by Karen Ranney
“Is there a mutiny happening?” he asked.
Matthew turned and bowed to him, a gesture of obeisance that didn’t fool him one bit. Whenever Matthew wanted to accomplish something, he seemed even more submissive than usual.
No doubt they’d been trying to find reasons to urge him to leave Balfurin. Matthew may see the spirits of his ancestors, hear ghosts, and read prophecies in tea leaves, but Dixon didn’t.
He was grounded in reality, not a mystical world. Even his belief in God was tempered by experience. He’d witnessed events that could not ordinarily be explained, just as he’d seen the magnificence of nature. He was willing to concede that God might exist, because only a universal intelligence could have conceived of a world both so brutal and so beautiful.
He folded his arms and waited.
“Donald and I are not at peace in this place, master,” Matthew said.
“Is it absolutely imperative that you be at peace, Matthew?”
Matthew bowed again, but not before Dixon saw the look of surprise flicker across his face. Up until now, Dixon had been very conscious of the wishes of his secretary since it had been a spur of the moment decision to return to Scotland and one in which Matthew had had no say.
“There are portents and warnings in abundance here, master. A stench that speaks of death,” Matthew said.
“I think what you’re smelling is peat, Matthew. The good earth of Scotland.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Donald said, stepping forward. “Would you see your way clear to telling me how long we’ll be remaining?”
“Are you under a time constraint, Donald? If so, I’m surprised that you haven’t given me any warning of that until now.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were no earl, did I? Nor did I know you were all fired up to see your ancestral home, either. I’ve no business waiting me at Edinburgh, but I’m with the Chinaman, I don’t like this place and I don’t feel bad telling you so.”
He wished someone had a few constraints. First Charlotte, with her blatant honesty. He was torn between wishing to pummel George and wanting to confess to her that he wasn’t her husband. And then Matthew, who called him master, but was no more a docile creature than he had two heads. And now the coachman, who had up until now been polite and accommodating.
“Perhaps if you and Matthew occupy yourselves in worthwhile tasks,” he said, “you will have less time colluding with the other about how dismal a place Balfurin is. It is, after all, my family home, infested with spirits or not.”
The coachman touched his hand to his forehead, and took one step back. Matthew tucked his hands into his sleeves and bowed low once more.
“There’s a coachman walking back to Balfurin with an injured horse. See if you can assist him in some manner.” Annoyed, Dixon turned and left the two of them.
Where the hell was George? Perhaps if he concentrated on that task, he wouldn’t have any thoughts about Charlotte or worry about his two rebellious servants.
Had Old Nan recounted the conversation with George correctly? Or had her mind simply been wandering? Had he really come back to Balfurin only to locate the treasure?
He walked into the foyer, nodding to one of the maids, and a few of the girls he’d breakfasted with, but then mounted the stairs two at a time, intent upon his room.
He entered the Laird’s Chamber and closed the door behind him, locking it. At the moment he wasn’t in the mood for any of Matthew’s incantations or pronouncements. He changed his clothes and then grabbed his writing desk where Matthew had placed it, putting it on the bed. He read through the riddle he’d written earlier.
When changes come
And the wind blows cold
Ancestors will speak
Of things foretold.
Where once we came, so where we’ll go.
The fates have said what no mortal will know.
Swords and shield and treasure foretold,
A fortune for those brave and bold.
For a moment Dixon stared at the riddle, wondering what George might have thought.
Balfurin was only about four hundred years old, but there was an older structure dating back to the first earl, a powerful warrior granted his lands as a reward for both his sword arm and his loyalty. He was buried in the crypt in the ruins of the first castle abandoned because of continual flooding.
Ancestors will speak of things foretold. Was there a clue in the crypt? It looked as if he was going exploring.
The afternoon was well advanced, the skies a pewter gray, hinting of another storm. But he’d crossed Cape Horn, nearly drowning in the process. A Scottish storm was no match for his determination.
A quarter hour later, he left the room. At the top of the stairs he saw her. Charlotte had changed as well since coming back to Balfurin. She was dressed in something filmy and yellow, more fashioned for spring than autumn. But at least at wasn’t serviceable blue or black, like she’d worn this morning.
He’d seen two versions of Charlotte since coming here—the fashionable woman with bare shoulders in her ball gown with the fluttery feathers, and the stiff, stern headmistress intent on propriety. This yellow-gowned woman was another incarnation, one that struck him as closer to the truth.
She held a light cream shawl against her shoulders and her hair was curling against her shoulders as if she’d left it loose to dry. As he watched, she walked from the entrance to the Great Hall down the corridor and back again, almost as if she were counting the steps. He heard her sigh, stop, and then begin pacing again.
Was she trying to decide on a course of action? Or was she simply missing the cacophony that was the new Balfurin? The silence might be disorienting to her, but it was more familiar to him. He could almost hear the relieved sighs of his ancestors as peace settled over the castle.
Suddenly she looked up.
She didn’t seem startled to see him, making him wonder if she’d known he was there. Instead, she nodded as if winning an argument with herself.
