Moonlight Mist

by Laura London

  For a moment Lynden was thrown off balance, torn between her desire to keep Melbrooke in the dark about the incident and her need to maintain her precarious imposture as an amateur archeologist in Lord Crant’s vision. She waved her hand distractedly in the air before her as though magically erasing Crant’s words, and said forcefully, if rather obscurely, “What a joke-smith you are, My Lord! Indeed, I’ll not reply in kind—’tis too, too unfitting to talk of such at a ball! But we noticed on our way in that you’ve lighting on the castle walls. At once you must escort me to your oriel windows so that I can admire the prospect from this height!”

  Lord Crant showed himself all compliance, but as he led her across the crowded floor on his arm, he bent toward her, regarding her with those strange eyes that on him seemed so unnatural and on Kyler so attractive. “So,” he said, raising one quizzical eyebrow, “Justin doesn’t know that you’ve been playing under my castle walls. I thought not. It’s very prudent of you not to tell him, my delight. I think he might not like it.”

  “What an imagination you have!” said Lynden, now in better command of herself. “Lorraine and I were only painting outside the castle walls. Why should that disturb anyone?”

  Crant scanned her with a cool smile. “It shouldn’t, of course—so long as you were only painting.”

  “But naturally. What else?” said Lynden, all the time aware that wedged between the stays of her light damask whalebone corset was the skeleton key she had received from Kyler.

  Lorraine and Lynden had planned to slip away from the ballroom at some auspicious moment to explore the locked tower in the east wall that Crant had pointed out to them in their first visit. It was Lynden’s vaguely optimistic hope that Crant’s having ordered the tower locked meant that there might be something in it that he wished to hide. But even the anticipation of this risky operation had no positive effect on Lynden’s enjoyment of the ball.

  It was a large affair, at least by Lynden’s standard, with more than one hundred couples. The guest book glittered with the distinguished names from the highest ranks of nobility and celebrity that Lady Silvia could either find sojourning through winter in the immediate county or import from surrounding counties. The aristocracy, present in great numbers, found themselves in the company of an important playwright, four of the nation’s leading poets, a lady novelist lately receiving recognition from the Prince Regent himself, a major portrait painter, and a scattering of up-and-coming Whig politicians. It was a level of society Lynden had never dreamed of entering, and yet she saw that even the most august of these persons greeted her husband with deference and warm affection. They talked intimately of his family—his mother, father, seven brothers and sisters, and many cousins—all of whom were unknown to Lynden; they also discussed his writing, of which Lynden knew little. Each of these illustrious personages seemed to know him more intimately than she, his wife, and it was clear that this company would have thronged Fern Court had it not been Melbrooke’s season to seclude himself with his work.

  Of course, it was not that Lynden was ignored. In fact, she received a great deal of attention. Lord Melbrooke’s marriage was news to no one, for it had been the occasion for much lively speculative interest. His acquaintances met Lynden with a flattering mixture of friendliness and curiosity, but clearly their kindness was for Melbrooke’s sake. Lynden was aware that they were wondering why, after remaining a bachelor until twenty-eight, Melbrooke had suddenly committed himself in marriage to this rustic teenager of squirearchy birth and with no talent, no fortune, and little seasoning. And more galling, there was a caution in their efforts to be nice to her, as though it was tacitly assumed that her tender age and country upbringing had left her unprepared to fathom sophisticated conversation.

  It was eleven and three-quarters before Lynden was able to steal away, meeting Lorraine in an upstairs ladies’ cloakroom.

  “What took you so long?” demanded Lynden. She had sent the young maidservant to fetch their cloaks after purchasing her discretion with an extravagant tip.

  “I couldn’t help it,” answered Lorraine. “It was Ottmar Wishke. He cornered me to talk about his pedometer.”

  “His what?”

  “His new pedometer watch. Besides telling the time, it records the distance walked if one carries it on one’s person when taking a constitutional—which he has been doing daily, and he heartily recommends its benefits to me.”

