Sunshine dimmed behind the gathering clouds. Only a few rays slanted through. These shafts disappeared and all was shadowed. Thunder rumbled, clapping more loudly with each burst, and the sky blackened. Rain spatters struck the window, lightly at first, then harder as the torrent descended. Lulled by the drumming on the roof, she dozed.
When Julia awoke again, she found the attic gray with dusky light and a can of orange soda and greasy bologna sandwich lying beside her on a paper napkin. Paul must have snuck in to bring her food. Her heart nearly stopped. Was he holding her prisoner indefinitely?
Parched, she opened the now tepid drink and swallowed. It was pointless not to keep up her strength. She ate the unappetizing sandwich smashed between layers of white bread. Who knew how long she’d be up here? Forever, if Will didn’t search harder, or at all. Had he even missed her yet?
Charlotte had to have noted her absence. Then Julia realized with a sinking feeling right next to the lump of undigested sandwich that Charlotte might assume she’d taken the afternoon off to recover from her upset and was resting in her apartment. The sympathetic woman might even have passed this news onto Will. Julia could be here all night. It would rapidly get very dark.
Battling near panic, she took deep breaths. One comforting thought, Nora Wentworth would definitely miss her at rehearsal.
Still, the minutes ticked by.
Where was Will?
Resentful that he hadn’t scoured every inch of Foxleigh to find her, she slumped back onto the floor and shut her eyes to all evils. A cooler breeze blew and she covered with the coat, her security in this sea of uncertainty.
Gradually it seemed to her that she didn’t lie here alone, that Cole’s strong arms embraced her.
“Shhhh,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
She drifted in a strange state, not certain which one had uttered the soft assurance. It had to be Cole, but he sounded reassuringly like Will.
Chapter 13
Laughter and the rise and fall of refined voices floated up to Julia as she lay in the dark attic. And it seemed to her that she lifted heavenward, like a bird in flight, and swirled back through the mist into the faceted light of the great hall.
Never had it looked finer. The expansive room was illuminated in the cut-glass prisms of the magnificent chandelier. Candles glowed in the polished sconces on the walls. The burgundy and gold tones in the furnishings shone in the same way fall leaves did when autumn was almost too beautiful to bear. Beauty sometimes struck her this way, perhaps because it was often so fleeting.
A potpourri of floral and spice perfume wafted to Julia, poised in the doorway, watching the gorgeously costumed people and listening to the flow of conversation. The loud guffaws of men punctuated the tinkle of women’s laughter. How sedate and poised the ladies were.
One stunning woman in a shell pink evening dress turned toward Julia. Ostrich feathers fluttered from the chestnut curls mounded on her head and pearls roped her elegant neck. Of course, this was Cole’s mother, Lady Pembrook Wentworth. Her dark eyes mirrored his in a warm smile.
The exquisite duchess lifted her gloved hand and beckoned with a beaded fan. “Julia, darling. Come join us. We expect Cole back any moment. You know how these men are when they’re off hunting,” she said with a rippling laugh.
Julia smiled in return, honored by the regard in Lady Pembrook’s face and voice, so different from the critical inspection of Nora Wentworth. She’d bet those pearls at the duchess’s throat were the same that the regal Nora now wore, though, and their formal bearing was similar.
“I adore your hair in that style. So becoming,” Lady Pembrook said.
“Thank you.” Julia touched gloved fingertips to the curls spilling from the gathering high on her head. The style was similar to the ponytail of this morning, or was it two hundred years since then? She smoothed the flowers tucked in her hair, and glanced down at the white rosebuds nestled in her butter-yellow sash. She’d been transformed from the grimy girl in the attic.
That frightened young woman faded away. Once again, she was the highborn lady, Julia Maury. And, like Cinderella, she’d come to the ball.
Lifting her creamy skirts, she walked in satin slippers over the Persian tapestry of mauve and blue to where the duchess stood. Only, this Julia didn’t simply walk, she glided. Lessons in deportment had seen to that and endless instruction in dance. She was all elegance and as regal as a princess.
