A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  “You speak as if she had a choice.”

  She shook her head in contempt before pointing at his chest. “Find my sons! Or else I’ll be forced to take my own revenge. Perhaps on your dear little wife.”

  Gage stepped forward to tower over her. “Did you . . . ?”

  “Don’t be such a fool,” she retorted, not backing down. “I didn’t poison your wife. But don’t imagine I won’t harm her.” She tilted her head. “Do you honestly think the family approves of your marriage to her?”

  He stiffened.

  “Your father isn’t the only one who can make their discontentment known.” With this parting comment, she turned on her heel to march away.

  I watched Gage. Watched the agony and disillusionment flicker across his features. Should I go to him or give him a moment to compose himself? Before I could decide, the decision was made for me.

  “M’lady?”

  I gasped in surprise, whirling to see who had snuck up on me.

  “I beg yer pardon, m’lady.” Hammett’s expression was carefully neutral. “I thought ye heard me climbing the stairs.”

  “No, I was just . . .” I stumbled to form a response, but I could think of no plausible explanation as to why I was standing halfway up the staircase seemingly staring into space. So I opted for the truth, guessing the butler had already deduced it anyway. “I was eavesdropping,” I replied with a sheepish grin.

  The old retainer’s eyes lit with humor. “Yes, well, if the dowager was part o’ the conversation, I’m sure yer ears are blistered.” My distress must have been evident, for his amusement fled. “Badgering Master Sebastian again, was she?” He sighed. “She never could mind her opinion with the boy.”

  I glanced toward Gage, worried he would hear us talking about him, only to find he was no longer there. I frowned. “Why do you think that is? Gage was hardly a worthy target for such vehemence.”

  “Well, I suspect it’s something to do with the fact that Emma was never around the manor enough for her to sharpen her tongue on her, so she took it out on the nearest thing. And also the fact that Sebastian was so much more intelligent and better behaved than her boys. He bested ’em at everything.” He turned to gaze down the staircase, his eyes narrowing. “In a perfect world, the dowager would’ve been a more fitting mother for Master Sebastian. She so protective and anxious for him to achieve, and he so determined and eager to please.” He shrugged. “But then, would Sebastian have turned out that way if he hadn’t had a mother who was continuously ill and scorned by her family for her choices, and also dogged at avoidin’ confrontation and unpleasantness?”

  That was an interesting observation. For better or for worse, Emma had to some extent been responsible for the good, noble man Gage had become. Given his less-than-devoted relatives and belittling father, it was somewhat amazing that he had grown to be the confident, self-assured man he was today, and I suspected much of that was due to Emma’s influence.

  “I’ll say one thing for Lady Langstone,” Hammett remarked. “She does an admirable job actin’ as his lordship’s hostess and lady of the manor, and she receives little credit for it. Most of the servants see her haughty, exacting nature, which certainly doesn’t endear her to anyone. But they fail to recognize the underlying care she has for ’em.”

  I didn’t think Hammett was asking me to feel sympathetic toward her ladyship. After all, his previous actions had demonstrated how little he liked her himself. But he did seem to be reminding me there was usually more to a person than one first assumed. That every action, good or bad, could be motivated by something opposite.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if while making this point he was really thinking of something, or someone, different.

  “You said you recall Lord Tavistock’s older sister Alice?” Given his talkative mood, I hoped this time he might share more about her.

  He searched my face, as if weighing something in the balance before he spoke. “Aye. She was lovely. And headstrong. Though, remember I was only a stable boy back then. I only ever saw her from a distance, but she had a reputation.”

  “Do you remember when she died?”

  He drew himself up even taller. “I do. And I suppose you’d like to know if the official story is the truth.” He shook his head. “But that’s not for me to reveal. Though . . .” He nodded as if making a decision. “I do think you and Master Sebastian should know it. Tell his lordship I said if he doesn’t tell ye all, then I will.”

  My brow furrowed in mild frustration, wishing the butler would simply share what he knew, but I didn’t press. It was clear Hammett believed this was a tale best told by Lord Tavistock, and would not be budged unless the viscount refused. “I need to speak with Gage, then,” I remarked, turning to look in the direction where he had once stood.

  “M’lady, if I may,” Hammett murmured tentatively. “If Lady Langstone was indeed harassing him, I should look in one of two places for him.”

  Seeing the concern in the old retainer’s eyes, I quickly deduced the first. “His mother’s grave.”

  “Aye. Or the woodworking shed. ’Tis where he always disappeared to after his lordship began teaching him.”

  His own personal sanctuary.

  Nodding my thanks, I set off toward the shed first, following Hammett’s directions. I had to admit, beyond locating my husband to be certain he was well, I was curious to see this place where he and his grandfather had always related best to each other. I remembered him telling me the woodworking shed was the only place they hadn’t fought. I imagined it was something like my art studio in the conservatory at my childhood home, or the tower room I utilized at my brother-in-law’s estate in the Highlands, where I’d escaped to whenever my emotions or my memories became too much to bear.

