by Ava Stone
“And what would ghost children need with jewelry, weapons and clothing from the living world?”
Sidney shrugged his broad shoulders. “I wish I knew. But it is just a theory.”
“And you think my diary could be there?”
“I do.”
“And this isn’t just a ploy to get me into a dark room alone?” Tilly’s cheeks flamed, shocked at her own boldness, as a sly grin came to Sidney’s lips. Blast it all, what was the matter with her?
“I have to admit,” he drawled. “It is rather convenient.”
“You are shameful.”
“Would you like me to stop?”
Tilly’s heart halted mid-beat. Would it be wanton of her to say no? Of course it would be. But did she care? “No,” she said at last.
Sidney smiled and stood to his feet. “Come with me.”
Quent had been in better moods. Usually, in fact, he was in a better mood than he currently found himself. But there was nothing for it. He hadn’t seen Thorn or Garrick all day. His sisters were now at Braewood under the watchful eyes of Braden and Callie. And Lila Southward was avoiding him, wherever she was. All things considered it had been a bloody awful day.
But beyond all of that, Marisdùn didn’t feel quite right. Not that there was a right way or a wrong way for a haunted castle to feel, but it didn’t feel like Marisdùn. The air felt heavier, thicker to breathe. Things looked darker than they usually did as though he was looking at the world through slightly tinted spectacles. But mostly it was…quiet. Marisdùn was never quiet. The castle was so infested with spirits, there was always some noise, some sound, some…something.
But not today.
Was it just his awful mood that had cast a pall over everything? Probably. Not that Quent had any ideas about how to change that.
A shadow moved suddenly from the corner of his chambers and disappeared right into the stone wall on the other side of his four-poster. A shiver went through him. And that awful odor was back, the one they’d first encountered in the priest hole, but now it was filling his set of rooms. Bloody wonderful.
Quent heaved a sigh as he noticed a flash of gold on the table by his changing room. The Roman ring? How the devil did it get in here? The blacksmith, Caldwell, was supposed to be polishing all of the treasure found last night so they could have a better idea about what all they’d discovered. He snatched the ring up with his hand and frowned. Not polished. So why the devil was it here?
He strode right into the corridor. “Mrs. Small!” he bellowed.
But there was no answer.
“Mrs. Small?” he continued, making his way from the family wing to the spiral stone staircase at the far end of the corridor.
Where was the damned woman? Quent blew out a frustrated breath and stalked down the steps coming out into the billiards room on the first level. At least it didn’t smell like death in there.
He started from the room and ran right into the housekeeper in the middle of the corridor. “There you are,” he said.
“Were you looking for me, my lord?”
“Mmm.” Quent nodded and lifted the gold ring out to her. “I thought Caldwell was polishing all of the jewelry.”
“So did I.” She frowned, plucking the ring from Quent. “I’ll take it right to him, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Quent began as she bustled away from him. “And…”
“Yes?” She turned back around.
“My chambers have a terrible odor about them. Can you please do something? I’ll never be able to sleep there tonight otherwise.”
The portly housekeeper nodded quickly. “Yes, of course, I’ll have Sarah see to it right away.”
“Thank you,” he said again not feeling like himself in the least. Perhaps a ride would rejuvenate his spirits. “Think I’ll head into Ravenglass.”
“Very well, my lord.”
As soon as Quent stepped outside Marisdùn, the air was fresher and he was able to breathe deeply again. He hadn’t truly realized how suffocating it had been in the castle until he left. How very odd. It was not like that at all last year. What had happened? What was different? He started for the stables, asked the lad attending the place for Falacer to be saddled and then glanced back up at the castle that was his.
There had to be something that could be done about the air inside the place. Perhaps they could keep all the windows open throughout the day. Perhaps a fresh scrubbing from room to room. Perhaps…
“Milord,” the stable boy interrupted Quent’s thoughts, leading his beautiful Anglo-Arabian from the stables. “He is ready.”