Envious glances followed her from the fashionable ladies draped in chairs or spread along the fainting couch. Others fluttered through the room like gossamer butterflies while sumptuously outfitted gentlemen buzzed among them. Their faces blurred as Julia awaited the one she cherished to her very depths.
“Miss Maury!”
She swiveled at the gruff call. There was something familiar about him, but a lady did not shout in reply at a formal function. She waited silently as the tall young man strode across the hall in gleaming black boots. She shouldn’t stare either at the approaching figure, but noted his bottle green double-breasted coat. Wide sleeves fitted his broad shoulders and the skirt of the jacket reached to the knees of light green breeches that were molded to his muscular thighs. She definitely shouldn’t notice a man’s thighs, but his were distinct.
She lifted her eyes. The thick lengths of his reddish hair were trimmed around his ears and dressed high in front and over the forehead in curls. As he drew near, she saw that the old-fashioned hair and lacy cravat at his broad neck seemed particularly out of place when the face was eerily like Lyle McChesney’s.
Halting in front of Julia, he scowled down at her. “Where have you been keeping yourself these past three days?” he asked in a decidedly Scottish brogue. “Cannot a fellow other than Wentworth be allowed the pleasure of your fair company?”
Julia nearly fainted. This was the very man said to have killed Cole, who had fled, and never been found. She wanted to strike him down at once like a venomous adder. But with what and how?
Too dazed to think, she managed a brief reply in the civil manner to which she’d been brought up. “I’m sorry you have been put out, Mr. Cameron.”
His blue eyes softened slightly. “Oh, aye. You say that now.” He laid gloved fingers on her bare arm, the heat of his unwanted hand radiating through the white fabric. “Take a turn in the garden with me, Miss Maury. It glitters like a thousand fireflies. ’Tis a rare sight.”
It wasn’t so much a request as a demand. Unless she could plot some swift demise for him, she’d rather die than honor his request. But she was a lady, not trained to fence or shoot. It smacked of cowardice to strike him over the head with a stone under the cover of darkness. At a loss, Julia shot a mute appeal at the duchess.
Lady Pembrook wagged her pink silk fan at him. “For shame, sir. We cannot allow you to steal Miss Maury off to yourself unchaperoned.”
He swept her a bow. “’Tis my fondest wish that you will honor us with your presence, my lady.”
“My guests would suffer at my absence, but I thank you, sir. Aunt Penelope might allow you a gentle stroll. Penelope, can you manage?”
An older woman in a somber jet gown and black bonnet gave a nod and rose stiffly from an armchair. A gold-headed cane in hand, she swished toward them in taffeta skirts, a bustle behind. Julia was riveted on the bent figure. The lined face, though much older than the one she knew, was undoubtedly Charlotte’s and her figure equally rounded.
The elderly lady smiled at Julia. “Come on, dearie, let’s see those lights I’ve heard so much of.” She cocked her head, bird-like at Mr. Cameron. “You may as well come too, sir,” she said with a twinkle in her pale blue eyes.
Good heavens. She even had Charlotte’s humor.
Feeling safer under her watchful gaze, Julia accepted Mr. Cameron’s despised arm. They walked a little ahead of Aunt Penelope across the long room and out the doorway into the adjoining hall. He opened the ornate front door and ushered them out onto the landing, then reclaimed Julia’s arm.
“As you wish.”
He stepped ahead of the elderly woman and led Julia along the garden path in the light of myriad lanterns suspended from the trees. “Is it not like the heavens have been brought down to us?”
Julia couldn’t have said what she expected of him, but not this. “Indeed. It’s a fairyland.”
“As if all the wee folk have gathered with their candles.”
His appreciation of beauty and whimsy weren’t traits she’d anticipated in a would-be murderer. And he seemed sincerely friendly. Likely it was an act. What else?
“’Tis a night in a thousand,” he continued.
“Far more than that,” she said, wondering how many it took to fill two centuries worth.
