“I was in the war.”
“I know.”
“I was shot,” he said, his words clipped, as though even saying them aloud brought back the pain. “Twice. I was taken prisoner.”
“For how long?” she asked, not wanting to hurt him but sensing that it would be best if he talked about it aloud.
“Just over a year.”
“Oh, Edmund,” she said, not able to imagine it.
“It’s over now,” he said, only, she could tell that it wasn’t – not for him. She didn’t want to think of what horrors he might have sustained, and to be in enemy territory with such an injury… no wonder it looked as it did. It probably hadn’t been properly cared for.
“We keep these rooms here open, in case we do ever need them,” he said, dismissing the other topic. “There is a small passage that will take you to the other side, where your bedroom is… and mine.”
She nodded, wondering if he was pleased that she was so close to him, or if it had been Mrs. Ackerman’s doing. He didn’t exactly seem thrilled by the prospect.
“And the upper floor?”
He seemed to hesitate, before he finally led her to another staircase.
“Come.”
* * *
Edmund had told himself to stay away from her.
But when he had seen her standing in the door of the library – the room that was his more than any other in this house – he hadn’t been able to keep himself away. He was drawn to her, almost as though she was fey with the ethereal quality that radiated around her. She was a bright light in this dark house, and yet somehow… it seemed as though she belonged, like Hollingswood had opened up its arms and accepted her as part of it.
He was waiting for her to insist that he return her to London, that she couldn’t stay any longer in this house, or with him, but so far, she simply seemed curious.
Well, at some point that curiosity would subside and she would be ready to return, away from all of this.
“My goodness,” she said, taking a breath as they reached the top floor. “What room is this?”
“This is the long gallery,” he said. “As you can see, it is not exactly a paragon of architectural prowess.”
The floor was warped and wavy, the walls leaning inward and outward at various angles. It was long and crooked, with crossbeams between the arch-braced roof trusses that were likely added at some point in order to keep the structure from coming down around them.
“What is it for?” she asked, walking along the corridor, running her fingers along the windows that lined the room.
“Perhaps a gallery or a games room,” he said with a shrug. “It has never contained much furniture. At the end, you will see plaster depictions of destiny and fortune.”
She reached the north wall, whispering the words. “The wheel of fortune, whose rule is ignorance,” she read off of the inscriptions. “The sphere of destiny, whose rule is knowledge.”
She turned to him. “What do you think it means, that someone would believe so strongly in these words to inscribe them on the wall?”
He wasn’t sure, but he followed her, standing next to her, reaching his fingertips out to the inscriptions as well. Her hands looked so small, so pale, and he longed to reach out and clasp them in his own. When her fingertips brushed against his as she moved her hand back, a shock from her warmth ran through him and he stepped back abruptly away.
“There’s one more room,” he said gruffly, the door creaking open when he pushed against it. “This is the upper porch room.”
“It’s a bedroom,” she said, wondering at the fact it was still furnished.
“It has been for some time,” he said, as she walked over to inspect the fireplace. Here, the figures of justice and mercy adorned it.
“Does anyone frequent this floor?” she asked. “This may sound silly, but it seems to be occupied. The objects in this room—” she pointed to a quill pen, inkwell, and vellum laid out on a writing desk “—do they belong to someone?”
Edmund hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain it, and he didn’t want to give her another reason to leave. Despite the fact he knew she would go at some point, he wanted to delay her departure as long as he could. Which was ridiculous. He wanted to be alone, had no desire to ever marry. So why did he yearn for her presence?
“They did belong to someone,” he said slowly. “You saw my great-uncle’s portrait downstairs?”
She nodded.
“He was also the second son. This was his home. He loved this room, with its view upon the gardens below. At one point in time, there was a beautiful knot garden just beneath these windows. You can still see traces of it today. Anyway, these are his things. He moved to this room because… well, because he could see out to the guest house beyond, where his brother and his wife would stay when they visited. When he died no one ever had the heart to remove his things. Now they seem to be part of the home.” He turned to Hannah. “You see, he loved his brother’s wife, his Isabel, and she died here as well.”
Hannah’s eyes had grown even wider as he had told the story, and she stared at him incredulously. “Do you think her spirit is still here?” she said in a whisper, and Edmund shook his head – not because he didn’t want to scare her, but because he believed in what he said.
“No, she isn’t here,” he said, then regarded her for a moment, wondering if she could handle what he had begun to realize as the truth. “I think that’s the problem.”
6
“The problem?”
Edmund nodded slowly at her words, and Hannah leaned in closer toward him, needing to know more.
“At times I sense… well, I sense that my great-uncle’s spirit does remain,” he said, before one side of his lips curled up into a self-deprecating smile. “Which is foolish, I know. There are no such things as spirits. And yet, I get the sense that someone remains here, waiting. I think he’s waiting for her.”
