Ghosts of the Past

by Cate Dean

  She bounced Kit on her hip as she walked through the house, straightening as she went.

  “Your dad will be walking through the front door anytime, my sweet boy. He doesn’t know about the surprise, since he was gone when it arrived.” She brushed soft brown hair off his forehead. “I know he misses you. He probably won’t even recognize you, after your last growth spurt.” Kit smiled up at her, as if he understood what she was saying. Sometimes, Maggie swore he did. Her heart skipped when she heard the front door open. “There he is. Let’s go meet him, shall we?”

  She hurried through the lounge, and met Martin in the foyer. He looked exhausted, and limped as he headed to her, a smile brightening his face.

  “The perfect welcome.” He wrapped both of them in his arms, and leaned down to kiss Maggie. “Hello, love.”

  “Welcome home.”

  His smile faded, and her happiness at having him back faded with it. She recognized the look on his face; it always showed up before news she didn’t want to hear. “It will be a shorter stay than I planned. Come and sit with me.”

  He slipped out of his long wool coat, hanging it up on the coat rack before he joined her, taking her hand as they headed to the lounge.

  They sat together on the sofa, Kit in Maggie’s lap. “Tell me the bad news,” she said. “And don’t leave out why you’re limping.”

  He sighed, then took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Geoffrey wants me back at the dig by the end of the week.” Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington was in charge of both digs Martin was involved with. Even though she hadn’t met the archaeologist, she’d heard enough from Martin to form her own opinion. It wasn’t flattering. “There have been some new finds, and he wants me to coordinate the students.”

  “And?”

  With another sigh, he put his glasses back on, then spread his hand over his leg. “My foot caught on an uneven part of the pathway. It was hardly enough to do harm, Maggie, so stop glaring at me. The damp has been my nemesis, more than the fall.”

  “But it didn’t help.” Kit tugged on one of her curls that had escaped her messy bun, and she forced a smile. “We can talk about this later, when someone is in bed.” After pulling her curl free, she set Kit on the sofa between them, where he decided between reaching for Martin, or his sock covered toes. His toes won out. “Something came while you were gone.”

  “Am I to guess what this something is?”

  This time her smile was genuine. “It would make things more fun for me.”

  “Well, then.” He leaned in and kissed her. “I will make a valiant effort.”

  “I’ll give you a hint. We first met over it.”

  He studied her, his grey blue eyes intense. “Not the apothecary jar?”

  “One and the same. Ian brought it over yesterday.” He pushed to his feet, obviously eager to get his hands on it. “I stored it in the front hall closet. I’ll put Kit down for his nap, and meet you there.”

  “Thank you, love, for understanding my slight obsession.”

  She snorted. “Slight obsession.” He kissed her again and she smiled. “Go grab your jar. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Martin tousled Kit’s hair, leaning down to kiss the top of his head before he limped out of the lounge. Maggie watched him, frowning when she noticed his limp seemed more pronounced than before. He would be heading for the clinic, as soon as she could pry him away from the jar.

  Kit went down easier than she expected, with the excitement of a new person in the house. He cuddled his favorite stuffed horse and closed his eyes, snoring softly by the time she slipped out of his room.

  After readying herself for a fight, she headed downstairs. She found Martin in the foyer, cradling the paper and twine wrapped box.

  She bit back a smile, watching him run his hand along the top of the package. “If you and your jar have had enough alone time to get reacquainted, we can go back to the kitchen and open it.”

  Martin let out a laugh, then headed to the huge kitchen at the back of the house. It had always been Maggie’s favorite room; she had so many memories here, of her Great Aunt Irene, scones and tea with Spencer, leisurely meals with her aunt, eaten over talk of their latest antique finds.

  How she wished Aunt Irene could have met Martin, and held Kit in her arms—

  Tears stung her eyes, and she was reaching up to wipe them away before Martin could see them when he turned around.

  He moved to her side, cradled her check. “What is it, love?”

  “Just—missing my aunt.”

  “My guess is she would have doted on Kit.”

  Maggie let out a watery laugh. “And deny it to anyone who asked. I’m fine, Martin.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, so tenderly she felt the tears threatening again. “I will never object to an Aunt Irene reminiscence. I am sorry I never met her.”

  “So am I.” She shooed at Martin. “Move it, Professor. I want to see that apothecary jar.”

  “And dive into the ghost story?”

  “You bet.”

  His laughter warmed her. “There’s my inquisitive Maggie. I’ve missed her.”

  “She’s been busy figuring out the whole mother thing.”

  “And succeeding, admirably.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “I’m terrified every other minute I’ll make a mistake that will scar him for life.”

  Martin stopped in the kitchen doorway, his gaze on her intense. “You love Kit, and I know you will make the best choices you can for him.” He let out a sigh. “I hope I can live up to your example.”

  “Martin—ˮ

  “I did not have the best role model, after my mother died.”

  He spoke so little about his family that Maggie kept quiet, hoping he would tell her more. After a long hesitation, he did.

  “My father never recovered from her death. And he never forgave my decision to pursue archaeology.” Grief edged his low voice, and she cradled his cheek, let him know he wasn’t alone. “I shuttered my heart—against disappointment, the need for family, or love. Until I met you.”