  “Foppery!” said Lynden severely. “I’m surprised you would sit and listen to such stuff when there’s work to be done! Ah, here are the coats. Grab yours and follow me.”

  They threaded their way down the stairs, unnoticed in the commotion created by scurrying waiters, resting musicians, maidservants, and trysting couples. They stopped at a landing to pick up the filled and burning oil lamp the bribed housemaid had left for them. “I think she believes we were going to meet some gentlemen,” said Lynden, giggling. Then it was out into the chill night air, past the Elizabethan garden, past the apex of the triangular courtyard to the locked tower near the east wall.

  They left the walk after a quick survey of the area, and Lorraine held the lamp, shielding its light with her body, while Lynden reached under her bodice, removing the nettling key with a gasp of relief. In the courtyard there were a few strolling refugees from the activity inside the house, but the twins were shielded by the looming shadow of the tower, alone with the flat odor of cold stone and the pungent reek of the stables. Sounds of laughter, and a few discordant notes played by the musicians as they tuned their instruments for another set, drifted out to them from the Great Tower rising at their backs like a giant kiln, spangled with light. An indistinct babble of servants’ talk emanated from the kitchens, mingling with the lovely scent of baking pastry. Lynden fussed with the key in the rusty lock for a few moments before it clicked open; at the same instant a party from the tower drew dangerously near, so near that certain phrases of conversation could be heard, as well as the scrape of footsteps on the walk.

  “Someone’s coming!” said Lynden. She pushed Lorraine and the lantern into the dark interior of the tower, and followed her, closing the door behind them as quickly and quietly as she could. They stood in silence as Lorraine lifted the lantern high, causing a wide circle of dim yellow light to spread about the place. Dusty, dark cobwebs laden liberally with fly carcasses hung in the corners like a petrified mist, and a bat, barely seen, fluttered across the top reaches of the light. A staircase spiraled up and around the wall—a staircase made impassable by the gaping cavities and broken boards appearing at too frequent intervals. There had been a second story to the place, as evidenced by a skeletal framework of cross-beams over the girls’ heads; but what had been the floor of that story was lying in a musty, spiky jumble of planks and fallen masonry. A star winked far above through the slit of a window, and the wind whistled tunelessly through a crack in the far wall, a crack that reached from the ground up into oblivion and appeared large enough to put one’s hand through.

  Lynden picked up her skirts and walked gingerly forward into the mess, lost her footing on a broken board, and put her hand out to catch her balance on an old gray upright beam, which promptly gave way under her meager weight and fell with a grinding, hollow crash into the rubble. A shower of grime and small stones fell from the darkness above them, accompanied by a large chunk of masonry.

  “What a miserable, rubbishing place!” exclaimed Lynden, coughing and shaking the dust from her cloak. “Trust Crant to have something like this on his property.” She gave a disgusted sigh. “One thing, anyway: We can depend upon it that Lady Irmingarde never hid anything in here, or she’d have been toppled by falling masonry.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” responded her sister with resignation. “I tried to tell you, Lynden, but you’ll never listen to anyone. What could this ruined tower have to do with a poem about spring flowers? And as I’ve told you about thirty times, it can’t be the ‘roofless tower’ in the Robert Burns poem because you can see clearl
y that it has a roof. Furthermore, Crant couldn’t have ordered this tower locked if he suspected that Lady Irmingarde might have hidden Kyler’s documents here, because Lord Crant knows nothing about Lady Irmingarde’s clue. If he did, he wouldn’t have left it in the mausoleum box for us to find. And you can see for yourself, Lynden, the mess in here hasn’t been cleared for centuries. If Lord Crant suspected any material dangerous to him was here, he would have had the place cleared and searched.”

  “I hope you’re not turning into one of those horrid people who are forever telling one ‘I told you so,’ Rainey. Besides, as I told you, if one is going to solve a mystery, one has to explore all the possibilities, no matter how unlikely.”

