by Karen Ranney
Dear God, let that keep them from Balfurin.
Chapter 13
D ixon waited until almost midnight, the hour when spirits were restless, according to Matthew. Balfurin late at night was the perfect setting to believe in ghosts. There were no candles or lamps kept lit during the night. No footmen were stationed in appropriate places to be of assistance.
The darkness felt like a living thing, a companion to his journey.
He wondered if the spirits of the deceased lingered in houses. Did the memory of tragedies and joys remain behind in the very brick of his ancestral home? He could almost hear the whispers of lovers, his uncle’s angry bellow, the muffled laughter of children. Then, too, there were his own memories. He could almost witness his child self running through these corridors only to be shouted at to mind his manners. “Dixon! Have you forgotten where you are?”
The walls were paneled in wood, heavily carved at the ceiling and middle. They seemed to absorb sound, or perhaps that was just the new green and gold runner. As a boy, he’d slid along this hall in his stockinged feet, he and George trying to reach all the way to the stairwell. That’s how he’d fallen down the stairs one day and broken his arm, a feat that had resulted in banishment to his room for a week. His uncle had fumed and his aunt had lectured. Strange, how he could barely remember her. She was short and blond, with an absent smile and a habit of smoothing her little finger over her left eyebrow.
He made his way to the library in the darkness, grateful for the windows at the end of the corridor. They let in just enough of the moonlight that he didn’t stumble into any of the tables.
The handle turned easily and he let himself in, closing the library door silently behind him. He lit the lamp on the corner of the desk and went right to the fireplace. There was nothing but cold embers here now, waiting for the morning maid.
He bent and tapped at the bottom most brick bearing the earl’s crest. Nothing happened. He reached into his dressing gown pocket and retrieved the hammer he’d taken from the stable for just such a purpose and hit the brick. Again, nothing. Not defeated, he began working on the brick on the opposite side of the hearth. This one moved a little when he tapped it with the hammer.
He sat on the floor, and taking an awl he’d also borrowed, wedged it between the brick and mortar. To his surprise, the brick moved easily, sliding forward into his hand.
Dixon reached inside, sticking his arm all the way into the cavity. The space was as deep as the hearth. And empty.
No, not quite empty. He withdrew something between his fingers and looked at it in the glow from the lamp. A piece of paper. A corner of a page. From a document of some sort. But what?
He reached inside once more, only to come up empty. Had George already found the treasure? It looked as if he had. And left Balfurin with no further thought of his wife or his heritage.
If George were here, he’d thrash him until he begged for mercy.
Dixon replaced the brick, cleaned up the broken mortar pieces, then stood, dropping the awl and the hammer into his pocket.
He would revisit Nan in the morning. Hopefully, she’d tell him what had really happened the last time George had come home. Loyalty toward the earl was one thing, but she needed to understand that George should be found. If for Charlotte’s piece of mind if nothing else.
And for his own as well.
“It is indeed like you said, Miss Maisie. I can see all the stars that I might have seen at home.”
Matthew turned to his companion. In the darkness she was nothing more than a shadow, but he could smell her scent, something that reminded him of the fields and hills around them.
“Are you certain,” he asked, “that the journey here did not hurt your foot?”
“Oh no,” Maisie said brightly. “I rarely have any pain anymore. Not since her ladyship got me these special shoes. Before that, I ached a bit, but not too much. Thank you for asking, Matthew. No one else does.”
“I think it is to make the situation easier for you,” he offered. “Or, perhaps, they are simply uncomfortable. They do not know what to say, so they prefer not to say anything at all.”
“I’d much rather they said something, even if it’s cruel. It’s better than feeling invisible.”
“While I would much rather they remained silent.”
She glanced at him. “Why would anyone ridicule you, Matthew?”
“My country is a mixture of cultures,” he said. “Malay, Chinese, and Indian. My father was of one culture and my mother another. I have tainted blood.” He hesitated for a moment and then continued. “There are those who see me as an abomination.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment.
Finally, he glanced over at her to find her smiling at him.
“Oh, Matthew, there are always those who will judge every single one of us. That’s their sin, not ours. I think you are quite the most handsome man I have ever seen. I could look at your face for hours and never grow tired of the sight. You’re hardly an abomination.”
He didn’t answer her. What could he say? She would not understand the culture of his country any more than he completely understood Scotland. On one hand, it seemed a barbarous place, but the people were genuinely kind, possessed of an innocence that had the power to charm him.
“Thank you for wanting to share the night with me,” he said.
An hour ago, Maisie had knocked on his door and bid him come with her, their destination a small hill overlooking Balfurin. The rest of the castle was asleep, and few lights shone. The only illumination was the moon and the stars twinkling above them.
Maisie glanced over at him. “It’s nearly morning Matthew.”
He nodded. “It was kind of you to take pity on my wakefulness.”
She glanced at him again, smiling this time. “I didn’t take pity on you, Matthew. I was unable to sleep as well, and when I heard you walking in your room, it just seemed right that we should be awake together. Tomorrow, however, I will wager that both of us will be sleepy enough. It doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“Buddha teaches us that life is neither fair nor unfair.”
