by Anna Bradley
It wasn’t as if she had any use for her heart.
Given her morose outlook, she was certain she’d find Rochester a dismal, gloomy place, but as if determined to make a mockery of her feelings the town was light, bright and absurdly picturesque.
Dinah’s spirits gave a sluggish twitch at her first glimpse of Rochester Cathedral. The rows of arched, stained glass windows glittered gold, red and green in the sun, and the central spire soared high into the sky, piercing the endless blue and catching the edge of the white clouds on its tip.
She pressed her face to the glass as the coach made its way down High Street. Once they’d reached the far end Oliver signaled to Ferris to stop the carriage, then he turned to Dinah. “Would you care for a walk? You might enjoy the shop.”
Dinah tried not to notice the frigid politeness with which Oliver addressed her, but another shard of ice penetrated her useless heart. Still, she pasted a smile on her lips and held out her hand to him. “Yes, of course.”
He helped her from the carriage and led her to a tiny shop on the corner—a bright, cheerful little place called Claridge’s. Dinah peeked through the large window that looked out onto the street and gasped with pleasure at the riot of color and movement she glimpsed inside.
And then there was the music.
One tinkling note chased another through the closed door of the shop onto the sidewalk beyond, where they hung for a quivering instant before they were swept up into the cold air. There was no pattern or rhyme to it, just dozens of notes drifting about like snowflakes, but what should have been a confusing cacophony somehow melted together into a glorious symphony of sound.
“Shall we, Miss Bishop?” Oliver opened the door of the shop and ushered her inside.
As lovely as the shop was from the outside, inside it was a wonderland of twirling, spinning, glittery things—a child’s dream come true. Dinah paused a few steps from the threshold, her mouth falling open. Her gaze found one wonderful music box after another, and the heaviness in her heart gave way to pure delight.
“Lord Oliver Angel?” A plump lady hurried from behind the counter and approached them with a smile. “Well, it must be you, mustn’t it? I don’t expect any other customers today, what with it being Christmastime.”
“Mrs. Claridge. How do you do?” Oliver strode across the shop to greet her. “It’s kind of you to meet me this morning. This lady is Miss Bishop.”
Dinah nodded, her lips curving in an involuntary smile. Mrs. Claridge, with her sweet face and silvery gray hair reminded her a bit of a much beloved, long deceased grandmother. “What a lovely shop you have, Mrs. Claridge.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Claridge beamed. “I have your music box ready, my lord. I’ll just go fetch it for you, shall I?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Claridge.”
Mrs. Claridge disappeared through a door that led to the back of shop. Dinah wandered around the store, gawking at the bevy of mechanical wonders. There were large boxes and small, and polished wooden music boxes with enameled lids. There were music boxes where one could peek through a small glass window and watch the cylinders inside churn out the tune. There were painted porcelain boxes, gilt and silver boxes, and boxes shaped like all manner of different things. There were birds and dancers, and even one shaped like a harp, and another like a tiny pianoforte.
“Charming, aren’t they?” Oliver murmured, but he wasn’t looking at the music boxes.
He was looking at her.
The shop, the lovely boxes and the tinkling notes all fell away for an endless moment as their gazes held. A thousand unspoken words passed between them until Dinah’s cheeks heated, and she tore her gaze away. “They truly are.”
“Every child born into the Angel family receives the gift of a music box on the day of their birth. William and Penelope asked me to choose one for Baby Angel.”
Dinah couldn’t say whether she was more astonished to find such lovely things existed, or that there were children fortunate enough to have one for themselves. She reached out to trace a spray of vibrant blue cornflowers on the lid of a small, ivory-colored porcelain box which had been put to one side on the display counter. “I can’t imagine anyone not liking one of these.” She opened the lid and gasped when a familiar strain met her ears. “My grandmother used to sing me this song before she died. I was very young at the time, but I’ve always remembered it.”
Oliver leaned closer to listen, then murmured, “Voi Che Sapete, from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro.”
He lay his fingers on her wrist. Startled, Dinah turned to him, but he didn’t speak. He simply looked down at her with the oddest expression on his face. He seemed to be struggling for words. When they emerged at last, his voice was hoarse. “Dinah, will you let me—”
“Here we are, my lord!” Mrs. Claridge bustled back into the shop, a small box in her hands. “May I show it to you?”
