cheeks. She wondered idly, who this RBM might be, but did not dare ask, in case it was a previous suitor of Catherine's.
"Thank you, Catherine," she said, passing the cotton cloth back to her waiting maid. The wind rustled her skirts and Hestia felt soft droplets of salty rain.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, glancing up at the sky. A huge bank of grey clouds could be seen, rolling in from across the sea.
"Looks like the Irish are sending over the rain," Catherine said with a smile, "Perhaps it would be best to return to Pemberton, my Lady? I'm not sure that Henry would appreciate getting soaked."
Hestia glanced down at her faithful companion, who had thrown himself miserably upon the grass. He looked up at her, his brown eyes pleading and she relented.
"You're quite right, Catherine," she replied in a brisk voice, hoping to gain some composure over her feelings. "We shall return to Pemberton, post haste."
As they walked, at a much more relaxed pace than before, the two women fell into easy conversation.
"One of the scullery maids said this morning that there was a terrible commotion last night," Catherine confided, "A man called Captain Black arrived, he works for the Duke on one of his ships. Well, the proprietress of the boarding house refused him a room, and he had to walk all the way from St Jarvis to Pemberton, by foot in the rain."
Hestia digested this news silently, recalling the Captain's strange behaviour the previous night, when he had learned Polly's name. The two evidently knew each other; though if Polly had refused Black a room for the night, then she clearly wasn't overly fond of the Captain. Which was a surprise, for Hestia had found the handsome Captain most charming and unassuming.
There was nobody home when the pair arrived back from their walk, bar the staff who bustled to and fro. Hestia went to her suite of rooms, hoping that perhaps Alex would be there, so that they could discuss what had happened the previous night. He was nowhere to be found however, and, thinking that she did not want to spend a dull afternoon alone, Hestia went in search of the library and a good book.
Pemberton Hall, which Olive had told her had originally been built in the fourteenth century, was a warren of corridors. It took Hestia a quarter of an hour to find the library, though when she pushed the door open a crack, she paused at the sound of a familiar voice.
"I'm blasted if I know what to do Everleigh."
It was Alex, and by the sounds of it he was pacing back and forth. Despite knowing that she should not be eavesdropping on her husband's conversations, Hestia paused, wondering if perhaps he was discussing his marriage. Hopefully he and the Duke weren't so close that he would share the diabolical scene from last night; Hestia flushed, that would truly be adding insult to injury.
"It's a tricky situation, I agree," the Duke replied, in a very serious voice. "Are you certain that Dubois is guilty?"
"I am, now. I did not want to believe it, but after what Thomas found out in Truro --that there were witnesses to say Dubois had tried to hire men to attack Stockbow..."
Alex trailed off, whilst Hestia stifled a gasp of shock and incredulity. Her husband had known since Truro that Dubois was most certainly her father's killer, and yet had not bothered to tell her.
"What shall you do?" Everleigh asked gravely.
Hestia waited for Alex to respond with a suitable answer; preferably along the lines of hanging and quartering this criminal Dubois. Instead, her husband heaved a huge sigh, and simply stated "I don't know."
She took a step back from the door, shocked by his ambivalent reply. How could he not know what to do? Was it easy for him to overlook his friend's guilt, simply because her father had been a criminal?
"Did you hear something?" Alex asked sharply from inside. Panic surged in Hestia's chest; she could not face him now. She turned and fled the way she had come, never once glancing behind her to see if he was following.
When she reached the entrance hall, the front door was open. She could see the sun shining outside and longed for some fresh air, to help her breathing, which was coming in short, sharp bursts.
That scoundrel, she thought furiously, as she tripped lightly down the wide steps onto the driveway. That blackguard; he promised that he would help me find the man who had killed my father and then he hid the perpetrator's identity from me purposefully.
She thought back to the previous night, when she had asked Alex solemnly to share her bed, and bile rose in her throat. Thank goodness he had refused, or she would surely have run him through with a sword, now that she knew what a lying, deceitful prig he had turned out to be.
Hestia was so furious that she was near running, and soon she had reached the end of the pebbled driveway. Thinking that she would walk into St Jarvis, and call on Jane, she walked out the wrought-iron gates and onto the country road which led to the town. She had been walking for no more than five minutes, when a farmer on a cart stopped to offer her a lift.
"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, accepting his gnarled hand and sitting up beside him. "Are you going toward St Jarvis, by any chance?"
"I'll pass near enough, my love," the man said, with a wizened smile, "Thoughs I'll be staying on the main road to Truro."
"Oh. Perhaps I could beg a lift all the way there then, if it would not be too much trouble, sir?" Hestia replied impulsively. The urge to return home was overwhelming; she could not stay in Pemberton and look her husband in the eye, when she knew him to be such a cad. Truro was home, and Rose Cottage, though no doubt cold and damp, was hers.
"It's no trouble at all, Miss," the farmer replied jovially, flicking the reins so that the old-cart horse took off at a snail's pace, "In fact, I like having company on long drives. Tell me this; do you know much about growing turnips?"
"Nothing at all, sir," Hestia replied truthfully.
By the time they reached Truro, late that evening, just as darkness was falling, Hestia could have written an encyclopedia on the growing of root vegetables. She waved the farmer and his cart full of turnips goodbye under the watchful spires of St Mary's. He was headed west, toward Market Square, where he would sell his wares the next morning, whilst Hestia was going eastward toward home.
