Invincible

by Joan Johnston

  “I read about one of your ‘engagements’ in the Times today,” Lydia said with a laugh. “You’re playing tennis at Wimbledon!”

  “With Kristin of all people,” Riley said with a grin.

  Max grimaced. “Someone suggested it to the All England Lawn Tennis Club, and they thought it was a great idea. I’m going along for the ride.”

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t going to enjoy seeing Kristin again,” Payne said. “You guys were best buds. Whatever happened with the two of you? How come you never talk about her anymore?”

  Max shrugged away the question. It was easier than trying to explain. He hadn’t realized how important his friendship with Kristin was until he’d lost it.

  Kristin had understood what it meant to have parents who weren’t together anymore. Hers were divorced. She’d understood why, as the youngest of four brothers, he’d wanted to be the very best at something, because she’d had an older sister who’d shown more promise on the tennis courts than she had. The sister had been killed in an auto accident. Kristin had spent hours on the tennis court trying to win her father’s love by measuring up to that dead paragon.

  Kristin had also understood how fame—she had a fair amount of it herself—made people want to be your friend for reasons that had nothing to do with liking you.

  He still felt betrayed by the way she’d walked away without a word. He was the one who’d pushed to take their friendship to the next level. When they finally had, she’d bolted back to the States. He’d tried calling her and emailing her, but she wouldn’t return any of his messages. Finally, he’d gotten mad enough—and sad enough—to give up.

  “I haven’t seen Kristin since she left the tennis circuit ten years ago,” Max said straight-faced.

  “Was that your choice or hers?” Lydia asked.

  “It was mutual,” he lied. Max didn’t like to think of how badly he’d mismanaged things with K. He shouldn’t have tried to make their friendship into something else. Friends like her were hard to replace. He hadn’t managed to do it in the ten years since she’d walked out of his life.

  It was far too late to do anything about it now. Their meeting in Miami had been worse than awkward. It was probably a good thing she’d nixed the tennis match. It would have been difficult practicing together. Speaking of which, he’d better start putting in some time on the court, if he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He should contact Steffan and see if he wanted to hit some balls together.

  And he’d better start thinking about a replacement for K.

  “Are you going to meet with Mother in person?” Lydia asked.

  “I guess so,” Max said.

  “Would you ask her if I can…” Lydia’s voice trailed off.

  “Ask her what?”

  Lydia grimaced. “Never mind.”

  “Ask her what, Lydia?” Max persisted.

  “I want to borrow the Ghost of Ali Pasha to wear at a charity ball I’m attending in Rome.”

  “You know how she feels about those stupid precious jewels of hers,” Riley said. “That pearl necklace is more important to her than—”

  “Any of us,” Payne finished for his brother.

  The Ghost of Ali Pasha was an enormous perfect teardrop pearl, the centerpiece of an exquisite diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire necklace. The pearl had been owned by Ali Pasha of Yannina, an Albanian pasha from the western part of Rumelia, in the Ottoman Empire.

  There was a legend attached to the pearl, which began when the pearl came into the possession of Ali Pasha. The pasha was notoriously cruel. He’d roasted rebels, flayed a man alive and executed another by having his bones broken with a sledge hammer. He seized control in 1788 and ruled most of Albania, western Greece and the Peloponnese for more than thirty years.

  The pasha gave the pearl as a gift to his favorite concubine of the three hundred or so Christian, Muslim, Albanian and Circassian women in his harem. The pasha’s favorite, a Circassian woman named Juba, was poisoned by a jealous woman in the harem. When the murderer wouldn’t reveal herself, Ali Pasha ordered all of his concubines executed.

  He wore the pearl in memory of Juba for the rest of his life. When Ali Pasha was finally defeated by his enemies and beheaded, he was wearing Juba’s pearl. His head was sent to the Sultan Mahmud II, where it was presented on a silver plate, the pearl still around the pasha’s throat.

  The Sultan took the pearl as a prize of war—and was strangled by it in his bed.

