by Selah March
“Well, Toby, what do you have to say for yourself?”
The boy shrugged, putting James instantly in mind of Elspeth, and thereby sealing his fate—for nothing that reminded James of Elspeth could ever be anything but marvelous.
Belkins gave the boy a none-too-subtle cuff to the head. “His lordship asked you a question.”
“I like the stables, m’lord, but I’d like ’em a mite better if the ’orses didn’t shit upon the floor.”
James laughed so long and hard that the newly healed incision in his chest gave a twinge in warning. “Yes, I imagine you would,” he said when he’d recovered. “Well, how would you like to sleep in the house?”
“In the kitchen?” Toby asked with a world-weary air, as if this were the best that could be expected.
“If you prefer, but I was considering giving you a room of your own.”
Toby glared at him, suspicion plain upon his face. “And why would you want to be doin’ that, m’lord? Yer not thinkin’ of interferin’ with me, are ye?”
This earned him a second, harder cuff to the head, but Toby did not back down.
“I’ve ’eard of that sort, ye know—ones what likes little boys a bit more than is ’ealthy.”
On the other side of the room, Colgrave snickered. James sent him a reproving glance and turned again to the boy. “Toby, I swear upon my honor that so long as you live under my roof, no harm will come to you.”
Toby’s expression didn’t change, but he seemed to relax ever so slightly. “Mr. Belkins says yer goin’ away on a journey.”
“That I am. I’m flying in an airship to a wonderful place called St. Kilda. Would you care to join me?”
Now the boy’s face brightened. “I would, sir. I would, indeed.”
“Make the arrangements, Belkins. And see to it that Toby has the proper wardrobe for travel.”
“Of course, m’lord.”
Belkins ushered the boy out, and James faced Colgrave, who regarded him with a skeptical eye. “Miss Shaw does not seem the maternal type.”
“Careful, Colgrave. There are few topics I will not allow to be broached in my home but—”
“But the shortcomings of one Elspeth Shaw are most definitely among them,” Colgrave interjected with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, I understand. Consider the topic closed.”
Chapter Eight
21 November 1899
“Colgrave sends his regards,” James said as he poured himself a second glass of claret. He glanced at Elspeth, who was watching Toby stuff a chunk of boiled mutton into his mouth. A scowl marred her customarily unreadable expression.
“Hmm,” she replied, still plainly distracted by the presence of the child. Luckily, Mrs. MacGillvrey chose that moment to make an appearance.
“Dear madam, would you be so kind as to take my small friend into the kitchen with you for the remainder of the meal? I believe he’ll be more comfortable there.” James offered the woman a smile—the one he’d practiced in the mirror since the age of thirteen—and she dissolved beneath the glow of it, just as he’d intended.
A few moments later, with all distractions removed, he faced Elspeth’s wrath unaided.
She turned on him. “Knowing what you do, why in the name of all that’s holy would you bring that boy into this house?”
James sighed. He’d hoped the success of his surgery and his continued excellent health had disabused her of her mad notions. He said as much, and watched the color drain from her face.
She set her fork on her plate and pushed her chair back from the table. “Come with me, if you please.”
He followed her, half expecting her to lead him into the library. Instead, he found himself standing in the drawing room. The grand piano in the center of the room glowed in the fading light.
“Please have a seat, my lord.”
“I thought we’d dispensed with formalities.”
“And I thought you had better sense than to endanger the life of an innocent child.”
“Toby is many things, but he’s hardly—”
“Sit down, my lord.”
“Call me James.”
It was an impasse, and he would not surrender. He waited, arms crossed over his chest, bringing to bear every ounce of autocratic arrogance he could muster.
“As you wish. Please sit down, James.”
He sat. The chair he chose was too small for him—a problem he encountered more often now, as he’d begun to gain weight and possibly, though Colgrave insisted it was an illusion, to grow in height, as well. Still, he made himself as comfortable as possible whilst Elspeth rifled through a drawer in the large secretary on the opposite wall.
“Here,” she said at long last, and dropped a faded daguerreotype into his lap. Then she retreated to stare from the window, though the view was of nothing more interesting than the twilit path leading down to the village.
He looked at the image. It was of a young man dressed in the uniform of a soldier. A sudden and wholly unexpected jolt of white-hot jealousy shot through James, and he gripped the daguerreotype with enough force to crease its corner.
“Am I to understand this is a beau of yours?”
“Not a beau. A friend—as we are friends, my…James.”
This did nothing to comfort him. “Yes, and…?”
“And he died.”
“He was a soldier. They do tend to fall with tragic regularity.”
“He survived the war in South Africa. It was only after he came here, to this island—”
“Elspeth—”
“No, James, you will listen.” She turned from the window with damp, red eyes. “His name was Philip, and we were correspondents. I had foolishly hoped, you see, that if I constrained my friendships to paper, the curse could not steal them from me. I hadn’t counted on my father’s interference.”
“What did the old man do this time?”