Oliver’s gaze roamed over Dinah’s face before he turned to Mrs. Claridge. “Yes, of course.”
“Suitable for a boy or a girl, just as you asked.”
Mrs. Claridge placed the rectangular box carefully on the glass counter, and Dinah and Oliver leaned over to inspect it. “Oh, it’s perfect,” Dinah breathed, clasping her hands.
It truly was.
It wasn’t as ornate as some of the other boxes in the shop—just a simple dark wood polished to a high gloss, set on four miniature brass feet. One might easily overlook it in favor of its more flamboyant neighbors, unless they paused long enough to study the painting on the lid. It depicted two children, a boy and a girl standing in a garden, surrounded by birds and flowers. The brushwork was exquisite, the flower petals and birds’ plumage accentuated by glimmering pieces of mother-of-pearl.
Oliver carefully raised the lid. On the inside in neat script were the words, From your loving uncle Oliver Angel. Christmas, 1812. “Just as I asked. I couldn’t be more pleased, Mrs. Claridge.”
Mrs. Claridge flushed with pleasure. “I don’t mind saying it’s one of my favorites, my lord. So simple and elegant!”
“Tell me about this box here, Mrs. Claridge. It’s very pretty.” Oliver nodded at the round porcelain box with the cornflowers. “I notice you have it set to one side. Has it already been purchased?”
“Yes…well, no. You see, that box was meant for my first grandchild, but I’ve no use for it now.” Mrs. Claridge noticed Dinah’s stricken expression and hastened to clarify. “Oh, no, Miss Bishop. It’s nothing like that. It’s only I was so certain the child would be a girl, but my Sarah gave birth to a healthy, strapping boy.” Mrs. Claridge’s face glowed with pride. “This dainty little box won’t do for a boy, so I’ll find him another.”
Dinah frowned as a shadow passed over Mrs. Claridge’s face. “How old is your grandson, Mrs. Claridge?”
The older woman’s shoulders drooped. “Just five days old. I thought I’d be with my daughter’s family this Christmas, but poor Mr. Edwards—that’s my son-in-law—was taken with the gout in his foot, and he isn’t fit to come and fetch me. So, I’m obliged to spend my Christmas here in Rochester.”
Alone.
Mrs. Claridge didn’t say it, but it was clear enough from her desolate expression.
“Can’t you take the stagecoach?” Oliver asked.
“Oh heavens, no. I’m too old for that nonsense, my lord. The stagecoach isn’t safe for such a one as me, what with the way they crowd the people in these days. Why, some poor older gentleman was thrown off and trampled to death just last week!” Mrs. Claridge shook her head. “I don’t mind telling you I’m heartbroken to miss my grandson’s first Christmas, but I’d just as soon live to see him grow up, you understand.”
“Where does your daughter live, Mrs. Claridge?” Dinah’s stomach was fluttering. Perhaps her luck was turning at last.
“A few miles west of Canvey Island. Too far for an old lady like me to travel alone.”
“Canvey Island? That’s north of here, somewhere between Grays and Southend-on-S
ea, I think?”
“Yes, just off the coast.”
Dinah’s breath left her lungs in a rush. “Why, what a happy coincidence! Lord Oliver and Gr—that is, my brother, Mr. Bishop and I are headed north as well, to Brightlingsea. We’d be pleased to take you to Canvey Island in our carriage. Wouldn’t we, my lord?”
Oliver quirked an eyebrow at her. “We’d agreed on a southern route, I believe, Miss Bishop, toward Sittingbourne.”
“Did we agree? The way I remember it, I reminded you we promised Lady Archer we’d arrive at Cliff’s Edge this evening, and you said your errand in Sittingbourne could wait for another day.”
Oliver shook his head, but one corner of his lip was twitching. “Is that how you remember it? How curious.”
Dinah ignored this and turned a bright smile on Mrs. Claridge. “Really, you must allow us to take you. I can’t bear to think of you here in Rochester alone when your daughter must yearn to have you with her. Why, I can’t think of anything more heartbreaking. Can you, my lord?”
