Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6)
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Later that same day, she was nearly in tears after Missus McTavish dressed her down for failing to clean a pot sufficiently after the cook had burned a sauce. She was furiously scrubbing, fearing that the pot was a loss, when Putnam spoke to her for the first time.
“Be glad you are not the cook.” He said as he leaned in close to whisper. His breath tickled her ear, and she caught her breath at his verve. “Missus McTavish completely bit off his head. I’m thinking, he might be in the soup tomorrow,” he said conspiratorially.
Ruby stared at him for a moment, and then giggled.
“What a beautiful smile you have,” he said.
She was thrilled with his audacious flirting.
“Might I walk you home from the village on the morrow?” he asked, and she nodded.
She still had not spoken a word to the man or even yet gathered his name. That came later… she thought with a sigh; when he had escorted her home after church.
“Miss Barnet!” Missus McTavish called. “Are you done dawdling now?”
“Sorry, Mam,” She told the housekeeper with a quick curtsey.
She snatched up the polish and the duster and the wiping rags. “I was just getting on with the dusting.”
“Well, then; get on with it, girl,” Missus McTavish said. “His Lordship wanted the library spit spot for a meeting later this evening. It willna clean itself.”
Missus McTavish stood there glowering at Ruby. She was an old Scotswoman whose face, Ruby thought, must have frozen in a perpetual scowl, just as her Mum had told her a face might if she made grimaces. Ruby smiled at the thought.
“No, Mam. I will do it right away.”
Ruby curtseyed again and hurried off to the library. It was a gigantic room, and it was Ruby’s favorite in all the manor. She loved the library. The smell of old books made her feel as if she were surrounded by old friends. The fire was crackling, and the room was pleasantly warm in the damp weather. Rivulets of rain ran down the windowpane, but inside was cosy. Ruby paused, looking at the books before she began cleaning.
Sometimes, the young Countess let her borrow novels to read. Ruby was always careful to return them, and, although she would love to secrete one away to read later, she could not take any without asking. Such would be stealing, and a sin. Still, she could choose some to ask the lady for permission to read later. The Countess was generous. She was a beautiful lady, though sickly. She was much more pleasant than the last Countess, God rest her soul.
The current Lady was the third of Lord Bain’s wives. Ruby knew the first two had died under mysterious circumstances. His first wife was lowborn and had perished on the road when she ran with her lover. The second fell from a parapet and many said she had jumped. No one could blame her after the death of her infant son. She had been the daughter of a Baron, and a fine lady with a delicate constitution. The current Lady was also sickly; more so now that she was with child. The Countess rarely left her sick room; she was so ill. Ruby said a silent prayer for the Lady as she dusted.
Ruby felt sorry for her, and even for the Earl who did not have an heir to leave his fortune to, although truth be told, the Earl scared her somewhat.
There were those in the village who said he was mad, but she did not take with such talk. He was her employer, and she would be loyal. She would not gossip.
She paused in her dusting and stretched, tucking some stray hairs under her cap. This whole side of the room was devoted to the Lady’s novels and poetry. They were wonderful, fanciful books. Ruby ran her finger along the spines as she dusted, reading the titles, thinking of which to ask for next time she borrowed one from The Countess. She pulled a book off of the shelf and glanced through the likely prospect before she began her work again. She settled on a novel she had not yet read: Celestina by Charlotte Turner Smith. Although Ruby would have loved to sit and begin it now, she continued dusting.
She had gotten a late start, and Missus McTavish would be cross with her if she did not finish before His Lordship’s meeting. Still, a single poem would not be too much to read. She opened one of Wordsworth’s volumes and read, thinking of her Mister Putnam reciting the verse to her. She sighed and forced herself to get back to work.
She moved on to the books about herbals and cures, and things which held no interest for her, so she dusted quickly. Presently she moved past His Lordship’s books. They were expensive leather volumes, most of which she did not dare to open. If Lord Bain was mad, she would not be the one to upset him. There were those who said he had destroyed men to get to the top. The top of what, Ruby was not sure, and certainly the men were not truly destroyed. The Earl may be stern, but he was no murderer, no matter what the gossip in the village said.
Ruby was dusting and humming a tuneless song when she realized someone else was in the library with her. Her own tune echoed strangely, like a whisper. She hushed, but all was silent. The only sound was the fire in the hearth; it flickered upwards suddenly, and cracked, turning orange as if a breeze had caressed the flame.
“Putnam?” she whispered. She hoped he was not taking a chance to meet her here. That would do neither of them any good at all. She did not want to be dismissed for improper conduct. No one answered, so after a moment, she went back to her cleaning. But she could not help but listen for some stray whisperings.
It was just the sound of the fire and her imagination, she thought. She began to hum again to keep herself company.
The fire cracked again, sharp in the silence. Ruby jumped. She turned, staring at the flame. It was a knot in a log in the fire, cracking, she told herself; nothing more. She glanced behind her, but saw no one. Slowly, she turned all the way around, looking into the gloom that clung to the corners of the library and listening with all her might. No one was in the room but her. No one. She tried to shake off her foreboding.
