The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,27

John, white with rage, snatched the small bottle from Kathryn’s nerveless fingers. He towered over the two trembling women, his anger so plainly written on his face that neither of them dared offer any excuse.

“You will go to your room at once, madam, and I shall lock you in it. As for you, Bennet, it would be better for you to stay in your room until Lady Nadine and I have left for Liverpool in the morning. Send one of the maids to pack for milady. I’m sorry you should have been drawn into this imbroglio.”

He stood in the blaze of light from the candles, obviously controlling his anger with difficulty, looking, thought Kathryn miserably, like Judgment Day. Hating herself for her meekness, Kathryn crept upstairs to the room she had hoped never to enter again. She was scarcely inside when she heard the key turn in the lock. Dragging herself to the bed, she lay down, too despairing even to weep.

Eight

Kathryn lay on the bed for a long time, staring straight above her. Her thoughts went in despairing circles; it seemed impossible to control them. Her eyes ached with the effort of holding them open. She noticed for the first time that the ceiling of the tester bed was exquisitely painted—a lounging Venus, red-haired, was surrounded by a bevy of little cupids. Kathryn hated the silly sensuality of the painting, though in a happier hour she might have found it charming.

But now there was only chagrin, frustration, fear of what was to happen to her in this alien time and place. She had so little control over events! It seemed she could be exiled from the one place where she might have any chance of undoing whatever had happened to her, sent away by a man’s arrogant, unreasonable whim . . .

What would happen to her in Ireland?

At last the unwelcome thought intruded that she might indeed be the crazy creature Lord John obviously thought her. And there was no one to believe—to help . . .

Into the depths of her anguish intruded a gentle scratching sound, very persistent. Kathryn lowered her gaze from the exquisitely painted ceiling to search out the source of the noise. It was coming from the region of the door. After a moment the door swung silently open and a small figure slipped inside, closed the door quietly, and locked it again.

“Oh, Bennet!” wailed Kathryn, and the tears came in a healing flood.

“Hush, now, child,” cautioned Bennet, her own eyes very bright in the candlelight. “No one must know I am here.”

“Will we try to get through the portrait again?” asked Kathryn humbly. “I’m not sure I’m up to it, after what’s happened.”

“¼Twould be no use, Miss Kathryn,” said Bennet bitterly. “His lordship’s had the painting taken down. Roused one of the footmen to help him. I’ve never seen him so angry.” She sighed. “He was a sunny little lad.”

“Then that is the end of it,” Kathryn’s voice was dead. “I’ll be sent to Ireland in the morning. Thank you, Bennet, for being my friend.”

Bennet lifted one finger admonishingly. “No more of that, Miss Kathryn,” she said, as though the younger woman were a child and she the nurse. “It is not like you to give in to defeat. I’ve come to help you. What shall we do next?”

Bennet’s plump face was stern with purpose. Kathryn opened her eyes wider. This was support indeed! She would have to prove herself worthy of this intrepid partisan. She began to feel better. Later, there would be time to relive that dreadful moment when Lord John’s eyes had passed over her with icy contempt—the eyes she knew could warm to passionate intensity. But never again for me, she thought. Nadine—and I, too—have finally killed even the tiny spark of faith he had left.

“Miss Kathryn, I have an idea,” Bennet was saying quietly. “You’ll dress in some of my clothes, with a cape to hide your bandaged arm. You’ll leave the house with me before dawn. We’ll go to the posting house from which the coaches take off for the north, and we’ll get you a ticket for Elsinghurst Village. That’s the village that serves the Manor, his lordship’s country estate,” she explained. “I’ll give you a letter to my brother Richard. We have a farm several miles outside the village. Lord John’s father gave it to my brother and me when Lord John left for school and I was no longer needed as his nurse. Well, you’ll