by Jen Turano
“I’m afraid not, as I was, again, thinking I was about to lose a few limbs.” She looked to the right and found the other two dogs racing away toward the forest, but before she could ask what their names were, Montresor slid to the ground and yipped out a greeting. Looking around to see who, or what, was about to join them, she saw Abigail strolling her way, not appearing to be in any hurry, which was odd, since Abigail had elected herself Lucetta’s chaperone. Chaperones didn’t usually allow unknown gentlemen to get anywhere near their . . .
“Thank goodness you’re not dead, my dear,” Abigail began, stopping a few feet away from Lucetta. “I was certain you were going to drown when you went into the moat the first time, given that you were wearing such a heavy coat. But wasn’t it just so fortunate that my grandson was there to jump in and rescue you?”
The reason behind the lack of urgency in Abigail getting to Lucetta immediately became clear. Shooting a glance to the man she’d assumed was the gardener—although the quality of his shirt should have been an indication he was nothing of the sort—Lucetta turned back to Abigail. “This is your grandson?”
Abigail sent her a less than subtle wink. “Too right he is.”
To Lucetta’s absolute relief, the grandson in question stepped forward before Abigail had an opportunity to begin waxing on about what a dish her grandson had turned out to be, a subject that would have embarrassed Lucetta no small amount, and probably the grandson as well.
“Grandmother, this is certainly an unexpected surprise,” the man who was apparently Bram Haverstein said.
Abigail beamed a smile Bram’s way and held out her hands, her beaming increasing when Bram immediately strode to her side, picked up both of her hands, and kissed them.
“I’m sure you are surprised to see me, dear, just as I’m sure you meant to say delightful surprise, not unexpected, but enough about that. Even though you and Lucetta are dripping wet, we mustn’t ignore the expected pleasantries, so do allow me to formally introduce the two of you. Bram, this is my darling friend, Miss Lucetta Plum, and Lucetta, dear, this is my grandson, the one I’ve been telling you so much about, Mr. Bram Haverstein.”
Trepidation was immediate when Bram flashed a big smile her way. Rising to her feet, Lucetta inclined her head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Haverstein.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Plum,” Bram responded as he moved right up beside her and took her hand firmly in his, the heat from his skin sending a jolt of what she could only assume was alarm straight up her arm. “Do know that I’m a great, great admirer of your work.”
Her sense of alarm promptly increased. Gentlemen who had no qualms admitting they were great, great admirers of her work were known to be rather . . . zealous. The very last circumstance Lucetta needed, or wanted for that matter, was to add another great admirer to her unwanted collection of them.
Disappointment stole through her as Mr. Haverstein lifted her hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles, that disappointment increasing when he lowered her hand and began speaking.
“I must admit that I do think your role in The Lady of the Tower is your best to date. Why, I’ve come to the conclusion that Mr. Grimstone, the playwright, obviously had you in mind to play the part of Serena Seamore from the moment he began penning the story.”
Abigail, apparently realizing that her grandson was not making a favorable impression—which certainly wouldn’t aid her matchmaking attempt—squared her shoulders, looking quite determined. “How lovely to discover you’re already familiar with my dear Lucetta and her work,” Abigail said. “But as both of you are dripping wet and certain to catch a cold if we linger, I’m going to suggest we repair to the castle and leave further talk of, uh, theater behind us.”
She took a firm grip of Bram’s arm. “Perhaps you could explain a bit about the history of your castle as we walk.”
With all of the confusion of having to burrow under pesky hedges to gain entrance to the grounds, then being set upon by a pack of misbehaving dogs, not to mention almost drowning a couple times in a moat, Lucetta had completely neglected to take a proper look at Ravenwood. Falling into step beside Abigail, she turned her attention to the structure rising in front of her. The sheer size of it was impressive, even though Lucetta found the castle as a whole to be slightly . . . disturbing.
Three stories of gray stone were styled in a distinctly gothic manner. Flying buttresses added a melodramatic air, while numerous gargoyles squatted from the ledges of the two tall towers that anchored the castle—the expressions on their sculpted faces being nothing less than fierce.
