Chapter Nine

SHE HAD A dim awareness of faces bending over her from time to time. Mostly she saw Gwinnys, her eyes tearful and full of affection. Then there was Mrs. Penloe, warm and protective, lifting her from her pillow to force soup into her mouth. There was Amelia, looking fluttery and nervous, and a gray-bearded man who frowned at her and senselessly kept passing his hand in front of her eyes. And Harry, staring at her with that look of agony. But most of the time she lay in a comfortable blackness, unaware of anything except a persistent pain in her head.

Then, after what seemed a very long time, she opened her eyes and found herself looking at the familiar ceiling of her bedroom. She evidently was safely in her bed. The flickering shadows that danced across the ceiling came from the fire, she knew. Was she alone? She tried to sit up, but a pain in her forehead stabbed her. She groaned, raised her hand to head and felt, to her surprise, a heavy bandage.

“Miss Nell, be ’ee awake?” Gwinnys appeared, smiling down at her.

“Gwinnys …” Nell tried to say in greeting, but her voice was only a croak.

Gwinnys patted her shoulder. “Evenin’, Miss Nell. ’Tis good to see ’ee come round.”

“But … what happened …?”

“Seems a mirror crashed down from the wall and hit ’ee on the head,” Gwinnys explained. “Leastways, so Mrs. Penloe says. How do ’ee feel, Miss Nell? Still hurtin’?”

“Not unless I move,” Nell replied, turning her head gingerly. “A mirror, you say? What mirror?”

Gwinnys shrugged. “The one that hung on the wall over there.”

Nell lifted her head and stared at the spot Gwinnys indicated. “Nonsense,” she declared with her old spirit. “I was struck over there—at the window!”

Gwinnys regarded her mistress speculatively. “That cain’t be. Nothin’ there to break on one. ’Twas a mirror struck you, Miss Nell. I swept up the pieces mysel’. Only …”

“Only?”

“There’s somethin’ havey-cavey ’bout this, I seem. When I heard the commotion that night—”

“That night? You make it sound so long ago …”

“Three days since, Miss Nell,” Gwinnys explained, smiling at Nell’s look of surprise.

“I see. Well, go on.”

“Like I said, I heard a noise, an’ I come runnin’ to your door. But someone’s locked it. ‘Get Mrs. Penloe, quickly,’ a man says through the door.”

“Who was it, do you know?”

“Mrs. Penloe says it was her Will, but …”

“But you don’t think it was?”

“No, Miss. The voice, well, I’d lay it didn’t belong to Will Penloe. Then Mrs. Penloe goes in, payin’ no mind to what I’m shriekin’ at her, and locks the door. They they send Will for a doctor, all the time keepin’ the door locked and lettin’ me weep an’ wail outside. By the time the doctor leaves, Lady Amelia’s up and demandin’ to be let in. Well, they open the door and there’s no one there but Mrs. Penloe and Will, an’ ’ee layin’ there white as a sheet, a big bandage on your head. And there, along that wall, is the bits of broken mirror, which Mrs. Penloe tells me to sweep up. But the queer thing was …”

“Yes?”

Gwinnys narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice histrionically. “I was sittin’ wi’ ’ee last night—we all take turns, you see—and seen somethin’ gleamin’ on the floor near the window. ’Twas a bit o’ mirror. Now, I reckon broken glass can fly about a bit, but ’tain’t likely it can fly clear ’cross the room, can it?”

“Did you ask Mrs. Penloe to explain?”

The girl shook her head. “No, not yet. I was wishful to talk to ’ee first. Do you suspicion she’s up to somethin’?”

“I don’t know, Gwinnys,” Nell said abstractedly, trying to piece together a coherent sequence of events from the bits she remembered and the story Gwinnys had told her.

“I suspicion somethin’ else, Miss Nell,” Gwinny added. “The man what locked me out … I reckon he’s your mysterious horseman.”

“And … you’ve not seen or heard this man since?” Nell asked carefully.

“No, not a sign.”