“I don’t think that’s quite right. And who is this Buddha fellow, a friend of yours?”
“A great teacher,” he said, hiding his smile. She could not be blamed for her ignorance because she lived in a remote part of a remote country and knew little of the world. “He was the enlightened one. He spent a great bit of time thinking on life and how man fits in it.”
“Does he come from your country?”
“I think he might be considered a citizen of the world.”
“Well that’s easy enough, isn’t it?” Maisie said. “Being a citizen of the world means you never have to obligate yourself to one place.” She put her hands flat on the grass behind her, leaned back and studied the stars. “I, for one, would much rather be a citizen of some place. I like belonging. I like knowing that I’m going to see the same thing tomorrow that I saw today.”
He didn’t speak, didn’t tell her that he’d rarely had the comfort of sameness. His adopted family had never lived in the same place more than a few months at a time, being intent on spreading the word of God.
“There is a great deal to be said for routine,” Matthew said.
“It isn’t to be feared, Matthew. Doing the same thing day after day doesn’t make you a boring person. It’s only boring if you have the same thoughts. If you never learn.” She turned to him. “There’s a man who came to our village not too long ago. He speaks German and he’s promised to teach me. I like to learn something new every day, if I can. That’s why I’m so glad that her ladyship said I may take a book from the library whenever I wish. It might take me some time to read it, but read it I shall. When I’m done, I’ll get another.”
He’d never met anyone quite like Maisie, so demanding of life. When he told her so, she only laughed. “It’s my life, isn’t it? No one else is going to live it for me. And I’d be a pretty silly person if I wai
ted until I reached the end of it to regret all of the things I haven’t done.”
She sat back, staring at the sky again, all the while glancing at him from time to time. Several moments passed in perfect harmony until Maisie spoke again. “Evidently, we’re not the only ones awake at this hour.” She pointed to the castle below them.
A faint flickering light danced in a window. For a horrified moment, he thought it might be a fire, but then the light moved, leaving the window dark.
“They say Balfurin is haunted,” Maisie said, wrapping her arms around her up-drawn knees.
He glanced at her, surprised that she’d made such a pronouncement in a calm tone of voice.
“You do not sound afraid.”
She laughed merrily. “Of ghosts? Not in Scotland. Every building has its share of ghosts. We’re a dour nation, Matthew. We’ve a great deal of tragedy in our past. I’d be surprised if Balfurin weren’t haunted. Still, I don’t like the idea of them wandering through the place at night.” She gave him the sidelong glance. “That’s why you’ll have to see me to my room. To protect me.”
“It would be my great honor,” he said seriously, although he wondered if it weren’t the other way around. He might well need protection from Maisie.
“Do you never laugh, Matthew?”
He considered the matter. “You are saying that I am too serious.”
“Not serious, exactly. I think, like Scotland, that you must’ve had a great deal of sadness in your past.”
He didn’t discuss his past with anyone, not even Dixon. “And you, Maisie? Have you not had a great deal of sadness as well?”
“Oh, you mean because of my foot?” She smiled. “I’ve had my share of teasing, that’s true. And pain in my side from time to time, because of the way I had to walk before my new shoes. But I can’t remember ever being other than I am, so I don’t suppose it matters. My lameness simply is, Matthew, like the dew on the grass or even Balfurin itself.”
“What gives you pleasure, Miss Maisie?”
“I like chicken soup,” she said, surprising him. He expected another answer, perhaps. Something to do with beautiful days or pleasant scents.
“Chicken soup? This, too, I like. With noodles?”
“No,” Macy said. “With carrots and large chunks of chicken. And crusty rolls. With butter, of course.”
“Of course,” Matthew said, smiling.
“And clean sheets that smell of the sun. And kittens, with their eyes just opened and their little bellies fat and full and rounded. Sometimes, I hold one who is purring for the very first time and it’s like God has given me a gift. What about you, Matthew? What makes you happy?”
“Being here with you now,” he said honestly. “Feeling safe.”
“Have you not often felt safe?”
He wished she’d not asked that question. She didn’t truly want to hear the story of his life. Or perhaps he didn’t wish to tell it.
“I would like to see these kittens of yours.”
“The barn cat is due to have another litter soon,” she said. “I hope you’ll still be here at Balfurin.”
“My master is in no hurry to leave.”
“Why do you call him that? He does not own you.”
He didn’t tell her the truth. She was European and would not understand that from the moment Dixon had saved his life, the other man had owned Matthew’s soul. It was up to him whether or not Matthew felt joy or pain or lived out his life with honor.
His life was not his, and once he would have railed at that. But in the last several years, he had begun to accept, to understand that his destiny was not necessarily his to command. By acquiescing to his fate, he became stronger. The stronger he became, the more he was prepared for anything destiny delivered to him.
“It is a title of respect,” he said giving her the explanation most Europeans accepted. He saw her nod, grateful that the topic was done.
On this quiet hillside in Scotland, he began to feel the first rumblings of discontent. If he had been obligated to no one but himself, he would have begun to think thoughts that were forbidden him. He would’ve held Maisie close to him and perhaps kissed her. Because his life was not his, he focused on the stars above him rather than the temptation beside him.