  Following a path that led out of an ivy-covered door in the wall surrounding the front courtyard, I walked about a quarter of a mile into the woodland part of the Langstone property, which extended away from the moor. I hadn’t paused to change, so I still carried the train of my riding habit looped over my arm, trying to keep the fabric from tripping me up. The land was pitted with stones and riddled with tiny streams, all sheltered under the branches of tall oak, birch, and hazel trees. Mosses and lichens grew on some of the barks and rocks, making them slippery underfoot. A dormouse scurried out from beneath a fern I trod near, almost tripping me.

  I’d begun to wonder whether I’d taken a wrong turn when suddenly the trees parted to reveal a squat stone building—the gamekeeper’s cottage. And next to it stood an even smaller structure, this one made of wood. The door was propped open to let in what sunlight penetrated through the branches above, and I knew I’d come to the right place.

  I approached slowly, certain to make an ample amount of noise. The last thing I wanted to do was startle him while he was wielding a saw or driving nails in with a hammer. When at last I reached the door and peered in, it was to find him bent over a long piece of wood, running a plane over it again and again. He had discarded his frock coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and the force required to push the cutting blade over the wood made the muscles in his back and shoulders bunch and stretch. I stood watching his almost elegant, rippling movements, and my breath grew short as I waited for him to acknowledge me. Surely it wasn’t wrong to ogle one’s own husband.

  “Hammett told you where to find me, didn’t he,” he grunted as he pushed on the tool once again.

  I swallowed. “Yes.”

  He looked up at the wall before him, panting from the exertion. “You overheard part of my conversation with Aunt Vanessa.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I answered him anyway. “Yes. I didn’t know whether to speak up or go away, so I . . . eavesdropped.”

  He resumed his task. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But I could tell it did. Though I didn’t think he was truly angry with me for listening in on their conversation. I
t was more to do with the things his aunt had said, specifically about his mother.

  “You know she was only out to wound you however she could,” I said. “I’m fairly certain she would have said just about anything to make you hurt as much, if not more, than she’s hurting.”

  It didn’t matter what the truth was, I realized now. Emma was long dead, and completely unable to defend herself. It did no good questioning her motives, especially when doing so did more harm than good. What mattered were Gage’s loving memories of her, the ones he so jealously guarded as if someone might steal them away. Except doing so also locked away the pain with them. He needed to share them, to let them breathe again. I didn’t know how to convince him to do that, but I had to try.

  “Your mother was a good woman. I know this. Even without ever having met her.”

  His movements stopped, as he stood hunched over listening to me.

  “She is part of you. One of the best parts. It’s simply not possible that she wasn’t a wonderful woman. Yes, I’m sure she had her flaws. But so do we all. To suppose she was perfect only does a disservice to the complicated, caring woman she was.”

  “So you think my aunt was right?” he challenged.

  I sighed. “Sebastian, how could I know? But does it really matter? Does it truly change who she was? Does it change how much she evidently loved you?”

  “I . . .” He paused and spluttered, almost as if he were choking on his own thoughts. Then he shook his head. “I can’t talk about this.”

  “You can’t . . . or you don’t wish to?” I replied gently.

  He finally turned to look at me for the first time since I’d entered the shed, and there was a brittleness in his eyes I’d never seen before. I worried if I pressed too hard, he might shatter.

  “Why haven’t you visited her grave?”

  He stared at me, refusing to answer.

  I tilted my head. “Or have you, and you just didn’t want me to know?” As fiercely as he protected everything else about her, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  He looked away. “I haven’t.” But he wouldn’t elaborate or answer my original question.

  Eventually I had to concede. “I see.”

  His head snapped up. This comment for some reason ignited his smoldering temper. “No, you don’t.”

  “Then help me understand,” I pleaded. “You told me not to let you retreat. You said I needed to force you to provide answers.”

  He stood tall, turning full toward me almost in challenge. “But I didn’t promise to give them.”

  I exhaled, acknowledging his point. He was right. He hadn’t promised, and I couldn’t force him. Not really.

  My eyes dipped to the hollow of his throat, visible above his white lawn shirt now damp with his sweat. I didn’t want him to see the hurt his refusal caused me. If he wouldn’t speak to me of his mother, then I would just have to resort to discussing the inquiry. “Hammett knows the truth about Alice’s death, and he told me to tell your grandfather that if he doesn’t reveal it to us, Hammett will.”

  He stared at me blankly. “The truth?”

  I turned to the side. “I’m going to speak with Lord Tavistock now. Do you wish to join me?”

  When Gage didn’t answer, I took that as dissent and began to leave.

  But he grabbed my arm, halting me. “Wait.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him.

  “Yes, I’ll come. Just give me a moment.” However, he made no move to gather his discarded clothes, just stood gazing down at me.

  I arched my eyebrows, waiting for him to speak.

  For a moment, he seemed about to confide in me. The words seemed poised on his lips. But instead he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

  At first, I didn’t resist. As fascinating as I’d found the play of his muscles under his shirt moments ago, it wouldn’t have been difficult to forget my disappointment and let him direct this where he wished. But deep inside, I knew by doing so not only would I be losing, but perhaps more importantly, so would Gage.