“Why did she marry his brother?” Hannah asked with a frown, and Edmund sighed.
“I don’t know if they fell in love before or after. They likely didn’t have much choice.”
“Oh.” A feeling of knowing settled over her. “I see.”
“I don’t know for certain that they ever acted on their feelings,” Edmund said, turning from her, “just family rumors.”
Hannah could sense he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and she opened the top drawer of the desk. “Is there anything else in here?”
Edmund was still staring out the window, his hands in his pockets, when she looked over at him.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve never looked. I didn’t know if it was my place.”
He was right. And yet Hannah had the strange idea that it was her right, that no one – spirits or otherwise – would mind if she opened this drawer to determine what was within.
She had to give it a hard tug to bring it out, and a musty odor wafted up from within, as well as the stale scent of dried roses.
“A rosary,” Hannah said, finding what had slid around when she had opened it. “One of them was Catholic.”
There wasn’t much else – a handkerchief, a watch fob, and a shaving set. She reached her hand in, her fingertips brushing against a stack of papers in the back. She pulled them out, finding them bound with a long blue ribbon.
“Letters,” she said, looking up and catching Edmund’s startled gaze. “Did you know they were here?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen them before.”
She unbound the ribbon, letting it flutter to the floor.
“Do you think it’s our place to read them?” he asked, and she met his eyes, taken off guard by their intensity.
“Whose place would it be?” she asked, and he shrugged.
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“At least let’s see who wrote them,” she said, unbinding the first letter, slipping it out of the envelope, whose seal was already broken.
“My dearest love
,” she read, adding, “It’s in a woman’s handwriting, I would think. The writing is soft, the letters slanted and looped.”
She walked over to the window for better light, her breath catching at Edmund’s nearness. His hands were balled into fists at his side, his forearms strong, muscular, his veins nearly popping out of them.
She cleared her throat, looked down at the paper in her hands, and began.
“It is getting worse. I find myself hiding when he returns home from wherever he goes until the wee hours of the morning. The bruises he leaves on the outside are not nearly as bad as those within. I wish I knew what happened to change him so. His anger is volatile, his temper unreasonable. I am trying to convince him that we should come visit you once more. I do long to see you again, though I fear that he will ascertain the feelings we hold for one another if we are all together. Oh, Andrew, I do not know what to do. Please, tell me? Always your love, Isabel.”
Hannah was silent for a moment, the pain of the woman’s words slicing through her.
“They were in love,” Hannah breathed, looking up at Edmund. “And she was in danger. Do you think they fell in love with one another before she married his brother, or afterward?”
“I don’t know,” Edmund said. “Perhaps the other letters will reveal it. Are they all from her, or are his replies included?”
Hannah shuffled through them. “They look to be all written by her. I wonder if his letters are here somewhere.”
“Perhaps,” Edmund said. “This house holds many secrets.”
“How did she die?” Hannah asked, needing to know.
“In a fire,” Edmund replied, wincing at the words, and she wondered if he was remembering his own pain. “At the guest house where she stayed. She was within when it burned down.”
Hannah gasped. “That is awful.”
“It is,” Edmund said grimly. “The ruins are not far – around the wood in the back. I can show you later if you’d like.”
Hannah nodded, though her stomach tightened at the thought. “I should see them,” she said bravely, “if this is to be my home.”
Edmund’s blue-eyed stare turned on her, capturing her for more than a moment, and she wondered if she had said the wrong thing.
“Is it not?”
He nodded slowly. “It is.”
Hannah was so shaken that when she began to walk toward the door, her toe caught the corner of the low chair and she began to tumble forward. She threw out her hands in order to catch herself, whether on the stool or the bed she wasn’t entirely sure, but then strong arms came around her, catching her before she could pitch forward at all.
“Easy,” Edmund said, his hands encircling her waist, and Hannah allowed herself a moment to lean into him. A tingle coursed through her at his touch. She couldn’t be sure if it was him, or the fact she had never been so close to a man — besides her library stranger — that caused such sensations, but she had to admit that she was becoming quite fascinated by him. He was her husband, and yet she knew nothing about him.
It seemed he enjoyed their closeness as well, for he allowed his hands to linger. When he finally set her back on her feet and moved away, Hannah noticed crisscrossed scars on both of his hands and averted her gaze before he caught her staring.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, warmth rising in her cheeks. “I don’t recall the chair being here before. In fact, I’m fairly certain it was tucked underneath the desk.”
She pushed it back where it belonged, the sound of the wood scraping against the floor loud to her ears in the silence that had stretched between them.
“Here,” she said, handing him the packet of letters, their fingers brushing against one another as she did so. “You should keep them.”
“No,” he said, wrapping her fingers around them, his hands cold yet somehow sending shocks through her from where they touched. “They remained lost until you arrived. Perhaps it is your role here to unravel this mystery.”