And he was a gorgeous animal. A gorgeous, strong animal that really should sire a team that would do much better on the circuit than the one this year had done. Quent smoothed a hand over Falacer’s neck. “Let’s go for a real ride, boy. What do you think?”
Quent pushed up into the saddle, tipped his hat at the stable boy and urged his favorite stallion forward. They took it slow at first, until after they’d made it past the ancient battlements. But once they were along the road to Ravenglass, and the sun was shining and it was beautiful, Quent pushed Falacer faster. The wind raced through his hair and he felt alive. He leaned forward, nearly hugging himself to the stallion’s neck.
And then, up ahead, he spotted a girl walking along the side of the road. Dear God…
Lila Southward, with her dark hair around her shoulders, just like when they first met. Only this time there was no Callie, no Garrick, no Thorn anywhere in the vicinity. And this time he wasn’t about to let Falacer throw a rock and hit her in the head. No, no, no. This time would be different on all fronts.
“Whoa,” he whispered to his horse, pulling back on the reins and slowing them to a nice leisurely walk. She was so lovely, he could just watch for hours on end and never tire of her beauty.
Miss Southward must have heard them approach. She looked over her should and…
Dear God!
The most frightening, ghoulish face Quent had ever seen in his life looked back at him. Red, glowing eyes set in a face of rotting skin. Equally spooked, Falacer reeled up on his hind legs, knocking Quent from his back before he bolted away.
Quent let out a yell of surprise as he fell backwards onto the ground, hitting his head on a rather large rock. The edges of his vision turned dark and the last thing he saw before blackness took him was that ghoulish face with red eyes right over top of him.
Anna didn’t get a wink of sleep the entire night. How could she be so forward? What must Mr. David Thorn think of her?
Oh, it had been ill-advised to even remain on the beach with him without a chaperone, and then to blurt out her deepest desires of sculpting the male form.
He must think her terribly wicked. And all she could think about was wanting him to remove his shirt so that she could study his body, commit it to memory so that she might replicate it in clay one day.
“Is there not something you should be doing?” her Uncle Walter barked, coming into this sitting room where she’d been pacing.
Anna nearly jumped at his voice, so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t heard him approach. “Is there something you need?”
“For you to find something to do that doesn’t disturb me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I was being quiet.”
“Hardly! Muttering under your breath, going from room to room, not able to sit down. I cannot work on my sermon with you flitting about this way and I have to get some work done before heading into town for the Dorcas Society.” He paused to look around the room. “Where are my daughters, by the way?”
“Lila has gone to visit Callie at Braewood, I believe.”
“That husband of hers is back too, I assume.”
Uncle Walter did not like Lord Bradenham, his brother, or any of their friends, and hadn’t since the moment they arrived last year. “Um, yes.”
“And Matilda, where is she?”
“She’s gone to visit the Pugmire sisters.”
“Two days
in a row?”
Anna simply shrugged. She couldn’t explain it either. Lily and Tilly had visited yesterday and both dreaded the days they were required to call upon them. Though Anna didn’t know for certain, she suspected Tilly wasn’t with the Pugmire sisters at all, but visiting with a certain gentleman who had her diary. Not that she’d tell her uncle, of course.
“Isn’t there someone you can visit?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say Brighid, but she knew better. Her uncle strongly disapproved of her dearest friend. It had been her intention to visit Brighid earlier, but Anna was afraid Mr. Thorn might still be there, visiting Mr. Chetwey, and he was the last person she could see right now. Plus, the path took her by the castle and she feared seeing him there, if he wasn’t at Torrington.
As much as she wished to gaze upon Mr. Thorn once again, she was still too humiliated by her actions and conversation of yesterday to come face to face with him just yet. She would eventually, of course. She only prayed she wouldn’t die from mortification when that time came.