Elspeth shrugged. “Philip contacted him, asking for permission to visit me and bring along his sister as a chaperone. Father gave it, gladly.”
“Vicious of him. I’m amazed he wasn’t arrested on the spot.”
“Yes, by all means, make jokes.”
“I apologize. Please continue.”
She crossed to him, and he realized for the first time that when standing at her full height, she was scarcely taller than his seated form.
Yet she grips my very soul in the palm of her hand…
“Philip and his sister, Antonia, arrived here on a Saturday by way of one of the very first airship transports to the island. I met him in the village. We shook hands for the first time not twenty yards from where the vessel landed.”
James swallowed, all at once inexplicably nervous. “And?”
“And it was a windy day, like every other day on St. Kilda. A crewmember had too tightly secured one of the lines tethering the airship to the ground, and the line broke in a strong gust from the east.”
“Elspeth—”
Her breath had begun to hitch in her chest. “There were fifty people gathered in the landing area. Villagers, mostly, but also the crew and a few of the first tourists…a crowd, you see. But, as I said, the line broke—snapped in two with such force that the crack could be heard a mile away, or so I’ve been told.” She was babbling now, and staring at him intently, her dark eyes alight with grief and anger. “It snapped, and the weighted end shot out and—”
“Don’t, please—”
“—took off Philip’s head at the neck. The airship’s captain swore Philip never felt it. Never saw it coming, I did, however.”
“Oh, my poor darling.” James rose from the chair.
Elspeth stepped back, warding him off with a raised hand. “I had a frock made from sky-blue silk especially for the occasion. A terrible extravagance, but young women will be silly, will they not?” The corners of her lips lifted in a tremulous smile. “It still hangs at the back of my wardrobe, with Philip’s blood in long, rusty streaks down the front of it. I couldn’t bring myself to burn i
t.”
She gulped and laughed, sounding entirely mad. “His sister…his poor sister…I still hear her screams in my sleep…”
“Hush now,” James whispered. “We shan’t speak of it again.”
He reached for her. When she again evaded him, he felt a delicate tendril of anger uncoil itself from somewhere in his chest and rise up to wrap itself around his throat.
“Don’t touch me.” She spat the words at him, as if she’d come to hate him as much as she clearly loathed herself. “Can you not see I’m poison? Death in a bustle and hairpins? What an arrogant, selfish fool you were to come here. You must take that child and go, and never return.”
Chapter Nine
Elspeth stood outside the drawing room door and listened.
“So the lady’s ill, m’lord? Does that mean we’re to go back to London, then?”
“I cannot say for certain, Toby. I ask that you be patient with us. Adults are often strange, unpredictable creatures.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Very well, off to bed with you. Thank you, Mrs. MacGillvrey.”
As they exited, Elspeth dodged into the shadows, hiding herself from her own housekeeper and the small boy that clutched the woman’s hand.
Coward. You are a disgrace to your father’s name, Elspeth Shaw.
But for all her self-recrimination, her fear remained, lying rank and slimy in her belly and coating her throat so that she was forced to clear it away with a cough before entering the room.
From his perch on the piano bench, James turned to greet her. In the low, gritty pitch of his voice, Elspeth heard the first faraway rumble of a catastrophic storm.
“At the risk of inciting your rather filthy temper,” he said, “may I ask how you’re feeling?”
“Your tone does not become you, my lord.”
“Forgive me. I am not accustomed to being called an arrogant, selfish fool. It does tend to put one in a sour mood.”
“I apologized for my outburst.”
“Indeed you did, but I believe I require some form of recompense.” He gestured to the spot on the bench beside him.
“I’ve told you I do not play.”
“Yes, but I know it for a falsehood. Do not insult me further by repeating it.” In the dim light of the drawing room, his eyes blazed, their green irises clashing harshly with the new ruddiness of his face.
But his eyes are blue, not green.
He gestured again to the bench. She hesitated and watched as his frustration became obvious in the curl of his fists and the darkening of his brow.
Quite the impatient fellow, indeed.
Elspeth sighed. “If you insist.”
“What a gracious hostess you are, Miss Shaw.”
The keys were cold beneath her fingertips as she fumbled her way through a minuet, too keenly aware of James’ proximity to concern herself with accuracy. The warmth of his body seemed excessive, as if his garments enclosed a furnace instead of a man. She wondered if his touch would blister her skin.
“Something else, if you please,” he requested in a softer tone.
Elspeth closed her eyes, lifted her hands to the keys and played the tune she recalled from the music box—a waltz in a minor key. This time her performance was unerring. When she finished, she opened her eyes and found James staring at her. The look of hunger on his face alarmed her, more so because it was strangely familiar.
He leaned closer and brought his lips to her ear. “What would you do if I forced myself upon you? Tell me, what would you do?”
“I would fight you.”
“But not very hard, I’ll wager.”
“Perhaps not. I will not deny my feelings for you, James, but you must understand how those very feelings create even more danger.”
“Yes, from this imaginary curse of yours. Damn your father to hell for putting such terrors in your head.”