It was light enough, even with the rain. There was daylight coming in through the rain-streaked window and there was light from the fire. She moved closer to its warmth, but the fire made eerie shadows flicker and move. She shivered, the feeling coursing through her like the touch of a dead thing. Her mum would have said it was a ghost walking over her grave.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said aloud and then she smiled at her own silliness, but she searched the shadows again nonetheless. She supposed she could light a candle, but first she would have to fetch one from Missus McTavish, and that seemed unaccountably wasteful. It was daylight and she was just being fanciful. She went back to dusting, but she did not sing. She gripped her dust cloth. Her whole body was tense, listening. There were a number of old books in this part of the library and she pulled several off the shelf, concentrating on dusting beneath them. After all, it was best she dusted well, wasn’t it? Just concentrate on what you are meant to be doing, she told herself.
A hand on her arm caused her to jump, and she turned to find Putnam at her elbow.
“Land’s sake, Putnam. You gave me a fright.”
“Hard at work, I see,” he said catching her hand and grinning at her.
“As you should be. Putnam, no good will come of this dawdling.”
She glanced towards the door which he had at least had the forethought to pull shut, and then she changed her mind. With the door open, it could be a chance meeting. With the door closed, anyone who found them would think something untoward was happening.
“Ah, you are sounding like Missus McTavish now,” Putnam teased. He took the cloth from her hands, sat it on His Lordship’s desk, and pulled her into a hug.
“Careful,” she admonished. Her hair was fine and easily pulled from her cap and staunch chignon. “Do not muss my hair. Missus McTavish gets so cross when the wisps fall about my face.”
“I have missed you,” he said as he breathed deeply of her scent, which Ruby had no doubt was probably furniture oil.
“You saw me yesterday,” she protested, but the hug felt so incredibly good. She had missed him too. She missed that they rarely had a spare moment together.
“No,” she had to agree, “But we shall have tomorrow,” Ruby said pulling reluctantly away.
“I shall live for tomorrow,” he said dramatically as he headed towards the door, his dark eyes flashing with fun.
“Go, before we are caught,” she said waving the dust cloth at him. She smiled as he left and his hug left her warm and happy. Ruby went back to work. After a while, she began woolgathering again, imagining their life together, and she relaxed, moving books, wiping, shining and polishing and then moving on to the next shelf.
Finally, Ruby moved from the last of the shelves to His Lordship’s desk, and stopped. There was a great shining book on the desk. It was open to a page near half way through. Was the book there before, she wondered. How had she missed it when she retrieved her dust cloth after Putnam left? But it must have been there. No one had come in and placed the book on the desk.
It was odd. Normally, His Lordship would have the desk cleaned of papers and wherewithal before anyone dusted. He did not like anyone to see his ledgers, but today, this book was lying there; open on his desk, as if it were waiting for her.
It was not a ledger. It was a fancy thing. She reached out, and hesitated.
Should she touch it? The yellowing parchment looked fragile. It was not a book to be shelved. This was a book to have its own place of honor. Ruby gasped, unwilling to touch it and yet mesmerized by its beauty.
It was a large book. She thought it would take two hands to hold it. She did not want to touch it. She was being silly. Of course she had to touch it. She had to dust beneath it, didn’t she? Ruby steeled her courage and picked it up, and there seemed to be a breeze. She looked at the broad bay windows, as she nestled the book in her arms like a child, the open pages against her, but the windows were closed against the weather. It must have been her imagination, or a door was open down the hall. She had left the library door open. Hadn’t she? Had Putnam closed it? Still holding the book Ruby glanced at the library door. It was closed. A strange tickling filled her belly. She was quite sure he had left the door open, but perhaps she was mistaken.
She turned her attention back to the book. She had not seen anything like it before; it looked like the cover was inlaid with gold and silver, interlocking like the scales of a fish or a mermaid; something magical. Ruby rubbed her fingers against it thinking it had to be worth a fortune. It was so beautiful. She put the book aside and brushed a hand over the open page. It seemed to shimmer. She rubbed her eyes. She must get herself abed earlier, she thought. She must be tired. She finished tidying the desk, but her eyes kept going back to the book.
As Ruby picked up the book again, to lay it back just where she had found it, she glanced at the writing. She could not read it. Well, she thought, perhaps it was in a different language. English was not the only language. Perhaps it was French. No. The letters were curled and strange. Welsh? She wondered, or something else, something ancient. She let her finger run over the letters and shivered. They did not even look like any letters she recognized. Was it written in Russian? Ruby had heard that the Russians had a different alphabet, but she had never seen it. These letters seemed to all run together like water. She squinted at them and they seemed to move again, crawling across the page like so many ants. She blinked and they were still. She was having a fancy. She chided herself. She needed to get back to work. His Lordship would soon want his library for his meeting, and she should be done with the dusting long before that time. There was no excuse for tardiness.