“You didn’t have your lunch,” she said. “Cook has set aside a meal for you in the family dining room.”
“I thank you for your concern, but I’m not hungry. I don’t know if Matthew has eaten, however.”
She nodded again. “I’ll make sure he has.”
Most people with a veil of mystery around them created the impression on purpose, the better to heighten others’ interests or to make themselves seem more important. He preferred to deal with individuals who were genuine, regardless of whether or not they were of good character. Give him a thief who made no pretensions of being otherwise than a lord who hid his crimes behind a sincere smile.
And Charlotte? What was she?
An enigma. A puzzle. But he doubted she cultivated the impression on purpose. She was both uncomfortable around him and oddly cosseting, as if unable to come to a decision whether he should be shunned or welcomed.
“Why the sudden interest in my well-being?” he asked, slowly walking down the stairs. “I had the impression from our ride that you would just as soon I starve to death, and now your concern is that I might miss a meal.”
“If nothing else, George, you are my husband. I will not have it said that I treated you badly in your own home. Or that I make you seek comfort from another.”
“Why on earth would I be an ass for a second time, Charlotte?”
She flushed, her skin mottling to a bright pink hue that was not at all attractive. Most women blush in a flattering way, as if nature gives them that trick to attract the wandering eye of a male. Not Charlotte. Not only did she not blush well, but she looked angry about it.
He found her endearing in a way that was dangerous. The very last thing he should feel for Charlotte MacKinnon was fascination.
At the bottom of the staircase he held up both hands, palms toward her. A universal gesture of surrender.
“Very well, I concede. You were only exhibiting Highland hospitality.”
“It has nothing to do with Scotlan
d,” she said in a clipped tone. “I was simply being polite.”
“Then I was a bore. Forgive me.”
She nodded again, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“If you would ask Cook to hold back my meal, I’ll eat when I return.”
She looked startled. “Where are you going?”
“I have something to do. A visit, if you will.”
Her face changed, stiffened and his smile disappeared.
“Not to a willing woman, Charlotte. Nor to one of the maids. And to the best of my knowledge, I have no female friends in residence.”
She moved aside, clutching her shawl as if it was a garment of some protection. If she’d wanted to be that covered, she wouldn’t have chosen a dress with a décolletage. He wanted to reach out and pull the shawl closed at her neck, shield her from prying eyes, including his.
His masquerade was blurring. Many more days of this, and he would come to believe that he really was George. He shouldn’t feel anything for her—not concern, jealousy, or any kind of protectiveness. He had no right to touch her throat with his fingers, to soothe her fast beating pulse. Nor was it proper for him to want to slide his hand over the fabric of her sleeve, to feel the softness of the silk, to measure the shape of her arm, her elbow, her wrist. He was standing too close but he didn’t step back, feeling instead as if he were engulfed in a cloud of the scent warmed by her body.
Abruptly, he left her, walking to the front door without another word. Perhaps it was better if he didn’t converse with Charlotte at all. Every time she spoke, he was left with more questions and an insidious kind of interest and curiosity about her that wasn’t healthy. Every time he was around her, he felt as if he were being drawn closer into the role circumstance had prepared for him, as if he were losing his identity.
He’d been here two days and already he was losing his objectivity. If he ever had any from the moment he saw her.
“You didn’t say where you were going,” she said from behind him.
“No, I didn’t, did I?” he said, being deliberately rude. He closed the door behind him, hoping that she wouldn’t follow. When he was far enough away, he turned around and looked back at Balfurin, ridiculing himself for the disappointment he felt.
She stared at the closed door, feeling as if he’d slapped her. Very well, he was being mysterious. He’d reverted to type, then, hadn’t he? For a moment, on the ride home, she’d thought there might be some…what? Hope? He’d never given her hope. He’d never said that he’d come home to stay. He’d apologized for his behavior, but was that enough? Here I am, Charlotte, forgive me?
Did she?
The man who’d returned was substantially different from the man she remembered. That was both certain and disturbing.
Annoyed, she retreated to the library, deliberately focusing on something other than George.
The moment she entered the room, however, she knew he’d been there.
Someone had rearranged her quills and moved her inkwell. No one else but George would have dared. Had he looked inside her desk as well?
She’d always advised her students to be calm in the face of disaster. “It is by keeping a level head that you will survive almost any calamity,” she’d said on more than one occasion.
However, she wasn’t feeling calm right at the moment. She was incensed. He’d been here less than a day and he’d already made his presence known.
She closed her eyes, thinking that she could still smell his scent. Something exotic and foreign. He smelled of sandalwood as well, and she couldn’t help but wonder if his soap was tinged with the scent.
His soap?
Why on earth was she thinking about his soap? Next, she’d care about his other habits—whether he bathed often and cleaned his teeth twice a day, although from that white-toothed smile he had to care for his teeth in some fashion—and what his underclothes were like. Then she’d be thinking more thoughts she had no business at all thinking, like how often he’d been unfaithful to her and with whom.
She’d be much safer concentrating on the most important question of all: why had he come home now?
Maisie opened the door slightly and peered inside.
