The Whispering Rocks by Sandra Heath

Sarah’s mind several times to write to her father, explaining the situation and asking him to take her back; but each time she decided against such a course. Why should she allow Melissa to win, for win she would if she succeeded in sending the enemy scuttling back whence she came.
    Seven days after the accident, Betty was buried. It was a single funeral, for they still searched the length of Hob’s Brook for Armand’s body and for that of his horse. But there was no sign of either.
    As the bell tolled sadly, Sarah sat before her mirror tying the black ribbons of her bonnet. She looked angrily at her reflection. Her wardrobe may have been expensive but it was incomplete, for there was no mourning gown. Many long moments of discussion with Janie had produced this odd combination of a dull donkey brown gown and a black straw bonnet. There were no black gloves, no black stockings, and no black mantle.
    “My amber pin, Janie. I think I shall wear it.”
    “Oh yes, miss, it will look well with the brown gown.” The maid took the lid from the porcelain dish, but the brooch was not there. “It’s gone, miss....”
    Sarah took the dish and stared in dismay. “But where could it be? I’ve not worn it since the day I arrived!”
    Janie’s eyes were large. “Oh, miss, I swear I put it there!”
    Sarah smiled gently. “I know you did, Janie. Please don’t be upset about it.” She glanced at the floor, half hoping to see it there, but the carpet had been freshly brushed that very morning.
    “But, miss, someone must have taken it then.”
    The words fell awkwardly in the room. Uncomfortably Sarah stood. “No matter, the pin was of no great value.” But she was more upset about the disappearance of the little brooch than she cared to reveal to the anxious maid.
    Along the passageway, Melissa came out of her room on her way to the church. Janie had just opened the door for Sarah and they stared at the apparition of elegant mourning which rustled toward them. Melissa was clad from head to toe in black crepe and her face was hidden by a thick black veil. The scent of musk hung in the air as she passed without speaking.
    Janie caught her mistress’s eye sadly. Miss Sarah was the chief mourner. In fact, she was the only person to have even known Betty, and yet Miss Melissa was sweeping to the church as if attending a royal funeral. It was not right.
    The bad weather had persisted all week, but now the rain had dwindled to a fine drizzle which was blown damply through the air by the wind. Sarah looked down from her window as Melissa emerged from the doorway of the house, carefully rearranging the black veil. The ash tree scratched at the window as if it had fingers, and Melissa heard it, glancing up quickly and seeing Sarah’s face looking down. But Melissa did not seem to be looking at Sarah; she was looking at the branches of the ash tree. She hurried across the courtyard and across the street. Sarah watched her open the lych-gate and go up the pathway between the yew trees in the churchyard. Now she would go down herself.
    Paul was waiting in the entrance hall. “Where’s Melissa?”
    “She has already gone to the church.”
    He did not look pleased, for it was more fitting that the entire party from the manor house should go to the church together. But Sarah did not care what he felt or how he thought, for her single week under his roof had only increased her dislike of him. He obviously still held her completely to blame for the scandal at Rook House; she was convinced too that when he looked at her he saw only Stratford’s daughter. She felt that daily he became more averse to her, although in what way she could not really say; it just seemed that each day he found it more difficult to be even passingly polite.
    As she put her hand on his arm to walk to the church she wondered yet again if she should write to her father, for even the prospect of Rook House with all its unpleasantness was preferable to Mannerby. At