Page 39 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Twenty

It was a gloomy, gray day, matching Annelise’s mood.

There was still no sign of her brown dress, and the only thing sedate enough in Christian’s great-aunt’s wardrobe was a forest-green riding habit.

Even putting it on made her feel edgy, but it was either that, or a dress with far too low a decolletage, or the powdering gown, and the habit was the least of all the evils.

No shoes, of course, and the elegantly clocked silk stockings were slippery on the floor.

At least the cut on her foot was healing.

She bundled her hair into a tight knot at the back of her neck, pulled a chair close to the fire, and sat determined not to move until she absolutely had to.

She wasn’t going to face Christian Montcalm again unless she was forced to.

When Mrs. Browne brought her a tray of food, she had taken one look at her expression and backed out quickly, with the muttered promise that she’d work on her dress.

Annelise had nibbled on the cheese and bread, then ignored the rest. There had to be some way out of Wynche End.

She was far more susceptible than she’d ever realized.

The sound of horses’ hooves drew her out of her gloom and she went to the window, peering out through the light mist just in time to see Christian disappear down the overgrown drive on what looked to be a perfectly healthy horse.

One that could have carried William while Annelise rode safely with Hetty.

It was the final straw. She was going to find wherever Christian had hidden Chippie’s heavy gun and shoot him.

She was going to walk twenty miles in stocking feet just to get away from him.

She was going to do just about anything to ensure she never had to be near that lying, rutting bastard again.

She found the kitchen with no difficulty and stormed into the room to find Harry Browne sitting at the table, drinking a mug of tea, and Bessie busy making bread. Sensing that what was about to follow such an entrance was women’s talk, Harry excused himself and left as quickly as he could.

“Your husband’s a wise man,” Annelise said in a tight voice, taking the seat he’d vacated.

Mrs. Browne laughed. “You’d scare the bejesus out of the devil himself, miss,” she said. “Though I’m thinking it’s not my Harry you’re wanting to kill.”

“You’d be right Where has Mr. Montcalm disappeared to, and where did he find that horse?”

“He told you he had no horses?” Mrs. Browne asked incredulously. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised—he’ll do just about anything to get his way. You shouldn’t let him bother you, miss.”

“I’m not going to let him bother me. I’m just not going to let him keep me here. What I need are a pair of boots or shoes that would fit me. I intend to walk and keep walking until I find some form of civilization where they’ll help me.”

Mrs. Browne looked hurt. “Now, miss, I’ll help you if that’s what you want. Master Christian led me to believe you wanted to be here.”

“Master Christian is a bald-faced liar.”

“He is, indeed,” Bessie agreed in a comforting voice.“He needs someone to teach him a lesson.”

“He’s past being taught,” Annelise said.

“There’s another horse in the stable, as well, and I know Harry would saddle her for you...”

“I don’t ride,” Annelise interrupted. “Walking will do me just fine.”

“It’s more than three miles to the village, the roads are a sea of mud, and another storm is coming in. I’ll talk to Master Christian, see to it that you have decent transportation...”

“He can go to hell.”

“Aye, there are times when he’s sure that’s his only choice. The poor lad’s had a rough time of it, and it’s little wonder he is what he is. Not that it’s any excuse, mind you.”

Annelise wasn’t going to ask. She had no interest in Christian Montcalm’s “rough time” and nothing under the sun would induce her to respond to Mrs. Browne’s careful hint to probe deeper.

And then she sighed. “Why has he had a rough time?” she asked wearily.

“Lost his entire family to those bloodthirsty Frenchies,” she said.

“Mother, father, brothers and a sister. Murdered in cold blood, while Master Christian was here visiting his grandfather. He’s always blamed himself that he wasn’t there with them.

Not that he could have helped—he’d simply be dead, as well. But guilt is a funny thing.”

“His family was killed during the Terror? But he’s not French.”

“Half-French,” Mrs. Browne corrected. “But you won’t find him admitting to it.

He wiped every trace of that country out of his life, out of his voice and his clothes.

With the help of his grandfather’s beatings, I might add.

