Mesmerized

by Candace Camp

  She did not add the most bizarre and chilling thing about the vision they had just seen: that the woman had looked exactly like the woman Olivia had dreamed about sitting in front of the fire yesterday.

  She could not think of any way to tell Stephen that without sounding as if she had gone utterly mad. But she was certain it was the same woman. The dress had been different, a deep crimson this time, with gold undertunic and sleeves, a richer, more formal looking gown, and she had worn a headdress and veil, which had hidden her pale blond hair except at the very front, but her eyes, her facial features, the small, lithe body—all were exactly like the woman in her dream.

  It was impossible. One did not dream of an unknown woman, then see her so soon thereafter, particularly when that woman seemed to walk straight through a wall. She refused to even think about the fact that at first, when she had seen the woman yesterday, Olivia had thought she really was there in front of the fire. It was only later, when Olivia woke up, that she realized she must have been dreaming. The whole thing made her uneasy in a way she could not begin to express. If it were not for the fact that Stephen, too, had seen the woman tonight, she would have been afraid she had run mad.

  “Would it be possible…?” Stephen began musingly, then halted, looking embarrassed.

  “What? Go on? It could not possibly be any more bizarre than what we just witnessed.”

  “You’re right. What I was thinking was—if a person were an expert mesmerist, would he or she be able to make someone else believe that he saw something that was not really there? I have heard strange tales of mesmerism.”

  Olivia sat up a little straighter, intrigued by the idea. “I’m not sure. I have studied mesmerism—it is a fascinating subject. Not all that silly mumbo jumbo about animal magnetism and such. That is why I prefer the term ‘hypnotism.’ It separates the study from Mesmer’s oddities. It is possible to put a person into a sort of half-conscious state. It can be used to remove pain. I have experienced that myself. But I personally have never witnessed any of the phenomena that some have claimed, such as making people act in peculiar ways or do things that they do not remember. The times when I was put into a trance that way, I was aware all the time of what he was saying, and I remembered it afterward, as well. However, there are those who claim it can be used to give one suggestions that one later carries out, not knowing why. If such claims are true, then…”

  Stephen grimaced. “It sounds absurd.”

  Olivia nodded. “But no more absurd than someone walking through walls. However, it would mean that Madame Valenskaya or one of the other two would have had to hypnotize both of us and implant the suggestion that we would see such a woman, and also have gotten us to forget that we had ever been hypnotized.”

  “Unlikely,” Stephen agreed. “And how could they make sure that we would see her at the same time? But how else could they have done it? Some sort of mirror arrangement? There was no sign of any mirrors in that room. And I can see no way for a person to appear to step into a wall and disappear.”

  “And how would they have known to set it up for just that particular time and place? It was happenstance that we were there,” Olivia pointed out.

  “Not entirely. We were following Mr. Babington.”

  “You mean, he could have led us right to it? That would indicate they knew we would be following him,” Olivia said.

  “One could assume we might, I suppose. Clearly you and I did not believe there was a ghost in the garden. They could guess that we would have worked out that Mr. Babington would be the most likely suspect and that he would go out to retrieve his costume, and that we would follow him.”

  “They could assume that you might,” Olivia corrected. “I do not think most people would expect me to be helping you in the investigation.”

  “True. But if they set it up for me, you saw it simply because you were there, too. They wouldn’t have had to plan for you.”

  “Unless it was done by hypnotism, as you suggested. But then they would have had to plant the suggestion in both of us. And they would have had to know we would be there at that time.”

  “Not necessarily,” Stephen argued. “It could have been something that they suggested we would do if we followed Mr. Babington. That way it would throw us off his trail no matter what the reason we were following him—and it would make us witnesses to another ghost.”

  “A much more believable one,” Olivia commented.

  “I must say, none of this seems very believable to me,” Stephen said wryly.

  “No. Nor to me. But we cannot ignore the evidence of our own eyes, either. If we are to judge things impartially, scientifically, we cannot afford blind disbelief any more than blind faith.”

  “What are you suggesting, then? That this really was a ghost?” Stephen asked.

  Olivia glanced at him. “I have as little faith as you do in the actuality of spirits and ghosts. But we must sift through all the information that we have if we are to arrive at an accurate conclusion. It occurs to me—why was she dressed the way she was dressed?”

  “Because she was from a different time—or, rather, because we were to be led to believe she was from a different time.”

  “Yes, but why that time? They were talking about this martyred family tonight, the Scorhills, but if I understood you correctly, they were from the early sixteenth century. Yet this woman’s dress was definitely medieval. My guess is from around the time of Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

  Stephen raised his brows. “You can be that specific?”

  Olivia shrugged. “I am fairly confident of it. Within a hundred years or so. Styles did not change as quickly in the Middle Ages. But her dress resembled ones I have seen in drawings and paintings of Queen Eleanor. I have read a good bit of history, and my favorite great-uncle is forever reading and talking about it. He, as it happens, is a great student of Henry II, Eleanor’s husband, so I have seen pictures of her more than once. At any rate, I am certain it is medieval, not Tudor.”

  “Why wouldn’t they play up the Martyrs, given what happened in the séance?”

