“I would not say it to you if I did not.”
“But what of your new farms?”
They stared at each other in silence, still caught in their own needs, their tangled emotions.
“I cannot believe that two intelligent people like you haven’t seen what is right before you,” a voice interrupted.
Sarah looked over her shoulder to see Patrick O’Riley standing in the drawing room doorway. He had fallen asleep on the floor outside Mary Ann’s chamber, and he looked tousled and tired. And rather impatient with the pair of them.
She sat back on her heels. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. O’Riley?”
“Indeed, Patrick,” Miles said. “If you have a solution, I wish you would share it with us.”
Mr. O’Riley sat down in Sarah’s vacated chair and yawned, rubbing a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Lady Iverson has learned a great deal from her village, valuable knowledge that the world should know. Yet she still has much work left to do. And you feel a certain responsibility to chaps like me, Miles. Both are quite proper feelings.”
Miles frowned at him impatiently. “So . . .”
“So Lady Iverson should open a museum here, one that shows how Vikings truly lived, what crops they grew, how they did their crafts. And who would help Lady Iverson to set up her museum, to work in it?”
“Former soldiers and their families!” Sarah cried. It was a marvelous idea, and one she did indeed feel foolish for not thinking of. It would take a great deal of planning, but it could be a grand place when it was finished, unlike any other in England. She could just envision the learning that would go on here.
Her hands fairly itched for paper and pen so she could start laying down plans. She would have to design displays for the artifacts she had been able to salvage from Mrs. Hamilton’s destruction. Displays that could make others see the true beauty of them. They could just seem like dusty, broken old bits to some people, even though they were treasures to her. . . .
Treasure!
Of course.
Sarah leaped to her feet, seized by a new revelation. Her blankets dropped, and she pulled them back up impatiently. “I have to go,” she said, hurrying to the door. “Mr. O’Riley, will you stay here and watch after Mary Ann for me? I will not be gone long.”
Mr. O’Riley just smiled at her complacently, but Miles frowned in confusion. He stood up and followed her into the foyer.
“What do you mean you have to go out?” he said. “Go out where? You should rest. You have had a terrible ordeal.”
“Rest? How could I rest? It was there—all along!” She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, laughing in her exuberance. “I must go to it. There is no time to explain right now, Miles, I must find my cloak.”
She went off toward the staircase, still trailing her blankets.
“Wherever you are going, Sarah, I am coming with you,” he called after her.
“My darling, that will be even better!”
Chapter Twenty-four
Sarah drew her phaeton to a halt at the edge of the village. She had expected to be alone there, alone with Miles, but apparently that was not to be. Neville Hamilton stood beside the pit of the leather-worker’s shop, his head uncovered to the pale gray light, staring out at nothing.
Sarah had hoped she could avoid this meeting for just a short while longer, until she felt stronger, more certain. She and Mr. Hamilton had been friends of a sort once. What could they be now, after all that had happened?
She took Miles’s hand when he helped her from the phaeton, and held onto it as she stepped forward and called, “Mr. Hamilton—Neville.”
He turned his head slowly to look at her. His face was as gray as the sky, his eyes a blank. “Lady Iverson,” he said. “I trust Miss Bellweather has suffered no ill effects from her—experience? That she is well?”
Miles tightened his clasp on her gloved hand, and gave her a small, reassuring smile as they walked together to Mr. Hamilton’s side. The mud and debris of last night’s storm pulled at her boots and the hem of her gown. She felt none of the wild enchantment, none of the strangeness that had hung here then. Perhaps Thora was gone, not to return, after performing her good deed?
Sarah felt a sad pang at the thought. A sadness that met and mingled with the one she felt when she looked at Mr. Hamilton. “My sister is recovering,” she told him. “She was sleeping peacefully when we left her.”
Mr. Hamilton gave a regretful smile, one that spoke of a past path he might have taken “I am glad. I must convey to her my deepest apologies.”
“And what of your wife?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, I must give her my apologies, as well.”
Sarah gave a startled little laugh at his answer. “I meant—how does she fare?”
“Well enough. The physician has given her a strong draught to help her sleep. Tomorrow, when she has rested, I will take her back to Bath, to her parents’ home. Perhaps there she can truly recover. Only the five of us know the truth of that farmer—hopefully that can be an end to that?”
“So she returns to Bath after all,” Miles said quietly.
Neville raised his gaze to Miles’s. “Indeed. She does.”
Miles nodded.
“Lord Ransome has agreed to let me build a museum here,” Sarah said. “One that will preserve the life of the village. I hope that, perhaps one day, you can return and continue the work. John would have wanted you to.”
He looked surprised that she would offer this to him. His response was a merest flicker that broke across the despair of his face. “Perhaps I shall. I—thank you, Lady Iverson.” He gave her a small bow. “I must go and see about Emmeline. Good-bye, Lady Iverson. Lord Ransome.”
“Good-bye.” Sarah watched him go and climb into his own carriage, watched the vehicle until it disappeared from view. Then she turned to Miles, reaching again for his hand. “It is truly sad. He is a gifted scholar, one who cares so much for this history.”