The many windows, all of various sizes, were set with stained glass, and when a flock of ravens suddenly flew from one of the towers, Lucetta couldn’t suppress a shiver.
“Bram purchased the castle over a year ago and has been working diligently to update the interior, even going so far as to hire workers to put modern plumbing up in the top tower rooms,” Abigail said, pulling Lucetta’s attention away from the ravens.
“I imagine it must have been difficult to get plumbing all the way up to the top of the towers, Mr. Haverstein,” Lucetta said.
Bram smiled. “It was quite a feat, Miss Plum. I had to consult with three architects, and the project took over a month to complete. My parents bought an estate not far from Ravenwood a few months back, but before that my mother stayed here quite often. She claimed one of the tower rooms as her own, loving the view from the windows, but she didn’t appreciate the inconvenience of not having running water at her disposal.”
“I didn’t know Iris had purchased a home in Tarrytown,” Abigail said, coming to a sudden stop, which had Bram and Lucetta doing the same.
Bram immediately took to looking uncomfortable. “Well, uh, yes, she and Father decided they wanted to live at least part of the year in New York.”
“But not in the city?” Abigail demanded.
“Uh . . . apparently not.”
Abigail’s lips thinned before she nodded, just once. “Do they still own that place down in Cuba?”
“If you mean the sugar plantation, yes, they do. Although Hugh”—Bram looked at Lucetta—“my older brother, has been given the responsibility of running the plantation, while Father has moved into an advisory role.” He smiled. “Handing over responsibility to Hugh has given my parents quite a bit of discretionary time—time they’ve been using to enjoy life to the fullest.”
“Your mother never once mentioned to me that your father was taking a less active role in the plantation,” Abigail said with a distinct edge to her tone.
Bram reached out and took hold of Abigail’s hand. “I’m sure she meant to, Grandmother, just as I’m sure she intended to let you know she purchased a home in Tarrytown.”
“You and I both know that’s not true,” Abigail said before she lifted her chin and frowned as she considered him for a long moment. “What happened to your eye?”
“My eye?” Bram repeated slowly.
“Of course, dear—your eye. You weren’t wearing that patch the last time I saw you, which means you’ve evidently suffered some type of horrible accident.”
Reaching up, Bram touched the patch in question, his hand stilling a second later. “Honestly, I forgot all about this.” To Lucetta’s complete and utter horror, he stuck a finger underneath the patch and flipped it up.
She immediately took a marked interest in Montresor, pretending that his sniffing in a clump of weeds was downright fascinating.
“Why in the world would you be sporting an eye patch when there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your eye?” Abigail asked slowly.
Shooting a look back to Bram, Lucetta found the man flipping the patch back over an eye that was apparently fine.
“That’s a little difficult to explain,” he said, but before he could elaborate, Stanley—the man who’d so rudely fired his rifle over her head, scaring her horse in the process when they’d first arrived at Ravenwood—dashed into view.
&nbs
p; “You’d better come quickly, sir. We’ve got another situation. . . . You’re not going to believe what just showed up on the dock.” With that, Stanley spun around and raced from sight, Igor and Montresor scrambling after him, howling so loudly more ravens flew out of a nearby tree.
“Excuse me” was all Bram said before he dashed off as well.
“How very curious,” Abigail said.
“Everything about our arrival here at Ravenwood has been curious,” Lucetta said as she took Abigail’s arm. “But . . . care to brave a stroll down to the docks and have a look at what’s shown up there?”
“But of course,” Abigail said with a grin.
Returning the grin, Lucetta moved in step with Abigail to the side of the castle, finding a cobblestone path in the process. Shadows from the castle wall blanketed the path and produced a chill that had Lucetta shivering as she and Abigail hurried along. Reaching the front lawn, Lucetta felt an immediate sense of relief when they finally stepped from the shadows and back into the sunlight.
She wasn’t a lady who possessed a dramatic nature, even given her profession, but there was just something about Ravenwood that kept the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention.
