THE SUN IS just cresting the hills that cup my lands when we first spy Walthingham in the distance. We ride toward it in a rented carriage—I don’t want Henry to recognize the Dowlings’ coach and driver. Jane is beside me, pressing my hand. Her usual good humor has been replaced by a worn sadness, and she seems unable to stop apologizing to me. Her betrayal is so very small, in the face of things, that it’s all I can do to assure her again and again that she is forgiven.
It’s half past seven in the morning. For the first time since the funeral, I’m dressed in neither black nor gray, but in a blue dress belonging to Jane—too pale for me, but less tight around the hips than it would have been before my stay in Temperley’s. Though Jane’s two maids nearly drowned me in honey-scented water last night, I can still feel the grime of that place on my skin.
“Are you certain,” Jane says hoarsely, “that you don’t want me to come with you? Perhaps if I speak to him, he will be more likely to confess.”
Even after all that she’s learned about Henry, I can see that she still cares for him, still dreams that he might be worthy of her affections. It’s hard to kill love so quickly.
“There’s no need,” I say.
“But what if Elsie doesn’t play along?” says Jane. “You could be in danger. If my father and William—”
“She will,” I say. I hope she will.
I feel George’s presence strongly today, his breath at my shoulder. He would forgive her without question, as many times as she asked. He loved recklessly, lived recklessly, and was cut down by a cowardly and broken man. I send a prayer upward and kiss Jane’s cheek. “My plan depends on my going alone. I won’t leave that place without his confession.”
For a quarter of an hour, I watch the great husk of Walthingham grow larger in my sight. When we finally reach the drive, Jane is nearly shaking, clutching at my hand. Her fear makes me feel less afraid. I offer her a small smile, then adjust my hat to further obscure my features.
Mr. Carrick answers my knock. The expression on his face does not make up for my ordeal, but it helps. “Lady … Randolph!” he sputters. “How did you…”
“Take my things, Carrick. Good God, have you never been taught manners?” I drop my hat and cloak into his arms and walk toward the front parlor. “Send Henry down to meet me at once.”
I can hear Carrick clattering up the stairs, forgetting to move with his usual air of stately arrogance. I survey the placid room: A fire is low in the hearth, and thick, fanciful tapestries line the walls. In one a unicorn lies in a clearing, tended by a maiden whose hair is woven through with golden threads. Just beyond the clearing is a stitched black beast, watching the girl through the trees. But as I look at the unicorn’s horn, hovering close to her heart, I wonder: Is the beast menacing her, or moving to save her from the unicorn? I will never again be fooled by mere appearances.
I’m about to check behind the huge curtains on the farthest wall when I hear a footstep at the door. It’s Elsie and she gives me a warm, quick smile before turning and darting away. I know then that she has done her part. Now it is up to me.
“So, you’ve returned to Walthingham.”
Henry strides into the room, speaking without preamble or pleasantry. His face is dark above the frothing white of his open collar. He looks me over once, dismissively, before moving to make himself a drink. But he cannot fool me—his hands shake as they play over the crystal decanters. It’s not until he’s had one belt of whiskey, and then another, that he speaks again. His tone is conversational, light. “Have you completed your treatment, cousin? Or have you managed what would be a quite impressive escape?”
“You were warned about me, Henry—I’m a wildcat. Though I have had help in getting here.”
He laughs, quite naturally. “From the lawyer, I suppose. It took me longer than it should have to put two and two together. He’s the son of that trash, McAllister, isn’t he? Both of them will pay for their deeds against me before this day is out.”
His false serenity is beginning to slip, revealing the ugliness below. I seize the opportunity to push him over the edge. “I know what you’ve done, Henry. And I have proof.”
He begins to walk in my direction, as if to box me against the wall. I step to my right, toward the curtain, keeping the open door in my sight. “And what proof might that be, Katherine? The certificate of insanity? Perfectly sound, and for your own protection. You were mad with grief over your brother’s death.”