  So after a feverish minute, I pushed against his chest, breaking our embrace. “You can’t always make everything better with kisses,” I whispered, peering up into his eyes. “I’m not going to let you hide behind physical distraction.” I stepped back. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  I whirled away so I wouldn’t have to witness the shocked confusion mixed with frustration that radiated across his face. Though I knew I’d done the right thing, it still made a knot form in the pit of my stomach. A knot I suspected was only going to grow tauter with our next conversation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I’d not visited Lord Tavistock since Gage delivered the brutal news about Rory the evening before, so the sight of him left me in shock. Gage said he’d seemed to shrink in on himself, and a truer description could not have been made. The proud, stalwart man appeared to have collapsed into the mattress, all but being swallowed by the blankets and pillows surrounding him. His gleaming silver eyes were tarnished with pain, and perhaps dulled by the medication his valet had been dosing him with upon our arrival.

  Seeing him in such a state, I hesitated to relay Hammett’s message. But then I reminded myself the best, and possibly only way we might help the viscount recover was to find his grandsons. If forcing him to address disturbing facts enabled us to do that, then any discomfort they caused was worth it.

  I’d hoped he might rage against his upstart butler for forcing his hand. Anything that might show a spark of life in him. But he merely sighed, his lips curling upward at the corners in reluctant amusement. “Hammett never did abide by the normal boundaries of master and servant.” He waved a hand limply. “Come sit. I’ll tell you.”

  He stared up at the bed curtains as if peering into the past. “Everything I told you the other day is true. I was away at school when it happened, and my parents did forbid us to speak of it.” He sighed again. “But it wasn’t for the reason I led you to believe, though I didn’t learn the truth until many years later. From Hammett, of all people.” He glanced at us. “Servants know everything. Don’t forget that.”

  Gage and I shared a look.

  “My sister Alice was often willful and stubborn. And when she decided she wanted something, she wouldn’t rest until she got it. Usually that meant a new dress, or embossed stationary, or some other inconsequential thing.” He frowned. “But for some reason, she fixed her heart on John Stephen. No one knows why. The man wasn’t rumored to be particularly attractive or accomplished, and he certainly wasn’t wealthy or titled. But whatever the reason, when my father ordered her to sever the attachment, she did the exact opposite. She agreed to run away with him.”

  His face contorted as he began to cough, his body crumpling up under the force of it. I slid forward in alarm, ready to summon his valet to dose him with more medicine. But then the racking coughs began to subside. Seeing my posture, he urged me to sit back. However, he didn’t reject Gage’s offer to help him drink a bit of water. I noted how little he swallowed, and my concern grew.

  “My father was not a stupid man. And he knew his children well enough. He was aware of the possibility that Alice would disobey him. So he instructed the cook, under a strict veil of secrecy, to leave a bowl of poisoned apples out in the kitchen, and order the staff not to touch them.”

  I pressed a hand to my mouth, already guessing what had happened.

  “If Alice listened, if she broke Stephen’s heart, there would be no cause for concern. But if she snuck out to meet him, and if she stopped in the kitchen to grab what food she could find for the journey, knowing the man she loved owned little . . . well, then, as Father saw it, she would have her just punishment.”

  “That’s . . .” Gage seemed incapable of coming up with a word horrible enough to describe such an action.

  “Yes.” The viscount inhaled a rattling breath. “
As I’m sure you’ve guessed, she took the apples, and she ate one. I can only assume that when Stephen realized what happened, he also ate of the apple, killing himself rather than going on without her.”

  “That poor man,” I murmured, shaking my head. Buried at a crossroad for his suicide, his name smeared for a murder he hadn’t committed.

  But Gage was focused on something more immediate. “So Mother wasn’t the first poison victim in our family?”

  His grandfather’s eyes were stricken. “No.” He hesitated and then added, “And Alice might not have been the first one either.”

  This startled both of us.

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “My great-uncle.”

  “The man who supposedly walked out on the moors, fell over some rocks and bashed his head?” Gage asked. “I always thought drink was to blame for that.”

  “That was the official story, yes. But our old nanny used to always warn us we’d best listen to our parents or we might die from a bash to the head as well.”

  My eyes widened.

  Lord Tavistock coughed into his fist. “I assumed it was an idle threat until I grew older. Then I began to wonder. After all, my great-uncle was the original heir, and there were whispers he’d been indulging in . . . immoral acts.”

  What exactly that meant, I didn’t know, and it was clear he wasn’t about to elaborate with a lady present.

  Gage leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Is that the origin of the curse? Is that when it all began?”

  “As far as I know,” the viscount admitted with reluctance.

  The viscount’s great-uncle, Alice, and Emma. That was a suspicious string of deaths. And now Alfred and Rory were missing. We knew Alice’s and Emma’s deaths had been spurred along by human aid. I presumed the great-uncle’s death had also, perhaps by his parents or the younger brother who would inherit.

  But what of Alfred? Who had poisoned him?