Wings of Fire - Charles Todd [41]
Rachel stared at him in surprise. “Does she? Susannah’s never spoken of that to me! Or to anyone else, as far as I know. Are you sure? I mean, could it simply be the strange fancies of a woman expecting a child?”
“She was quite upset. If it’s a fancy, she’ll make herself ill before she delivers. I think, judging by what little I saw, that she’s terrified it might be true. Why?”
Rachel shook her head. “Rosamund took too much joy in life to kill herself. I find it hard to believe such a thing myself.”
“You said just now that she was depressed—”
“Yes, but we’re all depressed at some time or another! We all go through dark periods when living seems to be harder than giving up. Have you never felt that death seemed a friend you could turn to gladly?”
Hamish answered her first, bitterly. “Not for me did it come in friendship! I’d have lived if I could!”
Rutledge turned away, afraid she might read Hamish’s response in his own eyes. “We’re talking about Rosamund—” he answered lamely.
“No,” Rachel said firmly. “Rosamund couldn’t have killed herself! Nicholas would have known! Nicholas would have told me!”
8
Without waiting for Rutledge to respond, Rachel added with false briskness, “Do you mind? While I’m here, I ought to see if Wilkins kept his promise to water the urns on the terrace. He sometimes forgets ...” She set off towards” the house, a deprecating glance apologizing to him for not suggesting that he come with her. But she needed time on her own, to try to recover some of the promise of the morning.
She’d already dealt with—or tried to deal with—enough grief as it was. She couldn’t bear to think of Rosamund as a suicide. Not the woman who’d been the very symbol of serenity, of brightness and vitality. Not the woman who’d been such a strong influence in her own childhood. It was impossible—a contradiction! But she hadn’t been able to comprehend Nicholas choosing his own way out of whatever it was haunting him, either. She’d finally asked for Scotland Yard’s help because she couldn’t tolerate the uncertainty, the doubt. And now this man from London was making things worse, not better. Talking about murder. Questioning the very bedrock of the Hall, the woman who’d been its soul, its center ...
She’d approached Henry Ashford out of personal desperation. And they’d sent her a man who didn’t care about Nicholas—who felt nothing for Rosamund, or even Olivia. He was dredging up more pain, more hurt, more doubt—dredging up all the things she’d much rather forget forever. He wasn’t here to answer her need, he was too busy with his own, London’s, and she’d never expected that to happen. While she still walked in the terrible darkness of Nicholas’s death . . .
She could feel herself hating Rutledge, blaming him. It was wrong, of course, and she could tell herself that as many times as she liked, but deep inside, she found herself wanting to lash out, to hurt him, as he’d hurt her. For planting seeds that might grow.
Hamish was scolding him for upsetting Rachel, but Rutledge himself was glad enough for a brief space to think. He turned and walked up the lawns towards the headland, mind busy with the complexities of this case that wasn’t a case. And with Rachel, who had loved Nicholas Cheney, whether she believed that or not.
The wind came bounding over the cliff face, ruffling his hair and tugging at his trouser legs as he moved higher along the grassy edge that rose at a fairly steep angle the closer he came to the top. Below him, the sea rhythmically threw itself at the rocky face, whispered softly, and then came back for another try. Farther out, there was a fishing boat moving slowly across the water, trailed by a half a dozen gulls. He could hear their cries echoing against the headland.
Turning, he looked back at the house. It rose above the colorful gardens with comfortable grace, first to a lawn that was reached by a broad flight of Italianate stone steps, and then by way of another flight, to the terrace enfolded by the two short wings that looked down on it. Rachel was moving about there now, where great