Sing Witch, Sing Death Read online

"St. Just—"Pamela's voice was little more than a horrified whisper "—you cannot mean that George intended to harm you."

  "He knew the gully was there. He did not go sailing with my father and brothers…." The earl's voice quivered. "Nonsense," he said with sudden passion. "One does not die from a fall from a horse, and he was ill the day my father drowned, Mrs. Helston told me so, and she would not lie. And the rain stopped at least an hour before I rode by here. We really must start home now, Pam, or it will be dark before we arrive. Mount up; I will hang onto your stirrup."

  "No, you cannot walk so far. You ride. I love to walk."

  Her concern for him after the shock he had just had nearly overset him, and St. Just again took refuge in laughter. "Ride?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "On a lady's saddle? How?"

  Pamela yielded but would not permit St. Just to lift her. Instead she climbed a rock and mounted, only to find with the first few steps the mare took that she was lamed.

  "Oh," she cried between laughter and exasperation as she slid down, "and we were arguing about who should ride. And I am so hungry, too."

  It was full dark when they finally arrived at Tremaire. The servants were in an uproar, Hayle providing lanterns for the grooms and footmen who were to search the grounds and surrounding territory, and Mrs. Helston trying to quiet the maids who were running about and getting in the way, shrieking with excitement. One, in fact, was keening with ghoulish relish that the family was doomed, that one death would follow another until there were no Tremaires left.

  "Good God," the earl said under his breath to Pamela after he had patiently assured everyone several times that he was quite safe. "We have had our troubles, I admit, but that girl makes us sound like something out of the Castle of Otranto. That is what comes of teaching servants to read."

  "No," Pamela replied, echoing his amusement, "that is what you get for making yourself so well-liked by them and then coming in the servants' entrance."

  St. Just again urged everyone to calm down, then shrugged as this produced more tears and good wishes, and turned toward the back stairs. Hayle, seeing the movement, neatly freed himself from the men whom he was dismissing, and followed.

  "Mr. Tremaire and Lady St. Just are in the morning room, my lord—in case you wished to step in and let them know you are safe."

  With one foot on the stair, St. Just turned. "What!"

  "I thought perhaps you would…wish to see them now," the butler repeated in a colorless voice.

  Pamela could feel her complexion change. Hayle was a good servant. Hayle knew his place. It was not a servant's place to tell his master that his cousin and his wife were… Were what? Rejoicing over his demise? Supporting each other's spirits in a time of crisis a little too warmly? Which? Or both? The first sentence could have been foolishness or officiousness. The second could not be misunderstood. St. Just's hand tightened on the stair rail, but after his first startled expletive, his face had become expressionless.

  "Thank you, Hayle. I think, however, the shock to my wife and cousin would be less if you brought them the happy tidings."

  "Very good, my lord."

  "And will you send up some dinner or supper or what-have-you for Lady Pamela and myself? We have had nothing to eat in hours."

  "At once, my lord."

  "To my sitting room, if you please. Will that suit you, Lady Pamela? It will make less trouble for the servants than serving two separate meals."

  "Certainly, my lord," Pamela replied, her voice as colorless as Hayle's. "Oh, Hayle, you had better send someone for a surgeon. I am afraid that his lordship's hand will have to be stitched."

  "It's all right. Sarah will do that. Never mind, Hayle, just dinner."

  They were silent as they mounted the stairs and until St. Just reached for the door handle. "Hetty and George," he muttered in a stunned voice.

  "I am sure Hayle misunderstood," Pamela said with dry lips. "George is very kind about amusing Hetty, and Hetty is fond of him, it is true. She depends upon him, but she has never flirted with him. Indeed, she has not."

  "Do you think I am jealous? Do you think I care what Hetty does?" he burst out. "It is George! I cannot believe that George would use me so. But this is too pat. Not only the title, but the money too."

  Pamela knew that St. Just should not be speaking to her about such things, but he had been badly shaken up. And to whom could he speak?

  "It is all a mistake, I am sure," she insisted. "You cannot be afraid of George."

