by Angie Ray
Ghostly Enchantment
Angie Ray
Amazon KDP Edition; v. 1.1
Text Copyright © 1994, 2014 Angie Ray
Cover Art Copyright ©2014 TJ Novy
To see other works by this author, please visit:
http://www.angieray.com/
Dedication
With many thanks and much appreciation to the people who made this edition possible: Rebecca Forster, Sandra Paul, Don Kolling, Mindy Neff, Colleen Adams & Tom Novy
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
London, July 1769
Soon, very soon now, the trial would be over. Holwell would be found guilty of murder, and then he would hang.
Roger Carew, Earl Mortimer, knew what the hanging would be like, for he had attended many.
His favorite part was when the hangman placed the noose around the prisoner’s neck. The crowd always hushed at that point. Then came the loud clacking of the trapdoor and the roar of approval from the mob. Sometimes--if he was close enough and the people quietened--he could hear the creak of the rope and the raw gasping breaths of the prisoner. In his mind’s eye, Mortimer pictured Holwell hanging like that, death sucking the last discordant notes of life from his flailing, twitching body.
Mortimer smiled.
A sharp elbow poking him in the ribs distracted him from his pleasant vision and knocked his wig askew. With an oath on his lips, he turned to castigate the oaf, only to realize that the long line of lords was moving forward. Quickly he adjusted his powdered wig before following the others into the courtroom.
Beating mercilessly through three high arched windows, the sun heated the small, airless room to an almost unbearable degree. The lords, in their heavy black robes, perspired profusely as they filed into the long rows of benches. Soon the mingled scents of sweat, powder, and cologne thickened the air, making breathing an unpleasant chore; but Mortimer didn’t mind. He had waited for this day a long time.
Baron Robeson, appointed Lord High Steward for the occasion, took his place high above the row of judges, facing the lords. His square, heavy jaw dipped towards the Clerk of the Crown, who stepped forward and began reciting the proclamations.
Mortimer managed to maintain a suitably solemn expression while the Clerk spoke, but inside he gloated. Although Holwell had put up a lively defense, the preponderance of evidence was against him. Numerous witnesses had told of the loud and frequent arguments between Holwell and Alicia; and yesterday, a maid had testified she heard Holwell threaten to murder Alicia the night before she died. Mortimer permitted himself a small smile. The trial was going extremely well.
“Is it your lordships’ pleasure that the judges have leave to be covered?”
As Lord Robeson spoke, Mortimer quickly composed his features. He answered soberly along with the other lords.
“Ay, ay.”
The judges donned their hats and the Clerk of the Crown arose. “Sergeant-at-Arms, make proclamation for the Lieutenant of the Tower to bring his prisoner to the bar.”
Mortimer leaned forward. Craning his neck, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the windows’ glare. He did not want to miss the moment when Holwell would slink into the courtroom. He wanted to see Holwell’s face. Would his expression be frightened? Hopeless? One thing was certain. After yesterday’s testimony, Holwell would definitely not be smiling.
Just thinking about Holwell smiling made Mortimer’s eye start to twitch. How he hated that smile! Whenever Holwell smiled, he tilted his head back and stared down his nose. Somehow, the arrogant angle of his chin, the mocking gleam in his eyes, always made Mortimer feel the way he had many years ago when a whore had laughed at his inadequate performance. That smile made him feel as if Holwell knew about the whore’s laughter.
Today, though, Holwell would not be smiling, and that would be one small payment for what Mortimer had suffered at Holwell’s hands: the defeats, the humiliation, and most of all, the loss of Alicia and Caroline--
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” The Sergeant-at-Arms announced, pounding his staff on the wooden floor. “Lieutenant of the Tower, bring forth Phillip, Lord Holwell, your prisoner, to the bar, pursuant to the order of the House of Lords.”
Unconsciously, Mortimer leaned forward, twisting the ornate ruby ring on his finger.
The door opened and Phillip Eglinton, Viscount Holwell, entered the courtroom.
Under the bright auburn flag of his hair, Holwell’s grey gaze met Mortimer’s. Heavy, dark brows arched, and slowly--almost casually--Holwell flicked his thumb across his nose. Then he tilted his head back and smiled.
Mortimer stilled for a moment in utter disbelief before fury raged through his veins. Damn Holwell for a mocking devil! Bending his head forward, he struggled to control his anger. He forced himself to think of his careful planning, of his clever use of the secret he had discovered --the secret of which Holwell knew nothing. Likely Holwell expected to be acquitted or, at the very worst, heavily fined. He would soon discover his mistake and he would hang.
But even this pleasant thought failed to cheer Mortimer. Settling back in his seat, he tried to regain the sense of satisfaction he had felt earlier. It eluded him. Instead, he felt a niggling unease.
The Eglintons had been an irritant to his family for as long as he could remember. His earliest memories were of his father, and his father’s father, cursing the Eglinton name. It was ridiculous, and yet he could not shake off the growing apprehension, a foreboding almost, that somehow, somewhere, another Eglinton spawn would come to torment him and his family; that in life and even in death, as always, the Eglintons would triumph.