Matthew stood and held out both hands for her. Without hesitation, Maisie placed her fingers within his and allowed him to help her stand. For a moment they stood too close, and he inhaled the scent of her. She smelled of the soft grass upon which they’d sat, and a curious profusion of flowers.
“In my country, I would shock your relatives by being all alone with you in the darkness.”
“In my country, too,” Maisie said. “Have you many relatives?”
“I have no one,” Matthew said. “I do not often tell people that. But then, they do not often ask.”
“Then shall we make a pledge? We’ll only be honest. We shall ask each other questions that no one else dare ask, and answer them with our true heart.”
He wasn’t entirely certain that was wise. She was too innocent a creature, too sweet for him to touch. He felt his heart creak open and the sudden anger he felt startled him.
After extinguishing the lamp, Dixon let himself out the door, closing it quietly behind him. The corridor seemed even darker than before, the stairs enshrouded in black. The portraits hung in military precision along the stairwell wall seemed to be smiling at him, either in amusement or commiseration.
He was almost to the top of the stairs when he heard a heavy dragging sound. If Matthew had been with him, he’d have said it was the restless spirit of one of his ancestors carrying his own sins. Dixon wasn’t inclined to believe in ghosts, those either burdened by earthly evil or pure and virtuous.
Something, however, was making that sound.
Stepping to the side of the corridor, he fingered the handle of the hammer in his pocket and waited.
“Damn him!”
He knew that voice.
“I’ll show him! Does he think I’m going to simply sit here and allow him to dally with the maids? Where is he?”
Something heavy falling down the servant’s stair was followed by a muffled comment. He made his way down the corridor, the hammer forgotten, his entire attention on the woman coming toward him.
Charlotte stepped out into the corridor. For a moment, she looked like a ghost, attired in her pale nightgown and wrapper.
A faint, almost decorous, scream escaped her at his appearance. One hand went to the base of her throat—the other still held the weapon at her side.
“Is that a broadsword you’re dragging behind you?”
“It is.” She pulled the sword up beside her, allowing the tip to skitter along the rug. If it was as sharp as the other weapons at Balfurin, the carpet would be sliced to ribbons. Charlotte, however, didn’t look the least concerned.
“I will not have it, George,” she said loud enough to wake any ghosts—or humans—at Balfurin. “I’ll not tolerate you bedding the maids. No husband of mine will shame me in this fashion, even if we do not share a bed. I will not have it! Once was quite enough, thank you.”
“Surely you didn’t knock on all the servants’ doors to find me?” he asked.
“I didn’t think it necessary. You’re rather vocal in your enjoyment so I just stood and listened.”
He was torn between humor and compassion.
“I assure you I wasn’t bedding any of the maids, Charlotte,” he said.
“Then what are you doing roaming the corridors of Balfurin at this hour of night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Your guilty conscience, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” She was closer to the mark than she knew. “Was it your intent to run me through with the broadsword?”
“Or to cut off a certain portion of your anatomy,” she said, pulling the sword closer.
“You are a very bloodthirsty woman. Guns and broadswords.”
“Being a spurned wife brings out al
l sorts of emotions.”
Granted, she held the sword but he wasn’t afraid of her ability to wield it since she could barely lift it.
He stepped closer and before she could pull away, leaned forward and kissed her.
A thoroughly wrong thing to do, of course.
Her lips were incredibly soft, almost pillowy. He deepened the kiss, extending his free hand around her right shoulder. He heard the sword drop, felt her hand curve around his neck. He moved even closer, lured by her response and a small, almost helpless sound she made as she opened her lips.
He had never been so aware of a woman’s fragility as he was at this moment. She was nearly vibrating with fear. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, murmur something soft and comforting that would ease her terror. But to do so, he would have to end the kiss, and he wouldn’t do that.
“This isn’t wise,” she whispered finally when the kiss was done and she was breathing hard. But, then, so was he.
“No. It isn’t wise.” Nothing about his presence at Balfurin was wise, let alone standing in the darkened castle with his cousin’s wife in his arms.
She stood on tiptoe and linked her arms around his neck. He wanted to warn her that she was in more danger than she understood. He’d already lost his honor. By pretending to be George, he’d ignored his own sense of decency. Now he was asking himself questions he shouldn’t ask: how much worse would it be to take her to his bed?
The proposition was too tempting.
He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard and making no effort to hide her effect on him.
“Charlotte.” He murmured her name. Unspoken were the words he should have said: Forget these moments ever existed. Pretend I didn’t kiss you.
He was sorry for what George had done to her. More than sorry. He despised his cousin. He wanted to make it up to her, let her see how desirable she was, how fascinating a mind she had, and how beautiful a body. But that wasn’t why he’d kissed her.
From the night he’d first seen her, she’d fascinated him. He’d wanted her when he’d stood in the Great Hall and watched as she welcomed guests to Balfurin. He wanted her when she crossed the ballroom, anger blossoming on her face. He wanted her at breakfast, when she’d saddled him with two hundred watchful girls, and when he’d rescued her in the rain.