“Perhaps,” she said. As they walked out of the room and back down the long gallery, Hannah could have sworn someone was watching them.
* * *
“You wily old goat,” Edmund muttered as he took a seat in his library, pulling out a fresh sheet of vellum as he dipped his quill pen in the inkwell. He looked up at his ancestor, shaking his head at him. Edmund had long accepted the fact that his great-uncle had not yet departed the estate he had called home many years prior. It seemed the spirit was up to some mischief now.
“We are not a love match,” he continued, though knew that if anyone walked in upon him speaking to a portrait, he would be considered mad. “It was all a business transaction. That, and preserving my family’s dignity. I’ll look after the woman, I promise, but I doubt she will remain here long.”
A book fell from one of the shelves and Edmund rubbed his forehead over where the scars began. It was always a bit itchy.
“Yes, we will try to solve your little mystery,” he promised with a sigh. “But if you continue to spook her, I’m sure she will be gone from here even faster than we were married.”
Edmund did dine with his wife that night, though he said little, despite her repeated attempts at conversation. He noted she didn’t eat much. Instead, she simply pushed the food around on her plate as though she had no appetite. He looked down at his own dinner. He supposed Mrs. Ackerman was not exactly the most accomplished cook, but he hadn’t overly cared. He ate only to sustain himself, not to engage in any culinary delights.
“Perhaps we will have to see about hiring a cook,” he muttered, and Hannah looked up at him hopefully.
“That might be nice,” she said with a smile, showing off teeth that were just a bit crooked, though somehow they made her much more endearing. She was such a pretty thing that he despaired of the fact her beauty was wasted upon him and this house, away from London and all who would desire to look upon her. She was one of those women who would likely forever seem much younger than she was in reality.
After dinner he retreated to his library to write once more, and she trailed along after him. He supposed she didn’t have much else with which to occupy herself.
She stood in front of his bookshelves as he took a seat behind his desk.
“You have quite a collection,” she observed, to which he responded with a grunt. “Are they yours, or were they here when you arrived?”
“Both.”
“When did you first begin living here at Hollingswood?”
“After I returned from war,” he said, not particularly inclined to share details.
“Who lived here before that?”
“Another relative, but he died years before. It was empty for about fifteen years.”
“I see.”
She wandered closer toward him, looking up at the portrait above him.
“Your great-uncle looks quite a lot like you,” she said, tilting her head to study him.
“So I am told.”
“Did he have any children?”
“No,” he shook his head. “It is how the house eventually came to my father and then to me.”
“Was your grandmother Isabel, the woman from the letters?” she asked, and Edmund sighed, raising his head as he gave up all hope of work.
“No,” he answered her, looking up and giving her his full attention. “After she died, my grandfather remarried, and they had children together. There were no offspring from his first wife.”
“I suppose that is for the best,” she said, to which he agreed.
“How long did your great-uncle live?”
Edmund rose now and walked over to her, coming to stand next to her shoulder.
“Not long,” he said. “After the tragedy here, he joined the war effort. He was gravely injured, but returned here to die.”
“I wonder if he lost all hope of living anymore, after losing his love,” she murmured.
“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, and she turned her wide-eyed stare upon him.
“What isn’
t?”
“Choosing whether or not to die. Sometimes it is impossible, as much as you will it to be so.”
Her gaze turned sympathetic, and he turned away from her pity.
“Why, Edmund?” she asked softly. “Why would you want to die? You have always had much to live for, have you not?”
“It wasn’t worth it,” he said, shaking his head. “Not where I was.”
“I thought prisoners were treated rather well,” she said with question.
“Officers often are,” he said. “When I was captured, however, it must have been impossible to determine my insignia. I had lost my jacket and my clothing was in ruins. I ended up on a prison depot that was basically forgotten about. Unlike most, it was rife with disease and death. I would likely have faced my end there had not fellow prisoners looked after me. How I survived, to this day I am not entirely sure. I should have died of infection. When we—” he couldn’t say it. It was too much to share, “when I was finally rescued and I saw the sun once more, at first I thought I had died and was seeing heaven – until I realized that the chance of me ending up there was so low that it had to be reality.”
“Oh, Edmund,” she said, looking up at him. “I don’t believe it. You are a good man.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” she said, looking up at him with such hope, such trust, that he couldn’t turn away, as much as he wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Hannah,” he said softly.
“For what?”
“For ruining your life,” he said flatly. “You did nothing to deserve this – life with me.”
“I believe,” she said, stepping closer to him, “that this is a far better life than what I would have had with your brother.”
At her upturned face, her ill-placed faith in his goodness, he couldn’t help himself. He raised his hand to her soft skin, gently brushing his fingertips across it. It was as smooth as the finest silk gown. And when she stood on the tips of her toes and brushed those lips he remembered so well against his, he was lost.
Always Your Love: A Gothic Regency Romance Page 4