She made her way down the winding streets, past houses, which stood huddled atop each other, then cottages which stood apart, until finally she was walking along the familiar country lane, which would take her home. The last traces of light had just left the sky when she arrived at the gate of Rose Cottage. Her earlier anger at Alex had wiped any sensible thoughts from her mind, for she suddenly realised that she had no food, or even kindling to light a fire.
I feel as though there's something else I have forgotten, she thought idly, as she pushed the wooden door of the house open.
Henry!
A stab of guilt pierced her heart at the thought of poor, loyal Henry, whom she had left in her bed-chamber in Pemberton. Mind you, she had left him sleeping snugly upon her bed, and she knew that the spoiled little Cavalier would have detested the long journey from St Jarvis. Despite knowing that he would be most unappreciative of the plain cottage, Hestia rather wished that the little dog was there with her, as she grappled around in the dark for a tinder box and a candle. The shadows of the house felt unfamiliar, as though objects had been moved about since she had last lived there. She finally found a tinder box and the small stub of a candle, in the dresser by the kitchen window. The sense of relief she felt as the small flame threw much needed light into the darkness, was almost palpable.
She began to explore the small room, which acted as both a kitchen and sitting room, hoping to find some sticks, so that she could light a fire to throw off the cold night's air, that seemed to have permeated her very bones. She found a few, miserable twigs and set them aflame in the grate, hoping that the breeze which blew down the chimney, wouldn't extinguish them before the flames took hold.
She settled down in her mother's old chair, hoping to rest her bones, but her mind, which was usually quite practical, began to take fanciful notions, as noises from outside sent her heart racing. Ghosts are not real, she told herself, as the trees in the garden rustled in the wind. There was nothing to be afraid of, this was her home. Nothing could hurt her here; in fact nothing could hurt her as much as Alex's awful betrayal, which stung like a lash across her soul.
A particularly loud bang from the back garden caused Hestia to jump, her palms sweaty with fear. Whatever had made that noise, it was most certainly not the wind.
A fox, she thought, taking the fire poker in hand and peering out the window, or perhaps a badger. Instead of an animal, however, what she saw outside in the garden by the rockery, was a blonde haired man, who was swaying on his feet in the moonlight.
Her Uncle, Viscount Havisham.
Hestia clutched her shawl around herself and stepped out the back door into the cool night.
"Uncle," she called, her whispered voice echoing through the darkness. "Whatever are you doing?"
Havisham turned at the sound of his niece's voice, the muscles of his face slack from inebriation.
"Georgina," he slurred, as he caught sight of Hestia walking across the grass. "You're alive."
Hestia remembered, too late, the titbit of gossip that Jane had shared from London; that the Viscount Havisham had taken to the whiskey with gusto. He seemed more than drunk to her; his pale blue eyes were almost unseeing, and his mind seemed not quite right.
"I am Hestia, Uncle," she whispered uncertainly, coming to a halt a few yards away from where the drunkard stood swaying. "Georgina is gone. You came to visit just after she had died. Surely you remember?"
"She did not die," her Uncle whispered hoarsely, his face gaunt and pale. "She was murdered by that blackguard Stockbow."
"It was a low fever, which took her, Uncle," Hestia replied, taking a step back from the Viscount, whose dead eyes were beginning to unnerve her. "She was not murdered."
"She was," Havisham growled, his brow creasing in anger. "That pirate stole her from her home and murdered her. He took her from us and consigned her to a life of poverty, but I had my revenge on him."
I know what you stole Stockbow...
The words of the letter that her father had received, danced before her eyes, and a chill gripped her as she realised what his words meant.
"It was you," Hestia stated, her mind whirring with the shock of it all, "You killed my father."
The Viscount gave a bitter laugh and threw the empty bottle he held in his hand onto the grass.
"A bullet in the brain was no more than that swine deserved, for the suffering he inflicted upon my sister." Havisham growled, advancing slowly toward her. "And yet, the man has driven me demented, ever since that night. I see him in my sleep. His face, before I pulled the trigger...I see him everywhere."
Her Uncle had gone mad from guilt, Hestia realised. The Viscount ran an agitated hand through his thinning blonde hair, glancing contemptuously at his niece.
"He deserved to die; Georgina would have lived a full and prosperous life, had he not taken her away. He left her with nothing," Havisham spat.
"That's not true," tears were in Hestia's eyes, as she protested against his cruel barbs. "Nobody deserves to die that way. You will hang for what you did Uncle."
Her words seemed to cause something inside the Viscount to snap, for he lunged at her, knocking her backward into the rockery. His large hands closed around her neck and he began to squeeze, his eyes wild with anger.
"I will not hang for Stockbow," he roared, spittle at the corner of his mouth. He was no longer human, but like a daemon or a rabid animal, as his fingers clung to her neck in a vice-like grip.
Panic seized Hestia, as her Uncle's grip on her windpipe prevented any air from entering her lungs. With the last of her strength she grappled for something, anything, to fight him off with. Her hand touched a stone from the rockery and with an enormous effort, she lifted it and brought it crashing against the Viscount's long, thin, aristocratic nose, praying that it would be enough to save her.