  “It would seem to make more sense.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps they had a medieval costume handy but not a Tudor one. It might not be accurate, but at least it’s ghostly.”

  “A medieval tunic and underdress would probably be easier to sew and to get into, that’s true. They are simpler. But this afternoon they used a robed monk, which does seem to fit with the Martyrs, at least to some extent. And if someone is able to pull off as good a trick as a woman walking through a wall, I would think they would bother to costume the ghost correctly.”

  “What I find hardest to swallow is the idea that Madame Valenskaya and her cohorts have the intelligence to conjure up a trick like that,” Stephen said.

  “I agree. But if it was not somehow caused by them, then we are left with only the theory that it was real.”

  They looked at each other. It was not a theory either of them was eager to accept.

  Olivia glanced around the room. “There are a number of books here.”

  “Yes, and more in the library. What are you suggesting?”

  “That we do a little research,” Olivia replied.

  “Into what?”

  “Well…her gown, for one thing. We could make sure that it really is from the period I think it is. And perhaps we could find some information about the house. Belinda said she found out about the name while she was researching a paper for her tutor. She must have gotten the information from somewhere.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there must be some histories. People are always writing tiresome tracts about their ancestors. What exactly are we looking for?”

  “I’m not sure. Hopefully we will know it when we see it.”

  They started at one end of the study, and after a few minutes of searching the shelves, they found two histories of England and a study of the English monarchs. Olivia sat down in the comfortable chair in front of Stephen’s desk and began to flip through the
biographies of the monarchs.

  It was not long before she exclaimed with triumph, “Here! Look, a drawing of Queen Mathilde—you know, who fought with Henry over who was the rightful ruler of England. She is dressed in much the same way as our woman tonight.”

  Stephen, who had settled down behind the desk with one of the histories, came around to look over her shoulder. “Yes. Except for the fur around the cuffs and neck, it looks very much the same.”

  Olivia turned another few pages. “And here is Eleanor. Still much the same.”

  “So we must assume that our apparition is dressed as a—what, twelfth-century lady?”

  “Yes. She’s clearly a woman of some consequence—that girdle she wore around her waist looked like gold links with some sort of stones, perhaps even precious gems. They were unfaceted back then, you know.”

  “There was some gold in the headdress, as well.”

  “Of course one would dress as a lady for haunting a place—you may have noticed how rarely ghosts are said to be a farmer or tanner or goldsmith,” Olivia said.

  Stephen smiled faintly at her statement. “Now that you have placed our lady in time, would you care to take one of these histories off my hands?”

  “Of course.” Olivia set aside her tome and picked up the one lying on Stephen’s desk. Idly she flipped back to the time of the Conquest and began to move forward. “Do we know when this house came to be named Blackhope?” She covered a yawn with her hand.

  “I have no idea. Obviously Belinda’s tutor was more concerned with the history of this place than any of mine ever were. I don’t really know much about it before our family took it over. Somewhere, I know, there’s a history of the St. Legers, but it won’t help us learn about this house before the time of the Martyrs.”

  They began to read again, and the room was silent. It was some minutes before Stephen looked up from his reading with a sigh and glanced across at Olivia. She was sitting in the wing chair, feet curled up under her, the book she had been studying lying open in her lap and her head resting against one of the wings of the chair, her eyes closed. Her breasts rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep.

  Stephen smiled, watching her. There was something about her, he thought, that fascinated him. He found himself thinking about her more and more frequently, and he looked forward to seeing her. She looked lovely asleep, soft and innocent, but he liked, too, the snap of intelligence and wit in her brown eyes, the smile that so often curved her lips, the quick, compact way she moved. He had apologized for kissing her the other day because it had been the gentlemanly thing to do; he scarcely knew her and should not be making advances toward her. However, he did not regret it in the slightest. He had, in fact, enjoyed the kiss thoroughly.

  Olivia Moreland stirred his blood; she had from the moment he met her. When he had looked into her eyes that first night, a sizzle had run down through him, a feeling that was not only desire but also some sort of recognition. There were romantics who talked of two people’s souls crying out to each other; he had always dismissed such talk as twaddle, but after that moment, he was not so sure. In some strange way, he had felt almost as if he knew her, although that clearly was impossible. There were others, he knew, who would laugh and say that what he felt for her was desire, pure and simple—a physical attraction, a chemical reaction. But he was not entirely sure that that was an adequate explanation, either.

  He rose and walked softly across the floor to the small sofa and picked up a crocheted afghan that lay folded decoratively across the back of it. He came back on silent feet to Olivia’s chair and laid the small blanket gently over her. She stirred a little and snuggled into the warmth of the cover. He stood looking down at her for a moment, then returned to his seat behind the desk.

  Laying the book flat, he propped his elbow on the desk and his forehead on his hand and began reading again. Time passed, and his lids grew heavy. He blinked and started reading again, then stopped again, rubbing his hand across his face. He curled an arm across the book and laid his head down on it.