Nell tried again to sit up but a spasm of pain made her groan. Gwinnys clucked guiltily. “Listen to me, runnin’ on an’ on, an’ ’ee in pain. I’ll fetch Mrs. Penloe. She’s had a pot o’ broth simmerin’ all day, waitin’ for ’ee to open your eyes.”

“Yes, thank you, Gwinnys. I’m feeling surprisingly hungry. A bowl of broth is just what I’d like.”

Nell, alone for a moment, pulled herself to a sitting position. When Mrs. Penloe bustled in a few moments later, carrying the steaming broth, her eyes behind the little spectacles shone with pleasure at seeing Nell. “Well, Miss, I call it tremmin, seein’ ’ee sittin’ up so!” she exclaimed delightedly.

Gwinnys, who had followed her in, nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Tremmin is the word!” she chortled. “I was afeared that sittin’ up would be a twister for ’ee yet awhile.”

“A twister?” Nell asked.

“’Tis Cornish for somethin’ hard to do,” Mrs. Penloe explained, tying a bib round Nell’s throat and perching on the bed at her side.

“Now, you drink all o’ that broth, Miss Nell,” Gwinnys urged, leaning over Nell on her other side. “Doctor says ’ee have need o’ nourishment.”

Mrs. Penloe looked up at the abigail in annoyance. “Hold your clack, girl,” she chided. “You’ll be givin’ Miss Belden a headache worse’n she has already.”

Nell looked up at the abigail kindly. “Please, Gwinnys, leave us for a bit. I’d like to talk to Mrs. Penloe alone.”

The abigail’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?” she asked curiously, looking from one to the other. “I mean, o’ course, Miss Nell. I’ll run down the corridor and tell Lady Amelia that ’ee be awake.”

“Yes, do that,” Nell agreed. “And tell her that I’d love to see her … er … after I’ve … finished my broth.”

Mrs. Penloe gave Nell a sidelong glance and busied herself with the broth. After Gwinnys had shut the door behind her, Mrs. Penloe lifted the spoon and tried to feed her patient, but Nell could see that her hand trembled slightly and that she was biting her lower lip nervously. Nell gently pushed the spoon away. “Not yet, Mrs. Penloe. There’s something I wish to ask you first.”

“Ask me, Miss Belden?” Mrs. Penloe quivered.

“Where is he?” Nell demanded without hesitation.

“He? Who?” Mrs. Penloe said, her eyes on the soup.

“You know who! Harry!”

“Drink your soup, Miss, afore it cools,” Mrs. Penloe begged, lifting the spoon to her mouth again.

Nell thrust the spoon aside again. “You’re not going to pretend he doesn’t exist, are you? I’ve seen him, you know.”

Mrs. Penloe looked at Nell levelly. “I’ve nought to say, Miss. ’Tis sorry I be.”

“Nothing to say!” Nell cried in exasperation. “Then perhaps you’d better find something! If you won’t talk to me, you’ll have to talk to the magistrates. You’ve been hiding a trespasser here, feeding him from the Thorne larder and supplying him with horses from the Thorne stables! And now, you keep silent after he very nearly kills me—!”

Mrs. Penloe, who had remained remarkably calm through most of the accusations, drew herself up angrily at the last one. “Miss Belden,” she exclaimed furiously, “you cain’t b’lieve that! ’Twas an accident—a terrible accident! No one’s more upset than he—”

Nell watched the woman closely. “Is he upset? I don’t believe it. He hasn’t even been here to see me since the accident, Gwinnys says.”

“Precious little she knows about it!” Mrs. Penloe declared. “He’s been here every night, after th’ others ’ve gone to bed. The way he sits there, holdin’ on to your hand an’ starin’ at your face—’tis enough to break my heart!”

“So,” Nell said firmly, trying not to be moved by Mrs. Penloe’s description of the events, “there is someone, isn’t there? Who is he, Mrs. Penloe?”

Mrs. Penloe stared down at the bowl in her lap. “Cain’t say, Miss.”

“Can’t—or won’t?”

