Page 57 of Ondine

Shivering with relief, she leaned back against the stone of the manor. She closed her eyes, fighting a sudden attack of dizziness, brought on by the thrill of discovery, she assumed.

Ondine gazed calculatingly at the manor, then narrowed her eyes against the darkness to see to the stables, far beyond.

Oh, if she could flee right now! But she dared not; she needed a heavy coat for her journey, the simplest that she had, for she must pretend to be a pilgrim.

And she would need whatever coin she could receive, for she would have to purchase something new in London and return to her estates in a hired carriage.

But the stables . . . she should go there now and plan which mount to steal, see from where she might quickly snatch a saddle and bridle. Night was upon them already, and the storm was almost there; no one should be about; the horses would already be stabled for the night.

She set her candle upon the ground, near the door lest the wind should take it; then she started off, sprinting across the lawn.

She shook her head, a little dazed, for the distance seemed suddenly much greater than it should have been, and the ground wavered beneath her feet.

Her stomach lurched as she ran, and she swore silently against the awful goat’s milk that never had agreed with her.

When she reached the stable, she discovered that she had to cling to the wall for several moments, barely able to stand. The stalls were not straight, but curved before her eyes.

God! she prayed suddenly, fervently. What new cruelty of fate was this? She stood ready, thrilled by her recent discovery—escape was a wondrous open doorway for her! And here she was, discovering herself the victim of some strange illness.

Nay, nay! Like Mathilda, she denied the truth strenuously.

This could not be! She simply would not be ill; not until she was far from Chatham Manor!

She forced herself to stare at the stalls.

The bay she had ridden once before whinnied, and Ondine decided that this mare would be the best mount.

The tack room was at her side, and all the bridles, saddles, and trappings were within easy reach, neatly arranged.

It would be easy to slip out the secret corridor after midnight, run to the stables, and leave with the mare.

Blessed hope! This was not some daydream, but reality!

“Ondine! What are you doing here? It’s going to storm!”

She screamed out, startled and then terrified as the voice came to her and a hand set down upon her shoulder.

Clinton.

And he carried a hoof pick in his hand, small, but, oh, so lethal looking as he stood in a shaft of moonlight, tall and muscular, staring at her curiously.

Clinton . . . no matter how kind in manner to her, perhaps he was capable of murder . . .

“Ondine!” He seemed to whisper her name, and she thought of another whisper she’d heard in the night, haunting, frightening, meant to drive one mad.

“Damn him!” Clinton said suddenly, fiercely. “Has he so upset you that you’ve no reason left? Does Warwick know you’re out?”

“I—”

“Does anyone?”

She couldn’t speak; some cruel lethargy was hard upon her; her limbs were as heavy as lead, her mouth as dry as dust. And here he stood, Clinton, discovering that no one knew where she was . . .

“Come on!” he said suddenly, harshly.

“No—”

And then his hand raised, the hand with the pick. She saw the muscle of his arm, hard and bulging and strong. He slammed it toward her, suddenly, lethally . . .

She opened her mouth, longing to scream, it was all so quick; it seemed like an absurd motion.

His hand, the pick, slammed harmlessly against the wall beside her head. He shuddered, controlling anger, then looked at her more closely. “You’re ill. I’ll see you back to the house.”

She placed a hand on his sleeve. “Nay, I . . .”

“Don’t fear; I know that he does not allow you out, and would not be pleased to see you with me. I’ll lead you as far as the door, and then I’ll call for Mother.”

She couldn’t protest; she couldn’t even answer him. She was terribly afraid that she wouldn’t even be able to walk.

But she could stumble, held by his arm. But though he talked to her, she could barely hear him. She could see Chatham before them, but the manor wavered before her eyes just as the stalls had done. Dear God, what was this? This awful, awful sickness?

“We’re at the steps; hold, and I’ll call Mother.”

Her mind . . . where was her mind? Where was thought, and knowledge and strength and logic? She gripped her temples between her hands and tried to press the dizzying numbness from her head, but her hands were as numb to touch as her mind was to thought.

It was almost as if she were drugged, almost like the horrible stuff the pirates had used. It wasn’t the same at all in one way; it was exactly alike in another . . .

“Mother’s here. She’ll bring you to bed.”