“I’ll see if Cook needs something from the market,” Anna answered before bolting from the room. It really didn’t matter where she went as long as she was gone. At least as far as Uncle Walter was concerned. And she didn’t want to be around him any more than necessary.
“Cook, is there anything I can get for you? I’d be happy to do any shopping you might need,” Anna said upon entering the kitchen.
“That’s kind of you, Miss Anna, but I went to the market this morning.”
Blast! Now what was she to do?
She could always sketch something, she supposed. Though in truth, for the first time in her life, she wasn’t at all interested. But she had to get out of the house. Her uncle wanted her gone and she certainly didn’t want to anger him further. As quietly as she could, Anna returned to her room, stuffed her sketchpad and pencils into her satchel, and left the house.
She wandered the fields and then forest, not finding anything of interest. After viewing Mr. Thorn in his wet shirt, how could a bird possibly hold her interest any longer?
There were the gardens at Marisdùn, but she didn’t dare go there and risk an encounter with Mr. Thorn.
What she needed was a visit with Brighid. Her friend always had the best advice. She just hoped Mr. Thorn was no longer there.
With that thought in mind, Anna began her trek across the fields to avoid the road. She held her breath as she stepped on to the road near Marisdùn Castle, All she needed was to cross the road a once she neared the walls to the castle and duck onto the wooden path leading to Torrington Abbey, which she hoped to do without encountering anyone. Especially Thorn. She’d taken only one step when a black horse came out of nowhere, nearly knocking her to the ground. Anna turned and was about to call to the rider to watch out, especially after the way Lila had been struck last year, when she realized it was riderless.
“Oh dear!” Scanning the road behind her, she hurried back toward Ravenglass, afraid of what she might find. And then she saw it, a strange black mist, hovering over a body. Anna grasped her throat as a scream lodged inside, her feet keeping her from moving forward.
A chill ran up her spine and terror filled her entire being as the shadow shifted and then vanished. Despite her fear, and trembling legs, Anna forced herself forward until she arrived at the man’s side.
“Lord Quentin?” she cried as she dropped to her knees. “You must wake. You must.” She tapped his cheeks, but he didn’t stir. Oh, why didn’t she carry smelling salts liked she’d been told on numerous times to do so by the well-meaning widows who came to call at the vicarage?
“Lord Quentin! Wake up!” Anna shrieked, hoping for a reaction, but he didn’t stir.
She glanced around, very much alone on this stretch of the road, and tried not to panic.
Once again, she tapped his face, with a little more force this time and when that didn’t work, she attempted to lift his head. A warm, damp and sticky substance slid across her fingers and hand. Anna yanked it back, careful to not let his head hit the road. Her hand was covered in blood. “Oh, no.”
Standing, she glanced about, praying someone, anyone, would come by. She couldn’t just leave him here, but she couldn’t very well drag him back to the castle either.
In one direction lay Ravenglass, but they were currently without a doctor. Whitbeck was the closest village with a doctor, but it was quite far away. Torrington Abbey was much closer, and Brighid would know what to do. She could heal nearly anyone. “Yes, that was it.” She needed to get Brighid.
Anna leaned down. “I’ll be quick and be back with help shortly, Lord Quentin. I promise.”
She was fairly certain he could not hear her but wanted him to know that she wasn’t abandoning him, just in case.
Anna had never run so fast in her life, weaving her way through the worn, wooden path between Torrington Abbey and Marisdùn. She didn’t even stop to knock on the front door to be admitted, but burst inside and immediately began calling for Brighid.
“What on earth?” her friend asked, appearing in the doorway of the sitting room.
All hope crumbled upon seeing her friend. How could she forget that Brighid was due to deliver any day? She couldn’t possibly go traipsing back to Lord Quentin. Even if she did, Mr. Chetwey would have Anna’s head.
“Nothing, never mind,” she managed to squeak out before turning back for the door.
“Stop!” Brighid cried. “What did you do to your hand?”