Mrs. Penloe looked up at Nell sadly. “I cain’t. I … promised.”

“You know, Mrs. Penloe,” Nell asserted, “I’ll find out the truth whether you tell me or no.”

“I wish ’ee would!” the little housekeeper said earnestly. “I truly wish ’ee would. Now, please, Miss, let me feed ’ee this broth. ’Twill help us both to feelin’ better.”

Harry did not make an appearance, either in ghostly or fleshly form, after Nell regained consciousness, but Nell did not inquire about him further. As soon as she was well enough to stand, almost a week after her accident, she made a thorough investigation of the window embrasure. She knew that the door to a passageway must be concealed somewhere within the alcove. The possibilities were limited; there were only two narrow walls, one on each side of the window. They were both paneled, and even close examination revealed no hinges or latches of any kind. However, the wall farthest from her bed sounded hollow when she tapped it. That was obviously the door, but she could find no way of opening it. Probably it had been designed to be opened only from within the passage itself.

Nell had not forgotten the stairway that Gwinnys had urged her to explore. The stairway now seemed to Nell the most accessible route to Harry’s whereabouts. That night, when she was sure everyone was asleep, she put on a dressing gown and slippers, lit a candle and stealthily crept down the stairs to the kitchen.

There, in the back of the house, she found the staircase Gwinnys had described and, pausing at the foot, held the candle high. It was a steep stairway with a door at the top. She started to make the climb, but on the second step she hesitated. Harry would no doubt be asleep. Would it not be awkward to wake him? Perhaps she would not like the answers he would give to the many questions which troubled her. Besides, she was not properly dressed. Her courage failed her, and she turned away. As she did so, she glanced back over her shoulder at the door. In the darkness she noticed a faint light shining from beneath the door. Someone up there was awake.

With renewed determination, though quaking in every limb, she softly mounted the stairs. After the briefest hesitation at the top, she blew out her candle, pushed open the door and peered inside. She found herself on the threshold of a large, paneled room, furnished much like a library. There was a wide fireplace in which a fire was dying. One wall was covered with crowded bookshelves. In the center of the room was a long table, books and papers strewn about on it in careless profusion. At the far end of the table, an oil lamp burned dimly, lighting the head of the man she had come to see. He had fallen asleep, his head on the table resting on one arm, the other arm stretched out before him, the fingers clutching an empty wine glass. An open book and several large maps lay spread before him and a half-empty decanter was within reach.

Nell coughed gently. Harry stirred. “Is’t you, Mrs. Penloe?” he muttered sleepily. “Yes, yes, I know. ’S late. I’ll take myself t’ bed.” He raised his head, smiled sleepily and nodded at the shape he could barely discern in the gloom.

“It’s not Mrs. Penloe,” Nell said quietly.

The man at the table stiffened. “Then, who—?”

Nell smiled to herself and gave a low moan. “I am Helen D’Espry,” she said in a low, wailing monotone. “Born 1647, died 1668, having been murdered in my bed by a smuggler.”

“Nell?” He gasped. “Nell!” He jumped up in awkward haste. “What—? Why did you come? Damnation, I’m so befuddled by sleep … I don’t know whether or not I’m dreaming—!” And he lifted a shaking hand to his forehead and brushed aside the tousled hair that had fallen over his eyes.

“I think you are befuddled with more than sleep,” Nell said in amusement. “Don’t you think you should ask me to sit down?”

“Yes, of course … No, wait! Good Lord, why can’t I think! No, you can’t sit down and visit as if this were a tea party. It’s the middle of the night!”

“The hour never seemed to bother you before, when it was you who paid the visits,” she pointed out calmly.

He frowned at her. “Never mind. That was different.”

“Why?” She came forward to the table, moving into the circle of light from the lamp.

He stared at her with a bemused intensity, noting the soft ruby color of her dressing gown, the glow of her face in the lamplight, the loose profusion of her curls which only imperfectly concealed the bandage she still wore on her forehead. “Your head …?” he asked. “Is it better?”