He firmed his grip on her, as though he mistook her meaning and attributed the yearning in her heart to himself. Raising his free hand to his chest, he struck a dramatic pose.
“‘Who is Julia? What is she, that all swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she. The heaven such grace did lend her, that she admired might be.’”
Julia was dumbstruck to hear him quote a Shakespearian sonnet, and his nerve at changing the original name of Sylvia to Julia. This man was more and more like Lyle.
Aunt Penelope came up behind them and rapped his too tight hand with her cane. “Try reciting ‘When Forty Winters besiege thy brow.’”
He lightened his hold and eyed her narrowly. “Not very apt for courtship.”
“And who gave you permission to court this young lady, Mister Cameron?”
“The passion burning in my breast.”
“Such speech is unseemly, sir,” the older woman chided.
“What of this?” he asked, and lifted his fingers to stroke Julia’s cheek. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”
She stiffened at his too familiar touch.
Applause intruded on Cameron’s bold move.
“Bravo!” Cole strode toward them in scarlet evening tails, the more resplendent of his riding coats. “Now, take your leave of Miss Maury or I shall take it for you.”
Julia’s heart caught in her throat.
“Goodness,” Aunt Penelope said.
The astute woman stepped back as Cameron released Julia and pivoted to meet Cole.
Julia looked on in horror. Would he strike Cole now?
Rather than drawing his sword, Cameron opened his mouth. “Am I not a guest in your house, sir?”
Cole walked up to the bigger man. “Until now. Guests do not paw my intended.”
Cameron gave an impatient snort. “Your family has made no such announcement regarding the lady.”
“They shall. Be off,” Cole said icily with a wave of his gloved hand. “You are no longer welcome here.”
Cameron stood his ground. “Miss Maury is not averse to my attentions.”
“Miss Maury is too well-bred to protest. I say she loathes you.”
“Oh, aye?” Cameron tossed back, patting his sword hilt. “Is that a point you care to drive home? I don’t carry this blade simply as an ornament.”
“You think I do?” Cole unsheathed his sword in a whistle of steel. He grasped Julia’s arm, pulling her back, and slicing the blade through the air so fast the wind fanned her face.
Before Cameron drew his sword, Cole had the tip of his blade pointed at the man’s throat. “Your mare is saddled and ready for your departure. Peter! Bring Sheba!”
The tread of hooves echoed above Cameron’s explosive breath. “You damnable swine! There will be a reckoning for this behavior, Captain.”
Cole kept his blade leveled at Cameron’s throat with one arm and swept his other in a gallant salute. “I remain at your service, sir. Name the time and place.”
“Not now with your steel in my gullet.”
Cole smiled in wicked challenge. “Send word when your thoughts are clearer, or accept my claim on this sweet lady and no more need be said on the matter.”
A gangly youth led a raven-colored horse up the pearly path and stopped a few paces from Cole and Cameron. “YYY—Your mare, sir,” he stammered at the incensed Scotsman.
Julia jerked her head at the young groom partially hidden beneath a cap. He angled his thin face at her and she stared into intent tawny eyes.
God in heaven. Paul.
Chapter 14
Will paced back and forth through the great hall, scouring each new arrival and turning away in mounting tension. The one he sought wasn’t here and most of the cast had dutifully assembled. “Where the devil is Julia?” he hissed to Charlotte.
A slight frown creased her normally tranquil expression. “I thought she’d have emerged from her room by now, but if it’s a nice long nap the poor girl needs then we should leave her to it.”
The hint of chiding in her demeanor only added to the remorse churning in his gut. He raked his hair back as he did when feeling anything but serene. “She can’t possibly need this much rest, and the Queen Mother will be perturbed if Julia doesn’t show up for practice.”
“True enough. I better go and check on her.”
Lyle leered at Will from where he’d perched on one of the stools Charlotte had provided for that purpose. “Ophelia gone walk about as well? Not surprising after this morning’s high drama.”
“What’s it to you?” Will asked.
The mountain of a man shrugged. “Take any of those girls skinny-dipping with you, Wentworth?”