  That was the beginning of the legend that the pearl possessed the ghost of Ali Pasha, which had wreaked a terrible vengeance on his enemy. Thereafter, Juba’s pearl was called the Ghost of Ali Pasha.

  Somehow, the Ghost of Ali Pasha had ended up as part of the Spanish royal jewels. King Ferdinand VII was pictured wearing the pearl in 1806, in a painting by Goya, just before he was forced to abdicate the throne in favor of the Emperor Napoleon. The king hadn’t lost his head while he owned the Ghost, but he’d lost his position as head of state.

  In 1840, Queen Isabella II of Spain gave the Ghost to Queen Victoria of England as a wedding present. The British queen disliked the legend that went along with the pearl and sent it as a gift to Frederick II when he became king of Prussia. The king died without ever having children, keeping the legend alive and well. The Ghost somehow found its way to France and was sold to Tiffany’s in the late 19th century at an auction of French royal jewels.

  Bull had bought the Ghost from a private owner and had it reset in a necklace with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies—all the jewels he’d previously given Bella—and presented it to her on the birth of their one and only daughter.

  Max wasn’t surprised Lydia wanted to borrow the necklace. It was exquisite. For some reason, his mother never wore it anymore. “Mother’s not in London,” Max pointed out to his sister. “How is she going to get the necklace to you?”

  “She could have Smythe send it,” Lydia said. “She trusts him with the keys to everything at the Abbey.”

  “He might have the key to the dungeon,” Max said. “But I doubt he has the combination to the safe.”

  The Abbey had a dungeon belowstairs, where prisoners of past centuries had been tortured, with secret passages in the walls of the Abbey that could be used to reach it. The four brothers had played in those dark, musty, cobweb-laden passages as kids, even though it was strictly forbidden. His mother’s priceless jewels were kept in an enormous safe in the dungeon, the outer door to which was kept locked.

  “If you get permission from Mother, I’ll make sure you get the Ghost of Ali Pasha,” Oliver said to Lydia.

  Max wondered whether that meant Oliver had the combination to the safe, or whether he knew someone besides Mother who did.

  “I don’t think she’ll give it to me if I ask,” Lydia said. “Would you ask for me, Oliver?”

  “No. If you want it, Lydia, you need to ask for it yourself,” Oliver said.

  “All right,” Lydia replied petulantly. “I’ll ask.”

  But Max heard in her voice that she didn’t think she had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting it.

  “Are we done?” Oliver asked.

  Everyone nodded except Max, who added, “If I find out anything useful about why Mother invited us to The Seasons, I’ll get back in touch with all of you.”

  “If there’s nothing else,” Oliver said, “this meeting of the Castle Foundation is adjourned.”

  10

  “It’s just like Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Flick said, her arms spread wide as she turned in a circle within the stone walls of Blackthorne Abbey.

  Kristin had to agree. Despite how much they’d shared about their lives, she’d had no idea Max had grown up in an actual castle. “Don’t touch anything, Flick,” she warned. Everything in the vast hall in which they were standing looked like an irreplaceable, not to mention priceless, antique.

  “You’re here at last,” Bella said, smiling as she came down a wide stone staircase, trailed by a young woman, to meet
them in the cavernous hall in which they were standing.

  “Who are you?” Flick asked bluntly, staring at the plainly dressed young woman.

  “My name is Emily Sheldon,” the trim-looking young woman said as she joined them. “I’m going to be your tutor while you’re here.”

  Flick grimaced. “Oh. You’re a teacher.”

  “Emily has been with me for the past three years as my assistant,” Bella said to Flick. “However, she studied to be a teacher, which is fortunate, under the circumstances.”

  “I hope you and I will become good friends,” Emily said to Flick.

  Flick cocked her head, like a bird eyeing something strange, then said, “I’ve never had a teacher who was a friend before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Emily replied with a smile.

  Flick smiled back at her and said, “I like you.”

  “That’s a good start,” Emily replied.

  Flick turned to her grandmother and asked, “Is this where my dad grew up?”

  “Blackthorne Abbey was his home, yes,” Bella said. “He was away at boarding school a great deal of the time, but this is where we gathered as a family on holidays.”

