When she and Martin had retired the previous evening, in response to his question over which room Allie had readied for him, she'd indicated this room. She'd seen his hesitation, but had given no sign, merely smiling wearily and bidding him good night. She'd closed her door and listened; after a minute, he'd walked down the corridor, then she'd heard the door open.
A long pause had ensued, then the door had shut.
She'd peeked out; he'd gone in. She'd retreated to her bed, speculating on what he might be feeling, what might be going through his mind. She'd been tempted to go and find out, but she'd known in her heart it wasn't yet time. And she'd been too physically weary to do much beyond sleep, which she had, deeply.
Now… while she felt she understood Martin's relationship with his mother, his relationship with his father remained veiled. Yet last night, Martin had slept in this room, previously his father's. That much-that he was his father's son-he'd accepted.
Walking into the room, she looked for any evidence that he'd changed things, any little sign he'd made the room his. His brushes had been moved, the mirror atop the tallboy shifted.
Puffing the pillows, Allie saw her noting the changes. "Aye-he'll come around." She eyed Amanda, then asked, "Am I right in thinking you didn't expect to land here?"
"Yes-it was pure chance the highwayman struck so near here. I was heading for Scotland, to my cousin and his wife. Martin… followed me."
"Aye." There was a wealth of understanding in Allie's tone. It had taken her a mere few minutes to guess how matters lay between Amanda and her erstwhile charge. While she'd said nothing directly, Amanda was aware she'd been vetted and examined during the previous day, and Allie had approved.
Allie turned from the bed, then stopped, staring out of the window. "Now I wonder what…?"
Amanda walked to the window and saw Martin setting off on one of the horses. "He must be going to the village…" Allie hadn't asked him to fetch anything.
Allie came up beside her, a frown in her old eyes as she watched Martin disappear down the drive. Then she nodded brusquely. "Ah-of course. He'll be going to the cemetery."
"The cemetery? I thought I saw a mausoleum in the woods."
"Oh, aye-his parents are buried here." Allie shook out her duster, and attacked the tallboy. "But it's Sarah he'll want to see first. That's where it all began." Allie glanced at Amanda. "He has told you, hasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Well, then." Allie nodded at the window. "You'll know what to do."
The rock-solid confidence in Allie's tone overrode the doubts rising in Amanda's mind. Leaving Allie, she headed for the stable.
Onslow helped her saddle the other bay, then mount. They hadn't been able to find a sidesaddle and she hadn't had time to change into her habit; with her skirts rucked up to her knees, she felt utterly hoydenish as she cantered down the drive.
Keeping the house at her back, she took the lane south and followed the river. The morning was bright and fresh; spring was in the air, the buds plump on the branches, just waiting to burst. A haze of green had already replaced the dull brown of winter. Beside the lane, the river ran strongly along its rocky bed, fracturing the sunlight, its murmuring a paean to the morning.
She reached the church and saw the other horse tied to a tree. Reining in, she dismounted, an ungainly exercise she was thankful no one was around to see. The bakery stood just a little way along, a blacksmith's opposite, the forge glowing inside the shadowy workshop. Tying her mount alongside Martin's, she headed for the lychgate.
It stood open; she climbed the steps to a narrow path that led to the church's front door. Glancing about, she followed the path; before the door, it bisected, circling the small building. She turned to the right and walked on, scanning the graves. None of the stones were big enough to hide Martin, yet she arrived back at the church door without sighting him.
Frowning, she looked across the road at the bakery, then peered at the forge. Searched the surrounding fields. No Martin. Puzzled, she walked back to the gate, then around to the horses-they were both still there.
Then she remembered. Sarah had taken her own life.
Amanda looked to either side, then headed left around the outside of the cemetery wall, seeking the small plot that often existed outside hallowed ground. It lay along the stone wall toward the back of the cemetery. The grass grew longer there, the graves bare mound only just detectable.
Martin stood before one, distinguished only by a rock placed at its head, the letters SB crudely carved into one face.
He must have heard her approaching, but he gave no sign. What she could see of his expression was bleak, intimidating. Stepping between two graves, she slipped her hand into his, and looked down at the grave of the girl he'd been accused of dishonoring.
After a moment, his hand closed, tight, around hers.
"I never had a chance to say good-bye. When they bundled me off that night, they wouldn't let me stop here."
She said nothing, just returned the pressure of his clasp. Eventually, he drew a huge breath and looked up. Then he glanced at her. She met his gaze. He studied her eyes, then nodded ahead.
He led her out of the small plot to a jumble of boulders at the corner of the cemetery. He lifted her up to sit on one, then hoisted himself up alongside.
They looked up the sunlit valley to where the house stood high on the rise with the cliff at its back. The sun struck the windows, made them wink and gleam.
She didn't need words to know they were thinking the same thing.
"Which cliff was it?" Swivelling, she studied the ragged cliffs that formed a backdrop to the village.
He pointed to a towering escarpment. "That one. Froggatt Edge."
She considered it, considered the distance from the village, the sheer drop to the broken ground below. "Tell me again-what happened that morning when you set out to find Sarah's father?"
He hesitated for only an instant, then turned and pointed to a cottage down a narrow lane. "I went to Buxton's house first. When the housekeeper told me he'd gone walking, I thought for a minute, then took that path." Pointing, he traced a well-worn path that led from the lane across the fields to the escarpment. "It climbs around the side of the Edge, and comes out some way back from the lip."
He paused, then went on, "I didn't see or hear anyone or anything, but the path goes up that cleft and needs concentration-it's not an easy stroll. On top of that, I was in a rage-a gunshot I might have heard, but anything less might well not have penetrated.
"When I got to the top, it was deserted, as I'd expected it to be. I'd gone up because from there I would have been able to see Buxton if he was anywhere around. I walked to the lip and looked. All around, everywhere. I didn't see anyone. I remember suddenly feeling cold, deathly cold. Then I noticed the buzzards. They were circling below the lip. I went right to the edge and looked down."
He stopped; after a moment, she prompted, "Where was it that he'd fallen?"
Martin pointed to the base of the escarpment, to where the ground was broken by upthrusting rock and scattered boulders. "There's a gap between the rocks. You can't see in until you actually reach it-or unless you look down from the top. I remember… it looked like Buxton, and the first thought I had was that I was glad he was dead. I thought he must have thrown himself off in remorse and guilt."
"You came down to check."
"I wasn't sure it was him. He was lying facedown, and besides, what if he wasn't dead? I couldn't just leave him there."
"How did you get down?"
"The same way I got up."
She considered the distances. "Is there another way down from the top to where he fell?"
Martin pointed to the other side of Froggatt Edge. "There's a much steeper path down that side. It's shorter, but I didn't take it because it's more dangerous, and usually that means slower."