“Yes, much better. I’m almost good as new. Why did you not come to see me, to find out for yourself?”

“I came to see you,” he said shortly. His eyes, which had been searching her face, fell. “Nell, you do realize that I never intended to hurt you. I’ll never forgive myself for—”

“It’s not necessary to tell me that,” she assured him. “There are, however, many other things I think you should make clear to me. May I please sit down?”

He sighed. “Yes. I suppose this meeting is inevitable.” With obvious reluctance, he came round the end of the table to assist her into a chair. It required half a dozen steps to reach her. Holding on to the table with his right hand, he limped to her side. As he approached, she was able to see him clearly for the first time. Although bleary-eyed and unshaven, he was in her eyes breathtakingly handsome, his appearance dramatized by the streak of white in his hair. He was even taller than she’d expected, with beautiful, broad shoulders and an erect, soldier-like bearing. But the limp drew her eyes down to his legs. Her cheeks whitened as she saw for the first time the wooden stump that was his left leg.

He met her startled glance with an imperturbable expression and held out the chair wordlessly. For a frozen moment they stared at each other, the sudden closeness emphasizing the reality of a relationship that, until that moment, had been only a game. She wanted desperately to say something … something amusing and casual … to bring things back to the way they’d been before … before she’d touched his cheek, seen his face, learned that he’d suffered the tragic loss of a limb. But no words came to her, and her throat constricted painfully. Unable to say anything, she took the seat he held for her, folded her hands on the table, lowered her eyes and waited.

He limped back to his chair. Shoving aside the books and papers carelessly, he faced her with a mocking smile on his lips. “Well, my girl, you’ve found me out at last. What is it you want to know?”

She flicked a quick glance at him, feeling suddenly shy. “Everything—what you are doing here, why you want to be rid of us, how you managed your ghost impressions, how I was hurt—everything. But first, of course, I want to know who you are.”

“Do you want a name? What difference can that make? Won’t the name Harry D’Espry do?”

“No, it won’t. D’Espry, indeed! Did you think I wouldn’t guess that you chose esprit, the French word for spirit?”

“That was clever of you,” he said drily. “Such a clever young lady must have fabricated some theory concerning my identity. Who do you think I am?”

“I truly don’t know. I did think, at first, that you were a relative of the Penloes …”

“But you don’t think so any more? Why not?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re a man of education and breeding—anyone can see that. So I haven’t a clue as to who you are and why you are hiding away here.”

“What makes you believe I’m hiding away?”

“Well—” she began, then paused and glanced at him guiltily.

“Don’t pull your punches, girl,” he urged. “I won’t take offense, I promise.”

“Very well, then,” she said bravely, going on to reveal the problem that most worried her. “Clearly, you did not want us to know of your existence. In fact, you went to great lengths to drive us away. What else can it be but that you are hiding from … from …”

“From …?” he prodded.

She took a deep breath. “From the authorities.”

His mocking smile became more pronounced. “From the authorities, eh? You’re convinced that I’m the perpetrator of some dastardly crime, is that it? What sort of crime had you in mind? Poaching? Smuggling?”

Nell was inexplicably overwhelmed with shame. She shook her head and lowered her eyes to her hands.

“Not smuggling?” he asked sardonically. “Did you think I was a highwayman? No? What, then?”

“Oh, nothing so paltry as a highwayman,” she admitted, trying to shrug off her guilt-feeling with a jest. “Nothing less than murder would do for you.”

He stared at her for a shocked moment and then a laugh burst out of him. “You thought me a murderer? Oh, poor Nell. What a dreadful time I’ve given you!”

His reaction made it clear that he was not a criminal. She sighed in relief. “Then … if you’re not hiding from the authorities, why are you hiding here?”

“But I’m not hiding at all,” he said simply. “I live here.”

“You trespass here, you mean,” she said bluntly. “This is my house.”

“No, you’re quite out there, my girl. It is not your house, it is mine.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Yours? Don’t be ridiculous—it belongs to the Thornes.”

