He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [1]
The coach jolted to a stop. He opened the window and looked out. Through the swirls of snow he saw the lighted panes of the lodge. Old Jenkins was in no hurry to open the gates. He wouldn’t dare delay too long, though, or she would hear of it. Finally the door of the lodge opened and a man shambled out. It wasn’t Jenkins. She must have dismissed him, as she had often threatened to do. The lodge keeper and the coachman exchanged insults as the former unbarred the gates and pushed them open, straining against the weight of the snow. The coachman cracked his whip, and the tired horses started to move.
The boy was about to close the window when he saw them, shapes of moving darkness that gradually took on human form. One was that of a woman, her face hidden by a bonnet, her long skirts dragging. She leaned heavily on her companion. He was not much taller than she, but he moved with a man’s strength, supporting her swaying form. As the coach approached, without slackening speed or changing direction, he pulled her out of its path, and the carriage lamps illumined his face. It would have been hard to tell his age; snow blurred the pale features that were twisted into a demonic grimace. His eyes met those of the staring occupant of the coach; then he pursed his lips and spat.
“Wait!” The boy put his head out the window, blinking snowflakes off his lashes. “Confound it, Thomas—stop! You—come back. . . .”
The vehicle lurched, throwing him to the floor. Raging, he scrambled up and thumped on the closed aperture. Either Thomas did not hear him or—more likely—he ignored the shouted orders. A few minutes later the vehicle stopped in front of the house. He jumped out and ran up the steps, breathless with anger and haste. The door was locked. He had to swing the heavy knocker several times before it opened. The butler’s face was unfamiliar. So she’d got rid of poor old William too. He had been with the family for fifty years. . . .
The entrance hall was semicircular, in the classical style—marble columns and marble floor, shell-shaped niches in the curved walls. While his father lived, the alabaster urns in the niches had been filled with holly and pine branches at this season. Now they were empty, the pure white of walls and floor unrelieved. In the door to the drawing room his mother stood waiting.
She wore her widow’s weeds well. Black suited her fair hair and ice-blue eyes. The soft, lightless fabric fell in graceful folds to her feet. Unmoving, her hands clasped at her waist, she looked at him with unconcealed distaste.
“Take off your wet things at once,” she said sharply. “You are covered with snow. How did you get—”
For once he dared interrupt. “Tell Thomas he must follow my orders! He refused to stop and let me speak with them—a woman, and a boy with her . . .” His breath caught. The change in her expression was slight, but like all young, hunted animals, he had learned to recognize the movements of the enemy. “But—you know, don’t you? They were here. You saw them.”
She inclined her head.
“And you sent them away—on such a night? She was very frail—ill, perhaps—”
“She always had a tendency toward consumption.”
He stared at her. “You know her?”
“She was my dearest friend, close as a sister. Until she became your father’s mistress.”
The words were as brutal and calculated as a blow. The color drained from the boy’s face.
“I would have spared you that shame,” she went on, watching him.
“Shame?” He found his voice. “You speak to me of shame, after driving her away into the storm? She must have been desperate, or she would not have come to you.”
“Yes.” A thin smile curved her lips. “He had been sending them money. It stopped when he died, of course. I don’t know where he got it.