by TJ Bennett
“Er, yes, well.” I coughed, and looked away, feigning interest in a marble bust of Homer as we passed through to a great hall. Everything he said sounded provocative to me. Surely, then, it was my own wicked mind at work and not merely his intent?
I was agonizingly aware of him, of the cool gray of his eyes that seemed to spark a paradoxical heat every time he gazed my way. I shifted the lace to cover more of my bosom, the feeling of being too exposed to his sight pressing in on me once more.
A servant went ahead of us with a blazing candelabrum while our footsteps echoed across polished wood floors. Gerard proudly showed me room after room gilded in gold and gleaming with brass polish, delicate porcelain figurines adorning slim columns, heavy vases full of sweet-scented greenery and late-autumn flowers on every available surface. I found his enthusiasm about his home charming in the extreme.
The manor house, known as Alexander Hall, had been built atop the ruins of a fourteenth-century castle by a distant ancestor, Gerard explained, and had come into his possession upon his majority. Portions of the old castle remained standing—the round tower I had seen from the boat being one of them—and an underground cellar being another, as well as large portions of the surrounding octagonal curtain wall.
Massive portraits of stern-faced men and women watched us while we passed beneath them, their painted eyes following us in the yellow candlelight as we turned down yet another corridor. Opulent scenes of archangels and cherubs, nymphs and satyrs, shepherds and shepherdesses decorated the soaring ceilings and paneled walls. After two hours of such scenery, I was astonished when Gerard told me we had only covered the west wing of the estate. My head spun and my feet hurt in the unfamiliar shoes; I was beginning to flag.
I was saved from begging off the rest of the tour by the arrival of the butler, Jeffries, as Gerard introduced him, who entered and announced dinner was served. Two footmen in gold-and-red livery stood at the ready beside a massive set of double doors at the far end of the hall we traversed, and they leaped to open them as we approached. The doors revealed a grand dining room table covered in damasked linen and outfitted with gleaming silver flatware and fine gold-edged porcelain dishes. The sideboard groaned with food in steaming hot plates, the aromas of roasted meat and baked sweets filling the air.
I turned to Gerard. “A light supper?”
He looked amused. “Apparently Cook is as excited to welcome a new guest to our table as I am.”
The butler made as if to pull a chair out for me, but Gerard waved him off in order to perform the duty himself. I felt him at my back as he slid my chair closer to the table, his nearness creating a kind of electricity in the air. I fumbled with my napkin until he deftly removed it from my fingers and laid it across my lap. I watched his elegant hands with their long, broad fingers as they moved. His crisp cuffs rode slightly up on his wrists, revealing a dark dusting of hair along their edges.
He moved away, and I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding.
He sat to my left, at the head of the table, offering me a lingering smile before the first course of soup began.
His servants, despite the supposed lack of visitors upon which to practice, were well trained. They served the wine and courses efficiently and unobtrusively. Prior to my current association with the Benevolent Home for Disadvantaged Children, and the prostitute mothers who gave birth to them, I had had occasion to dine at some of the best households in London. Any one of Gerard’s servants could have provided ample competition to those employed by the peerage, and I told him so between the fish and the fowl.
He accepted the compliment with aplomb. “They understand their duties. It is more a testament to Mrs. Jones and to Jeffries than it is to my influence.”
“I suspect your high expectations encourage them as well.”
He glanced at me. “They know their places, and they do well to keep them. I do not suffer fools gladly.”
The hardness of his gaze caught me unaware. I had again been taken in by his civilized veneer, but he reminded me with one glance that I, in my borrowed gown, was a supplicant in his domain and had best remain aware of it at all times.
The service of the next course provided a distraction from the tension, as well as an opportunity to gather my thoughts.
I sipped my wine, a different vintage than the one served with my previous meal. “You do not seem to lack for necessities, even luxuries here on your secluded island. How do you manage it?”
He gestured idly with his fork. “Ynys Nos is rich with natural resources. I indulge myself on occasion with creative methods of making use of them. I am somewhat of an amateur scientist.” His wry smile indicated he informed rather than boasted. “I have ample time on my hands to tinker, and the villagers are quite adept at providing whatever I might need.”
“There is a village here?” I asked, astonished. The island, from my brief glimpse of it while at sea, had not seemed large enough to support a village. Hope sprang up. If there was a village, there might be someone there able to tell me how to leave Ynys Nos.
“They are the descendants of the original inhabitants of the island. Most are farmers and sheepherders, but there is a blacksmith, a baker, a family of weavers, even a vicar. No doctor, but I—”
He stopped abruptly and carefully patted his napkin to his mouth.
“But you?” I prompted.
“I have some knowledge of healing. More wine?”
A hazy memory of his hand on my side, warming, soothing, drifted into my mind. I frowned, trying to understand the connection.
He motioned the footman over to refill my glass. “And what of you? How do you occupy your time in—London, did you say? Do you draw? Or perhaps you are handy with a needle?”
I care for the castoffs of whores and degenerate soldiers.
I smiled warily. I was not ready for that conversation yet. My ordeal had worn on me more than I would have liked to admit, and while the tour of the estate had been most interesting, I felt exhaustion coming on.