Before she could contemplate why she found the castle so disconcerting, a large crowd of people walking across the front drawbridge drew her attention. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, an unusual sight met her gaze.
The people—most armed with pitchforks—were prodding three apparent captives across the bridge. Unfortunately, those captives were all too familiar to Lucetta, especially since one of them was wearing one of her favorite gowns.
She turned toward Abigail, who was watching the scene unfold in front of them with eyes that had grown rather wide, and said, “The good news is that Archibald, Mr. Skukman, and Mr. Kenton were apparently successful in evading Silas, but . . . I don’t imagine they counted on being captured by your grandson’s staff.”
Lucetta winced as a man she thought was named Ernie—who had also greet Abigail and herself less than enthusiastically when they’d arrived at Ravenwood—prodded Mr. Skukman with his pitchfork. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Skukman ripped the pitchfork straight out of Ernie’s hands and tossed it over the side of the drawbridge.
“Oh . . . dear,” Abigail whispered. “And here I was so hoping everyone would get a favorable impression of my grandson and his castle, but . . . pitchforks, I ask you?”
Squaring her shoulders, Abigail tugged Lucetta forward in order to join Bram, who was standing in front of the drawbridge. “Honestly, dear, this is completely beyond the pale. Those are friends of mine.” Abigail motioned toward the men. “The tall gentleman is none other than Mr. Archibald Addleshaw; the gentleman wearing the yellow gown is my loyal butler, Mr. Kenton; and the man not wearing a gown but looking quite annoyed with the situation is none other than Lucetta’s personal guard, Mr. Skukman.”
Abigail raised a hand and sent a wave toward the gentlemen, which Archibald and Mr. Kenton returned, although Mr. Skukman simply nodded his head.
Abigail immediately took to clucking. “Mr. Skukman is obviously not seeing the humor in this situation. Before he tosses someone over the drawbridge, quite like he did to that pitchfork, I’m going to suggest you step in, Bram, so that no one gets hurt. Mr. Skukman’s a perfectly pleasant man when he’s not riled, but I don’t think we should test his patience, especially given his size.”
Bram considered Mr. Skukman for the briefest of seconds before he stepped forward and raised a hand, drawing everyone’s attention.
“You can set aside the pitchforks!” he yelled. “Those men don’t mean us any harm.”
“Then why are they dressed as women?” someone bellowed back.
“Yes, Bram, why are they dressed like women, and . . . what in the world is my mother doing at Ravenwood?”
Turning ever so slowly, Abigail blinked and raised a hand to her chest. “Iris . . . what are you doing here?” She asked before Bram could respond.
Directing her attention to where Abigail was looking, Lucetta discovered a woman dressed in the first state of fashion standing a few feet away from them. She looked remarkably like Abigail, and . . . she looked completely furious.
“I’m here to visit my son, of course. And I’m beyond curious to discover what you are doing at Ravenwood. I thought I was perfectly clear at Father’s funeral, when you began questioning me about my children and their marital aspirations, that I wanted you to maintain your distance and allow my children to make their own choices, with no meddling from you.”
“Did you mention that you didn’t want me to meddle?” Abigail asked somewhat weakly.
Realizing that Abigail—given that she’d had relatively no sleep the night before—was in no state to deal with an irate daughter, Lucetta did the only thing she could think of. She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, then summoned up every acting ability she had at her disposal, right before she released a moan and dropped to the ground.
6
Silence reigned over the front lawn, until Abigail released what almost sounded like a snort right before she turned on her elderly heel and hurried off across the lawn. That reaction was so unexpected that Bram just stood there and watched her for a moment—stood there until he recalled that poor, delicate Miss Plum had fainted dead away. Knowing that the ground beneath Miss Plum could hardly be comfortable and wanting to remedy that unfortunate situation as quickly as possible, Bram bent over, scooped Miss Plum up into his arms, and then staggered just a bit due to the unexpected weight of her.
Regaining his balance, he tightened his grip and headed for the castle, frowning when he passed his mother and saw that she was rolling her eyes at him. Realizing that now was not the time to stop and question his mother—since Miss Plum wasn’t growing any lighter—he pressed onward.