“Does it?” he asked quizzically.

“Of course it does! Well, that is, it belongs to the Earl, but …”

“Exactly. The Earl. Well, it was he who gave it to me.”

“Did he really?” Nell asked amazed. “How can that be? He’s in the army in Spain—or at least he was …”

“I’m well aware of that, my dear. I was in the army with him.”

Her eyes widened. “But of course! You’re a soldier! That’s where …” she faltered.

“Yes, that’s where I lost my leg.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. But after a moment of thought, her brow wrinkled in suspicion. “But, Harry, I don’t understand. If this house is yours, why were you hiding?”

“I’ve told you I wasn’t hiding,” he said impatiently.

“Not hiding?” she challenged. “Do you mean to deny that you didn’t want anyone to know of your existence?”

“I merely like my privacy,” he said defensively. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Privacy? Is that what you call it?” she asked incredulously. “You’ve hidden yourself away in a secret part of the house, you’ve made the Penloes lie for you, you’ve tried to frighten me out of my wits and almost killed me … and all for privacy?”

His eyes met hers defiantly, then wavered and dropped. “Well, you see,” he muttered, “it all got a bit out of hand …”

“So it seems,” she said curtly. She propped her chin on her hand and regarded him closely. “Why do you need all this privacy? What is it you do here? These maps and charts and books … are you doing something secret?”

He looked up again, amusement in his eyes. “You, my dear Nell, are an incorrigible romantic. You could not make me into a murderer, so now you are trying to make me a spy, is that it?”

She had to laugh. “Am I wrong again? Are you not a spy?”

Smiling at her indulgently, he reached across the table and took her hand. “Please believe me, Nell. There’s no great, dark secret here. I like my peace … my privacy. Perhaps I’m excessive, but not wicked. All I do here is pass my days studying military history. That’s what the maps and books are all about. Some day, when I’ve learned enough, I may write a book myself. Do you believe me now?”

She stared at the hand clasping hers. She wanted to believe him. But somehow, his story didn’t make sense. One didn’t need to hide from the world just to study or write a book. “I believe that what you’ve told me is part of the truth,” she said thoughtfully.

He withdrew his hand abruptly and his smile faded. “It’s as much of the truth as you’re going to get from me tonight,” he said brusquely. “If you will hand me that crutch leaning on the wall behind you, I shall escort you back to your room.”

But Nell didn’t budge. “I think you are hiding,” she said gravely, “and I think I know why.”

“And I think I’ve heard enough of your theories for one night. Come, I’m taking you back to your room.” And he pulled himself up from his chair.

She stood up and faced him. “It’s your leg, isn’t it? You’re ashamed to be seen with a wooden leg!”

“Have you quite finished?” he asked her coldly. “If so, I suggest that we conclude this interview for tonight.”

“I’ve hit on it, haven’t I?” she insisted, driven on by an unaccustomed sense of righteousness. “Your reactions prove I’ve hit right on the mark. But Harry, how foolish of you! No one who knows you will think less of you for that! How can they? It is ennobling to have sacrificed a leg for your country!”

He glared at her with icy disdain. “I don’t believe my behavior or my personal life need be a concern of yours, ma’am. It seems to me that your remarks show a great deal of presumption.”

She gasped and flushed shamefacedly. “Yes, you’re quite right. I … I’m sorry.”

“Then shall we go?”

She looked up at him and lifted her chin in the defiant way he’d seen so often before. “There is no need for you to escort me, sir,” she said with the same icy formality he had used. “I can find my own way. If you will be so kind as to light my candle, I shall take my leave.”

He bowed stiffly, pulled a match from a pocket of his breeches and lit her candle. “Goodnight, then, ma’am. Please accept my good wishes for the continued improvement of your health,” he said, putting the candle in her hand.

They stared at each other coldly for a moment. Then Nell went quickly to the door. There she paused and looked back at him. “There’s something else I’ve had the presumption to discover about you,” she said in cold triumph. “I’ve guessed your true identity at last. Goodnight, Captain Thorne!”