He had to do more than just eliminate Holwell. He had to do something else. Something to thwart the arrogant Eglinton seed, wherever it dwelled, for all eternity....
Chapter One
Berkshire, July, 1847
Miss Margaret Westbourne sat silently next to Bernard Denbeigh, Lord Barnett, on the horsehair sofa. She spread her green silk skirts into a perfect half-circle, straightened her spine to a perfect perpendicular, and clasped her hands together loosely in her lap so that her arms formed a perfect oval. She knew she looked like a perfect lady, because her mother had made her practice the effect in front of the mirror until she got it exactly right. Holding herself rigidly, she waited.
Silence filled the room.
Did Bernard appreciate the graceful pose? Margaret wondered. She decided to risk a peek from the corner of her eye. Much to her chagrin, he was not even looking at her. He was staring down at his watch, turning it in the palm of his hand, studying first the shiny gold bottom, then the intricately carved initial on the lid. She could not quite make out the letter, but from the way
Bernard looked at it, she supposed it must be very interesting.
His fingernail pressed against the catch and the lid flew open with a slight click. He stared at the clock face for what seemed like a long time.
Perhaps he was watching the minutes of his life tick away, thought Margaret.
He closed the lid and she heard a small snap. He began to play with the catch, clicking it open, and snapping it shut. Click, snap. Click, snap. Apparently he was fascinated by the way the lid flew open every time he depressed the small metal catch...click...and by the way the lid fitted so neatly against the face...snap. Click, snap. Click, snap.
The sound stopped suddenly as something caught his eye. Pulling out a handkerchief, he carefully wiped a spot from the case. He tilted the watch in the light, checking the shine. Satisfied the gold had no further tarnish to dull its luster, he put the watch and the handkerchief back in their respective pockets, inhaled deeply, and turned toward her. For a brief moment his eyes met hers; then his gaze skittered off to a point behind her.
“Miss Westbourne, thank you for allowing me to call today,” he began. “I came because I, ah, er, that is, I had a talk with your father yesterday.”
He swallowed convulsively a few times, the noise plainly audible in the silent room. Manfully, he continued.
“A most interesting conversation. Most enlightening. We spoke on many topics. Estate matters. Sheep. Horses. Breeding. And...and I don’t know precisely how it came up, but Mr. Westbourne observed that it was time I thought about marriage. Which is absolutely true. Absolutely. The Barnett title is a proud one. If I don’t marry and produce an heir...well, the name and title will die out. I don’t quite know why I have been so negligent of my duty. He--your father, that is--mentioned that old agreement he and my father made. Mr. Westbourne said, er, that is, he gave me to understand that you have considered yourself betrothed to me all this time. I was completely unaware of this.”
Margaret’s lips tightened, but she did not say anything. What could she say? That she had been completely unaware of it also?
“After the...er, the...er, misunderstanding with my father, I had thought the arrangement was completely void. I was very surprised. I...I must confess, I had some reservations about the situation. I hope you understand my hesitation. I do not like to go against my father’s wishes, even now that he is dead. If he were alive, then of course I would not be making this proposal. Unless he could have been persuaded to change his mind. And naturally, I would have made every effort...but...but since he is dead, I wish to do the right thing, the honorable thing. So, in spite of some doubt on my part--only because of the way my father felt about you, you understand--Mr. Westbourne convinced me that it was my duty...I mean, I decided that a marriage between us would be a very sensible thing.”
Bernard’s eyes flickered to her face. With conscious effort, she forced a smile to her lips. His gaze quickly returned to that point behind her.
Her smile faded.
Truly, what did it matter if her father had applied a little pressure, appealing to Bernard’s gentlemanly instincts? A woman on the verge of spinsterhood could not afford to be particular--especially a woman who was not quite acceptable socially, besides being too tall, with plain brown hair, and unremarkable blue eyes. The important thing was that he was actually asking her to marry him. What did it matter if romance was decidedly lacking in his proposal? She was certainly not looking for Prince Charming to come along and sweep her off her feet.
Fortunately for her.
Discreetly, Margaret studied her suitor. Under drooping lids, eyes of indeterminate color stared fixedly at the wall behind her. His habit of tucking his chin back as far as possible emphasized the slightly beakish bent of his nose, and tailoring could not disguise the forward slope of his shoulders.
Bernard was certainly no Prince Charming.
“You would be a viscountess,” continued Bernard, still not meeting her eyes. “And mistress of your own household. And...and one day, Motcomb House and Barnett Manor would be united. My father greatly desired this, before...before the ‘incident’. He often said that Motcomb House was the best property in the area, and he wished that he had been able to come up with the purchase price when it was for sale all those years ago. But that is really not relevant, so, er, let’s see, oh yes, I...I have the greatest respect for you, Miss Westbourne. I admire your virtue, and your maturity, and...and...and....” His throat worked as he struggled to formulate the words. “And your dowry will be put to good use,” he gasped. Pulling out his handkerchief again, he wiped his forehead.
