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An ache throbbed in her heart as she reached for a bundle, each letter filed by the date of its arrival. She located the two stacks she had received in the past eighteen months, and untied the first one. Last year, her sister had been living at Selkirk. In August, she had journeyed to East Dereham in Norfolk to spend time with Agnes’s older sister, Gladys. There was only one letter written each month during the time she’d been there.
Corrie now knew she’d been pregnant, growing heavier each day with the child she carried. Her time must have been absorbed with thoughts of the babe, and yet she’d been afraid to tell even Corrie about the infant she would bring into the world.
Corrie’s eyes misted as she reread one of the letters, this one dated March 20, when Laurel had been preparing to leave Selkirk Hall.
I feel restless and uncertain. I had such dreams for the future and now they seem sullied, darkened by pain and despair. And yet I have known love. I cannot tell you how that feels. Love makes the parting worth the sadness.
Corrie remembered receiving the letter. She had penned a reply, asking her sister about the man she had fallen in love with, and why they couldn’t marry if the two of them cared for each other. She had also asked the man’s name.
Laurel’s next letter had not come until a full month later, after her arrival in East Dereham. She had ignored Corrie’s questions and instead talked about life on her aunt’s farm.
Corrie had assumed her sister’s infatuation had faded and that she hadn’t been truly in love. Corrie’s own life was so busy the subject never came up again. Instead, sparse as they were, Laurel’s letters grew more and more cheerful. On September 18, she’d written:
Though it is autumn, it is sunny today, with warm bright rays filtering through the branches of the trees outside my window. Orange and yellow leaves are beginning to fall and I can hear birds singing, the hum of crickets in the dry fall grasses. Lately, the world seems somehow brighter, and I find myself awakening each day with a sort of wonder at all God has created.
As Corrie looked back, she found it clear, from the difference in the first letters and those coming later, that something in Laurel’s life had changed. Now Corrie knew that her sister was expecting a child, and it was obvious from her letters how much she looked forward to being a mother, how much she looked forward to the future.
A lump swelled in Corrie’s throat to think how very short that future had turned out to be.
She finished rereading the letters but found no clue to the man Laurel had loved.
Was Gray Forsythe that man? When Corrie was around him, she found it hard to think. It was as if he had some sort of magic power, some mysterious quality she found nearly impossible to resist. Had Laurel felt it, too?
Corrie thought of the afternoon two days ago she had spent in the village. While pretending to shop, she had begun a subtle investigation into Laurel’s death. She had casually mentioned the young woman from Selkirk who had drowned in the river several months back and, as always, people were eager to gossip.
“She done kilt herself,” the butcher’s wife said. “They say she lost her innocence to some man and couldn’t stand the shame she brought down on her family.” The raw-boned woman shook her head. “Don’t seem right for a young girl to meet such a tragic end.”
At the hatmaker’s shop, the story was the same—though it was clear her father’s attempt to hide the secret of Laurel’s illegitimate child had failed.
“It must have come as a terrible shock to his lordship…findin’ out his daughter weren’t pure as the driven snow the way she seemed.” As the heavyset woman worked on the hat she was making, she leaned over the counter. “There were a babe, I hear,” she whispered. “Drowned right along with her.”
Corrie felt a wave of sadness followed by a jolt of anger that the villagers should think the worst of someone as sweet as Laurel. Reminding herself why she was there, she widened her eyes, pretending shock and disbelief. “What a dreadful thing to happen. Does anyone know the father?”
The beefy woman stuck a feather into the band of blue velvet around the brim of the hat. “Heard tell it were the vicar’s son, but most don’t believe it. They think it was one of them fancy lords up to the castle.”
Corrie’s stomach knotted. “Which one?”
The hatmaker shrugged. “No one knows for certain. That dark one’ll take a woman’s fancy. Ain’t no doubt of that.”
No doubt at all, Corrie thought.
“There’s the married one, but his wife keeps a pretty close watch on him.” The milliner smoothed the feather, checked its position in the hatband. “The other one, young Lord Jason, they say he’s stolen the virtue of half the milkmaids in the county. Like I said, nobody knows for sure, probably never will.”
But Corrie intended to find out. Thanking the woman for the bit of conversation, she had walked out of the village convinced her suspicions were not unfounded.
