Keepers of Eternity

by kimberly

  "Is aithne dhomh," he said. Then, realizing he had lapsed back to his native tongue, he repeated in English, "I know, lass."

  "Why?"

  "You are so much like Cassandra," he announced unexpectedly. "Creoi-wannalagh. Stubborn, impenitent wench, she was."

  "Am I?" Julienne thought she caught contrition in his words. In that brief second she felt sure that he and her mother had been passionately involved.

  "Indeed, you are her very image." He glanced away, as if wanting to banish Cassandra's memory from his mind.

  "Can I ask you something, Morgan?" It was the first time she'd dared to use his name in a familiar way. "Did you…did you love my mother?"

  "I can only tell you to remember how she felt about me," he answered cautiously.

  Julienne's skin grew warm. His reply brought a hitch to her throat.

  "She hated you." Her eyes dropped to her lap when she spoke. For the first time, she noticed she was still holding his wallet. She offered it back to him without a word.

  "I know." He tucked the wallet neatly back into his coat pocket.

  She swallowed, trying to hide her disconcertment. "Why?" Again, that question.

  He leveled his unflinching gaze at her. "Because I am every bit the bastard I am sure Cassandra told you I was," he answered. "Here, however, is not the place to go into the past."

  "But you will tell me why she, we, left here?"

  "Absolutely, caile--but today is not that day. When I am ready, Julienne, I shall tell you what happened."

  "Everything?"

  The facts that had emerged thus far seemed curiously skewed. Just why and how, she had yet to put her finger on. Information was what she needed. Answers. He had them. She wanted them. She'd have to keep digging, keep asking questions. That would be the only way to discover the truth. She realized she must take care when making her queries. Too much too fast and he would withdraw behind his wall of indifference and detachment. Based on his earlier dialogue and reactions, she determined that Morgan Saint-Evanston had built a solid defense around his emotions. His very essence was smoke, mirrors and illusions. One could only see what he wanted one to see, learn only what he wanted to reveal.

  How to deal with him, a man so rigid in his habits that he didn't even speak in contractions? A very difficult question. She turned the day's latest dilemma over in her mind, examining it from every angle, dissecting, poking, and probing the new problem in her life that came in the very appealing form of this Irishman.

  An unbidden smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Pleased with herself, she lifted her hand and absently smoothed the rosy gloss on her lips with the tip of her pinkie. She was beginning to carefully recount and stack her mental chips for the next round. The answer was a simple one.

  Learn to play his game…

  If she had to live at Blackthorne Manor, why let him have the upper hand? There was a way to lead a man by the nose; and, as a woman who'd lived the chameleon's life, she was an expert. She was used to projecting the image people wanted and expected of her. It was easy to do. She'd simply learn his disposition and adapt as needed. She had the suspicion that a lot of people were forced to modify their behavior around him. Like the willow, she would learn to bend when the storms of his moods struck.

  Storms of his moods? Her brow crinkled in self-recrimination. Hell, what about her own? She hadn't exactly been the most pleasant person to be around these last months.

  She needed--what was it he'd said earlier--an attitude adjustment. Jesus, she needed a whole new life transplant. Time to change the mantra. I've got to be a little more open with people myself, if I expect them to be the same. She was trying to think of something more snazzy than "Do unto others" when his reply derailed her train of thought.

  "Aye. Before I leave here, you shall know the entire story."

  "You're leaving?" Her mental trolley suddenly derailed, she pressed her lips in a tight frown. His statement caught her totally off-guard. She didn't know why, but his unexpected words dismayed her. How long had he been planning his departure? Did his leaving hinge upon her arrival? Play cool. Keep your cards down and bluff out your hand.

  "When the time presents itself," he affirmed, "I shall move elsewhere."

  "When will you be going?"

  "October."

  Julienne surreptitiously counted off the days remaining in the month. The first of October was only three weeks away. "Where will that leave me?"

  "Anywhere you want to be," he replied offhandedly.

  "Why are you leaving?"