Ondine heard the words. She looked up at Clinton, who smiled and started off into the darkness. She lifted a hand, thinking that she could call him back, that something was wrong. Danger lurked.

Except that she couldn’t identify the danger.

Arms came around her. “Milady! Are you ill?”

“Yes . . .” she whispered. “I’ll . . .”

“I’ll take you to bed; come, let me help you.”

She managed to stand, leaning heavily against Mathilda.

“Ah, lady, what are you doing wandering about? You shouldn’t be.

You’ll not leave here; I said that you would not leave here.

I’ve the answers that you need; I know what happened to poor Genevieve.

I know it all; I found the secret in the chapel.

Warwick will know all. You’ll never, never have to leave. ”

The words filtered slowly into Ondine’s mind; they made no sense, they made every sense. She clung only to a few.

“The answer?”

“I have all the answers. In the chapel.”

“The chapel?” Ondine wet her mouth with her tongue and formed the words. The answer . . . Warwick’s answer! Tonight. She could have done with it all—pay that debt for her life this very night, before pursuing her own.

But it was wrong: all wrong . . . why couldn’t she see it, understand it?

“We’ll go there now,” Mathilda told her conspiratorially in a soft, hushed whisper.

Ondine never said aye or nay; Mathilda took her up the entry steps and through the foyer, but did not lead her up the stairs. Instead, they passed through the ballroom, empty now, echoing the wind and shadow and darkness.

They came to the chapel entrance. Mathilda pushed open the door and led Ondine in. She walked her straight to Genevieve’s beautiful altar, and only then did Ondine see that the stone was opened again, that the recess to the tombs below gaped like a black pit before her bleary eyes.

Two ropes with sturdy nooses dangled from the altar to the pit, like ropes of a hangman. They were hung so that the lovely marble angels with their heavenly faces could stare down upon the dead.

Ondine opened her mouth; she tried to scream. No sound came from her and—oh, God!—it was most chilling, for now she knew, she understood fully that Mathilda meant to kill her, yet her body was so numb that she could barely move, barely speak.

“Drugged . . .” she managed to whisper as Mathilda seated her calmly in a pew to continue her preparations. And then, “Why?”

“Oh, you pretty, pretty thing!” Mathilda crooned, and too late Ondine saw the total madness in her eyes.

She had known there was madness seeping into Chatham, but never had she suspected Mathilda to be the well from which it sprang.

Mathilda! Who had claimed to love Genevieve so dearly.

Mathilda, who had cried such terrible tears when she and the supposed baby might be sent away.

“Why?” Mathilda murmured absently, checking the loops on the two ropes that held them to the marble altar.

“You—loved—her. I thought . . . you cared . . . for me.”

“I loved Genevieve dearly! And, sweet girl, you are lovely, too. See, I have here two nooses, so as not to send you off alone! Ah, yes, that was the mistake, you see, that I made with Genevieve.”

“No . . .”

“They cry out!” Mathilda said suddenly, fiercely.

“Oh, lady, have you not heard them? They, the lady dead and my dear mother! That was the crime, you see? I was there that day; I saw it all! My mother, pushing Lady Chatham to her death! Then that horror, that absolute horror when she fell through herself! Ondine, ever since that day they have cried out to me! Genevieve . . . I thought that she would satisfy them. That a Chatham bride, dead in beautiful youth, would fulfill their needs and let them rest. There was the mistake—Genevieve was not enough! Don’t you see?

It must be two. A Chatham countess for the countess; the mistress’s bastard daughter to take her eternally damned place in the hollowed halls of this place! ”

“No . . . drugged.”

“Ah, poor lady! Of course the milk was drugged, to ease thee from this life! You mustn’t fear, I’ll take your hand. I’ll hold you as we depart this life for our role in the next!”

She tried to open her mouth and scream. She tried to fight Mathilda as the small woman slipped the noose around her throat and dragged her toward the pit.

She tried. She had no strength, no will at all, it seemed.

She could only stare at the horror—now too late—finding the logic of insanity a motive for murder.

* * *

Warwick barely nodded at Jake, leaving him free to go about his business, when he slammed into his own chambers.

His temper by now was truly foul—Clinton hadn’t said a word to him when he’d made arrangement to have the carriage ready again by dawn.

He’d felt his cousin’s reproach, and that was far worse than any argument.