by Cheryl Bolen
“Impossible,” her father said. “We’ve been cutting the Burke family publicly for years. It would amount to admitting we were in the wrong. Imagine the spiteful gossip! No, it simply can’t be done.”
“Why not? James is still friendly with Gawain—” A startling notion assailed her.
“James never had any respect for older and wiser minds,” Lord Statham growled. “Haring off without so much as a by-your-leave to marry the daughter of that old fool, Walt Warren…” Although Thomasina Warren was an heiress and the marriage had taken place almost a year earlier, Papa still wasn’t reconciled to a match he hadn’t arranged himself.
Isolde hardly heard him through her surprise. She thought she knew—no, she was suddenly sure who Charles-or-Rochester really was.
No wonder he hadn’t removed his mask. What a kerfuffle that would have caused! The Burkes were no longer permitted on Papa’s land, much less across the hallowed threshold of Statham Court. Her parents refused to discuss how it had come about. All Isolde knew was that each lady claimed ownership of the heart-shaped pendant. The two families were now sworn enemies.
So much for her foolish wish that her rescuer was watching over her, keeping her safe. Gawain Burke’s chivalrous intervention had been a ruse to speak with her, to ask about the ghost’s habits so he could safely prowl about the house.
Because he had come to take the heart-shaped pendant?
He wouldn’t find it. No one but Papa knew where it was kept.
“As usual, you’re not listening,” Papa said testily. “James’ traitorous friendship with Gawain Burke is irrelevant. The pendant stays here.”
Hurriedly, she composed herself and said simply, “I miss James.”
“I daresay,” he said, a gruff note in his voice the only indication of feelings to which he would never admit. “But nothing can be done about that either.”
Which was ridiculous. Not about James—of course they would miss him—but about the pendant. Just because her father would do nothing, it didn’t mean she couldn’t. She wasn’t sure quite what, though…
“You owe it to your mother to marry again,” he said. “She gave you life. Now it is your responsibility to save hers.”
Gawain chased Lord Cape out the front door and returned to the Great Hall just as the Earl of Statham reached Isolde’s bedchamber door. He hovered while Statham went into the room and the maid scurried out, then quickly mounted the staircase. That fool Cape was still cowering out in the snow. Hopefully he really believed Gawain was a ghost.
He should have found a quieter method of getting rid of him. He wasn’t usually so hasty, but he couldn’t leave Lady Isolde to fend for herself.
He would have to, though. Best to get the job done tonight. He crept to Lady Statham’s door and listened. Silence. He opened it and peered inside. Soft snores greeted him from behind the bed curtains. Good; apparently the commotion hadn’t wakened her.
He tiptoed in and shut the door behind him. The snoring stopped. He held his breath. At last came the sound of Lady Statham turning over and settling to sleep again. He looked about; her dressing table must be in the next room. He crept to the adjoining door and slipped through. Lady Statham’s dressing room adjoined his lordship’s own chambers, but with luck, Gawain would find what he sought and be gone before Lord Statham returned to bed.
He unshuttered his lantern and got to work. The drawers yielded nothing of interest, but in a dressing-case were various necklaces, bracelets, rings, and earbobs, plenty to interest a thief, which he wasn’t. All he wanted was his mother’s pendant, and to get it, he needed the key to the box that contained it. Since Lord Statham was known to boast about how well hidden it was, he didn’t seriously expect to find the pendant itself in this room.
He searched the shelves, taking care not to disturb bottles of perfume and pots of potions and creams. Perhaps the key was in the cupboard where other clothes were kept. There were shoes on the lower shelves, and nightgowns, stays and chemises on the upper. He handled these gingerly, not wishing to violate Lady Statham’s privacy except in one small way. Finding nothing there, nor in the pockets of her cloaks, he turned.
And gasped, stumbling in his surprise, and saved himself from falling by grabbing a cloak hanging on the door. The ghost of the Cavalier scowled down at him, a hand on the hilt of his sword. He shook his head and pointed toward the door to the earl’s rooms. His spectral mouth spoke silent words.
