Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  Did Lincoln expect me to wear such a fine piece around the house? He must, or it wouldn't hold scissors and thimble. Either he had no idea what housekeepers' chatelaines ought to be made of, or he was making a statement of his wealth for everyone to see. The thing was, Lichfield received few callers, so who would see it?

  I placed the chatelaine back in the box and hopped to my crutches. I hurried to get dressed in my maid's uniform then attached the chatelaine to my waistband with shaking fingers. The silver flashed against the stark black, improving the entire outfit.

  But a quick glance in the dressing table mirror confirmed that it was much too fine. Why had he given me a gift that I couldn't wear? I removed it and returned it to the box.

  With a sigh, I headed to his rooms. At least now I had an excuse to speak with him in private.

  Chapter 2

  Lincoln wasn't in his rooms, and I found him in the library instead. He sat in one of the chairs at the central table, his back to me, his head bent over a book. Several tomes lay before him, some open. He didn't look up, so I snuck quietly behind him to see what he was working on. It appeared to be a journal, but the loose, flowing script was difficult to read.

  "Good morning, Lincoln." I wasn't sure if my use of his first name would earn me a smile or admonishment, but I used it anyway. I refused to call him Mr. Fitzroy in private after that kiss.

  "Good morning, Charlie. You're up late." He finally stood and faced me. He was dressed casually in trousers and shirt, and wore no waistcoat or tie. His gaze slipped to my waist, where he perhaps expected to see the chatelaine. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed that I didn't wear it.

  I tried to peer past him at the books, but his impressive frame blocked my view. It would seem I wasn't welcome to peek. "What are you doing?"

  "Reading a journal." He leaned back against the table in what would have been a relaxed stance, except his hands gripped the edge so hard that his knuckles turned white.

  "May I sit with you? These crutches become painful after a while."

  He hesitated and I imagined him warring with himself. Eventually the gentleman won out and he nodded. "You shouldn't be up and about."

  "I wouldn't be, except that it seems if I wish to talk to you, I must make the effort. You've been avoiding me."

  He pulled out a chair for me beside his and steered me toward it with a hand to my elbow. "If I were avoiding you, I wouldn't be speaking to you now."

  "I did sneak up on you, cutting off an early escape."

  "I heard you. Crutches are not made for sneaking."

  "I'll keep that in mind if an opportunity for eavesdropping presents itself."

  "If I wanted to escape, I could have."

  "Then why do you look as if you want to be anywhere but here with me?"

  He whirled around and stalked toward the door. I was much too shocked at his behavior to even squeak a protest. All I could do was stare at his broad back with my mouth open. I snapped it shut when he turned to me after closing the door. I'd mistaken the intention of his purposeful stride. He'd only wanted to insure privacy for our conversation. That boded well. At least the conversation had the potential to go beyond simply discussing Andrew Buchanan's journal.

  "Is there something I can do for you?" he asked, taking his seat once more. He picked up the journal and perused the page.

  "I wanted to thank you for the gift."

  "You're welcome."

  "Why did you give it to me?"

  "Housekeepers have chatelaines for their keys and other things."

  "Not silver ones made by one of London's finest jewelers."

  He said nothing.

  "Thank you, it was very generous. But a gentleman shouldn't buy his housemaid gifts."

  "Considering you're more than a housemaid, I thought to make an exception."

  "More than?" I asked, my voice breathy.

  "A ministry employee. Her Majesty's necromancer. An overworked housekeeper, housemaid, scullery maid and more besides."

  But not his lover. I swallowed heavily. "A plainer one would suffice. I'll have Seth collect it from my rooms and give it back to you."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I don't want it back. Wear it or not, I do not care. Sell it, if you prefer. It's yours to do with as you wish."

  Sell it? He was joking, surely.

  "Is there anything else?" he asked, still not looking at me.

  "Yes. You can stop treating me like just another member of your household staff."

  "You are a member of my household staff. I treat you all the same."

  "Oh? You're kissing Seth and Gus too?"

  He closed the journal and set it aside. His hand flattened over the stamped leather cover, and his finger traced the top edge back and forth, back and forth. "We should have spoken about that…incident earlier. I'm sorry, but it cannot happen again."

  It was as I expected, yet hearing it put so bluntly felt like a body blow. His capacity to switch off his emotions and speak with utter blandness was boundless. It was a long time before I could trust my voice not to quaver.

  "I see. Am I to receive an explanation as to why?"

  "You know why." His quiet mumble hardly reached me although we were not sitting all that far apart.

  "Perhaps I do, but I'd like to hear you say it." Making him feel uncomfortable was the only weapon in my arsenal. It was pathetic, but it was my only hope for a triumph of any kind, and I was sorely in need of just a little win.

  His finger stilled. He turned toward me. "I cannot wed you, Charlie, and I will not bed you. You are too…young to be ruined."

  My heart pinched. "Ah. I see. The vicar's daughter, fallen on hard times, is not good enough for the son of a gentleman."

  His gaze skewered me. His hand curled into a fist on the book "You think I care for society conventions?"

  My own gaze faltered. "I…is that not what you meant? Not that I was expecting a proposal after just one kiss, but I do see how a gentleman—albeit one of dubious morals—would think that I did." Stop babbling, Charlie.