Oliver glanced from Dinah to Mrs. Claridge, who’s hands were clasped against her chest, her eyes shining with hope. “Certainly not. It would be our pleasure to take you to Canvey Island, Mrs. Claridge.”
“That’s wonderful, my lord!” Dinah gushed, offering him her brightest smile. Oh, she was a wicked, sneaky thing to take such shameless advantage of Oliver’s good nature, but it was better this way. There was no sense in prolonging a doomed courtship.
Oliver snorted out a laugh. “Wonderful, yes. How clever you are, Miss Bishop. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
*****
By the time they rejoined Grim and Ferris the horses had been seen to and the puppy had exhausted his mischievous tendencies with a romp in the snow. Dinah was well pleased with her triumph, and Mrs. Claridge was nearly bursting with joy.
Oliver, who cared only for seeing a smile on Dinah’s face was reconciled to their change of plans and as cheerful as he could be, given his heart was as battered as his face.
Battered, but not broken, and not despairing.
He hadn’t enjoyed hearing words of rejection from Dinah any more than any gentleman would from the lips of the lady he loved, but he hadn’t expected he’d have her for the asking.
He was, however, still hopeful she’d be his in the end. He’d seen the glimmer of raw emotion in her face when he told her he loved her, the anguish in her blue eyes when she’d refused his suit. He’d felt the desire shivering through her when he kissed her, the tenderness of her fingers stroking his cheek.
Dinah was far from indifferent to him.
So, Oliver was as easy as a man wildly in love could be as they set out for Canvey Island. He settled himself comfortably in his seat and stroked the pup’s head, listening with half an ear to Dinah and Mrs. Claridge’s chatter.
Dinah was his. She simply hadn’t realized it yet.
*****
“Ye’d best keep yer wits about ye when you get near Canvey Island, Mr. Grimsley. Why, I’d just as soon be dead as go anywhere near that place.”
Dead? Grim gulped.
“I go wherever Lord Oliver bids me to go,” Grim declared, mustering every bit of bravado he could, but a tremor rolled through him at Ferris’s forbidding tone.
Ferris sniffed. “Well, he shouldn’t bid ye to go there. The place is haunted, right enough. Can’t stir a step in Canvey Island without stumbling over some ghost or other.”
“Haunted?” A feeble whimper escaped from Grim’s throat. “Ghost? What sort of ghost?”
“The haunted sort, and not just one of them, neither. Canvey Island’s filthy with poor, undead souls, and anyone who knows a thing about ghosts knows it.”
“Mayhap they’ll keep to themselves, it being nearly Twelfth Night?” They were thirty miles or more from Canvey Island, but Grim wasn’t keen on disembodied spirits, and his teeth were already chattering.
“I doubt it,” Ferris replied unhelpfully. “Can’t see what use ghosts have for Twelfth Night. I don’t mind saying I’ll be right relieved to part ways with ye at Plumstead.”
Grim made another noise—a squeak or a sniffle, perhaps—and it dawned on Mr. Ferris his companion was frightened out of his wits. “Not but what I wish ye the best, Mr. Grimsley. I’ll say a prayer for ye, if it makes ye feel better.”
“I—I th-thank you for that, Mr. Ferris. You’re very kind,” Grim managed, his voice faint. “You won’t forget the prayer?”
“No, not a bit of it. Cheer up, lad. I’m sure all will be well.” This short speech might have reassured Grim if Ferris hadn’t added, “Still, ye’ll want to stay clear of the Viking ghost. He’s a big one, with a bushy beard. Wears a horned helmet, he does, and carries a sword. It’s said he drowned, and he’s none too happy about it, neither.”
Grim wasn’t terribly happy about it himself.
He spent the rest of the journey from Rochester to Plumstead conjuring up increasingly ghastly pictures of a shaggy-haired, sword-wielding, infuriated Viking ghost lurking in the shadows, waiting for a chance to wreak his sinister revenge on every hapless traveler who crossed his path.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Canvey Island, England
Ghosts, of all bloody things. Not just any ghost, either, but a Viking ghost.