Trying to tell Gawain to leave, no doubt. Too bad, for he hadn’t finished searching. He ignored the ghost and opened the clothes press. With painstaking care, he felt between the layers of clothing all the way to the bottom, but found nothing. He closed the lid, hoping her ladyship’s maid wouldn’t notice any disturbance in her orderly packing of the garments.
Where next? Meanwhile, the ghost still hovered, eyeing him balefully. Suddenly, his stance changed, and he made shooing motions at Gawain.
“There’s no point trying to drive me away,” Gawain whispered. “I suppose you’re loyal to this family, but if you had any sense of justice you would—”
“Statham! Statham, oh help, oh murder, oh help!”
That was Lady Statham’s voice. She must have heard something. Gawain made for the window and flung the casement open. No, that was hopeless—no drainpipe, no ivy, nothing. He wasn’t quite that desperate. He closed the window. The ghost glowered at him, hands spread, in an I-told-you-so sort of pose. An astonishing thought occurred. Had he been warning Gawain to leave?
Any second now, Lord Statham would come through from his own chamber, and the game would be up. Gawain couldn’t bring himself to harm a man as old or older than his own father… The ghost rolled his spectral eyes and pointed again toward the door to Lord Statham’s room. Yes, yes, I know he’s coming….
Just before shuttering the lantern, he saw it—a tiny key hanging on a hook on the door itself. Eureka! He pocketed the key. He would dash through Lady Statham’s room and down the corridor, and—
“Hush, Heloise. Quiet, my love. You’ll wake the guests.”
That was Lord Statham’s voice…coming from his wife’s bedchamber. Seemingly, he hadn’t returned to bed yet, and had entered her room from the corridor. Perhaps he’d been scolding poor Isolde all this time. He continued to speak to his wife, more softly now.
Gawain crept to the door and put his ear against the panel.
“It was only a dream, dearest,” the Earl said. “You’re perfectly safe.”
She whimpered. “Death stalks us, and all because of the pendant.”
“Now, now, darling,” the earl said. “The pendant is safe and sound, and no one wants to kill you.”
Lady Statham broke into hysterical sobs. “Not me! It’s not me they’ll kill, but my little Isolde!”
Who would want to kill Isolde? Gawain wondered. And why?
“Nonsense,” Lord Statham said. “Isolde didn’t poison either of them. Everyone knows it’s just gossip. In any event, she’ll marry again soon, the scandal will die down, and all will be well.” A pause. “I’ve just come from speaking to her, Heloise. She understands what she owes you and will wed swiftly.”
“Truly?” Her voice rose in desperate hope. “When?”
Who in Hades had Isolde agreed to wed? Gawain found it hard to believe she had chosen any of the guests, but the old man might have brought intolerable pressure to bear. Damnation, it simply wasn’t right—and all to placate his delusional wife.
“As soon as I can arrange it,” Lord Statham said, “but in the meantime we can’t have the guests whispering about the state of your health. You must continue to control yourself, like a good girl. Now, take a couple of these drops and go back to sleep.”
Gawain turned to leave while he had the chance. He crept through the connecting door into Lord Statham’s dressing room, and thence through his bedchamber to the corridor. Back in the lumber room, he pried open the molding at one end of the mantelpiece and removed the tiny metal box concealed inside. The key
fit perfectly. He opened the box and took out the pendant—a beautifully-wrought gold filigree heart on a golden chain.
As easy as that.
A cold breeze, sudden and intense, shivered its way down his back. The Cavalier hovered before him, pointing at the pendant, saying something again.
Gawain clutched the pendant. “Sorry, but I’m taking it. It belongs to my mother.”
The ghost rolled his spectral eyes—a ghoulish sight—and said something again. He moved his hands together, twisting a little—and then apart.
Gawain shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
The ghost reached for the pendant. His cold hand mimed grasping the heart, then performed the same movements as before. Hand ‘holding’ the heart toward the other hand, twisting a little, then away again.