  He leaned against the wall, its sun-touched stone warm against his back, and surveyed the bailey of the castle before him. He pretended to watch the activity, but his focus was all on her. She walked down the steps and across the courtyard, a basket hooked over her arm, a ring of keys in her hand. She was not wearing her elegant clothes, merely a plain blue tunic and undergown, and a simple cloth veil on her head. The girdle just above her hips was plaited leather, not gold or silver. But she looked as beautiful as ever to him. His skin tingled for her; his guts clenched in desire.

  He knew she could never be his. She was forbidden to him, a married woman and, moreover, married to the man to whom he had sworn fealty.

  He watched as she entered the storage building, then swung his gaze around the courtyard. Two servant girls were tending to a tub of wash, and farther away, children chased a hen. Two guards stood at the gates, but there were no men-at-arms idling where their commander could see them. No one watched him.

  He strolled away from the gate, moving to the side of the keep. He knew he should not do what he was doing. It was dishonorable, and he hated himself for his disloyalty. But he could not stop himself; he could not stay away from her.

  When he was out of sight of the few people in the courtyard, he turned and walked into the same building into which she had gone. It was much dimmer in here, lit only by sunlight creeping in through the cracks of the wooden shutters and door. The door into the cellars stood open, flung back against the floor. There was a dim light below. He moved cautiously down the stairs and into the storage room, making his way through the casks and barrels and crates toward the torch, thrust into an iron holder on the wall.

  She was opening a barrel and peering inside when she heard the sound of his steps, and she turned, a look on her face that was part surprise and part hope. When she saw him, a smile broke across her face.

  “Sir John!” She started toward him, her eyes alight, then stopped, guilt settling on her face. “We should not—you must not risk it.”

  He thought that he would risk all for her, but he did not say it. Words, he knew, were easy. He came up to her. Up close, he could see the bruise on her cheek, and his stomach tightened within him.

  He reached up and laid a gentle finger beside the bruise. “Did Sir Raymond put this there?” His voice sounded like ground glass, and fury quivered in him.

  She nodded, looking away from him, ashamed. She shrugged. “It is nothing. It was not—”

  “I hate him!” His voice lashed out. “He is a cruel, godless man. I would like to kill him for hurting you.”

  He bent and gently brushed his lips against the bruise.

  A little sigh, part pleasure, part sorrow, escaped her lips. “But you cannot. He is your liege lord, and you are sworn to protect him.”

  “I would I had sworn to any other man.”

  “Then I would never have met you,” she reminded him. Her eyes here in the dim light were dark, but he knew their cornflower-blue color well. They had pierced his heart many months before.

  “I hate the way he so boldly keeps his mistress in the castle. It is shameful, an insult to you. I have seen the slut Elwena flaunting herself about.”

  “Nay.” She laid a finger against his lips, smiling and shaking her head. “It does not matter.”

  “It matters to me.” He looked down at her, love and desire coursing through him. He raised his hands to her face, smoothing them over her soft skin. “Alys…”

  He moved his hands back, pushing aside the simple veil and sinking them into the pale flaxen mass of her hair. She looked up at him, her lips partly open, her breath rushing in and out. He bent and kissed her, unable to hold back. Pleasure rushed through him like a torrent, a roiling blend of heat and passion and tenderness.

  But now, as it happened in dreams, the woman in his arms changed. Suddenly she was Olivia, and it was Stephen who was holding her, not Sir John. Her mouth was warm and damp, her body eagerly
clinging to his. Passion surged in him as his hands roamed her soft flesh.

  There was a sharp noise; he wasn’t sure what it had been, only that it jerked him out of his dream. Stephen awoke with a gasp, his body still boiling with lust. Blinking, confused and dazed with passion, he slowly raised his head.

  A few feet away from him, Olivia was sitting straight up in her chair, the book that had been lying in her lap now on the floor at her feet. She was wide-awake and staring at him, her mouth, soft with passion, opened in a startled “O.” Her brown eyes were luminous with desire, her cheeks flushed. Yet at the same time, there was a look on her face of mingled surprise and embarrassment.

  He gazed at her, unable to speak, and suddenly, with a jolt, he was sure somehow that she knew what he had been dreaming. “Olivia…”

  She let out a strangled noise and jumped to her feet, the light blanket falling unnoticed to her feet, then turned and ran out the door.

  Olivia sought out Tom Quick early the next morning and explained to him her need to have Mr. Babington’s room searched for the presence of a black robe such as the “ghost” in the garden had worn the day before.

  That task done, she spent the rest of the day assiduously avoiding Stephen. When she saw him in the sitting room with the others later in the morning, she quickly turned and went for a walk in the garden. Though she disliked causing extra work for any of the servants, she had Joan bring her midday meal up to her room on a tray, and then she spent the rest of the afternoon cooped up in her room reading a long and rather boring novel she found there.

  The only break in the monotony came when Tom reported to her on his search. He had found nothing untoward in Mr. Babington’s room, including a black robe. His words did not surprise her. After they had lost Babington the night before in their amazement over seeing “Lady Alys,” she had been sure that Babington would retrieve the incriminating evidence from wherever he had hidden it and get rid of it. Still, she had hoped that Babington might have been careless enough to store it in his room, so Tom’s news made her spirits sink even lower.