Miles squeezed her hand. “Perhaps if he had not married the wrong woman . . .”
She laughed. The sound felt good, warm and real after the long night they had passed. “I suppose that is a mistake you do not mean to make?”
“Certainly not. For I mean to marry you, Sarah Iverson.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Sarah stared up at him, her laughter fading. She was not sure she had heard him correctly. She had imagined hearing words like that from him, of course, had giggled about it into her pillow at night. She had rather imagined it differently, with flowers, a ring, a beautiful gown—not standing in the mud.
But thinking of it here, thinking of marriage and a life with her love here in her village, was sweeter than any imagining could ever have been.
“Did you say—you intend to marry me?” she whispered.
“If you will have me,” he answered. He lifted her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to them, and held them against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong and true. How she always loved that feeling. “I am probably a poor choice for you, an old army man with no knowledge of history and antiquities. I am no great scholar, like your first husband. But I promise you, Sarah, that if you accept me, I will love you and take care of you for all my life. I have never known anyone like you, and I know that I never will again. I love you, Sarah Iverson. Will you marry me?”
Sarah felt tears in her eyes, felt their salty warmth spill down her cheeks in a flood of pure happiness. She had spent so long alone, devoted to her work, and had thought herself happy. But she saw now that she had never known true, complete happiness until this very moment. Her heart was full, her soul bursting with joy.
“I love you, too,” she said. “I feel like I have known you forever and a day, like we have always been together. And now we always will be.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed his lips, softly, lingeringly. “Yes, Miles. I will marry you.”
He laughed, and caught her about the waist, lifting her up off her feet. He twirled her about, and s
he laughed, too, clinging to his shoulders. When he lowered her to her feet at last, she leaned her head on his shoulder. The world swayed around her in a delicious giddiness.
“I will always do everything in my power to make you happy, Sarah,” he said. “I do not want you to ever regret becoming my wife.”
“You do make me happy,” she answered. “And I hope that you never regret being my husband. I will never be as other fine ladies are. I will probably be a dreadful marchioness, not at all like your lovely mother. She would be perfect.”
“You will be the finest marchioness ever.” He hugged her close. “Should we tell your sister of our betrothal? I have a feeling she could use some happy news today.”
“Oh, yes! She will want to make wedding plans. She was too small to be a bridesmaid at my first wedding.”
“Then let us return to your house, my dear. The wind is becoming a bit chill.”
“Of course, I . . .” Then Sarah remembered what she had come to the village for in the first place. “We should go home. I am longing for a fire, and some tea. But there is something I must do here first.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me, and I will show you. If it is there at all.”
She went back to the phaeton, and took out the trowels and picks she had tucked beneath the seat. Wordlessly, she handed some of them to Miles and led him to the tree where she had seen Thora last night.
The tree stood outside the perimeter of the digging, in the area she had not yet been able to excavate. It was towering and ancient, spreading its wide branches in a sheltering arc. The leaves were heavy from the rain, drooping pale green over her head.
Sarah closed her eyes and remembered how Thora had looked in the purple-blue flash of the lightning, brandishing her scamasax.
“She stood just here,” she murmured. She opened her eyes, and planted her trowel deep in the soft earth. “This is where we have to dig.”
“Show me,” Miles said.
Sarah fell to her knees, unmindful of her gown and pelisse, and scooped up dirt in clods and clumps. Miles knelt beside her, using a pick to pry out stones and branches. They worked together in silence. Miles asked her no questions, even though he must have been very puzzled; he just dug.
And she loved him even more for it.
It took a long time, but finally her trowel struck something hollow with a dull thud. She pulled off her gloves and leaned down, digging into the dirt with her bare fingers, scrambling until she touched something solid.
“It’s here,” she said. “But I can’t pull it up.”
Miles peered over her shoulder. “I see it. A box of some sort.” He took the edge of his pick and used it to lever the object up and pull it to the surface.
It was indeed a box, of rotting wood bound about with iron fastenings. Sarah reached for the clasp, but her hand was trembling, and it fell back to her side.
“What is this, Sarah?” Miles asked, in a hushed voice, as if he felt the same aura of awe that she did.
“I think—I think it is Thora’s Treasure,” she said, her own voice shaking. “The one everyone has talked of, but that I never believed in. The one that only her true heir can possess. I thought about where I saw her here last night, and I had a great feeling it must be here.”
“Then you must be her true heir,” he said. “The one it was meant for.”
Sarah thought it more likely he was the heir, since this was his land, but she just smiled. “Will you open it with me?”
“Of course.”
He covered her hand with his, and together they lifted the heavy clasp and pushed the lid back.
“Oh,” Sarah breathed.
Inside the box, on a bed of shredded cloth, lay items similar to others they had found in the village, but grander and richer than any Sarah had ever seen. There were hairpins of ivory with rough-cut gemstones set in their heads; ivory combs etched with flowers and studded with more stones. There were silver storage jars, amber beads, and silver brooches, coins, arm rings, bracelets. They shimmered in the dull light of day, light they had not seen in centuries. They seemed to be tokens from someone to a woman he had loved very much.