“Your ladyship, he hasn’t come to eat.”
There was no doubt of who he was.
“Has the entire castle simply stopped because George has not had a meal?” she asked. “He has an errand to perform. Some task, and before you ask, I have absolutely no knowledge of it.” She frowned at her inkwell and very deliberately moved it back into place.
“The downstairs maid saw the earl walking in the direction of the old castle, your ladyship.” Maisie delivered that information with an expectant look.
“Truly?” That was interesting. A strange trysting place for George. Or not, if she believed him.
Maisie didn’t move from the doorway.
“I have absolutely no intention of following him there, Maisie.”
“No, your ladyship. Matthew hasn’t come to eat, either.”
“Whether or not two men have decided to eat one meal does not mean we simply have to cease our routine and forfeit all of our other activities.”
“What would those be, your ladyship?”
Maisie wasn’t trying to be amusing; she was simply seeking information. The fact was there wasn’t anything they actually needed to do. Not today. For the last four or five weeks they’d been focused on this one day, in bidding farewell to all of their students, in settling down into an almost empty castle, in relaxing from the term’s grueling schedule.
She was free for the first time in months. Free, if she could call it that in light of George’s return.
“He might not know we’ve prepared a meal for him, your ladyship. Matthew, I mean.”
She glanced at the younger woman, hearing the forlorn note in Maisie’s voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be visiting your parents soon, Maisie?”
“Not until next month, your ladyship.”
“I could spare you sooner if you’d like to go next week.”
“That’s all right, your ladyship,” Maisie said. “They’re not expecting me until then. Perhaps I could go in search of him. He’ll be hungry.”
“Matthew is a grown man, Maisie. If he’s hungry, he can find his way to the kitchen well enough.”
“Oh, no, your ladyship, Matthew would never be so forward. I think he’d starve in his room rather than cause any trouble.”
Charlotte sighed. “I doubt very much that that will happen, Maisie.”
A moment later, Maisie spoke again. “Cook says that she can heat up the soup, but she’s worried that the lamb will suffer.”
“Lamb? I don’t recall having lamb. Exactly how many courses is this meal?” Charlotte asked.
Maisie flushed and stepped back. “I’ll tell Cook to simply set everything back. Perhaps his lordship will want an early dinner.”
Charlotte stood, and came around the desk, smoothing her hands down her skirt.
There is something special about every day. Who said that recently? The French teacher, Mademoiselle Douvier. The woman always looked on the bright side of things. What would she say to this situation? Since she was French, she would no doubt have some romantic advice, not unlike Lady Eleanor.
“George will simply have to fend for himself, as will Matthew. They did not starve before they came here, and no doubt they will not starve when they leave. They are not infants, after all, but grown men who should not be coddled. I will not have my household disrupted, Maisie.”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
If George was an ugly man, she doubted half the women at Balfurin would be willing to serve him.
She closed the door, and returned to her desk, thankful that her maid didn’t wish to continue the conversation. Charlotte wasn’t behaving rationally, and she knew it, and that made her feel even more irrational.
Damn George.
Fog often shrouded the old castle, especially on spring and autumn mornings. One end
of the structure still bore a standing wall with a massive arch that was now covered with dark green lichen. Long, thin shadows were formed by the still standing columns, once needed to support the now missing roof.
He and George had played in the old castle as boys. He’d been fascinated by the stories of the first earl, and his grave in the crypt had been a place where six-year-old Dixon had first gone on a dare. Later, he’d visited the earl whenever he was troubled and even when he needed advice, finding a curious kind of comfort from speaking his problems aloud.
He’d never believed in ghosts, but they might exist here. Silence so heavy that it was almost a sound crept over the structure, greeting him and reminding him of when he was a boy.
Dixon descended the five steps at the edge of the foundation, turned right and unhesitatingly took the next ten steps down to the earthen floor. Long ago, parts of the foundation had crumbled, letting bars of light into the crypt. Puddles sparkled in the sunlight, the air still damp from the storm.
Pillars stretched up from the rock floor, widening at the top to support the vaulted ceiling, still in place. Carved vines traced across the expanse, ending in the corners where they entwined to form a wreath. The wreath shape was replicated several times throughout the crypt, and Dixon couldn’t help but wonder if the form had some meaning like rebirth or renewal. If so, the crypt was the perfect place for it.
Although there had been plans over the years to move these ancient graves closer to Balfurin, the money had never been spared for the task. The living had more priority than the dead.
Not a bird sang. The wind didn’t whistle through the trees in the nearby forest. There were no noises made by a small animal. A leaf didn’t fall. There was nothing, except for the sound of his breath, dividing him from those who occupied this place.
He stood there in the silence for a few moments. There was nothing in the crypt that hadn’t been here a decade ago, except perhaps the accumulation of a few more years of leaves. The crypt was, like death itself, unchanging.
The first earl lay alone in the middle of the space, his coffin surrounded by stone and topped with a life-sized effigy of the earl attired in full armor, holding the hilt of his sword that stretched from mid-chest to his knees. Beside him was a shield on which his crest was inscribed.
