The Trouble With Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  Lusinda was quite sure he wouldn’t be pleased by her absence, but if he was going to be upset with her over the Farthington affair, he might as well be displeased that she decided to spend more time with her family.

  The next morning Lusinda and her aunt lingered over their morning tea and toast. Eugenia read the society column in the Illustrated Times and began to laugh.

  “I knew your appearance would not go unnoted. Listen to this: A music recital held at the Farthington residence ended with great drama. Miss Farthington had barely begun playing a sonata when a commotion interrupted the performance. Several members in the audience claim to have seen a ghost resembling Mrs. Farthington’s drowned niece. By several accounts, the glowing specter pointed a bony finger in the direction of the house before flying off into the night.” Eugenia glanced over her lenses. “I hadn’t realized you had developed the ability to fly, my dear.”

  “At least they didn’t blame the poor girl’s piano talents for raising the dead,” Lusinda mused.

  Portia burst into the room, still in her nightgown, and most agitated. “He’s coming! I saw him from the window. I knew he would come.”

  Aunt Eugenia put the paper down, then tilted her head toward her niece. “Who’s coming, dear?”

  “That man! The one we saw last night. He must be coming to see me.”

  “Well, he can’t very well see you looking like that. You’d best run off and change into something appropriate.”

  “Don’t let him get away!” Portia called as she rushed up the steps.

  Lusinda caught her aunt’s scowl. “What man?”

  “Portia saw someone she fancies last night. I told her the gentleman was far too old for her, but she would have none of it. Surely, you remember how it is when a girl first fancies herself a woman grown?”

  But Lusinda didn’t remember. She’d never had the opportunity to attend functions like the one Portia had the previous evening. Her heroes existed in the books she’d consumed, not the flesh-and-blood models apt to be found at music recitals.

  “She did look lovely,” Lusinda said. “Do you think it’s likely she caught someone’s eye?”

  The door knocker sounded a moment before Portia’s frustrated shriek upstairs.

  “Perhaps, though I hope it’s the eye of someone closer her own age.” Aunt Eugenia rose from the table to answer the door. Curious, Lusinda followed a step or two behind.

  Mr. Ramsden stood outside their door, dressed in a dark morning coat, a striped silk neckcloth, and camel trousers. She could appreciate how he could catch Portia’s eye, or that of any other marriage-minded female, but Lusinda was past the age of swooning over a man based on his looks. Handsome men wanted women to accompany them to soirees and dinners and such. They rarely were content with those that hid from moonlight.

  “Good morning, ladies.” He tipped his hat and bowed respectfully to Aunt Eugenia. “Am I to understand that this is the Havershaw residence?”

  He winked at Lusinda when Aunt Eugenia reached down to capture Shadow, who was bolting for the open door.

  “Yes, it is,” she said, black cat in hand. “May I help you?”

  “I shall be down presently,” Portia’s voice faintly called from the back room upstairs.

  “I was fortunate enough to have made the acquaintance of Miss Havershaw through a mutual friend, and I had hoped to have the pleasure of her company for a walk through the park this morning.”

  Lusinda stepped forward. “Aunt Eugenia, this is Mr. Marcus Ramsden. He’s an acquaintance of Mr. Locke.”

  “Oh, yes, lovely man, Mr. Locke.” She practically pushed Lusinda out the door, “Well then, off you go. Lovely day for a walk.”

  Surprised by her aunt’s actions and the gutteral quality of her voice, Lusinda began to protest. “It’s a bit cool. Perhaps I should get—”

  “Here, take my shawl.” She pulled the woven black material off her shoulders and tossed it toward Lusinda before closing the door. Through an open window upstairs, Lusinda could hear Portia frantically shout. “I’m coming.”

  Ramsden raised a brow. “Shall we?”

  Lusinda wrapped her aunt’s garment around her shoulders and turned to the steps.

  “I believe you’ve made a bit of an impression upon my sister, ” she said as they crossed the street to the park on the other side. “She saw you at the Farthingtons’ last evening.”