Elspeth shook her head in amazement. “Even now, after I’ve told you about Philip? You still cannot see the truth when it is laid out before your very eyes?”
…which used to be blue, but now are a glassy green, so much like the color of a certain vial…
“The truth is what we make it, Elspeth.”
“Spoken like a true disciple of Aurelius Shaw.” She rose and moved to a nearby chair. “Shall I tell you when first I heard my father say those very words?”
James turned on the bench to face her. “Another tale? You do seem to have an abundance of them.”
“This one is short, I promise you. I’ve already told you how my father broke the news of my…shall we say…extraordinary circumstances.”
“Over afternoon tea in Athens. I remember.”
Elspeth nodded, perversely pleased that he recalled the details of her personal horror. “I asked him how this curse came to be attached to me.”
“And he told you?”
“He did. To his credit, he told me the truth, even though it painted him in a wholly negative light.”
James leaned forward, that same hungry expression marring his features. “And now you will share it with me?”
“Only because you’ve forced my hand. Frankly, I’d rather not let it be known that Aurelius Shaw was such an utter failure as a human being.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the monk who sold my father the artifact told him it came with a price far beyond mere monetary compensation.”
“Yes,” James said, “he mentioned it on his deathbed. It seemed to prey on his mind quite a bit.”
“I suppose I should be comforted by that piece of information.” Elspeth shifted in her chair. This part was the most difficult—more so, even, than relaying the story of Philip’s death, for it proved that she came from tainted stock. Her father truly had been a man without conscience. “The monk explained the curse, then told my father he had a choice. He could carry the curse on his own soul, in which case—because he was male—it would cause the death of anyone he allowed himself to love.”
“Or?”
“Or he could shift the curse to his firstborn.”
James’ expression darkened again. “But naturally he didn’t believe this cartload of rubbish.”
“Not enough to reconsider his purchase of the artifact, but—”
“Enough to choose to shift the curse to you.”
Elspeth nodded. “He’d counted on a boy, you see, as men so often do. He never imagined I wouldn’t be a son, and in that case the curse wasn’t quite so severe. A man will love or not where he chooses, after all—”
“But women are built to be loved.”
“Precisely. Because I am female, the curse causes the death of anyone who…harbors warm feelings for me.” Elspeth cleared her throat. “I have no choice. I am merely the catalyst between the curse and its victims. My only power lies in avoiding contact with all mortal creatures.”
“How appalling.”
Elspeth shrugged. “Has it not been ever thus? We women have little power in matters of the heart. Not like men.”
“But that sort of thinking is changing. Women have more power now, and more choices. Modern ways of thinking must prevail.”
“And how much do modern ways of thinking matter to an ancient Sumerian demon, do you suppose?”
He gazed at her another long moment. Then he rose from the bench, crossed to her, grasped her shoulders and lifted her from her chair. “It isn’t real. My good God in heaven, woman—it isn’t real!”
“I am sorry, James. I cannot afford to believe that. And neither, frankly, can you.”
“You mean to say you truly believe that I’d die if I made love to you?”
“No, I truly believe you’d die if you genuinely cared for me.”
“But I do care for you. I’ve traveled by airship in the dead of winter to let you talk madness at me, woman—what more proof do you need?”
He caught her hand in his and pressed his thumb against the underside of her wrist. She knew he felt her tremble. As she watched,
resolve hardened his face. He drew her into his arms.
“I will prove this curse of yours to be a figment of your very creative imagination.”
He kissed her. He murmured filthy, scandalizing nonsense in her ear. His words left invisible trails along her skin. The harsh texture of his voice turned her inside out like an oyster ripped from its shell.
She did not fight him.
His hands were heavy on her, and Elspeth wanted them heavier still. When he took her, forcing her down to the floor and tearing her skirts and undergarments aside, she called out his name, heedless of any who might hear. The winding pull of pleasure and the sudden shock of pain…their breathing, point and counterpoint, growing quick and tangled and tight, and breaking, finally, as the surf broke against the cliffs on the far side of the island.
As the bodies of seabirds break before they fall into the sea…
She pushed the ugly thought away and lay quietly in his arms, her sharp edges sanded down to smoothness. James looked at her with hooded eyes, satisfaction in the flush of his cheeks and the pout of his lips. They dozed, and woke to the sunrise streaming in through the large bay window.
In a drowsy voice James asked her, “How old were you when your father filled your head with this curse nonsense?”
Elspeth quenched her instinctive urge to debate his definition of nonsense, and answered simply, “Thirteen.”
“So young?”
She propped herself on one elbow to face him. “I’d not yet put up my hair or let down my skirts.”
“How unkind.”
“There was a method to his cruelty. A child of thirteen, having known no man but her father—and most especially a child like me, for whom my father had been my entire world—was not likely to question such a tale.”
“And if he’d left it for later?”
“Not even Aurelius Shaw could alter my romantic nature. If he’d left it for later, I might have encountered an attractive young man and been reluctant to believe my father’s story.”
“He knew you well.”