“Perhaps another time, sir?” I suggested.
He frowned. “Gerard. We agreed.”
I tilted my head in acknowledgement of his request, but did not repeat his name—perhaps out of some show of inborn defiance.
“I see now that you are tired, but not yet defeated, Catherine.” He smiled in acknowledgement of my small effort at resistance. “You must rest. I am afraid I have worn you out. We will meet tomorrow night for supper. I will come for you again at the same time.”
“Tomorrow night?” I did not know what I would do with myself in the hours in between. “Would it not be convenient to meet earlier? Perhaps to discuss how I might be returned to London?”
“Indeed, it is not convenient,” he said sharply.
He was autocratic, but I had dealt with his kind before. I merely raised an eyebrow at him as a reminder of his agreement to keep a civil tone with me.
He sighed. “We will discuss the impossible subject of returning you to London again, if you wish, tomorrow night and not before.” He motioned to the footman, who immediately hastened to clear our plates.
We rose from the table and Gerard escorted me back to my room, briefly bowing over my hand.
“Sleep well,” he said softly, and releasing my hand, waited for me to go inside my room.
I hesitated only a moment and then bid him good night.
The door closed behind me. I waited, and then heard the sound I dreaded.
A key turning in the lock.
…
The sun was shining through my windowpane when I awoke the next day. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, then hastily sat up in bed. It had been years since I had slept so late, and today was not the day to begin such habits. There was too much to do.
Again, a meal had been laid out for me on a tray, so I ate to keep up my strength, anxious to gain information about the castle’s inhabitants and the village beyond. Gerard had indicated he would not see me again until tonight, so I decided
I would make the best use of my time by learning what I could about Ynys Nos until then.
I chose a simple beige walking gown from amongst those dresses Gerard had provided for me, one with buttons in the front that I could fasten for myself without needing Mrs. Jones’s assistance. Next, I searched my room for a key to the door, stretching to reach above the doorjamb, rifling through dresser drawers filled with delicate lingerie, and even knocking on the wallboards in search of a secret panel, all to no avail. Frustrated, I sat at the vanity dressing table, brushing out my hair with short, agitated strokes, my stomach in knots while I waited for someone to come and let me out.
Eventually, I heard the key turn in the lock. Jeffries stood on the other side of the door.
“I’ve been instructed to escort you to the gardens, madam. The master felt you might appreciate some fresh air while you recuperate.”
I glanced over Jeffries’s shoulder in nervous anticipation. “Will he be joining me?”
His watery gaze skittered away. “I’m afraid he is otherwise engaged.”
After a brief moment of disappointment, I decided that suited me better. Without Gerard in tow, I might be able to get a feel for the layout of the estate from the perspective of the gardens and see where Alexander Hall was in relation to its neighbors. From there, perhaps I could make my way to the village on my own.
I followed Jeffries to a door set in the garden wall from which he stepped aside to let me pass. He promised to escort me back to my room when I was ready.
“Simply ring the pull bell beside the door, madam, and I will return forthwith.”
I stepped out, momentarily distracted from my goal by the lush beauty of Gerard’s gardens. A winding path led past the doorway and turned a corner, rambling beyond where I could not see. The budding beginnings of tuber rose bushes grew alongside the path, and dotted here and there were low stone benches that invited one to sit and contemplate the eye-catching pieces of Greek statuary posed in strategic locales across the landscaping. Willow trees hung over a meandering creek covered by a wooden bridge. Lilly ponds reflected a domed pergola in a secluded grotto.
And at the edges of the gardens, encircling its entire length, ran an eight-foot high, ivy-covered stone wall. Though I spent nearly an hour looking, I could find only one exit—an equally high wooden gate latched with a chain and padlock. Unless I had a sturdy ladder and the agility to climb it, I would not be leaving Alexander Hall this way.
Thwarted, I kicked the gate in a pique, succeeding only in stubbing my toe. Ashamed at myself for my lack of self-control, I hopped over to one of the benches and sat with dejection, rubbing my foot while I gazed morosely at the setting sun. It would be evening soon, and I had wasted another day away from the children.
The shadows lengthened, and I shivered. The temperature, already cool, had dropped by several degrees, and a dense fog began to creep along the ground. I had not thought to wear a shawl, and I hugged my arms tightly, deciding to go back inside since it was growing dark anyway.
I trudged up the path, but an intense feeling of being watched came over me. I quickly turned and caught a fleeting glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.
The gate was shrouded in impenetrable shadows. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but was the fog swirling around the shape of a man standing inside it?
“Hello?” I called out, backing toward the house, a fission of nerves causing my voice to crack. A chill trailed down my spine as the fog advanced. “Is-is someone there?”
No reply.
A sense of foreboding pressed in on me, stifling the very air around me. I hastened to the door set in the garden wall and turned the knob, but Jeffries must have locked it because it did not budge. Staring over my shoulder into the gathering dark, I remembered the pull bell, and tugged on it vigorously. “Jeffries!”
The door swung open. “Yes, madam, are you ready to go to your room?”