  “She did?” His face twisted for a moment, then swiftly settled in a smile. “And you? I would have remembered had you attended the soiree.” Interest lit his eyes. “Now I wonder why your sister attended in your place?”

  “She didn’t really attend in my place . . . It is a rather long and evolved story, Mr. Ramsden.”

  “I’m anxious to hear it, Miss Havershaw.”

  She stopped and searched his face. Something felt wrong about this man’s attention. “Why are you here, sir?”

  He seemed taken aback. “I thought it was a lovely day and I was so impressed by you upon our meeting—”

  “We were barely introduced. I don’t believe we exchanged enough words for you to form an impression one way or another.”

  Challenge flickered briefly in his eyes and his jovial expression dimmed a bit. “Well, I can see why he’s taken with you. You’re a direct woman, Miss Havershaw. You seem to shun the delicious helplessness of the marriage-minded debutantes I’ve escorted of late.”

  His observation stabbed at her, but she hid her irritation. Obviously in Ramsden’s mind she was not “marriageminded, ” which, of course, was far from true. But men preferred to be able to actually see their wives, and so marriage became . . . unobtainable in her case.

  “I admit I was a bit curious,” he said, guiding her along a path that would circumvent a small pond. “I can’t recall Locke ever being so enamored with—”

  “Enamored?” How could anyone think Locke was enamored with her? The only time he would stand near her was when he was angry. He barely smiled unless it was to laugh at her ineptitude.

  “Well, I don’t believe he has invited a woman to his study before. Indeed, I don’t recall ever having seen a woman in his house prior to meeting you there.”

  “You have spent considerable time in Mr. Locke’s residence, then?”

  He looked at her askance. “There was a time when we were . . . inseparable.” His smile returned. “I, however, have been gone of late, as has he. He is a good man, Miss Havershaw, and I heartily recommend him into your company.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ramsden.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. It was a strange experience discussing one man with another. Indeed, her lack of social contacts had made the entire experience of talking to men at all something of an unique experience. This one seemed affable enough, but there was something about his shifting expressions . . . “May I ask, sir, how you managed to locate our town house?”

  His face lit up as if kissed by the sun. “I have my methods to ascertain the residences of attractive ladies in the city.”

  She harrumphed over that notion. Although his lips maintained the smile, some of the humor slipped from his eyes.

  “Actually, I’m surprised I have not made your acquaintance sooner, Miss Havershaw. Are you newly come to London? ”

  She turned her head away from Ramsden’s scrutiny and studied the park. “We’ve been here a year, more or less.”

  “And previous to that time?”

  She snapped her head back to him. “I do not wish to be rude, Mr. Ramsden, but I think it best if I return home. I have certain obligations . . .”

  He bowed slightly. “My sincerest apologies if my questions caused you discomfort. I assure you that was not my intent.”

  She bit her lip. She supposed if he was indeed a close friend of Locke he could be trusted. However, she wasn’t inclined to abandon old habits just yet, at least not with this man. “Nevertheless, I believe we should go back.” She turned purposefully back the way they came.

  “May I call upon you again, Miss
Havershaw?”

  She stopped and regarded him closely. “Did you not just commend me to your longtime friend, Mr. Locke?”

  “I mean to call upon you as a possible friend, Miss Havershaw. I do not harbor amorous advances. If you pursue your acquaintance with James Locke, you may find you have need of a friend in which to confide.”

  “And you propose that I share such confidences with you?” she asked a bit incredulously.

  “If you wish.”

  She could hardly respond that she was more comfortable keeping secrets than sharing confidences. Remembering her manners, she smiled politely. “I shall consider your offer of friendship, Mr. Ramsden, but I ask that you do not call upon me at my aunt’s house.” It was fortunate she happened to be home when he called this morning else her illicit residence with Locke would have been exposed.

  He looked confused. “Then how will I—”

  “My sister, you see, is quite taken with the notion that you fancy her,” she hurried to explain. “Your calls to my aunt’s house can only result in hysterics. If you send a note instead, I’m sure we can arrange a more peaceful communication.” She complimented herself on stepping around an awkward situation.