Sarah knew this, just as she knew every one of these items. It would be the perfect centerpiece of her museum.
On the top of the glistening horde was a ring, made of silver twisted into the shape of tree branches and tiny leaves. One perfect spring green gemstone crowned it.
Miles took the ring, and slid it onto her finger. It fit as if made for her; it lay against her skin as if it had come home.
“So there was a treasure, after all,” she said. “It was here the whole time.”
“Yes. A treasure beyond the worth of all others,” answered Miles.
Sarah looked up at him to see that he watched not the treasure, but her. In his eyes’ blue depths, she saw all the love and passion, all the true acceptance, she had longed for. Nothing, no silver, no jewels, could ever equal that.
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, putting all her love, all her life into that kiss. And she felt all of his love pouring back into her.
Above them, the gray clouds parted, and the sun shone forth.
A Loving Spirit
Chapter One
England, 1811
“Why is it always so cold in England?” Cassandra Richards murmured, burrowing deeper into her fur-lined cloak as she watched the Cornwall landscape roll by outside the carriage window.
“I think my toes are frozen,” said her friend Antoinette Duvall. “They will never be warm again.” Her usually merry coffee-colored face was glum, at odds with her bright red-and-black printed turban.
The two of them sighed, and leaned against each other disconsolately.
Cassie’s aunt, Charis, Lady Willowby, called Chat by all her many friends, looked across the carriage at them and shook her head. “You girls! It is only October. There is barely a nip in the air. What are you going to do when it is December and snow is thick on the ground?”
“Snow!” Cassie cried. She had lived for the last fourteen years in hot, sunny Jamaica; she had not seen snow since she was five. All she remembered was that it was very cold and very wet.
And that her father used to make little balls of it, and throw them at her laughing mother.
That memory of her parents, who were now gone and left behind in the small cemetery of their plantation near Negril, gave her a sharp pang. How she missed them! How she missed their life together, a life of sunshine and warm sea.
Even four months in England had not erased her homesickness.
But at least Antoinette had agreed to come with her, she thought, reaching out with the toe of her half boot to nudge the flannel-wrapped brick closer to her friend’s feet. Home never seemed quite so far away when she could hear the lilting, musical cadence of Antoinette’s voice. And Aunt Chat really was trying to make her feel welcome. She had given parties at her house in Bath to introduce Cassie to all her friends, and now she had organized this trip to Cornwall to visit yet another of her friends, the Dowager Lady Royce.
Cassie knew that Aunt Chat hoped that being near the sea would help cheer her up. The least she could do was enjoy it.
She smiled at her aunt. “I cannot wait to see Royce Castle, Aunt Chat! It sounds most intriguing. We don’t have buildings that are over five hundred years old in Jamaica.”
Chat smiled back. Her pretty, round face was relieved beneath her plumed bonnet. “I am sure you will enjoy it, my dear. My friend Lady Royce is wonderful, and the castle itself most intriguing. There are underground tunnels, secret rooms, and supposedly many ghosts in residence.”
Antoinette brightened a bit. “Ghosts, Lady Willowby?”
“Oh, yes. Several, I believe, though I do not know the details. Melinda or her son should be able to tell you all about it.” She shivered a bit. “Though I certainly hope we do not actually meet any!”
“Oh, I do!” Cassie said, clapping her gloved hands in delig
ht. “A ghost would be ever so exciting. Did you bring your mother’s book of incantations, Antoinette?”
Antoinette was already digging about in her valise. She came up with a thick, worn, brown leather-covered volume. “Of course! I never travel without it. One never knows when one might need an incantation. I also brought some herbs and potions.” She pulled a bottle out of the valise, and held it up to the pale sunlight. Small flowers and stems floated about in a clear liquid.
“Wonderful!” Cassie said. “Antoinette’s mother was a Yaumumi priestess, Aunt Chat. She taught Antoinette to find all sorts of things that we cannot see. If there are any ghosts, she is sure to find them.”
Antoinette nodded firmly. “Yes. And if there are unfriendly entities, we shall banish them.”
Chat eyed the bottle a bit nervously. “My dears, are you sure this is a good idea? Perhaps we should leave the, er, entities alone. We wouldn’t like to get them upset, now would we?”
Cassie gave her a reassuring smile. “You mustn’t worry, Aunt Chat. Antoinette knows exactly what she is doing. Now, tell me more about your friend. And her son! How very fortunate that they live in such a spirited place. They must be terribly interesting people.”
“Dearest, I do hope you are going to change your clothes before Lady Willowby and her niece arrive,” Melinda Leighton, the Dowager Lady Royce said to her son, when she came into the library on a wave of lilac scent. She proceeded to open the draperies at all the windows, sending sunlight into the gloomy corners of the room.
“What is wrong with what I am wearing, Mother?” Phillip, the Earl of Royce, said distractedly, not even glancing up from the volume he was perusing.
“What is not wrong with it? The edges of the coat cuffs are frayed, and is that a hole in the elbow? You should put your new green coat on. And a fresh cravat. You have made ink spots on that one.”
Phillip turned over a page. “I will. Later.”
Spirited Brides Page 21