Anna glanced down. She hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t her blood. “Nothing.”
“Let me see.” Brighid held out her hands and Anna knew she would insist on examining her non-existent injury.
“It’s not mine,” Anna blurted out. “I must go.”
“Whose is it?” Brighid demanded.
There was no hope for it, and Anna quickly explained. “You can’t leave and I have to get help.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t.”
“I most certainly will.”
When Brighid was in this state, it did little good to argue with her. Anna could only pray that Mr. Chetwey didn’t find out before Anna had a chance to leave the county. Perhaps a county wasn’t far enough. The Continent was certainly safer once Brighid’s husband learned what she’d done.
Despite her condition, Brighid moved quickly from the house, stopping only long enough to retrieve a leather case and tell a servant to have a carriage prepared and sent on the road to Ravenglass, where they would find her before she hurried toward the wooden path Anna had just run down.
“Shouldn’t you take a carriage?”
“That will take too long. It will catch up to us, but I’ll be able to assess Lord Quentin before it arrives.
Anna wasn’t about to argue with her friend, since she wouldn’t listen anyway. She followed Brighid as she quickly navigated the path to castle and then onto the road into town, praying her friend didn’t trip or fall, or worse, begin having pains that would lead to the birth of her child. Chetwey would certainly kill her then.
Anna’s heart ceased when she spotted Lord Quentin. He hadn’t moved the entire time she’d been gone. This could not be good. Not at all.
Brighid knelt beside him and tapped his face, much like Anna had done earlier.
“Where did the blood come from?” She asked while studying his body for injury.
“The back of his head.”
“He’s still breathing, at least,” Brighid said. “Though, his skin is like ice. I do not like it.”
She lifted his lids to look at his eyes and frowned. “He is quite unconscious.” Brighid then gently turned his head, revealing a bloody gash at the back. Anna’s stomach churned as Brighid lowered his head to the ground again. “We need to wake him. The longer Lord Quentin is unconscious the more dangerous it is.” Brighid opened her leather case, filled with vials, bottles and other supplies, and began searching for something.
A moment la
ter, the carriage from Torrington arrived, sliding sideways on the gravel. Anna held her breath for fear the three of them would be struck.
Brighid grinned up at the driver. “That didn’t take nearly as long as it usually does.”
One who is gracious to a poor man lends to the Lord, and He will repay him for his good deed. Proverbs 19:17
Lila adored the Dorcas Society, she always had. The charity had been founded by her mother nearly two decades earlier, as a young vicar’s wife who was new to the district. Lila had grown up, sitting at her mother’s knee and watching scraps of muslin, cotton or wool fabric be transformed into clothing of some sort or another for the poor and underprivileged of Ravenglass and Torrington. Mama had been a master seamstress and though Lila wasn’t quite as talented as her late-mother, she was still proficient with a needle and thread. However, she’d learned at an early age that she was even better at organizing the locals. Everyone, she supposed, had their own strengths. Even though Mama had been gone seven years, the Dorcas Society that she’d loved so dearly was still going strong under Lila’s watchful eye.
While the majority of the local women were happy to contribute to the charity, more was always accomplished when the society had a social aspect to it. Therefore, the women of the charity met weekly for an hour or two at the local assembly room where they stitched, chatted and shared supplies amongst themselves.
In all the years that Mama had run the society, Papa had never once stepped foot inside the circle of the charity. But after she was gone, he’d taken much more of an interest, showing up from time to time and sharing his thoughts with the participants. Lila could usually do without Papa’s thoughts, but she was never in the position to say so. She wasn’t certain if the society simply reminded him of Mama and finding a way to be involved was a way to keep her memory alive in his heart or if it was just one more thing for him to control.
“You shouldn’t distract Mrs. Atkinson when she is stitching, Lila,” Papa began as they walked back towards the vicarage. “She would have finished that smock if you hadn’t kept her from it.”