“Give it up, Henry. I have a letter from John. A real letter, not a despicable forgery. It was hidden in the watch that you must have given to him. A cheap piece of ‘evidence,’ and I’ve caught you out with it in the end. But I will offer you more kindness than you offered me: Admit what you’ve done, and I will let you leave my house immediately. You may take nothing, say no good-byes. Just admit what you did to George, and you may leave by that door.”
“Oh, may I?” He laughs, a wild and desperate sound. “May I leave the only home I’ve ever known, which stands on a hillside I fought the French to protect? May I leave it now, to an unschooled American orphan who would sell it to the highest bidder? May I make the great name of Walthingham into a pile of dust, and myself into a crippled joke? You give me leave to do this, Katherine?” His voice is rising to a shriek. I will myself not to shrink away.
“You’re a coward, Henry Campion. My family name is not yours. You dishonor yourself and your people and this land. How did you do it? Did you kill my brother with a rock, the way you did my grandfather?”
“Ah, you’ve been speaking to McAllister, have you? Your grandfather’s was a mercy killing. He’d gone soft: He was as bad as you. He was likely to have left the estate to that country-born mutt, that lawyer! Nobody who remembers Lord Walthingham now can say a bad word against him, because I killed him before he could destroy his own legacy.”
My heart thumps. He’s said the magic words—he’s admitted to murder. I should stop now, but I can’t. “And what of my brother?” I say softly. “Was it the same way with him?”
“Your brother was worthless. An artist and a dreamer, who could barely keep his eyes from the window long enough to learn what was required of him. He thought that learning a few dance steps was enough to call himself Lord Walthingham. He didn’t deserve this place.”
“He didn’t deserve to die!” I shout.
“Perhaps not,” says Henry, “but what else could I do? No one but I can protect Walthingham.”
He shifts toward me, suddenly crafty. “Where is John’s letter now? You’ve got it in your pocket there? Hand it over, and I’ll go quietly. I’ll go to London straightaway. I never meant you harm, Katherine.”
I need no more proof of his insanity than his belief that I might be taken in by this transparent lie. “The letter is with Jane Dowling, on its way to the magistrate. By the afternoon, you will be taken in to account for your crimes.”
He turns his back toward me, facing the fading fire. “So I have a few hours yet.” In one fluid motion, he lunges forward and snatches a poker from beside the hearth. “And what’s to stop me from killing you now? Why should I not bash your head in, and burn your body before the sun’s reached its height?”
As he advances toward me, I shrink against the curtain, really afraid at last, but it moves behind me, and two men step out from its shelter, into the light.
“Because we will stop you, Henry Campion,” says William, his color up and his eyes hard. Mr. Dowling stands beside him, holding a shotgun in two hands and huffing as though he’s been running. He looks at the man who might have been his son-in-law through eyes hooded with sadness and fatigue. Just as we planned, they came in through the rear of the house, courtesy of Elsie. “You’ll come with me now, Henry,” Mr. Dowling says. “To go on trial for the murders of Lord Walthingham and his heir, George Randolph.”
In the initial shock of the men’s entrance, Henry’s eyes filled with fear, and his hand with its poker dropped to his side. But now I see his gaze go blank and white before he springs into motion: He flings the poker at William, striking his temple and sending him stumbling back into the wall. Henry reels from the room, heavy on his bad leg but moving with more speed than I’d thought him capable of. “Stop him, Carrick!” I scream uselessly—even now, the butler will have his loyalties. I realize Henry is making for the house’s west wing and start to follow. Jane’s shoes pinch and restrict me. I balance myself against a wall for one quick moment, wrenching them from my feet so I can run.
“No, Kat! Wait!” cries William.
The door to the wing hangs open, and Henry’s limping form is speeding around a far corner. I run past the covered furniture, through the room that held my brother’s body, then stop in place, spinning around in confusion. Then I see him, through the nearest window. Its glass is slightly warped, and his form looks off, twisted, rushing in the direction of the stables. I wrench the window open, and then, for the second time in as many days, I vault myself over the ledge. The frozen grass crunches below me as I pursue Henry—ignoring the biting pain in my feet, focusing only on the breaths filling my abused rib cage, and on closing the gap between us. But I’m too late. Even as I’m pounding toward the stables, he’s emerging wild-eyed, leading a saddled horse. He vaults himself onto it and starts riding hard toward the woods.