  "I have other interests to manage that will require my attention." He flagged a hand to indicate outside of the car. "This is your inheritance. Once I depart, ownership of this place will pass to you as the last surviving blood member of this family."

  "Last surviving member?" His words had made no mention of a spouse. Or children. She glanced to his left hand. His finger was bare. He wore no ring. She wondered if he had ever been wed or if, at his age, he was a confirmed bachelor.

  I can play these stupid games in my mind all day, she remonstrated with herself. Until I know the truth, they mean nothing.

  His voice brought her back to the subject at hand.

  "Anlese is an old woman now, unable to manage the needs of a large estate such as this by herself," he explained. "It was why we decided you should return to claim your legacy. Everything you see around you and before you is your heritage."

  "Is my grandmother unwell?"

  "She has slowed down these last few years." He did not give specific details. "She is still fairly active for her age, as much as one can be. You will find her to be no bother."

  "I look forward to getting to know her again. I have so many things I want to ask her."

  "Then we should be going. Your grandmother has been waiting a long time to see you."

  "What about you?" she asked curiously, shyly. "Did you miss us?"

  "Indeed, I did," he replied in all seriousness.

  Morgan Saint-Evanston reached out and tapped the glass between the front and back seats, signaling Tobias to proceed. The Rolls maneuvered down the lamp‑lined gravel driveway, then pulled to a halt at the front entrance of Blackthorne Manor.

  Julienne had come home. The old adage was that one could never go home again. Did she, indeed, belong here, or had she made a grave mistake?

  Chapter Six

  The large front door opened as if on cue. A team of servants emerged from the house. Men came from the gardens, straggled over to have their look, then joined the receiving line, waiting to be introduced to the new mistress. Under such close scrutiny, Julienne trembled.

  Tobias came around the car, opened the rear door and gave a courtly bow. Taking his outstretched hand, grateful to have his support, she leaned heavily against his arm as she stood, allowing him to lead her toward the servants. She glanced back when Morgan climbed out of the car. His sunglasses were in place, and she noticed he grimaced, as if the bright sunlight bothered him even through the dark lenses. He did not look at her as he made the expected introductions.

  "Julienne," he began formally, nodding toward a young black woman dressed in a yellow dress. "This is Tobias' wife Melissa. She directs the house servants. Tobias is manager of the overall estate. He keeps it running day to day."

  Julienne nodded, wondering what she should say. She decided it was better to remain silent.

  Morgan proceeded to the next people in line. "These two are the Losch family. Repair and kitchen, respectively."

  A second generation German Jew, Georges Losch quickly snatched off his straw hat, revealing a pate lined by thin strands of sandy hair. He shifted from foot to foot and shoved his hands nervously into the deep pockets of his coveralls. Heavily tanned from his hours in the sun, his skin was leathery and his hands were callused from hard work.

  "It's a pleasure to have you here, fräulein," he said softly. Herr Losch's smile was warm and tender. He started to offer a handshake then withdrew it because of the grime im
bedded in his skin and under his fingernails. "I also work the gardens," he explained.

  Julienne offered a hesitant smile. "Thank you, Mr. Losch. The grounds are absolutely lovely. You have a true gardener's green thumb."

  Georges Losch's smile filled his face. He reached for the arm of the woman standing next to him. "This is Gretl, my wife. She will cook good for you."

  Indeed, it looked as if Gretl heartily enjoyed her own cuisine. Short like that of her husband, her body was soft and doughy. A scarf covered most of her golden curls. She had a kind face, with sage-blue eyes and red cheeks. "Welcome, ma'am." She curtsied, as if in the presence of royalty; her accent was not as pronounced as her husband's. "We're glad you decided to come."

  "I'm glad to be home." Julienne looked askance at Morgan.

  Anxious to escape the stark illumination of the sultry Southern day, Saint-Evanston sped up the introductions. There were twelve servants in all, including the Losch's two daughters and one son, who lived on the grounds and worked with them to keep the plantation running smoothly. The rest of the staff was employed part‑time.

  "There is one more to be met," sang an elegant voice tinged with the slow molasses quality of a deep Southern accent.