If Grandmother Nora weren’t seated expectantly on her throne-chair, Will would’ve crammed his fist into Lyle’s jeering mouth.
The old lady tapped her infernal cane in signal to begin. She fixed them all brightly from beneath her navy pill-box hat, dressed in blue silk and the ever-present pearls. Will had thrown on jeans and a blue polo after his solitary swim.
“Let’s jump right into Act five, the scene in the graveyard where Hamlet is speaking with the gravedigger, a real jokester,” she smiled, as if everyone shared her humor. “Dave, Horatio’s in this too,” she reminded the much put upon gardener.
Will stalked to the center of the floor where Ron had been prompted to dig an imaginary hole in the imaginary earth. The quiet brick mason was an unlikely choice for the role of clowning gravedigger, but Nora pressed everyone into service whether suited or not; her only qualification being that they still drew breath. Will had to admit it was amazing the talent, or lack of it, that she’d tapped.
Shifting nervous eyes, Ron grasped his solitary prop, a shovel. He slanted a silent appeal at Will.
“Just improvise. She won’t notice,” Will whispered.
Grandmother Nora intruded on his encouragement. “Remember folks, Hamlet has just returned from England where he averted an assassination by Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, traitorous friends acting on the orders of his evil uncle. He and his true friend Horatio don’t realize Ophelia has drowned.”
The mention of death in association with the character attached so closely to Julia spurred near dread in Will. Nothing had felt right ever since he’d parted from her this morning. Brooding had solved nothing. Whatever was happening to him, he couldn’t figure it out alone.
Concealing his anxiety, he raised his hand in a greeting to Ron. “‘Ho, fellow. Whose grave is this?’”
“‘Mine sir,’” Ron answered, screwing up his face in an unsettling attempt at mirth.
Will summoned an amicable smile, though he couldn’t imagine from where. “‘Indeed, for thou liest in it. What man dost thou dig it for?’”
Ron shoveled the pretend earth. “‘For no man, sir.’”
“‘What woman, then.’”
“‘For none, neither,’” Ron grunted as if toiling hard.
Will had to give him credit for these touches. “‘Who is to be buried in it?’” he asked patiently.
Ron crossed himself with overt piety. “‘One that was a woman,
sir. But rest her soul, she’s dead.’”
“‘How absolute the knave is,’” Will said to Horatio, and then to Ron, “‘How long hast thou been gravedigger?’”
He scooped another shovel of invisible earth. “‘Since that very day young Hamlet was born. Him that was mad and sent into England.’” Ron paused, with a puzzled frown. “Doesn’t he recognize Hamlet?”
“Apparently not.” Will attacked his line to get it out of the way. “‘Ay, marry. Why was he sent into England?’”
“‘Why, because he was mad. He shall recover his wits there. Or if he do not ‘tis no great matter. ‘Twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he,’” Ron, the clown, added as though all English were balmy.
Will’s thoughts dwelt on one Brit in particular. Whether or not Julia was sane, he had to be with her, and was so distracted he scarcely heard himself speak. He came to the part where Hamlet picked up the skull, plastic in this instance. “‘Alas! Poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest.’”
Will didn’t get far into Hamlet’s discourse on the fleeting nature of life before his grandmother found it tedious. She arrived with the funeral procession made up of her queenly self and his evil uncle, alias the sweaty Douglas. The parish priest whom she’d bullied into conducting the service was also present, a bespectacled, gray-haired man in a black clerical suit and white collar.
Lyle, as Laertes, was in the group, incensed with Hamlet for his part in Ophelia’s death and not much happier with Will. Paul slouched among the extra mourners. One vital player was missing.
Grandmother Nora gestured at the empty stretcher that would be decorated with fresh flowers the night of the play. “Well, sir. We have a funeral bower and no corpse. Where is Miss Morrow?”
Will cringed to hear Julia spoken of that way. “Resting,” he said lamely.
“Now?” Nora’s silver brows lifted in marked disapproval. “She’s to be lying here drowned.”
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