Local gossip named one of the men in the castle as the mostly likely father of Laurel’s child. Corrie would do some checking on the vicar’s son, and Thomas Morton, one of Squire Morton’s four boys, since Agnes had made mention of him. But it was Gray Forsythe whose wife had drowned in the same river as Laurel, Gray Forsythe who remained at the top of her suspect list.
As she sat there now, in the middle of the bed, her sister’s letters scattered around her, Corrie remembered the feel of the earl’s hard body, the warmth and strength of his arms as she had ridden back to the castle with him. It wasn’t difficult to believe he could have seduced her shy, innocent sister.
Corrie glanced at the clock on the mantel. She had begun to gather the first pieces of the puzzle. As soon as she got the chance, she would take a look around the house, see what else she might find out.
Seven
At Charles’s insistence, Rebecca gave Corrie a brief tour of the house. It was clearly the last thing the woman wished to do. Still, she remained distantly polite, and Corrie did the same. Any chance to glean information was a welcome opportunity.
“The castle was built in 1233,” Rebecca told her as they stood in the great room in what had been the original keep. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, and heavy carved beams supported the floors above. The medieval style had been preserved through the years, and now the space served as the formal dining room.
“Of course, the house has been refurbished and added onto dozens of times. Gray’s mother took great care to see it modernized. I’ve made a number of changes myself.” There was pride in Rebecca’s voice when she talked about the castle, which was magnificent, a grand medieval palace with all the modern luxuries and most elegant furnishings.
“How long has the Forsythe family lived here?” Corrie asked.
“It’s been family-owned for more than two hundred years.”
“So the earl lived here as a boy?”
“Yes.”
“What was his family like? I mean, Gray and Charles were brothers. Were they brought up in happy circumstances?”
For a moment, Rebecca seemed uncertain how much she should say. “There were three brothers but no sisters. James was the eldest, the apple of his father’s eye. Charles was the baby and he was indulged a good deal.”
“And Gray?”
Rebecca shook her head, moving the golden curls on her shoulders. She was gowned in pink-and-white silk. With her creamy complexion and cornflower-blue eyes, she was a confection of loveliness, the perfect English rose. And yet Corrie sensed a core of steel inside her.
“Gray was different,” she said. “He was dark where the rest of the family was fair. He was outspoken and often headstrong. He and his father…didn’t get along.”
“Is that why he joined the army?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “He was a second son. It is commonly done.”
“I heard he was in India.”
Rebecca nodded. They moved out of the great hall down one of the numerous corridors. “He was stationed there for three years before James fell ill. I think Gray resented having to return. He was always a bit of a wanderer. Once he became the earl, he was forced to settle down and accept his responsibilities.”
Corrie followed her down the hall, past several beautifully furnished drawing rooms. “Was that the reason he married?”
“I suppose it was. It was his duty to produce an heir, and Gray wasn’t the sort to shirk his duty. Jillian was beautiful and she had money and social position.”
Corrie’s interest stirred. “Was she in love with him?”
“I think she was mostly in love with the idea of being a countess. Jillian was still a child in many ways.”
Corrie had come here for answers. She pressed for more. “Just before Cyrus left the country, he received a letter from one of his friends.” Hardly true, but a way to broach the subject she needed to discuss. “The note mentioned the countess’s death.”
“Yes. There was a boating accident. Her death was extremely hard on Gray.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
Rebecca turned toward her. “I don’t know if Gray is capable of love. Certainly, he cared for her a very great deal. He blamed himself for not being there when it happened, not being able to save her.”
So the earl wasn’t there when his wife died. More information to file away. There would be time to examine it later.
They moved along the hallway into the long gallery, where portraits of the men in the earl’s family hung, floor to ceiling, on the walls. Most of them were blond or had light brown hair and looked nothing at all like Gray, whose hair was midnight-black, his features dark and more defined, more masculine.
“Gray’s mother must have been dark complexioned.”
Rebecca arched a delicate eyebrow. “Clarissa Forsythe was as fair as Charles. She claimed Gray got his coloring from the women on her mother’s side of the family.”
Claimed. It was an interesting choice of words. Corrie studied the wall, finding not one portrait that remotely resembled Gray. Perhaps there was some doubt as to the earl’s parentage. Perhaps that was the reason he and his father had not got along.