  “Very well, but we’ve explored this one enough,” said Lorraine, reaching for the door handle. “Let’s return before we’re missed.” She rattled the handle and pushed against the door. “Lynden, get out your skeleton key—I think the door has locked behind us… Lynnie, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Lorraine. Just push harder on the door. It will open. Here, let me try.” Lynden had no better success, and after a bit leaned her back on the door, muscles sore from pushing, panting slightly from the effort.

  Lorraine stared at her sister. “Lynden, what have you done with the skeleton key?”

  “I haven’t done anything with it. I must have dropped it outside when you rushed us in here so quickly.”

  “I rushed us in here so quickly?”

  “Oh, very well, then, I rushed us in here,” said Lynden. “Recriminations won’t help matters any. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”

  “I might have said so,” agreed Lorraine tartly, “but that was before I was locked in a batty belfry by my sister. How do you propose to get us out?”

  “What a question—as though there were a hundred ways,” said Lynden. “We are going to bang on the door until someone comes and unlocks it for us.” She hammered her fists on the door, then pressed her ear to its oaken thickness and listened for a reply. She repeated this procedure three more times before she finally heard female voices outside, voices thick with North Country accents.

  “Help, let us out!” she cried, banging forcefully against the door. A second passed; the outside voices became shrill, and there was the sound of running feet.

  “What did they say?” asked Lorraine.

  “They said,” replied Lynden, “ ‘Lord save us, ’tis ghoulies and bogies in the Old Tower!’ ”

  Moments went by before heavier footsteps and deeper voices came, muffled but audible even to Lorraine, though not one directly approached the door. The jumble of noise seemed to hover indistinctly outside, until a particularly weighty bass overwhelmed the general grumbling current.

  “Ought to fetch the parson,” boomed the voice authoritatively. “Happen it could be a demon in ’ere.”

  “Stupid, ignorant…” muttered Lynden. She raised her voice and called loudly, “You out there! Fetch the key and open this door!”

  An excited gasp flickered through the crowd outside. “It spoke, it spoke!” came a cracked, adolescent pipe.

  “It speaks with a woman’s tongue,” blurted another voice.

  “A witch!”

  “ ’Tis the Witch Woman of Wetherian!”

  “Get back from the door! It may try to get out!”

  “You superstitious boobies! Of course we’re trying to get out!” screamed Lynden, banging on the door with a piece of broken masonry. “And I’m not the Witch Woman of Whatever. I’m the Witch Woman of Fern Court… no, I mean, Lady Melbrooke!”

  There was more exclamatory murmuring outside.

  Lynden groaned. “What a to-do, Raine. The stables and cookhouse must have emptied out there.”

  From outside came another voice. “Someone fetch Lord Crant! Fetch Lord Crant!”

  “No,” screamed Lorraine and Lynden together. “Don’t fetch Lord Crant!”

  Lynden pressed her ear to the door and then leaned against it, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “It’s too late—I can hear someone going.” Lynden sat down on a bristling split plank, disregarding her beautiful satin evening cloak, and put her face in her hands.

  Someone, doubtless a brave soul, was standing very near the door and muttering a sporadic, quavering incantation: “Bogie woogle, leave our lives, go to where the devil thrives.”

  “Idiots,” said Lynden through clenched teeth.

  The external murmuring rose again. “Lord Crant’s coming—with Lady Silvia,” came a voice. “And Lord Melbrooke himself is with ’em.”

  “That’s it. I’m finished,” stated Lynden flatly through her palms. Lorraine patted her on the head.

  Lord Crant’s cultured tones responded to a thickly accented male voice. “Yes, yes, Rob, I know. Take those pitchforks back into the stables. And the rest of you, go back about your business. Do you think I pay you to stand around exchanging ghost stories?”

  There was a protest, a wheedling explanation.

  “I won’t be needing any help at all,” replied Crant. “There’s nothing supernatural behind this door.” There was a tramp of receding footsteps.