  He turned his head and kissed her palm. Tears threatened again.

  “Let’s set this down.” She led him into the kitchen and to the closest counter. She waited until he had carefully settled the box holding the jar, then she wrapped her arms around him and just held on.

  Martin let out a shaky breath before he gathered her in, his chin resting on the top of her head.

  “Thank you, love,” he whispered.

  “Ready to open the box, Professor?”

  He rubbed her back before he let her go. “More than ready.”

  Picking up the box, he moved to the scarred table, carefully settled it, then even more carefully unwrapped it, revealing the rosewood box. He’d given the box to Ian Reynolds before the apothecary jar had been transferred to London, to keep it secure for transport and storage.

  Maggie touched the silky wood, tracing the intricate enamel inlay. Then she tucked her hands in the pockets of her bright blue cardigan, to keep from helping Martin open the box. This was his jar, his moment—though they had agreed on 50/50 ownership of the box, since she’d bought it at the estate sale before knowing it had been stolen.

  A smile tugged at her mouth as she remembered that day. Between nearly running over Martin’s tiny car with her Rover, and meeting him for the first time, it had been a memorable afternoon.

  “Pence for your thoughts.” His quiet voice yanked her back to the present. “I lost you there for a moment, love.”

  “Just thinking about how we met.”

  He wrapped his arm around her waist. “The worst and best days of my life.”

  “What part am I?”

  “It depended on the day.”

  “Hilarious. Though you did get arrested because you were with me.”

  “I don’t regret a moment of it.”

  Maggie let out a sigh. “I would have skipped a few parts.”

  Martin’s laughter
echoed through the kitchen. “If it meant we would end up here, with Kit sleeping upstairs, I would happily relive every event.”

  He kissed her before she could start to cry. Who knew such a tender, caring man hid under the charming, devil-may-care archaeologist façade she had always seen on his documentaries?

  After gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear, he let her go and turned to the table. “I am ready to see my jar again.” He carefully lifted the lid.

  Maggie held her breath; even though, according to Ian, the jar had been in perfect shape when it was packed, the trip from London might have damaged it.

  Martin slipped his hands into the box. As soon as he touched the jar, he paused, and let out a slow breath.

  “Martin—what is it?”

  “The ghost attached to it is gone.”

  Maggie wavered between disappointment and relief. As much as she wanted to investigate the story, having one ghost in the family was more than enough.

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded, then carefully lifted the jar out of the box and set it on the table. “There is always an energy around an object, one I’ve been able to sense for as long as I can remember.”

  She took his hand and leaned against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you, love, for your support. I know you must be relieved.”

  “Not about you losing your ghost—just about having another one in the house. I trust Anthea, but a strange spirit—” She squeezed his hand. “Sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry.”

  “I know this is part of what you do, who you are.”

  He leaned down and kissed her. “I would walk through Hell to protect you and Kit.” He kissed her again. “I believe it is time to find a space in the village.”

  “I’ll talk to Spencer. He knows everyone who might have just what you need.”

  “Thank you, love. For understanding.”

  She patted his cheek. “I knew what I was getting into when I married you, Professor.”

  His smile warmed her.

  Turning her focus on the jar, she studied the graceful lines; she’d seen it from a distance several times, and up close once, in dim light, clutched in Angus Fitch’s arms, when they found him dead.

  She pushed the thought away and put her attention back on the jar.

  “It’s just beautiful, Martin.”

  They stood together, admiring the clean lines, the incredible workmanship. Anyone outside her small circle—namely her, Martin, and Spencer—would have walked away, shaking their head.

  Aunt Irene would have been delighted.

  Sighing, Maggie brushed her finger across the top of the jar. She missed her great aunt more than ever, with Kit in their lives, and wished again for the impossible—that Aunt Irene could have met him.

  “What is it, love?”

  “Nothing.”

  Martin nudged her with his shoulder. “I know you too well to accept a pat response.”

  “Thinking about Aunt Irene again.”

  “She would have loved this.”

  Maggie tightened her grip on his hand, grateful that he understood. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Loan it to the museum. It will be safe there, and I want people to be able to admire it, not lock it away in a box to collect dust.”

  She smiled. “Spencer will be all over that.”

  “I figured as much.” He shifted, and she heard his muffled gasp.

  “Your leg?” She had a feeling he had understated just how much it hurt him. “Why don’t you go stretch out on the sofa?”

  “I will be—” He cut himself off and grabbed the table edge. “Bloody hell.”

  Maggie wrapped her arms around his waist. “Sofa. Now.”

  “Your command, milady.”

  She smiled up at him, then helped him out of the kitchen. By the time they reached the sofa in the lounge, he was in obvious pain.

  “Lean on me, Martin—let me help you.”

  “No worries there, love.”

  She sat with him on the sofa, moving as slowly as she could. Having a husband more than a foot taller put her at a definite disadvantage, but six months of hauling Kit around had really improved her upper body strength. Once Martin was settled, she stood and helped him stretch out, lifting his right leg for him.

  Sweat slid down his face, and he swallowed when his leg touched the cushion.