  Julienne tensed when a silver-haired woman stepped onto the verandah. Her skin was pale, her face wrinkled with age. She was tiny and fragile-looking. Most stunning were her eyes, a sparkling crystal blue that spoke of an inherent compassion and of the wisdom earned through years. Leaning heavily on a cane, she navigated the five wide steps, lifting with her free hand the long skirts of the elegant day gown she wore.

  Joining the group, she said, "If I know Morgan, he failed to offer the proper greeting, dear girl. I'm Anlese, your grandmother. Welcome home, granddaughter."

  "Why, th-thank you," Julienne stammered, taken aback by the heartfelt warmth of the woman's words.

  "It's about time we got you home." Anlese offered a wide grin, as gleeful as a cat that'd just finished a bowl of cream and was licking his chops. "I despaired of ever seeing you again in my lifetime."

  Julienne gingerly clasped her grandmother's hand, afraid she would crush the delicate bones. She needn't have worried, for Anlese's grip was firm. Although her fingers were somewhat gnarled with arthritis, her nails were professionally manicured and painted with a pale pink polish. Her lightly powdered skin was dry and scented with vanilla. Just like her letters, Julienne thought.

  "Are you planning to keep us out in the sun all day, Anlese?" Saint-Evanston groused. "This glaring light is unacceptable."

  Anlese laughed, a vivacious sound of merriment, a relieving contrast to Morgan's austere seriousness. "I know you wish the sky would turn forever dark." She leaned closer to Julienne. "He hates the sun," she whispered. "Haunts the night. A regular wolf."

  "I have no doubt he barks at the moon," Julienne said, smiling.

  "Something close to it," Anlese agreed delightedly.

  "Really," Morgan prodded, "these introductions have gone on too long. Please proceed, Anlese." He snapped his fingers and indicated to the staff that it was time to get back to work.

  "Goll er oaie," he ordered. "I do not pay you people to stand around." Brisk words of Gaelic were interspersed with enough English for people to understand the gist of his wishes. It was absolutely clear that he expected instant obedience from his employees. As the servants hurried back to their jobs, the Losch's son Erich hurried to the task of retrieving Julienne's luggage, catching the keys Tobias tossed to him.

  Anlese acceded graciously to Morgan temperamental mood. "I'm glad you have come home. We will take care of you here. Now, let Morgan help you settle into your rooms. I'll be up later with a fine cup of tea, and then we will talk. We have a lot of years to catch up on, dear."

  "Thank you," said Julienne.

  "Help her." Morgan gestured to Tobias, who offered Anlese his free arm.

  "Thank you, Tobias," Anlese was heard to say as the young man helped her up the steps.

  "Shall we go in?" Morgan quickly ascended the steps. "Goaill toshiaght er dy seyr." He motioned impatiently when she hesitated. "Enter freely, lass," he translated. "You are home now."

  Julienne slowly walked up the stone steps. He allowed her to go in first. Taking a fortifying breath, she passed over the threshold and into the house she had been taken from as a child over twenty years ago. Would she remember any details of living within these walls?

  Apprehension and the twinges of animosity returned when she entered the foyer. Sheer grandeur surrounded her, so majestic her heart leapt at the marvel of the stunning architecture. Her high heels echoed on the white marble floor. Jaw dropping and eyes wide, she paused to better take in the rocaille ceilings that overlooked arched alcoves and beautifully paneled walls. High windows had narrow panes of champagne-colored glass, nine to the sash, eighteen to the window, flooding the foyer with a soothing, complimentary illumination.

  In plan and structure, the manor possessed severe austerity. Everything was white: floor, walls and ceiling; the plush cushions on carefully placed antique chairs; the magnolia blossoms in their cut-crystal vase on the clear glass table. Even the grandfather clock was fashioned exquisitely from bleached wood. All white, or nearly white. Fabulous paintings hung on the walls, but none depicted the current generation of Blackthornes.

  The foyer was a meticulously arranged showplace, beautiful, yet devoid of spirit. Elegant, cold, like an illustration bearing the warning that you can look but not touch. It was a place to exist in, not to live in, hardly a home but, rather, a shrine.