Corrie made a mental notation to include with the rest of the information she had collected.
Rebecca glanced at the clock. “I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing some of the house. Perhaps another time I can show you a bit more. For now you’ll have to excuse me. There are several pressing matters I must attend to.”
“Of course.” Corrie hid her feeling of relief. Though Rebecca had been unerringly polite, it was clear the woman disliked her. Perhaps she suspected Letty Moss wasn’t what she appeared, and if so, Corrie could hardly fault her. Or perhaps Rebecca simply didn’t want another woman living under her roof.
Whatever the reason, they were not destined to become close friends, and considering the reason Corrie was there, perhaps it was better that way.
Left on her own, she wandered the maze of halls, memorizing which rooms were where, slowly making her way along one corridor into the next, hoping she would be able to find her way back. As she passed the library, she paused, then, drawn by the floor-to-ceiling rows of books, stepped inside.
The grand room was impressive, each oak bookcase tightly jammed with leather-bound volumes of various sizes and shapes. It sat in one of the oldest parts of the castle, with walls of stone and wide-planked oak floors that had been worn in places over the years. And yet the wood was polished to a glossy sheen, the brass lamps on the tables gleaming. Each of the long rows of shelves had been carefully dusted, as if the books they held were of importance to the master of the house.
Corrie appreciated the value of books. Her home in London was filled with them; even her bedroom had a bookcase stuffed with volumes she treasured. She was a writer. It only made sense she was also a voracious reader.
She prowled the library, enjoying the comforting feel of the room and its familiar volumes, the slightly musty smell of old paper and ink. Laurel had also liked books. Corrie wondered if perhaps it was an interest her sister had shared with Lord Tremaine. If so, the library might hold some clue that would provide a connection between the pair. For reasons she refused to examine, a bitter taste rose in her mouth at the thought.
And the same persistent feeling that Laurel would never be attracted to a fearsome man like the earl.
She was simply too gentle, too kind, while the earl was contrary, forceful and intense.
Corrie wondered at his childhood. Gray’s mother had died when he was ten, she knew, leaving him with a father who—what? Believed he was another man’s son? Had Gray been mistreated? Had he joined the army to escape an unloving parent?
And what of his wife?
Rebecca had said Gray was incapable of love, and yet Jillian had seemed to have no qualms in marrying him. Was he in some way responsible for her death? Was that the reason for his guilt?
Corrie wandered the endless rows of bookshelves, picking up a volume here and there, recognizing a goodly number she had read. One section held classical Roman texts including Virgil’s Aeneid and a volume of poetry by Lucretius, On the Nature of Things, printed in the original Latin. Both were books Corrie had enjoyed. She had always loved school, loved learning. Her father had ignored social custom and provided her with the best tutors money could buy.
She perused the next section, pulled a volume out of the stack and flipped it open: Homer’s Odyssey. She had read the book years ago, an epic adventure that had spawned her desire to write. Just as before, the words on the page began to draw her in and she found herself rereading a favorite passage. She was so immersed in the tale, she didn’t hear the earl’s heavy footfalls, muffled by the thick Persian carpet.
“Find something interesting?” Reaching out, he plucked the book from her hand. Turning it over, he read the gold letters printed on the leather cover. “The Odyssey?” He started to frown. “You read Greek?”
Good heavens. “I—I…was just looking at the letters. They look so different than they do printed in English.”
He turned away from her, shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. “You’re in the library, so I presume you like to read. What sort of books do you prefer?”
She was Letty Moss, she reminded herself, a poor relation from the country. “I, umm, actually I don’t read all that much. Mostly I enjoy the ladies’ magazines…you know, Godey’s Lady’s Book and the like.” She flashed a beaming smile. “They show the very latest fashions.”
Gray’s mouth thinned. He nodded as if he were not the least surprised. Somehow that look rankled more than anything he could have said.
“I’m sure Rebecca has something you might enjoy,” he told her. “Why don’t you ask her tonight at supper?”
“Yes… I’ll do that. Thank you for the suggestion.”
He stood there, waiting for her to leave, tall and dark and imposing.