  "Afraid of George? Don't be silly. I could break him in two between my hands—even with a sprained wrist. I'm not worried, I'm sick. Why should he? I have always been fond of him, and he of me. I have said some things, it is true, but not because I believed them. Only because my pain was such that I needed to lash out against someone, and George was all that was left who was dear to me. Good God, Pam, I am speaking of this, but I cannot believe it."

  "We should not be speaking out in the corridor at all. Please go in, my lord."

  Sarah was waiting for them, grim and silent, her hands clasped before her. She did not cry out or exclaim at her master's appearance as the maids and Mrs. Helston had done. In fact she scarcely glanced at him, and then her eyes moved to Pamela.

  "Is he hurt, my lady?"

  "You might ask me, I can still talk," St. Just said, amusement in his voice.

  "Why should I? You never spoke the truth about such things to me or to your mother. I remember you had a broken collarbone for three days before we found out. I'm no fool, whatever you are, Master Vyvyan, and I learn from experience. I'll ask where I'll get an answer I can trust. Your man's waiting in your room. Go get those dirty, wet things off you."

  Pamela's lips twitched. Sarah may have been the late Lady St. Just's maid, but she had also, obviously, been the present earl's nurse. The sullen pout of his lips was that of a resentful child told to do something he knew was right but did not wish to do. Pamela felt a spurt of tenderness, which she pushed resolutely out of her mind.

  "He has a cut on his hand—a bad one, I'm afraid, a sprained wrist, and a knock on the head," she said to Sarah, striving to keep her voice steady and ignoring St. Just's outraged gasp and accusing glance.

  "Conspiracy," he muttered.

  "That's enough of your funning, Master Vyvyan," Sarah said sharply, and then she nodded at Pamela. "You don't need to look so worried. It's not the first time I've sewed him up. All in all, I've done more stitching on his hide than on his clothes. The clothes were usually beyond help. The wrist will mend itself, and the knock on the head will do no harm. His head's the thickest part of him."

  She paused, turned to cast a dispassionate glance at her erstwhile charge, and shrugged. "Won't do him no good, either," she added, clearly to the ambient air. "Even splitting his head open never let any sense into it. Are you going to stand there all night, Master Vyvyan, or are you going to let the rest of us do our work and get some sleep?"

  The strictures at least had the effect of restoring St. Just's good humor. He chuckled and went into his bedchamber, carefully not looking at Pamela, who now had her lower lip between her teeth.

  "And as for you," Sarah said, turning suddenly on Pamela, "I can see you aren't much better than he is. What do you mean by coming in here in all that dirt, grinding grit into the floors and carpets? Go and change. Come here, I'll unhook you, now. He won't come out yet."

  Pamela was startled at the change in tone from stolid respect to maternal scolding. Her eyes flew to Sarah's face. Then, meekly, she advanced and turned her back to be unhooked. To be berated in this particular way could only mean that Sarah had accepted her as a member of the household on a level beyond that of mistress and servant. The maid's hands were deft, and the riding habit hung loose in seconds. Then Sarah seized Pamela's arm, turned her about again like a child, and unbuttoned her sleeves.

  "Quick now," Sarah said, "so you'll be back before he's ready. I'll want some help with patching him. He won't act up with you here. Send that dress down to m
e. I'll have it fresh for you by tomorrow. Are you hurt too?"

  "No, only a few scrapes on my hands and knees."

  "You'll hold till I have him abed. I'll come to you then. Go now."

  "Thank you, Sarah."

  The remark, though formal, was deeply heartfelt, and Pamela hoped that Sarah understood the depth of her appreciation. She realized that Sarah had just volunteered to become her personal maid.

  One girl or another had waited on her and cleaned her room since she had come to Tremaire, and all had been respectful and obedient. A personal maid, devoted to one's private service, was an entirely different matter; and Sarah was someone special.

  In ten minutes Pamela had donned her shabbiest gown. First St. Just, then supper, then Sergeant and Velvet. The grooms would see to the horses, of course, but someone had to check their work and praise them for doing it; then bed. Pamela sighed, then smiled.

  It had been a long time since she had felt tired enough to want to go to bed. A lady's companion had little opportunity for physical exercise, since the type of lady who wanted or needed a companion was either too old or not the type to enjoy exertion.