  Kristin realized their voices echoed in the domed entry to the Abbey. “How big is this place?” she asked.

  “The castle could guest twenty knights and their retainers when it was first built,” Bella said. “Which would have been more than a hundred souls. A lot of the smaller rooms have been turned into larger ones. Several wings were added in later years, which gives the castle its unusual shape.”

  “Can I see my dad’s room?” Flick asked.

  “Smythe is taking your luggage there as we speak,” Bella said.

  “Who’s Smith?” Flick asked, using the same pronunciation the duchess had used.

  “The butler. He met you at the door.”

  “Oh, the really old guy.”

  Kristin winced at Flick’s frankness.

  “Is this armor from a real knight?” Flick asked, crossing to a polished suit of armor and reaching out as though to shake the mailed hand that was posed in greeting.

  “Don’t touch!” Kristin warned.

  “It’s all right,” Bella said. “Yes, it’s real. I think my eldest son, Oliver, put it on once upon a time and scared the wits out of Smythe when he took a few steps in it.”

  “The knight who wore it wasn’t very tall,” Flick pointed out.

  Kristin was surprised herself at how short the armored figure was. The knight couldn’t have been more than five foot three or four.

  “Men—and women—were smaller in the Middle Ages. Poor nutrition,” Bella said.

  “Oh, you mean they didn’t eat the right foods to grow,” Flick said, as she deciphered the meaning of nutrition.

  “Exactly,” Bella said.

  “Who are all these guys?” Flick asked, pointing to several cracked and faded oil paintings hung around the stone walls of the circular entryway.

  “Your ancestors,” Bella said. When Flick appeared confused, she explained, “The lords and ladies who fought for these lands and lived at Blackthorne Abbey.”

  The idea of fighting apparently appealed to Flick, because she stepped up to take a closer look at a soldier on horseback, dressed in a blue uniform trimmed with red cuffs and gold lace, holding up a sword as though charging in battle. “The guy sitting on that black horse looks pretty big. He must have had better nutrition, huh?” Flick said with a grin.

  “Oh, definitely,” Bella agreed. “That is Captain Lord Marcus Wharton, wearing the uniform of the Prince of Wales’s own 10th Royal Hussars. Lord Marcus was the younger brother of Alistair Wharton, the sixth Duke of Blackthorne.”

  “He looks brave,” Flick said as she eyed the painting.

  “Captain Lord Marcus was a war hero,” Bella said. “He looks very handsome here, but he was wounded—half of his face was badly scarred and his hand was injured—during the Battle of Waterloo. He hid himself away in the north wing of the Abbey and never let anyone see him, so the village folk began to call him the Beast. But a beautiful woman fell in love with him, scars and all. They were married and lived happily ever after.”

  “Just like in the fairy tale,” Flick said, clapping her hands. “‘Beauty and the Beast.’ I wish I’d known him. I wouldn’t have been scared.” She stepped up to the next painting, which featured a beautiful, dark-haired girl in an empire-waisted gown, a fashion which Kristin knew had been worn in the Regency era at the beginning of the 19th century.

  One of the two children in the painting stood before an easel. She was painting an identical child who was sitting in a chair under an oak tree. An English spaniel lay near the seated child.

  “That’s cool,” Flick said. “A painting of a girl painting herself. Who is she?”

  “Twins run in the Blackthorne family,” Bella said. “That’s Lady Rebecca Wharton painting her elder twin sister, Lady Regina.”

  “Her Grace has a twin, as well,” Emily said. “Her younger sister, Lady Alicia.”

  Kristin saw the sharp glance Bella shot her assistant. This was the first Kristin had heard about Bella having a twin sister. In all their talks, Max had never mentioned an Aunt Alicia. Was the twin sister supposed to be a secret? She wondered if Bella’s twin was still alive, and if so, where she was.

  Flick asked the questions for her. “Does your twin look like you, Gram? Can I meet her?”

  “Yes, we’re identical,” Bella confirmed. “I’m afraid you can’t meet Alicia. My sister left Blackthorne Abbey, oh, I don’t know how many years ago.”