  "No," he growled. "That's not what I meant. Must I spell it out to you?"

  I lifted my chin. "It would seem I'm a little slow to grasp your meaning. It must be because I'm too young to understand it."

  He grunted. "Your wit is as sharp as ever, I see."

  "Your avoidance in answering is as obvious as ever."

  He sprang to his feet, making my already restless nerves jump. "You think I'm enjoying this?"

  "I don't know. It's sometimes difficult to tell what you think." Our gazes locked in a brutal clash that was both thrilling and disturbing. I was caught between wanting to slap his cheek and kiss him senseless. I grabbed his hand, trapping it. "Tell me, Lincoln. Tell me why you would kiss me with such tenderness and passion then abandon me." I had hoped to appear defiant, controlled, but my trembling betrayed me.

  He looked down at our linked hands and expelled a measured breath that seemed to expunge some of his anger along with it. "Because it's better I abandon you now and not later."

  I tightened my grip. "Why would you abandon me at all?"

  He snatched his hand away and strode to the fireplace. He stood with his back to me, one forearm resting on the enormous marble mantel. "It's not in my nature to be the man you wish me to be. The man you deserve."

  "Oh, Lincoln." I sighed and stood on my good foot. "Why not let me be the judge of that?"

  He slapped his hand against the mantel, startling me into plopping down on the chair. He stalked back to me, all predator again; a sleek and powerful animal that was both beautiful and dangerous, and utterly compelling. It never ceased to amaze me that he could switch from perfect gentleman to beast within the blink of an eye.

  He stood over me, a powerful, raging force trapped inside thick, impenetrable walls. "You romanticize me. You defend my actions and tell yourself that I've been forced to commit the sins I have. That's why. But the truth is, I am not capable of selflessness or compassi
on, and I am certainly not capable of love. I'm a tool, honed to do one thing—lead the Ministry of Curiosities—using whatever methods are at my disposal, no matter how immoral or illegal. Expect more of me than that and you will be disappointed."

  I felt as if all the air had been sucked out of me. I sank into the chair, a deflated, empty balloon. Not even tears welled. This man was so different to the one who'd kissed me that I began to wonder if he was right, that I had romanticized him. That he wasn't the man I'd hoped he could be.

  "The kiss was a moment of weakness on my part," he said, voice cooler. "You are not to blame." He turned away and headed for the door with giant strides.

  "You could have bedded me, Lincoln." I was surprised to hear how steady my voice sounded, but even more surprised at the conviction behind my words. Yet I suddenly felt very strongly about what I wanted to say, and I would shout it at him if he continued to walk away. Fortunately, he stopped before opening the library door, but he did not turn around. "You had ample opportunity that night and since, and I would not have put up any resistance beyond what is expected of a well brought up young woman. Yet you chose not to. You chose to protect my honor. What's more, you haven't blamed my lowly position for your rejection, but taken all the blame upon yourself. The amoral man you describe would have done neither of those things."

  For one heart-pounding moment I thought it had worked. I thought he was going to come back to me and beg my forgiveness for his cruel words. But he did not. He reached for the doorknob.

  "You're a coward, Lincoln. Your feelings trouble you and you don't know how to—"

  "ENOUGH!"

  My scalp prickled. A cold chill crept into my bones and settled there.

  He regarded me from beneath long black lashes, the muscles in his face rigid with fury. I swallowed. I'd gone too far this time. My hot temper had often caused me problems, and this time I'd let it off the leash for too long. I prayed I had not done irreparable damage.

  "I'm a man of my word, Charlie, and that is perhaps the only admirable trait you can lay at my feet. I will do what I can to protect you, because I promised to do so. I will endure your presence here because you have nowhere else to go. But more than that, I cannot offer."

  Endure? Is that what I was to him? A thing to be endured, like a dull lecture? Had I got him so completely wrong after all, and he did not have tender feelings for me?

  How would I even know for sure? I'd thought I did from that kiss, but it seemed I'd been wrong. I couldn't trust my instincts when it came to Lincoln.

  He jerked open the door and left me alone with my misery and confusion. His footsteps were so light that I couldn't tell in which direction he went, but the front door opened and closed so he must have gone outside.

  I swiped at my damp eyes and gathered my frayed nerves together. It was good to have it out with him. I needed to know where I stood. Knowing was better than wondering and hoping.

  Yet it was not the outcome I'd hoped for. Not even close. I'd been a fool to expect anything at all from a man such as Lincoln, but that didn't make me feel any better. Hope could turn even a sensible girl into a silly one.

  "Charlie?" Seth's voice startled me, even though I'd been staring at the doorway. He inched into the library, Gus and Cook crowding behind him. Their concerned faces left me in no doubt they'd heard at least part of our exchange.

  "Fitzroy shouted," Gus said with a glance over his shoulder.

  "We ain't never heard him shout before," Cook added. "Usually he don't need to shout to get his point across."

  "It would seem I was a little slow in grasping his point," I said wryly. "We had an argument."

  "About?"

  "A private matter."