  A key turned in the lock; the door opened, revealing Lynden, head buried dejectedly under her arms, and Lorraine, eyes blinking into the bright light of the lantern carried by Lord Crant, who stood in the doorway behind Melbrooke. After three heartbeats of silence, Lynden looked up directly into the cold gray eyes of her husband.

  The long metallic shape of the skeleton key dully caught the light, as it lay in the dust at Crant’s feet. He bent to pick it up, and flipped it in his lantern-free hand, then held it still and examined it with great interest.

  “This must be yours, Lady Melbrooke,” he said softly, handing her the key. He then turned to Melbrooke, and drawled, “One regards with awe, my dear Justin, the myriad accomplishments of your young bride.”

  It was a silent coach ride back to Fern Court. Lord Melbrooke preserved a grim, if courteous, demeanor. As they were pulling into the carriageway, he turned to Lynden and, in a conversational tone, requested a moment with her in his study. Lynden and Lorraine exchanged apprehensive glances. Lorraine worriedly bit her lip, but Lynden shrugged her shoulders nervously, kissed Lorraine good night, and followed her husband into the study, her nose defiantly in the air.

  Melbrooke closed the door behind her, but did not offer her a seat.

  Lynden spoke first. “I suppose you want an explanation of why Lorraine and I were in that tower.”

  “What I want and what I expect are two different things. You had no explanation for Lord Crant. Why should I think you would have one now? Unless you’ve thought on the way home of some weak fabrication you’d like to offer,” he said, a definite restraint in his voice.

  “I had,” Lynden admitted candidly. “But there’s no point in saying it now because you’re obviously not disposed to believe it.”

  “You may be a rogue, my dear, but at least you’re an honest one,” said Melbrooke wearily. “But you can’t expect me to play Friar Tuck to your Robin Hood without telling me who you’ve cast as the Sheriff of Nottingham. If it’s Lord Crant, as I suspect, Lynden, it won’t do. I’ve told you that before. You have quite a propensity to cheerfully ignore my most reasonably offered advice. What amazes me, though, is that just when I think you’ve gone as far as you possibly can, you initiate still more ill-conceived escapades in the furtherance of some scheme you are unable to confide. Tonight, though, was the last.”

  “The last?” said Lynden with trepidation. “Justin, you wouldn’t do anything horrid, would you?”

  “It’s not a question of doing anything horrid, Lynden. It’s a question of exercising my responsibility for you. You are only seventeen, and whatever you’re up to, if it involves Crant, it can’t continue. Don’t be deceived that because Crant is an acquaintance of mine—an acquaintanceship formed before I had any idea of marrying—I think he is a safe subject for your petty intrigue, whatever it is. Sometimes I find him an interest
ing companion, but there is nothing admirable about his principles. Without sullying your ears with any details, let me assure you that he can behave in ways regardless of the normal sensibilities. I won’t ask you again to confide in me. If you had intended to, you would have done so by now.” Melbrooke turned and walked to the window, gazing out to the stables where the grooms were walking the steaming horses, the burning rush lights glistening off the sweating equine musculature. He spoke, still looking out the window. “Lynden, I am ordering Mrs. Coniston to begin packing tomorrow morning, and the day after we will leave for Melbrooke Court in Buckinghamshire.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “If only there was some way to get a message to Kyler,” said Lynden, for the fifth time that day. The twins were sitting on the piano bench in the music room, Lynden with her back to the piano, Lorraine facing the piano with her arms crossed on the closed cover. It was twilight, the day after Lady Silvia’s ball, and the day before their precipitously scheduled trip to Buckinghamshire. The candelabra sent soft, dusky flickers of peach glimmer in an indistinct oval around the girls, causing the fabric of their dresses to flow and shine. The bodice of Lynden’s soft pink gown was embroidered with roses; Lorraine’s dress was an attractive creation in blue-bell blue, matching the ribbon that tied back her hair.

  “There’s no way to send one,” answered Lorraine with gentle desolation in her soft, brown eyes. “And Lord Melbrooke told you that we are forbidden to leave the house unaccompanied.”