Like a puff of air through a wreath of smoke, the wind blew the fog into shreds and the shape I had imagined disappeared. I stared at the gate for a long moment, and then laughed nervously, feeling ridiculous.
“Madam?” Jeffries said, sounding confused.
The trees above my head rustled, and my heart leaped. I imagined something leering down at me from the branches, but I immediately tamped the thought down. I had frightened myself into a tizzy, and I surely had more resilience than that, given my past experiences.
“Yes, Jeffries. I believe I am quite ready to go inside.”
…
As promised, that evening Gerard fetched me for dinner. Once again, the cook prepared a groaning sideboard of sumptuous delights, but I had little appetite for such fancy fare. Even the excellent offerings from Gerard’s wine cellar did little to settle my nerves from this afternoon’s events, or to distract me from the problem of finding my way back home.
With a sigh, I pushed aside my third glass of wine unfinished and instead sampled the bread—a delicious, soft loaf with caraway seeds.
“Ynys Nos is in the middle of the Irish Sea, is it not?” I asked around a small bite.
When Gerard did not immediately answer, I glanced up and caught him watching my mouth as I ate. He absentmindedly toyed with the stem of his wineglass, stroking it with the tip of his finger in a slow, repetitive arc.
I fixated on his unconsciously erotic gesture. The bread became a pasty lump in my mouth. The room was too hot; perspiration beaded above my lip. I raised my eyes to his and we gazed at one another for a long, drawn-out moment while I wondered if he had even heard my question; I could barely remember it myself.
He finally looked away, taking a deep breath before answering. “Yes, that is true.”
What? What is true?
I cleared my throat, mentally grasping for the thread of the conversation. “I-I have traversed the route between the Isle of Man and Liverpool many times. I have never heard of an island in this region by that name.”
He shrugged. “You were blown off course by the storm. It is probably not on your regular route.”
“But surely I would have heard of it.” I leaned forward, grateful the conversation had finally turned toward the subject of the island. “The region is well traveled. An island big enough to support an estate this size must have ample land and tenant farmers. And a village, too? Ynys Nos must be very large indeed. As such, it would certainly be noted in local nautical charts.”
He gave me a cool smile. “Catherine, what are you asking? Do you think my island simply appears and disappears off the face of the Earth at will?” His amusement did not reach his eyes.
“Well, no, not exactly—”
“I am glad to hear it.” He lifted his wineglass to his lips. “One would hate to imagine the kind of dark magic at work if that were the case.”
He looked at me over the rim as he sipped his wine.
A chill rushed up my spine and unaccountably, I shivered. “Yes.” I frowned. “I suppose one would. If one believed in such things.”
He settled back in his chair, a hand resting lightly on the table, and yet his casual demeanor belied the tension in his posture. “You do not believe in dark magic?”
“Of course not,” I scoffed. “Or magic of any kind, for that matter. You, as a self-proclaimed man of science, must surely agree with me there.”
“‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth…’” he murmured, and swirled the bloodred liquid in his glass, staring thoughtfully into it.
I smiled. “Am I to play Horatio to your Hamlet, then?”
He glanced up at me. “I don’t think so. One could never mistake you for any kind of male. Especially not in that dress.”
He lifted his glass in a sort of salute, and I could feel the heat in my cheeks as I blushed furiously. I cursed the pale skin that constantly revealed my inner thoughts, despite my outward composure. My coloring—dark red hair, vivid green eyes, and light freckles sprinkled across pale-as-cream skin—harkened back to a sole Irish ancestor whose physical
traits periodically reappeared in my family line despite our best efforts to breed them out.
“You do not accept compliments well, Catherine,” Gerard observed.
I touched my palms to my warm cheeks, then forced my hands down to my lap. “Such compliments have been rather rare of late, I am afraid.”
“What sort of society do you keep where the men are too thick to compliment a beautiful woman?”
He sounded outraged.
I had to laugh, the knot of tension between my shoulders easing. “Thank you. You are good for my ego.”
“You are welcome.” He stood. “Now, shall we walk off some of this prodigious meal and take ourselves to the library?”
“You have a library?” I exclaimed. Books were my most favorite of things.
“Yes. Of one thousand volumes, in fact, not to mention a collection of journals and papers. It was begun nearly three hundred years ago. I had the pleasure of enlarging the collection by several dozen volumes before…before we were cut off from the mainland. I would be my greatest pleasure to share it with you, Catherine. Come.”
I rose with him, feeling a little light-headed from the wine and the company. Pretending to ignore the dangerously exciting glint of the male predator in his eyes, I took the hand that he offered.
I would not relinquish his company just yet, no matter what my better sense told me. I was far from home and had been a woman living without a man for a very long time. As alien as he was to me, as female as he was male, I felt a sort of kinship with him regardless. He was as forlorn here on his remote island as I was on one peopled with society’s outcasts and rejects. He fascinated me, and while I wanted to know more about Ynys Nos, at the core of that desire, I realized now, was a need to know more about him.
Although I had not garnered a decent man’s attention for many years, in this isolated place, in this small breath between duty and responsibility, between what was and what was to come, I felt feminine and beautiful again…
And just a little bit dangerous myself.