  “Ah yes, the sister.” He smiled. “You mentioned she was at the Farthingtons’ recital last evening.” He turned and scrutinized her face . “Tell me, Miss Havershaw, do you believe in ghosts?”

  She pulled the shawl off her shoulders. “My, the sun has certainly chased the chill from the air. I believe we’re in for an uncomfortably warm day.” She turned away and hoped her subterfuge explained the sudden warmth in her face. She hurried her steps, wishing she could escape this conversation.

  “Many years ago,” he said, quickening his pace to keep even with her, “I heard rumors that a race of people exist that could appear as a ghost one minute then return to normal flesh the next.”

  She forced a laugh and recalled Locke’s words. “That sounds the stuff of fairy tales,” she replied. “You had struck me as a less fanciful man than that. When my sister told me of the commotion at the Farthingtons’, I replied that a mesmerist had been at work. Surely that would be more believable than a ghost?”

  “You are most likely correct, Miss Havershaw. I’m sure the explanation was right there beneath our noses. Still, I recently heard a learned man tell of something similar.”

  “A learned man?”

  “Yes. I met a Doctor Kavarzin at a club gathering not so long ago. I must admit my first reaction to his tale was like yours, a bit incredulous. However, after the Farthington affair, I wonder if I might have been hasty in my conclusion.”

  He smiled tightly before he tipped his hat and departed, leaving her wondering if he had recognized her as the Farthingtons’ ghost. A shiver tripped down Lusinda’s spine. Doctor Kavarzin, the man who offered a reward for anyone producing one of the Nevidimi, was in London. Although her need for caution was ever present, the so-called doctor made it more so.

  She watched Mr. Ramsden hail a passing hackney cab. Though he appeared to lack assuredness of her abilities, if he was familiar with Kavarzin and the existence of the Nevidimi, then Mr. Ramsden could pose a future difficulty.

  However, contemplating that possibility soon dimmed in light of the reality of family conflict. Upon her return, she discovered Portia waited just inside the door.

  “Must you ruin everything? The first man who looks my way comes to call and you steal him just like the thief that you are.”

  Lusinda was about to respond, but her sister would not tolerate any interruption to her list of injustices. Crossing her arms defiantly across her chest, Portia ignored her aunt, who had bustled up from the back of the house. “I can’t go anywhere because of you,” she whined. “We can’t stay anywhere long enough to make acquaintances because of you. The first social function to which I’m invited is ruined because of you. If no one ever calls on me again, it will be because of you.”

  “Portia, Mr. Ramsden was not interested in—”

  “Did you tell him you’re taking money from another?” Portia leaned forward, her face twisted in an evil scowl, the like Lusinda had never seen. “I don’t believe you’re a governess, not for a single minute. We couldn’t afford all these new things on a servant’s wages.”

  The blood rushed from Lusinda’s face, horrified by the things her sister implied.

  “You shouldn’t say such vile things—” Eugenia tried to calm Portia.

  “Just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re about,” Portia raged. “No one wants you to care for children. No man wants you for a wife. No one wants you!”

  She reached to her neck to the strand of pearls that she had failed to remove from the prior evening. She tugged hard, breaking the string. Fat white orbs clattered to the floor, bouncing and rolling haphazardly every which way.

  “Oh dear,” Aunt Eugenia said, scooping up loose pearls at her feet.

  “Portia, those were Mother’s,” Lusinda said aghast. “How could you?”

  Portia’s face puckered, tears ran down her cheeks. “If it weren’t for you, they would have been mine.”

  She ran from the room, then pounded up the stairs.

  Lusinda sunk to her hands and knees, brought low by her sister’s venomous attack. Her hand shook as she tried to corral one runaway pearl, but her tear-blurred vision made even that simple task unmanageable.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s saying, child. She’s just a headstrong girl,” Eugenia soothed, dropping the gathered pearls into the gray serge nest of her lap. “The pearls can be restrung.”

  “It’s not the pearls,” Lusinda replied, unsuccessfully trying to sniff back the tears. “She hates me. She thinks horrible things of me.”