Stumbling up the few steps that led to the castle door, Bram was pleasantly surprised to find that Mr. Macmillan, his sometimes questionable butler, was actually at his post, holding the door open for him. Nodding his thanks, Bram carried Miss Plum through the doorway and down the long, long hallway, finally reaching the great room. Stepping into the room, he found his housekeeper, Mrs. Macmillan, supervising what seemed to be a dusting of the armor, her face sporting another sour expression as she glanced up and sent a single nod his way.
“I see you changed your mind about allowing at least one of the trespassers into the house, sir. Shall I ring for that tea I suggested before?” she asked, as if it was of little consequence that the trespasser she’d just mentioned was lolling about unconscious in his arms.
Coming to a stop because he needed to shift Miss Plum around, and take a second to catch his breath, he sent Mrs. Macmillan a frown. “Tea might actually be needed in this situation, Mrs. Macmillan. But to clear the air, oddly enough, the trespassers turned out to be unexpected guests that we’ve unintentionally abused quite dreadfully. As one of these guests is currently suffering from a bit of a swoon—that would be Miss Plum, whom I’m carrying—I need to get her settled straightaway. What tower room would you suggest I take her to?”
Mrs. Macmillan stared at Bram for a moment before she turned her gaze on Miss Plum. “That’s Miss Plum, as in the actress Miss Lucetta Plum?”
“Indeed.”
“What in the world is she doing at Ravenwood?”
“I haven’t gotten all the particulars just yet, Mrs. Macmillan.” He felt a droplet of sweat run down the side of his face. “I assume my grandmother, Mrs. Hart, who accompanied Miss Plum to Ravenwood, will soon divulge those particulars to me. But since Miss Plum has suffered not one but two dips in the moat, was set upon by the dogs, had a cannon fired at her, and then came face-to-face with my mother, which might have been the most frightening experience she’s had today, I really do need to get her settled.”
“If she’s here for a visit, you should put her in a guest room, not the tower,” Mrs. Macmillan said, even as Bram’s arms began to quiver.
“I want her in one of the best rooms, which you and I know are the tower rooms, so . . . which one would you recommend?”
Mrs. Macmillan crossed her arms over her chest, even as she let out a sniff. “Actresses are known to be a demanding lot, especially one with Miss Plum’s reputation. I highly doubt the staff is going to appreciate having to run up and down all of those steps to the top of the tower when we have plenty of guest rooms that are more convenient.”
“I’m beginning to lose my patience with you, Mrs. Macmillan.”
“Fine, the south tower was cleaned just last week, and I’ll send a maid up to freshen the linens.”
“That would be appreciated, as would the tea you offered to send for.”
“Will you want to give that grandmother you mentioned the other tower room?”
“I think the stairs might be a bit much for my grandmother, so we’ll give her one of the guest rooms in the main castle.”
“Very good, sir.”
By the disgruntled tone of voice Mrs. Macmillan was now using, he doubted she found anything good about the situation. However, since Miss Plum was growing heavier by the second, he knew now was not the time to argue with his housekeeper. Turning around, he headed for the door again.
“Good luck negotiating all of those steps,” Mrs. Macmillan called after him, apparently determined to have the last word.
Refusing to rise to the urge to retort, which he knew full well was pointless with a woman of Mrs. Macmillan’s disposition, he allowed himself a moment to ponder why he did keep such a disagreeable housekeeper on staff, even if positions were difficult to come by.
When a small voice in his head, one he had a feeling came directly from God, reminded him that unhappy people tended to lash out at others because of wounds their hearts had sustained, he released a breath, sent up a quick prayer asking for patience with his staff, and shifted Miss Plum around yet again in his arms.
Reaching a back hallway, he walked as quickly as he could over the marble floor, wondering for the first time ever why he’d thought buying a large castle with very long hallways and cavernous great rooms that took forever to cross had been a stellar idea. By the time he finally reached the stairs, he’d begun to perspire . . . profusely.
