The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

“And keep me from knowing what is taking place in my own household,” Chloe said, with a trace of her former shrewdness. “‘Twas Lady Jersey who made mention. It would seem that her abigail was the chit’s aunt. She was increasing, poor girl.”

“The lower orders,” John mumbled, as if that was all the explanation necessary.

“Poor Anne.” Chloe’s mind wove back to her former topic. “I cannot believe that Katherine would do such a horrible thing. To steal my jewels was a foul deed, but to take the Steele heirlooms as well! They are part of the entail, Anne’s inheritance.”

“Yes, ‘tis hard to believe that Anne will inherit a barony in her own right,” Vesey declared, his fists clenched.

“The Steeles are an ancient family,” Chloe said, warming to one of her favorite topics. “It is quite unusual that a title can descend through the female line.”

As Chloe droned on about Charles I, royal charters, grants and William the Conqueror, Vesey’s thoughts were running in circles. The female line . . . a pity that Marcus had not gotten himself killed sooner, before he married and sired a pretty little obstacle. Once more, Vesey examined all the possibilities. Chloe would die of course, though he dared not increase the dose beyond its present level, and then he would be free to marry again. Katherine. His tongue slipped stealthily over his lips as he thought of his brother-by-marriage’s widow.

She had refused his attentions before, but would she agree if it was marriage that he offered this time? It had been poor judgement on his part to jump the gun.

“. . . do about the maid, John”

Something in his wife’s voice brought his attention back to focus upon her. “Dear?”

“You are not listening,” Chloe said peevishly. “I was just saying that the maid ought to be replaced.”

“You are quite right my love. Dear little Anne will require someone to care for her when she is found. I will see to it myself,” John promised. It was one promise that he intended to keep.

. . .

It was wet, cold and wet. Anne’s eyes flew open, glowing in the light of the bedside candle. Cur whined softly, his rough tongue licking her fingers with canine urgency. Grabbing the cloth of her nightrail, the dog gave a gentle tug.

Her mother stirred and sighed, “Duncan,” she whispered.

The Sad Man’s name.

Poor Mamma, too tired for even a bedtime story, yawning out the words to Anne’s favorite poem about the tiger. Lucky thing that Mamma knew it by heart, because her eyes were half-closed when she turned the pages. It was all his fault. Since the Sad Man came, Mamma was always working. She said it was because they had to get ready for winter, but Anne knew that Mamma just didn’t want to be where the Sad Man was. When the Sad Man was out fishing, Mamma was in the garden. When the Sad Man was fixing the goat pen, Mamma went out hunting. Mamma didn’t seem to mind the Smiling Man, neither did Daisy, though she was forever telling him that he was a nuisance and underfoot. That meant Daisy liked the Smiling Man. Wasn’t she always calling Anne a nuisance and telling her that she was in the way?

Daisy turned on the truckle bed. Mamma had wanted her to share the big bed when she had moved into the room with them when the Sad Man and the Smiling Man had come, but Daisy said that wasn’t her place. Anne had been glad that it wasn’t Daisy’s place since Daisy snored really loud. Even from near the fireplace, Anne could hear the harsh, rasping in and out sound.

Cur whined softly, pulling once more at Anne’s gown. Stealthily, the girl slipped out of bed, her bare feet quiet on the stone floor. She took the candlestick in her hand, glad that it hadn’t burnt itself down to a nub yet. It couldn’t be too late, that meant, since her Mamma had lit a new one just before bed. Anne hated the dark, feared it, but with the glow of the light and Cur to guide her, she stepped into the corridor. She was about to turn back when Cur pulled at her once more and looked at her, telling her he needed her help. She remembered the stories about her Grandpapa leading his troops. She would be brave like her the Colonel.

There was no sound in the shadowed hall, save the rhythmic clicking of Cur’s paws, until they were midway down the stair. Then it came, a slow moan, echoing upward, rising, and then dying into silence. A sudden draft snuffed the flame. Anne clutched at the animal’s furry coat tugging him back, but the dog would not halt. Instead, he seemed determined to pull her onward, down toward the bowels of the kitchen to confront whatever-it-was. Given the choice of facing the darkness solo sans candle or a ghost in Cur’s company, Anne chose the latter.

The dog led her to the door of the cramped room behind the kitchen that was once Daisy’s place before the Sad Man and the Smiling Man had come. There was little light from the window in the chamber, but she could see the hulking shadow of the Sad Man tangled in the sheets. There was no sign of the Smiling Man, save a disarranged mound of blankets on the floor. He was gone! Had the ghost got him? Perhaps that was what Cur wanted, for her to wake the Sad Man so that they could find him.

It began as a whimper, then rose in pitch until the aching sound of loneliness and loss filled the small room. Anne moved closer and watched the Sad Man’s sleeping face contort in a nightmare of agony. The sliver of moonlight touched his cheek and made it glisten. The Sad Man was crying in his sleep. Anne suddenly understood. Poor Sad Man, with