The other animals are shifting restlessly in their stalls as I enter, driven to nervous distraction by Henry’s wild behavior and mine. None are wearing saddles. I choose the great gray stallion that Henry rode the day of the hunt, and I’m on his back before he’s even out of the stall. The animal is unused to being ridden bareback, but he’s my cousin’s favorite for a reason: Soon we’re flying through the open air, toward the space in the trees where broken branches signal Henry’s avenue of escape. I smile in grim satisfaction, thinking of the men that Mr. Dowling has stationed near the clearing around McAllister’s old cottage. They will likely cut Henry off before I can reach him. But I long to see my cousin taken in, and ride on.
He’s just within my sights when he reaches the clearing around the gamekeeper’s cottage. I know he’s spotted the men standing there with their dogs, because he veers to one side, pulling his horse’s head hard to the left and breaking into the woodland.
“Stop!” I scream. “Give yourself up, Henry Campion!”
He knows the woods better than I do, but I’m a better rider. For a moment I lose him in the half-light among the trees, and then I spy him through a break in the branches. “Faster, faster,” I urge my mount, digging in with my knees and straining to stay behind my cousin. Just before he slips again from my sights, I realize he’s been leading us in a great circle over the land, and is now headed back toward the quarry.
My body is low over the horse, my hands tangled in its mane and my legs starting to quiver, when I hear a long, terrible scream. The sound rakes my skin with chilly fingers, and for a moment I cannot tell whether it’s come from Henry’s horse or its rider. We’re racing now along the weed-covered track that wends its way alongside the quarry. Following the sound of the cry, I bring the panting horse carefully through the trees leading to the quarry’s edge.
There I find Henry’s mount, riderless and stamping. Its sides are streaked with froth, but it looks to be unhurt. I whip my head wildly from side to side, searching for Henry, for the trampled bushes that might mark his path on foot. There’s nothing to see, and finally I slip from my horse’s back.
Carefully, I advance toward the agitated animal, looking over my shoulder to be sure that Henry is not at my back, waiting to push me onto the rocks below. From far away, I hear the sounds of Mr. Dowling’s men, crashing through the woods on foot. Their dogs are baying. I pick my way barefoot over the gravelly ground at the quarry’s edge, where the earth gives way to a sheer stone wall. I peek over it into the jagged valley, and gasp.
Henry is stretched across two boulders far below. His head lies lower than his chest, frozen at a queer, gut-wrenching angle. He’s perfectly still. On instinct, I look up; already two crows circle above us, scenting fresh death on the air.
I grip my arms with cold fingers, crouching in bare feet so numb and raw I can only dimly sense them. What made him fall? The horse is uninjured, and the approaching men are still too distant. As I lean forward, barely able to wrench my gaze from the broken body below, a near-subliminal sound raises the fine hairs on my neck. I turn slowly, my heart pumping with dread.
A little ways from me, a pile of boulders rises from the earth, stacked like a cairn. Atop it, black as nightmares and breathing in fast, hot spurts, is an impossibly large, yellow-eyed cat. Staring back at the thing, I forget to breathe, until my chest starts to ache and I tip forward in the grass. It glares at me, panting on my knees in the damp morning, then turns and pads silently away, disappearing with a leap into the dark space between two trunks.
Mr. Dowling’s men finally break through the trees. They call out for Henry, their dogs straining toward the quarry. Mr. Simpson, his face flushed and smeared with dirt from the chase, rushes to my side, guiding me to my feet and into his arms. I hear the breath catch in his throat as he spots Henry’s corpse below.
“It’s over, Katherine,” he murmurs. “It’s over now.” His heart pounds against my ear, and I think for a moment of telling him what I’ve seen. I squint at the place where the animal disappeared, and wonder if I imagined its presence. But the spooked horse, and the man lying on the rocks below, tell me it was real.