His face contorted, and a spectral tear trickled down his cheek. He jabbed his ghostly finger into Gawain’s chest. It was unsubstantial but icy cold, sending a chill to his heart. What the devil?
“Fool!” cried the Cavalier. Gawain didn’t hear him, but it was all too obvious what he’d said. The ghost threw up his hands and vanished.
Shuddering despite himself, Gawain pocketed the pendant again. He had no idea what the ghost wanted and didn’t care. He locked the box and restored it to its place, tossed the plumed hat and sword into a corner amongst all the other odds and ends in the room, and left. Only one more task remained: to return the key to the dressing room so there would be no sign a theft had taken place.
He waited an agonizingly sleepy half hour, then returned to listen at Lady Statham’s door. All was silent. He crept through to the dressing room, hung the key on its hook, and left again, scarcely daring to breathe.
Below in the Great Hall, the front door was now locked and barred. No matter; he preferred to leave by the side door in the direction of home, and likely no one would notice that it had been unlocked part of the night.
As he neared Lady Isolde’s bedchamber, he spied the Cavalier blocking her doorway, arms crossed. Standing guard, but Isolde needed more than a ghost to protect her. Had the maid not returned? Probably not; she’d left carrying her blankets. Lord Statham had left his daughter alone and vulnerable once again. Either he thought his presence in the house should be protection enough, or—dastardly man—that if she must be forced into marriage, so be it.
Which meant Gawain couldn’t go home just yet. A pity he couldn’t enter and guard her in person, but for too many reasons, that was impossible. He smiled, thinking ruefully of the most appealing of them. Not appealing to her, though; she’d done her best to drive all comers away. Besides, he must keep his identity a secret. Eventually the loss of the heart-shaped pendant would be discovered, but hopefully not for a while.
“Come get me if she is in danger,” he whispered to the ghost. He returned to the lumber room and settled himself in the old chair again, leaving the door ajar. If Lady Isolde cried for help, he would hear—or if not, the ghost would come and find him.
Isolde slept fitfully for most of the night. She wasn’t afraid of intruders, for she had shoved a small but heavy clothes press against the door. It made a dreadful noise scraping across the floor. She would hear if someone tried to enter her room.
She was far more afraid of what she might have to do. When Mama had cried out in her sleep—which happened far too often—Papa had left in a hurry to quiet her. She’d held her breath, wondering if he would discover Gawain Burke, but no commotion erupted.
Which was a relief, but it only postponed deciding on a course of action. To stave Papa off, she had promised to consider the suitors of his choice, but she couldn’t, simply couldn’t marry any of them. Yes, Mama (and Papa) had given her life. She loved her mother and wanted her to be well and happy, but there had to be a better way than another miserable marriage for herself.
Her duty was plain: to tell Papa that Gawain had come to the masquerade in disguise. He would make sure Gawain had no chance to steal the pendant. And yet, what if Gawain—or his mother, rather—was in the right? Not that Mama was a thief, exactly, but she had a habit of interpreting things to her own benefit. What would cause her more harm—keeping the pendant and worrying about bad luck, or losing it and her pride along with it?
Isolde tossed and turned, fretting both awake and asleep, and roused at last to the ghost’s urgent voice. “Wake up! It’s almost dawn, and I must dictate.”
“Now?” she groaned, but he would pester until she gave in—rightly so, since she was only here for Christmastide. He had to make use of her while he could. She got the fire going, brought out pen, ink, and paper, and sat at her desk to write. He dictated a particularly fervent love poem. As usual, he wrote of love and loss, maundering on and on about the pain in his heart and the tears he shed, but this time he went down on his ghostly knees and prayed for a way to make amends and join the sundered hearts once again.
Reading it over, she had to admit it would make an excellent addition to the next volume of his poems. They were quite a publishing success—anonymous, of course, first by way of James, and now through her.
“Your lover guarded you throughout the night,” the Cavalier said, fading as morning approached. “You must show him my poem.”
“He’s not my lover,” she muttered, but the ghost had already gone. She dragged the clothes press back where it belonged, rang for Millicent, and went to look out the window.