Keeping her finger in the page where the book had been opened, to save His Lordship’s place, Ruby turned the page to see if there was more writing, and if any of it was in English. It all looked the same, foreign and exciting, but it did not move. Now that she was examining it more closely, she realized that the writing was done in different inks, some darker than others as if different people had written it. She wondered who the author of this wondrous volume was, or if there was more than one author? As she held the volume in her hands, she felt a sudden surge of… what? Surety, she thought. She suddenly felt as if she could do anything. And if she could do anything, what would she do? Why, she would marry Putnam of course. She shoved the thought away. That would come soon enough. Hard work gained far more than mere wishing.
Ruby hoisted the marvellous tome up into her arms to better be able to keep His Lordship’s place and also look at the frontispiece to see who the author was. Only it was so large that she could not hold the pages, that way. Frustrated, she put her entire arm through to hold His Lordship’s page, pulled the book into her lap, and flipped back to the beginning. There was no author, only a list of names; all in fine script, signatures, she thought; some society of men… for there were no women’s names… who would author such a strange book and what did it say?
His Lordship’s name was last on the list in a strange mahogany ink. She touched it, and her finger tingled. At last she sat in His Lordship’s chair, simply staring at the list of signatures. She wanted to sign it. She wanted to read the tome, but first she realized that she had to sign in that long list of signatures. Heaven forbid that she would write in one of His Lordship’s books! Instead, she ran her finger over the list of names again. She knew of some of them; members of the peerage. Most were dead, she realised. This was a very old book. She still kept one hand marking His Lordship’s place, but she began to thumb through the pages. She could not read the volume, but she flipped slowly through nonetheless, lost in time, her dusting forgotten as she studied each page as if she knew what was written there.
She could marry Putnam, she thought. She thought about his arms around her and thrill of excitement went through her. She did not have to wait. She could do it now. She could do anything. The book would help her.
Chapter Two
The library door opened and the Earl of Bain strode in. He stopped when he saw the girl sitting in his chair, the book in her lap, her dust cloth forgotten on the side of his desk. What the devil was she doing here? He thought.
She jumped to her feet. The book clattered to the floor. The flames leapt and sparked in the fireplace.
“You! Girl!” he snapped.
“I’m sorry,” She blurted. When she looked at the Earl, a guilty fear filled her eyes. Bain supposed he did look half crazed, but here she was, a mere maid, sitting in his chair, reading his book, without so much as a by-your-leave. She hastily picked up the book from the floor where she had dropped it, and put it back on the desk. She curtseyed, again. “Begging your pardon, Milord. I was just dusting. I only sat for a moment to…”
She was lying of course. She had to be lying, but the girl’s voice droned into the background of the Earl’s thoughts. She had put the book down. She had picked it up and put it down again. She had released it; or it had released her. What sort of girl was this?
He stepped forward, and she cringed as if he would strike her. He supposed his reputation had preceded him.
“My apologizes, Milord,” she babbled. “I did not lose your place. I kept the page marked the whole time.”
“Can you read?” he demanded.
“No, I mean; yes I can read, but not this book. The words are strange. But never fear. I can find the place again. I’m sure.” She began leafing frantically through the pages.
“Stop at once,” Bain snapped. “You will tear it.”
She froze.
“Are you honest girl?” He asked, his eyes narrowed. He had long ago despaired of finding an honest man. Could there be an honest woman? No. She would be a liar too. Like all the rest.
“Yes, Milord.” She curtseyed again nervously, and then went back to the book, trying to find the page, more carefully turning pages now, her head bowed over the book. She was almost reverent. He understood that; touching the pages as if touching a lover. He watched her carefully, knowing she thought that, if she could just put everything back to the way it was, he would forgive her. But she could not
go back. No one could, not after reading that book, and he could not forgive her. There was no forgiveness. “Are you honest?” he asked again.
“Yes, Milord,” she said.
“Stop touching it,” he snarled.
She took a step back from the book, nearly stumbling in her haste, and folded her hands in front of her.
“Yes, Sir. Right away.” she said. She stared for a moment and then curtseyed again.
Could she break the curse? He wondered. She had touched the book bare-handed. He looked at her hands, rubbing over and over one another; reddened from what must have been scullery work, he thought, and now dusting. She did not wear gloves. They did not look like special hands and yet, she had touched the book and, more importantly, released it; or it had released her. She now stood frozen waiting for his word, her hands folded and gripping one another so tightly they must hurt. Her eyes were wide.
“Then tell me what you were thinking of while you held my book?” He demanded.
Bain knew what he had been thinking of when he first saw the book in another man’s hands. He was wondering how to take the book, but that was before he knew its awful secrets, of course. It was a cursed thing; a thing of the devil, and yet this sprite of a girl seemed unaffected by its evil. She had touched it and turned the pages, and she had put it down again.
Perhaps she had not signed it. Perhaps there was still hope.