  “Where is she now?” Flick asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Flick turned to Kristin and said, “Mom, you know how to do searches on the internet. Maybe we can help Gram find her sister.”

  Kristin glanced at the duchess and saw a brief, panicked look cross her face. Kristin looked to Emily for guidance.

  The duchess’s assistant said, “I’ve tried to find Alicia myself through the internet, but I haven’t had any luck.”

  “You have?” Bella said, obviously surprised. “I didn’t know that, Emily.”

  “I thought you might want to see her before—” She stopped herself and finished, “I thought you might want to find out how she’s doing.”

  Bella didn’t look happy with the prospect of seeing her younger sister anytime soon. Kristin thought there must be a story there. But she wasn’t going to stay around to dig it out. She needed to get settled in her hotel, which was a long train ride north of the Abbey in London.

  Kristin put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and said, “The last train to London is leaving soon. I have to go, Flick.”

  “I can arrange a car for you tomorrow morning if you’d like to spend the night,” Bella offered.

  “No, thank you,” Kristin said. She didn’t want to be any more indebted to the duchess than she already was.

  “At least come upstairs and see where Flick will be staying,” the duchess said.

  Kristin glanced at her watch. “All right. But I can’t stay long.”

  “Lead the way, Emily,” Bella said.

  Kristin watched Emily hesitate until Bella shooed her forward. The young woman took Flick’s hand and said, “Come on, Flick. Let’s go see your room.”

  “You mean my dad’s room,” Flick said. “Are there pictures of him there?”

  Emily glanced at Kristin for guidance.

  Kristin agonized for a moment before nodding.

  Emily looked down at Flick and said, “Yes, I think there are a few pictures of your father.”

  Flick had already asked Kristin for a picture of Max, but she’d denied having one. Flick had tried to find a picture of him on the internet but in the very few pictures of him she found, his head was turned sideways, or the ball cap he wore playing tennis hid most of his face. It would have been odd if she hadn’t wanted to know what her father looked like.

  Flick pulled free of Emily’s hand
and ran up the stairs. Emily hurried after her. Kristin stayed with Bella, who climbed the narrow stone stairs more slowly, but steadily.

  “Have you seen Max since you arrived in London?” Bella asked.

  “I’m supposed to meet him at Wimbledon tomorrow morning,” Kristin replied. By the time they traversed the upstairs hall to Max’s childhood bedroom, Flick had already found a photograph of her father and was holding it in her hands.

  The room was surprisingly tiny. It had a child’s single bed along one wall and a desk along another. The drapes had been pulled back from tall windows to let in the afternoon sun, which had warmed the room. A chest sat at the foot of the bed. Flick had apparently already opened it to reveal tin soldiers and other boyhood toys. Emily was sitting in the chair at the adult-size desk.

  Obviously, Max hadn’t stayed in this room since he was a very young boy. So where did he sleep when he came to visit his mother? The answer Kristin came up with startled her. Most likely, Max hadn’t stayed in his mother’s home since he was a young boy. He’d been away at school. Or in hotels around the world, when he’d traveled on the road playing tennis. Kristin knew from her time with Max on the tour, that he’d bought a house in London where he lived when he wasn’t on the road.

  “Look, Mom,” Flick said reverently as she held out a framed photograph and pointed to one face among many in what appeared to be a family portrait. “Emily says that boy is my dad.” She pointed to a young boy pictured with his family around a beautifully decorated Christmas tree.

  In the photo, Bella was holding an adorable baby girl on her lap. Max stood beside his mother holding an adult size tennis racquet that dwarfed him. Bull stood with one hand on Bella’s shoulder and the other hand on Max’s shoulder. The tallest—oldest?—boy was standing beside an English racing bike. In front of him sat a grinning boy holding up a book about dinosaurs. A fourth boy sat cross-legged next to him, with a model sailboat in his lap.

  “Max loved playing tennis,” Bella mused. “We had a tennis court built on the grounds so he could practice.”

  Kristin wondered how much time Max had ever spent on it.