  "Charlie, be careful." Seth passed me the crutches. "If you push him into a corner, he will fight to get out and not care who is in his path. Even you."

  Gus patted my shoulder. "Best to avoid him when he's in a temper. Just get out of his way and take cover, next time."

  "I disagree," I said hotly. My own temper was still simmering near the surface, despite the heaviness in my heart. I felt as if I hadn't quite got my point across to Lincoln, and that only frustrated me more. "It's when he's in a temper that he should be confronted. It seems to be the only time he speaks the truth. I prefer it to the cool mask he presents at other times."

  Seth shook his head. "I don't know whether that makes you a fool or very brave."

  "A brave fool?" I looked down at the books and papers gathered from Andrew Buchanan's rooms.

  "Just be careful. I wouldn't put it past him to remove you from Lichfield."

  My head almost swiveled off my neck to look at him. "Because I challenge him when he's in a temper?"

  "No, because he thinks getting you away from here, from him, would be for your own benefit."

  "Or that of the ministry," Gus added with a shrug, as if he were apologizing for placing the ministry alongside me in Lincoln's scale of importance.

  I stared at them. "I'll keep that in mind."

  Cook kissed my cheek rather sweetly. "I'll bake scones to have with your tea later."

  Seth rolled his eyes. "I think this is beyond the work of your scones."

  Cook scowled at him and left the library. I asked the other two to stay. "Have you seen these?" I indicated the array on the table.

  "No." Gus pulled a book closer to read the title. "Death ain't spoken to us about Buchanan, yet. Maybe he don't want to involve us, seeing as it's a Lady H family matter."

  Seth picked up the journal Lincoln had been reading and flipped the pages. "He just left them here with you?"

  "Perhaps that wasn't his intention," I said, "but after storming out, he couldn't retrieve them without swallowing a little of his pride."

  "We shouldn't touch them then."

  "Or perhaps we should look through them."

  Seth grinned. He and Gus sat around the table, and I resumed my position on the chair and scooped a stack of slender books toward me. They seemed old, going by their worn hide covers. The spine of one was stitched and the thick pages protected with two blank boards, front and back. It was beautifully illustrated inside, the gold of the initial lettering shining against the yellowing parchment. It smelled earthy too, as if it had been secreted away underground for centuries.

  It was written in an old style, but I was able to gather the general meaning. The book was about witches and spells, but I wasn't sure how much of it was real and how much simply stories, made up by non-supernaturals, to explain strange phenomena. Lincoln would probably know.

  Lincoln. I hadn't thought about him, or our argument—or kiss—for almost five minutes. Keeping my mind occupied was clearly a good way to blank him out. I must continue to keep busy.

  Gus interrupted me to show me some objects he'd found in a small wooden box. The box and its contents were the only things in the collection that weren't books or papers.

  "Jewelry," Gus said, holding up a star-shaped pendent hanging from a worn leather strip. "And not quality, neither. Not for a fancy toff like Buchanan."

  "Not jewelry; charms." Seth swiveled the journal he'd been reading to show us. Each charm's likeness had been sketched onto a page with artistic skill. The diagrams were labeled with what appeared to be explanations of each particular charm's power. The star was supposed to ward off illness.

  It reminded me of the eye pendent I'd found in Lincoln's room. His charm protected the wearer against spells cast by someone with the evil eye. The pendent had come from Lincoln's mother, whom he'd never met and knew very little about. He didn't know that I'd discovered it was gypsy in origin.

  "What else does that journal say?" I signaled for Seth to bring it closer so we could both study it.

  He moved around to my side of the table and flipped to the beginning. "It belonged to Lord Harcourt—"

  "Lord Harcourt? I thought it was Andrew Buchanan's journal."

  He pointed to the lines written in an elegant looping hand on the front page. "Warren Buc
hanan, third Baron Harcourt, is the late Lord Harcourt, not the present one."

  "Lady H's husband," Gus added, craning his neck to see. "What's it say then? Anythin' about his courtin' her ladyship?"

  "If you mean does he describe climbing through her window to ravish her, then no. It's not that kind of journal." Seth leafed forward through the pages. "It's more of a random collection of information, perhaps designed to jog his memory. There are hastily scribbled verses and quotes, for example, and several sketches of the supernatural objects contained in that box. Names and dates for appointments, addresses, and what appear to be the odds of runners at Royal Ascot and the like. Our committee members feature heavily." He tapped an entry near the middle of the book.

  "General Registry Office,'" I read. Below the page's heading was a list of names and years, written in different ink each time. The script grew scratchy and thin toward the end. "'Marchbank '77. Harcourt '78. Gillingham '79. I think it's a list of which committee member was to be alerted if certain public records were accessed at the General Registry Office."

  Both men stared at me.

  I cleared my throat. "I have some experience with the triggers set there. General Eastbrooke isn't listed, I see."

  "He would have been posted overseas during those years," Seth said. "He hasn't been retired long."

  He pointed out some more entries that could be attributed to ministry business. I slapped my hand down at the first sighting of Lincoln's name, halting his progress. There was no date associated with it, but it did mention Lichfield Towers. Underneath was a sketch of the house itself. The entry was very close to the final pages of the entire journal.