  Intimidated by its frigid perfection, Julienne shivered and instinctively rubbed her hands over her arms to still the rising goose bumps on her skin. The foyer was cold, an icy breeze echoing the wintry decor. She was sure she could feel something else in the room, some presence feasting off her growing sense of unease. She had the unsettling impression of being weighed down. She frowned, puzzled by her feelings.

  Unexpectedly, a sensation of dizziness washed over her. She felt…what? Disoriented? No. Not disoriented, distorted, as if she had passed through an invisible barrier. Everything around her seemed to grind to a halt. Motionless and silent, her sense of perception became muted. Dread cloaked her, an oppressive mantle wrapping its long arms tight, smothering and then consuming her.

  A shadowy movement caught the corner of her eye. Stiffening, she turned in time to see something fall. It landed hard, emitting a plopping sound. Her gaze found and focused on the small round drop, startlingly red against the white marble.

  What the hell? Paint? There wasn't a sign of red in the entire foyer.

  As she gaped at the perfect little bead, another joined it, and then a third. Drip…drip…drip… A hail of droplets began to rain down, each hitting louder and harder than the last. One by one, they pelted the floor, spreading a pool of crimson across the virgin white marble. Growing in depth and dimension, the puddle began to advance. Shimmering in the light, it spread until it touched the tip of her left shoe.

  Surely it couldn't be…blood?

  "Oh, God!" She retreated to avoid the gore. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed both hands to her face, shocked by the clamminess of her skin. A headache was building behind her eyes, the pain dulling her ability to think straight. Her knees wobbled weakly.

  "You are unwell?" Morgan's voice broke through her haze.

  She glanced through her meshed fingers to find him standing beside her, his hand just inches from touching her shoulder, his expression of concern conflicting with his attempts to remain indifferent to her distress. Her eyes darted to the floor. Sparkling white marble. Pristine. There was no blood. The floor was clean. Nothing was out of place in the foyer.

  The grandfather clock began to chime, striking the hour. Four p.m. Only ten minutes had passed since she entered the manor? Julienne felt as though she'd been trapped for hours in the flux that had overtaken her mind. In reality, only mere seconds had passed her by.

  What the hell just happened? Her min
d spun in confusion, searching for a reasonable explanation for what she'd seen. Had it been a trick of the light? Had she taken one more step toward insanity?

  I didn't imagine it, she tried to reassure herself. I saw something.

  "I'm fine." She lowered her hands. It wouldn't do to tell him about the blood, the strange loss of time. He would think she was hallucinating. After all, she was fresh out of rehab. How could he not be suspicious that she might lapse back into addiction? She was consciously aware she would have to prove herself cured. Cured, she reminded herself, means not suffering mind-bending fantasies.

  Morgan reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a clean handkerchief. "I do not think so, lass." His voice was oddly gentle as he offered it to her.

  Feeling a sensation of wet on her upper lip, she pressed her fingers under her nose. When she drew her hand away, she could see blood staining the tips. A whimper of dismay escaped her throat. Her nose was bleeding and she hadn't even been aware of it. Her face grew red, the heat of embarrassment creeping up her neck and flushing her skin. She gratefully took his handkerchief to staunch the trickle.

  "If you feel the need for medical attention, a physician can be summoned."

  "No." She daubed delicately at her nose, glad the blood wasn't gushing. Just a bit, nothing to panic over. Must have been the change in air pressure from the flight. "I just need a little rest. Today's been hard on me."

  "No doubt."

  She folded up the handkerchief so the bloodstain would not show, too embarrassed to offer it back to him. She had the impression that he wished to speak further but would wait for another time to pursue it. "Would you mind showing me to my room? I'm really tired."

  "Of course." With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he gestured toward the staircase. "Your rooms are on the second floor. This way."

  As they began to ascend to the second level, Morgan Saint-Evanston said, "I have decided you are to have Cassandra's suite. The rooms have been empty a long time. The suite is away from the main traffic of the house, so you will be less disturbed."