He was left an orphan at the mercy of an evil old man, and he learned to survive as best he could.

But he won’t drink French wine, won’t wear French clothes, pretends he doesn’t understand the language.

Pretends his poor lost family never even existed. ”

“And that gives him an excuse to lie? To use other people as he sees fit?”

“No,” Bessie said. “But there’s still a decent man inside worth saving. Harry and I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t believe it.”

“Well, I’m not saving him,” she said crossly. “And he wouldn’t want me to.”

“Of course not, miss,” Bessie said, a little too quickly. “I wasn’t even thinking such a thing. I just didn’t want you to judge him too harshly for his selfish ways.”

“All I want is to escape from his selfish ways,” Annelise said flatly. “And I’ll need my clothes and a pair of shoes to do so.”

“I can see to it. Promise me one thing, miss. I’ll find you a decent pair of shoes, I’ll finish fixing your dress and I’ll make sure Harry has transportation for you tomorrow morning. It might only be a farm cart, but he’ll have that much or he’ll hear from me.”

“All right,” she said, waiting to hear the rest.

“In the meantime there’s a pair of riding boots in the scullery that might fit. Nothing fancy, of course, but at least they’d be something.”

Annelise plastered her best smile on her face. “That would be lovely,” she said in a dulcet tone.

Then came Annelise’s part of the bargain.

“And you’ll wait until tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she said without blinking. “I’ll just go for a little walk. I need some fresh air.”

Mrs. Browne looked at her doubtfully, but in truth there was nothing she could say. She could only watch as Annelise found the oversized boots, slipped her feet inside, and stepped out into the damp spring air.

It was time to face the harsh facts of life, Annelise thought.

If she didn’t want to stay here, at the mercy of Christian Montcalm and her own foolish fancies, then the alternative was to leave.

Just because she hadn’t ridden in five years didn’t mean she didn’t know how—she’d always been a natural horsewoman, and that innate talent didn’t vanish from lack of use.

She was wearing a riding habit, and apparently the Montcalm stables had another suitable horse.

All she had to do was saddle and bridle it, no difficult task for her, and then ride away. So simple, and yet so complicated.

But hiding in her room didn’t fix anything.

As far as she knew Christian was still out for the afternoon, and while she was running the risk of meeting him in the stables when he returned, at least there’d be other people there.

The stable lad, and maybe Harry Browne. He wouldn’t dare do anything with an audience.

But there was no sign of anyone as she made her way through the old house.

The afternoon sun slanted in the western windows, penetrating the gloom just a bit.

If this were her house she’d rip away the tattered curtains, pull up the shredded rugs, wash the windows and toss all the broken furniture.

The place could be made habitable, with a small army of servants to clean it and a thoughtful touch.

Flowers from the overrun gardens would be a start.

But not for her. She skirted the flower beds with their riotous growth, resisting their beckoning colors as she made her way to the stables.

She saw with approval that at least this outbuilding was in reasonable shape—no leaking roof, no broken windows to let in the damp spring weather.

Her father had been the same—neglectful of his own dwelling while making sure that his horses were well tended to—but in this case Annelise couldn’t object.

People could fend for themselves. Horses needed proper care.

She could overlook carelessness toward humans more easily than she could toward animals, which was a strangely irrational attitude.

But one that held firm. The state of Christian Montcalm’s stable was the first genuinely good thing she could say about him.

She walked into the outer building, but all the stalls were empty.

It smelled of fresh hay and manure and all the lovely horse smells that she’d missed so much.

It smelled like her childhood, when she had been happy, and she almost turned around and ran back into the house rather than face all the painful memories that had come flooding back There wasn’t a day when she didn’t miss her father, his feckless charm, his casual affection, his boundless optimism in the face of total disaster.

She never knew for certain whether the fall had been an accident or not.

Her father was too good a horseman, even in his cups, to make the kind of mistake that sent him sailing over the hurdle ahead of his horse, to a broken neck that killed him instantly.

But then, he wouldn’t endanger a horse if he were bent on killing himself.

He’d have taken one of the dueling pistols and put a gentlemanly end to himself.