“I—I do enjoy reading poetry on occasion,” she said, searching for an excuse to remain in the library. “Perhaps I might find something to keep myself occupied until tonight.You don’t mind if I look a bit longer, do you? It’s a very pleasant room.”
He studied her face. “I don’t mind. I spend a good deal of time in here myself.”
She summoned a sugary smile and waited for him to leave. As soon as he disappeared out the door, she set to work. No more time for dallying. She needed to see what was in the drawers of the big oak library desk, examine the writing table in the corner. As soon as she got the chance, she intended to visit Lord Tremaine’s study, but that would be dangerous and certainly no daytime venture.
Corrie hurried over to the desk and began to pull open the drawers. There were all sorts of musty papers, an ink pen with a broken nib, and some old books with pages missing. She wondered why the earl had not thrown the books away then thought how hard it was for her to get rid of a beloved text. Perhaps, as she had once thought, there was a side to the earl she hadn’t yet discovered.
Then again, perhaps it was Charles who had kept the books. He seemed far more sentimental.
She made her way to the writing desk. The inkwell was dry and this pen also required a new tip. Nothing had been written at the desk for some time and there was nothing to signify a connection to Laurel.
Corrie moved back to the bookshelves. Laurel loved poetry. Had she and her lover met in the castle, perhaps sat together in the library? Or had their affair remained in the dark shadows of the woods, or somewhere else lovers might tryst?
There was a top shelf full of books, a bit out of the way, that looked intriguing. It was just out of reach, so she shoved the rolling ladder over and climbed up until she could see the volumes clearly, but she didn’t recognize any of them.
The Kama Sutra was the title of one of the works. She recognized a book by the French author Voltaire, the scandalous, erotic novel Candide she’d heard whispered about, one no decent person would read. Beside it, her eye caught on a book entitled The Erotic Art and Frescoes of Pompeii.
A flutter of interest ran through her. She loved to read about foreign places. Someday she hoped to travel and write stories about the people and places she visited. The book was about an ancient town in Italy, but the title implied it was far more than a travelogue. Corrie couldn’t resist reaching for the volume, opening it up for a single quick glance.
The book fell open in her hand and she saw that the pages were filled with drawings. Her eyes grew wide at the first one that came into view. A wall painting from the Stabian baths, said the copy beneath the etching—a naked woman with bulbous breasts, resting on her hands and knees. A naked man knelt behind her, and the woman’s head was thrown back in what appeared to be a grimace of pain.
Corrie couldn’t imagine exactly what he might be doing, but her heart began to beat oddly and a drop of perspiration slid between her breasts. Hastily, she turned the page to the drawing of a mural. In it, Mercury strode naked across the picture, a huge appendage thrusting forward between his legs. Corrie just stared.
“I see you found something, after all.” The earl stood at the foot of the ladder. Corrie shrieked at the sight of the tall figure looking up at her, lost her balance and tumbled backward off the ladder. She landed squarely in the arms of the earl, the erotic book flying into the air, then falling back to earth with a soft thud, landing open in her lap.
The earl looked down at Mercury, and Corrie’s face turned beet-red.
“Interesting choice,” he said, and she could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Put me down!” She struggled to get free, trying to regain at least some portion of her dignity. She could feel the strength in the arms around her, the hard muscles in Tremaine’s powerful chest, and her stomach contracted.
The earl set her firmly on her feet, catching the book before it tumbled to the floor. He held it open, his eyes moving over the drawing.
“I approve your selection, Mrs. Moss. I think you’ll find this far more interesting than poetry, as much as I enjoy a good poem. I admit, however, I didn’t think you would be quite this adventurous.”
Corrie closed her eyes, her skin burning all the way to the tips of her breasts. “I—I just happened to see it. I couldn’t imagine what I might find inside.” She stiffened her spine. “You should be embarrassed, my lord, to keep books of this nature in your library, where any unsuspecting person might stumble upon them.”
One of his black eyebrows went up. “This particular unsuspecting person had to climb to the top of a ladder to reach them. That is hardly stumbling, Mrs. Moss.” The corner of his mouth curved. “Though should you wish to examine the rest of the pictures, I would not tell anyone.”
“How dare you!” As insulting as the suggestion was, in truth, she would dearly love to look through the book. What had the naked man and woman been doing? she wondered. And what else might she learn?
