She threaded her arm through his. They followed the path around the perimeter of the manicured lawn, until the music spilling out from the ballroom became quieter, less of a din.
“The living may be more terrifying,” she said, “but at least one can form a rational opinion of what they see. With the dead, one cannot apply the same logic.” Indeed, she still struggled to find an explanation for what she had witnessed. “I saw an image of a woman dressed in a white shroud. She stood at the end of a long corridor, pointed her bony finger at me and whispered for me to ‘get out’. I buried my head in my hands and when I found the courage to look up she was gone. Suppressing all fear and by sheer strength of will, I took a candlestick in hand and wandered down the empty corridor. I checked all the rooms but found no one.”
Tristan inhaled deeply. “That does not mean that this woman in white was a ghost. The mind is a precarious thing. Bleak thoughts bring on bouts of melancholy. One’s mood can affect one’s interpretation.”
Was he implying she had imagined the whole thing?
“What, you believe my fragile emotions played some part in how I perceived the situation?”
He glanced heavenward. “Look up at the sky and tell me what you see. Be specific, detailed.”
Isabella stared at him for a moment. It was an odd request. But he had listened patiently to her story, and so she chose to afford him a similar courtesy.
She glanced up at the night sky but struggled to concentrate knowing he was watching her. “The sky is dark,” she began.
“Be more specific. Describe exactly what you see.”
“Very well.” She huffed as she craned her neck. “I see a cold black canopy. I see a … a crescent moon shaped like a farmer’s scythe: pointed, sharp, the blade a perfect arch. I see bright stars smothered by dark, ominous-looking clouds.”
When she lowered her gaze, he was facing her.
“Then you see sadness and despair,” he said, his sorrowful tone evoking those feelings. “Our perception can alter our view of reality. Your mind has convinced you that there are evil spirits at work, and so everything you see is twisted in order to confirm and support your theory.”
She shook her head. “But what of the items that disappear from my dressing table? What of the widow’s wails that wake me at night? What of the hound? I lie hidden behind the bed drapes imagining the terrifying sight beyond. I know if I find the courage to venture to the window, the beast will be sitting on the grass staring up at me. I know his beady black gaze will lock with mine as he bares his teeth, snarls and growls.”
“Isabella.” He put a hesitant hand to her cheek. Her throat grew tight, the lump so large she could hardly breathe. It took a tremendous effort not to close her eyes and take comfort from his touch. “I would lay odds the servants are responsible for the pilfering. No doubt the dog belongs to a local farmer. There is no devil at work. A ghost is not responsible for causing your anxiety. But if one considers your husband’s death, coupled with these odd events, then the obvious conclusion is that someone did intentionally cause him harm.”
“Andrew thought so, too. Now he is dead.”
Tristan’s hand slipped from her cheek. “Andrew fell off his horse.” His tone carried a hint of frustration. “It was an accident. A foolish one perhaps, but an accident all the same.”
She raised her chin defiantly. “An accident that occurred within ten minutes of him leaving Highley Grange.”
“Highley Grange?” A deep frown marred his brow, and she sensed him withdraw. “But my mother informed me he died on the road near Hoddesdon.”
“Yes. The Grange is less than half a mile from Hoddesdon.”
Tristan stepped back. He winced, rubbed the back of his neck over and over as though trying to ease an aching muscle. “You’re certain of this?”
“A gentleman who was travelling to Cambridge stopped to help him. He took one look at Andrew and knew he had broken his neck.” An icy chill ran through her as she recalled the memory. “Choosing not to move the body, he rode to the Grange to fetch help, what with it being the only house on that stretch of road. I sent Sedgewick into Hoddesdon to bring Dr. Monroe.”
Tristan dragged his hand down his face. “Andrew was an accomplished rider. Was there any explanation for the accident? My mother has been too distraught to discuss the finer details.”
“No. I recall someone mentioned they had found a dead fox on the road. It was suggested the creature startled the horse which consequently led to Andrew falling. His death was ruled an accident. The doctor dealt with everything. He informed the necessary authorities. We were required to give a brief statement. That was all.”
Muttering a string of curses, Tristan turned away. “Why the hell has no one told me any of this?” He paced back and forth; the sharp sound of crunching gravel underfoot conveyed frustration.
“I can only assume you’re right. Your mother cannot bear to talk about that night.” Isabella did not want to revisit the night, either. “Having lost one son, securing an heir seems to be her only focus. Perhaps having something else to think about has helped to ease her grief.”
He threw his hands in the air. “Despite the need to protect her feelings and honour her wishes, I will not rest until I know the truth.”
The tension thrumming in the air about them was almost tangible.
She so desperately wanted to ease his torment, thought of laying her hand on his chest to calm the heart she suspected thumped wildly within. But she kept her arms close to her side.
“I have not been back to Highley Grange for a month.” She could not envisage going back there again. “I am renting a house in Brook Street and—”
He swung around. “You’re unaccompanied whilst here i