  Pamela had opened the door to St. Just's suite and stepped inside before she realized what she had been thinking. But not to be tired this way again, she thought, the smile wiped out. Let it have been an accident. Hetty enjoyed George's company; that was all. Surely Hayle had merely misinterpreted what he saw. Surely a mountain of accusation was being built upon a molehill of coincidental, unrelated fact.

  "You don't look to be the type to be squeamish. What's wrong with you?"

  Sarah's sharp voice awakened Pamela to the fact that, having entered St. Just's room enveloped in her unpleasant thoughts, she was standing stock still and staring at a small table laid out with lint, salves, scissors, a curved needle, and silk thread. Her expression had doubtless been one of horror. She raised her eyes to the maid's face.

  "No, I'm not squeamish."

  "There was something funny about that fall Master Vyvyan took. Well, I knew that. He wouldn't be jumping back on the ridges—there's nothing to jump there. And for all I say he has a thick head, that's stubbornness, not foolishness. You tell me later."

  That was a stunner. Old and privileged servants often took advantage, but not to this degree. Pamela, however, trod warily.

  "Has Lady St. Just been here?" she asked as an appropriate change of subject.

  "I sent her right-about, and Master George too." There was a swift smile on the grim mouth. "No trouble. Asked if they wanted to watch or help me cut and sew. Master George never could abide the sight of blood, and that other one pretended to shiver—but that was to impress him. She don't care a pin either for blood or for Master Vyvyan."

  The conversation was growing more embarrassing by the minute. Sarah never seemed much in evidence around the house, but apparently she saw and heard everything—and guessed too much. Fortunately, Pamela was spared needing to answer, because St. Just came out, his man following with the soiled garments. The valet was an old acquaintance of Sarah's, it appeared, for he merely nodded at her as if to say it was her turn now.

  "Ah, the two torturers await," St. Just remarked, his eyes gleaming.

  Chapter 5

  "You must get rid of that woman—you must!" Hetty shrilled, rushing into St. Just's sitting room.

  He winced slightly at the sound of her voice, and put down the wineglass he had started to lift to his lips. "Don't you wish to inquire how I am, Hetty?" he asked quietly.

  "I can see quite well there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing ever happens to you."

  Considering the fact that the left side of St. Just's face was scraped raw, already bluing with bruises, that his hair was cut away from a nasty scalp wound, and that his left arm was in a sling, that hand swollen to twice the size of the other, the statement seemed inaccurate as well as unfeeling.

  No doubt Hetty resented Sarah's manner. Pamela, even though she was beginning to feel an affection for the woman, felt the resentment to be justified. But something more than a servant's insolence was behind this outburst of fury. The countess's voice had been bitterer when she spoke the second time than the first.

  "Hetty, m'dear," George protested, having followed her into the room and shut the door, I've told you that Sarah was a bit odd. She don't mean any harm. Fond of Vyvyan. Upset when he was hurt. Anyhow, Vyvyan don't look too chipper. Talk it over tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow! Do you expect to see him tomorrow? I do not."

  "Don't look that bad," George remarked soothingly, and then, as Pamela bit back a spurt of laughter and Hetty turned eyes that were fairly bulging with rage on him, "Oh, see what you mean. Been a bit exclusive, I agree, but bound to be about for a day or two now. Don't look fit to go out. Mess."

  This time Pamela heard a nervous titter pass her lips. She had never tittered before in her life, but the contrast between the fears she had conjured up around George and the real person was extreme. In addition, his manner of speech somehow made the whole situation ridiculous. St. Just was a mess, but the way George said it made something that had been frightening into something ludicrous.

  What was more, the casual display of the intimacy George and Hetty shared almost obviated any guilty passion between them. It must have been this which had misled Hayle. Pamela, so accustomed to it, forgot how it might appear to an outsider's eyes. St. Just thought so too. Pamela could see some of the tension go out of him.

  "Thank you for trying to explain Sarah," he said to George, and then to Hetty, "If you don't like her, she need not wait on you, but she is attached to me, as George said, and I cannot dismiss her."

  "She's attached to you and that gives her license to be freely insolent to me? Is that it?"

  "No, of course not, Hetty. I will speak to her about her behavior."