The world lay blanketed in snow, pristine in the wintry dawn. No one had ventured outdoors yet, it seemed….
Ah. Off to the right, a single track of footprints led from the far wing in the direction of Burke Hall. Whether or not Gawain really had guarded her, as the ghost said, he had gone home now. Had he found the pendant?
She doubted it. It wasn’t in her mother’s rooms. Only the key to the box that held it was there, where her mother could see it every day and reassure herself the pendant was safe.
Isolde couldn’t bring herself to betray Gawain, but she had to do something. If only it weren’t for this stupid feud…
A brilliant notion descended upon her. When Millicent lumbered into the room with a jug of hot water, she said, “Get out my warmest clothes. I’m going for a walk in the snow.”
Chapter 3
The heart-shaped pendant burned like a hot coal in Gawain’s pocket. He’d arrived home and eaten a huge, well-deserved breakfast, waiting for his mother to wake. She thought he had sneaked into the masquerade for a jest. He couldn’t wait to surprise her with the pendant.
And yet, something was bothering him. He wasn’t ashamed of retrieving the pendant, for it belonged to his mother, so what could it be? He poured himself another cup of coffee and gazed out the breakfast parlor window into the snowy morning.
A woman stood on the rise that divided his father’s land from Lord Statham’s. Robed in a dark cloak and a red cap and muffler, the woman was tying a white cloth—a pillowslip, perhaps—to the bare branch of a sapling.
A sign of surrender. Or truce. Or a desire to negotiate. He and James and other boys had once used it in their mock wars. If it was Lady Isolde—he was almost sure it was—it meant two things: one, the theft of the pendant had been discovered, and two, she knew that he was the thief.
But if she had told her father about him, she wouldn’t be using their sacrosanct childhood method of indicating a desire to parley. What if Isolde intended to trap him somehow? He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that of her. She was a forthright sort of girl. In any event, involving a parent would amount to another breach of sacred childhood etiquette.
Very well, he would hold off giving the pendant to his mother—but not for long.
Isolde went down to breakfast hungry after her walk in the snow. With any luck, Gawain would see her flag of truce and find a way to speak with her. In the meantime, she must do her best to pretend to seriously consider the three bores.
“Who would like to stroll to the village shops?” she asked brightly. That should be safe enoug
h. Hopefully they wouldn’t encounter Sir Wally and Lady Burke, for she refused to give them the cut direct—but if she so much as nodded at them, her disloyalty would be reported to her parents. Heavens, what if Gawain ignored the flag of truce? She would feel such a fool. Disappointed, too. And sad. Gawain had always been kind to her when they were children, and she, in her girlish way, had been madly in love with him.
She walked to the village with Sir Andrew Dirks, who was somewhat better behaved when hung over, the starchy Mr. Nebley, the adulterous Mr. Denton, his pleasant-faced wife, and their daughter Jane, who at sixteen was not yet out. Mr. Denton’s eyes had widened with trepidation when she’d suggested that they all stroll together. Did he think she was about to tattle on him? It would serve him right, but she would never so mortify his wife and daughter, even if they weren’t dear friends. The Dentons had been invited for Mama’s sake—they wouldn’t gossip about Mama’s dreadful state of nerves—and also to add a few female guests.
The village street bustled with activity. The scents of baking filled the frosty air. Twelfth Night involved the blessing of the apple orchards, so everything apple-related was included in the celebration—cakes, tarts, ciders, and her favorite holiday beverage, lamb’s wool. Years ago, when they’d been friends with the Burkes, the whole village had shared a huge cauldron of it, but since the feud, Statham Court kept its lamb’s wool for itself. It wasn’t much fun anymore.
Well, at least they could enjoy the festive mood in the village. Children ran back and forth, shouting, throwing snowballs at one another, and being scolded by their parents. Sir Andrew growled, Mr. Nebley looked down his nose, Mr. Denton dithered, and Isolde and the Denton ladies strolled from one shop window to the next, admiring hats, gloves, and a magnificent clump of mistletoe decked with red ribbons.