Margaret kept her lips parted, but her smile felt suspiciously like a grimace. Although she concentrated on unclenching her teeth and relaxing her neck muscles, she did not think she was particularly successful. It actually didn’t matter though, since he still wasn’t looking at her.
“I...I think we will suit very well,” Bernard finished. “What do you say, Miss Westbourne?” He pulled out his watch and started playing with the catch again.
Margaret hesitated. Not because she was thinking of refusing. Certainly not. Bernard was her chance and she meant to seize it--him--with both hands. She would finally be accepted again. By everyone. No one would dare snub the Viscountess Barnett. She would no longer be an outcast, a social pariah because of that scene she had made.
Click, snap.
It was only that accepting Bernard’s offer was much more difficult than she had thought it would be. A tiny rebellious part of her that she had thought died long ago, was trying to make itself heard. But she wouldn’t listen--she couldn’t. Because she couldn’t bear for her life to continue as it had for the last eight years....
Click snap. Click, snap.
This sick feeling in her stomach was merely nerves--it would soon pass. It was time to forget her silly dreams. Dreams she couldn’t even explain or understand. Dreams that could never be found and could never come true--
Click snap, click snap, click SNAP!
Margaret jumped.
“Miss Westbourne! May I have your answer?” A disapproving frown pulled the corners of Bernard’s mouth down, and Margaret felt a flare of defensive anger. He had waited eight years to remind her of the marriage contract, he could wait a few seconds for her answer.
But her anger fizzled quickly. She must forget the past and think of her future; and there was only one thing to say. Tugging discreetly at her bodice, she straightened her already straight back, and looked him straight in the eye. “Yes, Lord Barnett, I will marry you.”
*****
Her parents were waiting in the Blue Drawing Room. Mr. Westbourne looked up from a ledger book, his hazel eyes bright with expectancy. Mrs. Westbourne’s needle paused over her embroidery hoop, an eager smile on her narrow, aristocratic face.
Bernard spoke first. “Miss Westbourne has agreed to make me the happiest of men,” he said in a colorless voice.
“Ha!” Her father jumped to his feet. For a moment, Margaret thought he would dance a jig. Instead he rushed forward and clapped Bernard on the back. The force of the blow caused her new fiance to stagger.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Westbourne again, beaming with delight. “It’s about time. Congratulations, my boy. Thought you’d never get around to it. Margaret ain’t getting any younger, you know. She’s already twenty-three, aren’t you Margaret? Yes, we were beginning to think she was going to be an apeleader, ha, ha.” He turned to her and held out his arms.
Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be clasped in his burly embrace. He pressed her face against his coarse black hair, and hugged tightly, almost squeezing the breath out of her. “Good girl,” he whispered. After one more mighty squeeze, he released her and turned back to his future son-in-law.
“You’re a lucky man, Barnett. My daughter will make you a fine wife. You’re getting a fine bargain. I shouldn’t have had to up the ante, by Gad, no I shouldn’t.”
Up the ante? Exactly how reluctant had Bernard been? Margaret wondered. She felt like
a bit of rubbish her father had to pay the dustman to take away.
“Well, never mind. I don’t. The money is well-spent if it makes Margaret happy. My little girl engaged! Barnett, this calls for a drink.” He pulled the younger man over to the sideboard where fortuitously, a bottle of champagne waited. After pouring the liquor, he passed the glasses around.
“To the union of Motcomb House and Barnett Manor,” Mr. Westbourne declared, raising his glass briefly before swallowing the champagne. Margaret’s chest was still too tight to drink anything, so she pretended to sip hers. Bernard gulped his down--rather desperately, she thought. The two men headed back to the bottle, leaving Margaret and her mother in relative privacy.
“Darling, how wonderful!” Mrs. Westbourne rose on tiptoe to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “At last I’ll be able to hold up my head again.” She sipped her champagne daintily. “It hasn’t been easy this last eight years. People are slow to forgive the kind of behavior you exhibited. But not even Lady Creevy will be able to criticize you now, not when you will outrank her. Besides, who is she to condemn, when Lord Barnett himself has obviously forgiven you? I must call on her this afternoon to tell her the news. You’ve done well, dear.”
Feeling vaguely uneasy, Margaret tugged at her bodice where the wool pads of her “bust-improver” were chafing. It was rare that her mother approved of anything she did. Gaining Mrs. Westbourne’s approbation usually meant doing something Margaret didn’t want to do.
Her mother nodded in satisfaction. “I am so happy for you. Lord Barnett is such a good man, you won’t even notice his nose after awhile. It is a pity he’s not a shade taller, though. He’s barely an inch or two taller than you, isn’t he? Not that his appearance matters, so long as you are happy. You are happy, aren’t you dear?”
“Of course, Mama.”
“Of course you are. He’s such a nice boy. I’m very fond of him, although I used to think he was a trifle spiritless. But now I see I was mistaken.” She drank the last of her champagne and moved towards the sideboard where the bottle rested.