  Pamela thought of the probable effect any remonstrance of St. Just's would have on Sarah and choked, but when she saw Hetty's furious eyes turn to her, she made an effort at control.

  "I don't think she can help it. Really, Hetty, you should hear what she said to St. Just. Very nearly called him a nasty, dirty, little boy. I shouldn't have been surprised if he was a few inches shorter, to have seen her turn him over her knee."

  "No, and it wouldn't have been the first time, either," St. Just said, seizing gratefully on this evidence of Sarah's general application of her sharp tongue.

  "No, by God, and when Sarah spanked, she spanked," George remarked reminiscently.

  "You didn't get as much of it as I did." St. Just's tired eyes brightened with shared memory. "She took a hairbrush to me, bristles down."

  "I didn't try to ride dangerous bulls and nearly get gored, not to mention shooting sheep with a bow and arrow. You were a hellion, Vyvyan. Gave us all some frightful turns. Which reminds me. How did you get into this scrape? Could swear you knew every inch of ground."

  "If these revelations of a happy childhood were supposed to divert me, they have failed of their purpose," Hetty said coldly. "I may be quite ignorant of the proper thing, but among my people servants did not strike the children of their betters."

  "Perhaps it had been wiser if they did," St. Just snapped.

  "Now, now, Vyvyan," George remarked, as if his cousin had been making a philosophical comment rather than a personal one. "Different thing, y'know. Alice was never spanked. She used—"

  "Thank you for trying to hide the fact that my husband was deliberately insulting me, George," Hetty interrupted, "but it was not necessary. Since he has become an earl, I have become quite accustomed to swallowing insults."

  This time even George's address could not cover the situation. A dead silence ensued. Pamela was furious with Hetty for quarreling with her husband, who was in no condition to bear it, but she could see Hetty's point of view, too.

  Bred in a family which obviously regarded servants as something to be used and thrown away, it was impossible for her to understand the bond between master and servant in a family that retain
ed an old feudal relationship. It must have seemed as if St. Just was deliberately trying to hurt her when he persisted in supporting Sarah.

  And about things like this, Hetty was stupid; explanations were useless. Hetty did not belong in the country; she would be much more comfortable in town, where servants were hired and dismissed, sometimes before their employers knew their names.

  St. Just had dropped his head into his good hand. "I do not like to hear Sarah abused, Hetty," he said, "but I did not mean… Perhaps I did. I have the most abominable headache. If you wish me to say I am sorry, I will, but I will not dismiss Sarah, no matter what she says or does. I will hire another maid for you, and tell Sarah to keep out of your way."

  "You are all kindness, Vyvyan. But do not, I pray you, go to so much trouble for me." Venom dripped from Hetty's tone. "I have already hired another maid, and told that…that thing to stay out of my way. Pamela, I wish to speak to you."

  Pamela rose at once and followed her from the room, ignoring the fact that St. Just had lifted his head and was clearly about to protest. The very worst thing that could happen was for him to try to protect her. If she, as well as the other servants, became a bone of contention, she would be unable to endure it.

  As the door closed, George emitted a low whistle. "Hetty's got a temper, hasn't she? Well, old man, you'd better totter off to bed. Had a hard day."

  "Just a minute, George. Did you realize that you lost your fob?"

  "Found it, did you? Too bad. Yes, I knew."

  "Knew where you lost it, did you?"

  " 'Course I knew," George said with slightly irritability. "Value that fob. Present from your father on m'last birthday. Sentimental about it. Would have picked it up tomorrow. No one out there to take it, and besides, everyone on the estate knows it's mine."

  St. Just reached for his wine, saw his hand was trembling, and rested it on the table. "Why, George?" he asked, his voice shaking. "God in heaven, why?"

  "What the devil's wrong with you, Vyvyan? It should be clear enough why I made myself scarce and why I didn't go back to pick up the fob." His affectations had dropped away, and his distaste for what he was saying was plain. "It is no affair of mine if you want to bring your mistress out here as Hetty's companion. I must say you have both been decent enough about it. I would not have guessed if I had not seen your face when you spotted her." He shrugged, and the mask of a London dandy dropped back into place. "Embarrassment all around. Least seen, soonest forgotten."