  Eugenia reached over and pulled Lusinda into her embrace. The two women slipped into a sway, allowing the calming motion to soften the pain.

  Eugenia patted Lusinda’s back. “You won’t allow me to tell her the truth. What’s the poor girl to think?”

  Indeed. Even when she tried to take precautions to keep the stain of scandal from her family’s doorstep, it seemed to creep in through the window.

  “Hush now,” her aunt said. “Everything will resolve itself in due time. She’ll come to understand that she’s judged you harshly. Give her time.”

  Time. With Locke already aware of her abilities, and another harboring suspicions, Lusinda wasn’t sure how much time she had to give.

  “Perhaps it’s best if I just go.” Lusinda pushed back from the comforting embrace. She thought of the sepia-toned postcard she’d once received from far across the sea. “If I left for America, Portia would be content and there wouldn’t be the threat of exposure.”

  “Nor would there be a bite to eat in this house,” her aunt added. “I don’t believe Mr. Locke would be quite as generous with his funds if you were gone.”

  “Don’t go, Sinda. Don’t go.” Rhea left her perch at the top of the stairs and ran down to hug Lusinda. “You belong here. Stay.”

  Lusinda looked to her aunt for assistance, but none was forthcoming. No matter what course of action she took, someone ended in tears. Someone in addition to herself. Perhaps Locke was correct. It had been a bad idea to return home.

  IF HE WASN’T CAREFUL, HIS PACING WOULD WEAR A PATH in Kensington’s carpet. She was late—again! His anxiety would be lessened, of course, if he hadn’t instructed his man not to follow her as per their agreement. Trust. What a fool he’d been to propose they learn to trust one another. Of course at the time he was trying to impress upon her that he was trustworthy, not the other way around.

  His gaze settled again on the society page where the details of the Farthington fiasco suggested a ghost was on the loose. Of course, he had recognized those striking eyes and that handsome neck immediately. Lusinda. What the hell was she thinking, traipsing about London as iridescent as a . . . a . . . bloody glow worm!

  He scowled, wondering once more if Lusinda’s surprise introduction to
London society in her other-worldly appearance was the final straw to cause her to relocate her family. He was fairly certain her aunt would convince her to stay; after all, he was paying a goodly sum to keep Lusinda’s family content. She wouldn’t find that arrangement elsewhere. However, he’d feel more confident about her willingness to stay if he hadn’t been treating Lusinda abysmally of late. Surely she must realize he was pushing her for her own good. He was perhaps a harsh taskmaster, but he had to be.

  He poured a bit of brandy in a glass and lifted it absently to his lips. Midway he stopped, noting the liquid sloshing violently in rhythm with his hand tremors, reminding him again of his purpose.

  “Your cousin has returned, sir,” Pickering announced from the door. Locke quickly placed the glass on the desk and slid his hand behind his back before raising his glance.

  “You’re late, Miss Havershaw,” he said, involuntarily drawing a deep breath. His eyes closed briefly as he sampled her unique scent.

  “I do not recall a prearranged time for my return,” she replied, entering the room. In her pink silk day dress and straw hat, she looked as fresh as an English rose. Her tone, however, implied prickly thorns. He squinted to see her expression but a lace veil obscured his view. “I said I would see you again and here I am.”

  “And do you recall that we have a mission to accomplish? ” he grumbled, effectively suppressing his relief at seeing her in his doorway. “We’ve lost valuable time when you could have been practicing. You’ve still to successfully unlock a safe.”

  “You’re angry because I did not return earlier?”

  He mentally stumbled a moment, surprised at her reaction. “Of course I’m angry that you didn’t immediately return. ” He thought of the silence in the house last night: the lack of laughter; the lack of conversation; the lack, in short, of her. Before meeting her, he didn’t mind being alone, preferred it even. Now, the solitude felt oppressive. “I had expected to find you here when I returned from that Farthington affair. But you weren’t here, not at all, not even so much as that wretched black cat.”

  She averted her gaze. “I had thought to use the time to reacquaint myself with my family.”