“Don’t try and speak, Grim. You’ve put quite a dent in your skull, I’m afraid.” Oliver prodded as gently as he could at the knot at the back of Grim’s head, then ripped off his cravat and tucked it against the wound when his fingers came away sticky with blood.
Damn it. He should have known something like this would happen. Grim had been looking a bit peaked since they’d returned Ferris to Rutherford in Plumstead, but they’d made it through Purfleet and then east through Stanford-le-Hope and Benfleet without incident. Oliver, Dinah and Hester Claridge had whiled away the time in pleasant chat, and even Will’s naughty pup had kept himself busy chewing on the scraps of silk he’d torn from Oliver’s greatcoat.
If Grim hadn’t been quite his usual cheerful self, Oliver had put it down to Rundell and Bridge reacting to the change in driver with a sudden surge of high spirits. Grim didn’t care for equine feistiness, but the coachman Oliver had hired in Plumstead had held them steady.
But just as Oliver was reflecting on the ease of the journey, disaster had struck. It came out of nowhere and landed on them in spectacular fashion.
“Miss Bishop, and the other lady…”
Grim tried to struggle upright, but Oliver braced his hands on Grim’s forearms to keep him still. He didn’t dare touch Grim’s shoulders, as one of them looked to be broken, or at the very least dislocated. “We’re all perfectly fine. Not a single scratch on any of us.”
Remarkable, really, give the wrench they’d taken when the horses bolted. Oliver had had horrific visions of splintered wood, shattered glass and broken limbs, but by some miracle the coach had remained upright when it careened into the ditch.
They’d been knocked from their seats, and the pup had slid from one side of the coach to the other, his little paws scrabbling for purchase, but none of them had been injured. Even Rundell and Bridge had escaped unharmed. They now stood patiently, apparently well satisfied with the mischief they’d caused.
Poor Grim hadn’t been so lucky. He’d been thrown off the box into the muddy field on the other side of the ditch. Grim was conscious when Oliver reached him, but he’d been muttering something about Vikings and ghosts. Oliver had feared his wits were addled by the blow to his head, but as it happened, the injury hadn’t a thing to do with it.
No, Grim’s wits were addled by a vivid imagination.
“The horses startled, my lord, and I thought we were done for, what with it getting dark and that ghost running loose, but it happens it was just a pair of rabbits darting across the road.”
Oliver blinked. “Ghost? What ghost?”
“Mr. Ferris told me Canvey Island’s overrun with ghosts, and the Viking ghost the worst of the lot.” Grim pa
led at the mere mention of him. “He has a wicked sword, and he cuts off the heads of his victims, on account of being angry at being drowned.”
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “There aren’t any ghosts, Grim.”
“No, my lord,” Grim replied miserably. “But I saw those rabbits, and I thought it was the ghost, and I…well, I may have screamed. Just a little bit, to warn the coachman, not wanting the ghost to cut off all our heads, you understand, but the horses took exception to it and went into the ditch.”
“If you were afraid of a Viking ghost, Grim, why didn’t you just ride inside the coach?”
“What, with Miss Bishop?” Grim looked horrified. “I’d rather face the Viking ghost, my lord.”
“Well, I don’t see him about anywhere, Grim, so I daresay we’ve escaped with our heads intact.” Oliver sighed, but he didn’t have the heart to scold Grim. The ghost might be a figment of his imagination, but his injuries were all too real. “Now, just be still until Mrs. Claridge’s son-in-law brings his wagon, won’t you?”
Fortunately for them all, Grim had waited to succumb to his macabre fancies until they were less than a mile from the Edwards’ farm, which was just on the other side of the field. The coachman had gone off to fetch Mr. Edwards.
So, here they sat in a field of half-frozen mud, Grim breathless with pain, and Oliver, who felt as though he should have realized something was amiss, overcome with guilt. The only one of the three of them who was pleased was William’s pup, who frolicked about happily, digging his nose into the mud and chasing rabbits.
*****
Perhaps the detour to Canvey Island hadn’t been such a clever idea.
A shiver wracked Dinah’s body, and she tucked the carriage rug tighter around her legs. It had grown colder since they’d left the Edwards’ house, so cold she could no longer feel her toes.