  “Martin.” He opened his eyes, pain darkening the normally clear grey blue depths. “I’m calling Dr. Smith. This can’t be normal.”

  “I may have—fallen, more than once.”

  Maggie cursed under her breath. “Stop trying to protect me. If I don’t know you’re hurting, I can’t help you.”

  She picked the phone off the side table and started punching in the number of the clinic.

  “Maggie.”

  “Don’t try and change my mind.”

  “I think—we should go to him.”

  She looked up—and almost dropped the phone.

  Martin was sheet white, his right leg shaking.

  Thankfully, someone at the clinic picked up, forcing her to focus on the call.

  “Holmestead Clinic, this is Lydia. How can I help?”

  “Hello, Lydia, this is Maggie Martin. My husband is on his way in.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Except for his right leg, and his ego.” She raised her eyebrows when Martin opened his mouth. “He’s in a lot of pain, and I’d like Dr. Smith to take a look at him.”

  “Of course. Did you need assistance bringing him here? I can send James to you, and he will be there should you need to move Martin to the clinic.”

  “Thank you—that would be great.”

  “He will be fine, Maggie. Stubborn men heal slowly, but they do heal.”

  “Mine is more stubborn than most, so I expect a long recovery time.”

  Lydia laughed. “James is leaving now. Hopefully, I won’t be seeing you soon, but I would love for you to stop by with Kit.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you, again.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Maggie ended the call, set the phone on the coffee table, and sat on the edge of the sofa. “You are going to listen to everything Dr. Smith says. I’ll be right here, so there’s no confusion about treatment, or rest time, or anything else he prescribes.”

  “Maggie—”

  “I mean it, Martin.” The fear she’d been pushing down finally leaked into her voice. “I need you whole and healthy. Kit needs that.” Her voice cracked over Kit’s name, and she covered her face, closer to tears than she thought.

  “I will follow his instructions to the letter.” Martin laid his hand on her back. “I am sorry I worried you like this.”

  She wiped her eyes and turned to face him. “Your leg has been injured twice now. You have to take this recovery seriously. Even if it means not going back to either dig site.”

  “Maggie—” He cut himself off when she raised her eyebrows. The anger helped keep her fear at bay. “I will hear what James has to say.”

  A brisk knocking filtered in from the foyer, and Maggie stood, heading for the front door.

  She was part of the reason he’d been hurt the first time. If not for her, he never would have become involved in a murder mystery, never would have stayed, never been in Holmestead to be injured.

  Whatever it took, she would get Martin back to full capacity.

  ***

  With a sigh, Martin shifted again, trying to get comfortable. He had never enjoyed time in bed outside of sleeping. Unless Maggie was beside him.

  But lying here, like an invalid, in the middle of the day, made him fidget.

  He should have let Maggie know about falling, when it happened. He also should have told her that he had fallen again, just a few days ago.

  “What if something had happened to Kit, and you were unable to help him?” He closed his eyes, sweating at the thought, and cursed under his breath, in several langua
ges. When he opened his eyes, Maggie stood in the doorway, a smile tugging at her lips. “Heard me, did you?”

  “Just the cursing part.” She walked over to the bed and brushed hair off his forehead, her fingers lingering. Checking his bloody temperature. “Stop frowning, Martin.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That will cover the rest of the day.” She flashed him a smile. “Kit and I are heading to the shop for a couple of hours.”

  “Why?” He started to sit, and she pushed him back to the bed. “I want to go with you.”

  “Not a chance.” To soften the blow, she kissed him. “I want you upright for the grand reopening next week.”

  He blinked up at her. “Grand reopening?”

  “How quickly we forget. For Blakeney Manor, Professor. Heather Kent has been incredibly patient. I’m ready to show off Ted Bayley’s brilliant restoration, and his team’s hard work.” She patted his chest before she straightened. “I want you to get some rest. Before we leave, I’ll bring up everything you might need for the next two hours.”

  “I want to say goodbye to Kit.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to say goodbye to his dad. I’ll be back in a few, grumpy.” She winked at him before she walked out of the bedroom.

  Heaven help him, he loved her—loved both of them. More than he thought he would be able to love anyone.

  Maggie came back, carrying a basket in one hand, Kit balanced on her opposite hip.

  “We brought your dad a basket of goodies.” She set it on her side of the bed, in easy reach, catching Kit when he made a grab for the basket. “Not for you, my little man. Now, give your dad a kiss, and we’ll go outside.”

  Kit obviously recognized the word outside; he started bouncing on her hip. Laughing, Maggie kissed the top of his head, then leaned down and handed him off to Martin.

  “Hello, son of mine.” Kit stopped squirming as soon as he heard Martin’s voice. “You obey your mum, all right?” Old grief weighted his heart, and he pushed it back into the shadows. That did not belong here. “Now, give us a kiss.”

  To Kit’s delight, Martin lifted him up, swooping him in like a landing plane, until they were nose to nose. Kit blinked at him, those deep blue eyes wide and sober. When Martin gave him a loud, smacking kiss, Kit giggled—then stole Martin’s heart when he laid both hands on Martin’s cheeks and patted them.