by C. J. Archer
"Nothing is wrong with sewing," Hannah said. "It's just that I can't do it all day or I'll go mad."
"There's always painting," Sylvia suggested. "Or sketching."
Hannah stared hard at Jack over her cup. He blinked back at her like a trapped animal. "St. Clair, help me out here."
Quin stood by the sideboard, piling his third helping of bacon onto his plate. He paused, bacon dangling from the tongs over his plate, and regarded Tommy, of all people. Everyone except Tommy noticed. "I think you will be needed here more, Hannah, as lady of the house. You too, Sylvia," he added with another pointed look at Tommy.
Sylvia took a moment longer than the rest of us to gather his meaning, but once she did, she said, "We'll discuss what is to be done after breakfast, shall we?"
Hannah nodded. Jack smiled at her and she scowled back. "Just so you know, I am aware that I've been manipulated," she told her husband. "But I do agree with Quin."
"As do I," Jack said quickly. "But let me assure you, my darling wife, that I don't think boredom is a good enough reason to put your life in danger. I love you too much to watch you walk into a nest of ghosts who are intent on harming the living."
Her face softened and she smiled in return. It would seem the argument had ended, for now.
"Well done," I muttered to Quin as he sat down with his full plate. "You successfully solved a marital debate and have almost solved the problem of Tommy."
"The latter is still to be determined," he whispered back. The others were chatting freely once more, and did not seem to be listening to us. "As long as Sylvia and Hannah treat him as a man ought to be treated, it will be resolved."
"How should a man be treated?"
"Like he still has something to offer, even if he only has one good arm."
"Do you think that's why he keeps interfering in the servants' work? Yesterday I overheard the new butler complaining to Hannah that Tommy constantly finds fault."
"I believe so. I've seen it happen in my lifetime. A man loses his hand and he can't plow the field or hold a sword. Something inside him dies."
"His self-confidence. The worth he places on himself," I clarified when he gave me a blank look at the modern term.
"Aye, perhaps that's what it is. When others see that he has something else to offer that doesn't require two hands, then he feels he still has worth. Dawson needs to feel the same way. At the moment he doesn't know what else he can offer the household, but when he does, he'll be himself again. The ladies will find something of value for him to do, I'm certain of it."
"Quin, you are quite the modern thinker, for all your medieval attitudes."
"If my friends had known my opinions would one day be valued, perhaps I wouldn't have been so derided in my lifetime."
"That's rather unfair of them. In what way were you derided?"
"For treating servants as friends, and women as having value outside the kitchen and bedchamber. I could never understand why a woman who was as clever as a man couldn't own the gown she wore or speak her mind. I was fortunate, and sometimes unfortunate, to have known women with minds sharper than many men's. My own mother built up my father's estate to become one of the most successful in the county. He was too busy fighting."
"And your wife?"
"She was clever too," he said shortly, piercing his bacon with his knife. "Considerably more than me."
He didn't seem interested in expanding on that point, so I let the conversation drop. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he finished his food then picked up his teacup in both hands. He'd not yet mastered an elegant way to handle the delicate china with his large fingers, and he looked as if he were drinking from a bowl.
"Do you have a plan of attack?" Jack asked him during a lull in the conversation. "If Emily were here we could have been assigned a medium each and attacked both the front and back of the house at the same time, but we can't do that with only one."
Quin shook his head. "You're not coming either."
"I bloody well am."
Quin set down his cup. "As you note, there is only one medium. There is also only one sword."
"And my demon-forged blade."
"Will you be able to get close enough to a spirit to cut open its chest?"
"If I have another weapon in my other hand, yes." Jack snapped his fingers and fire danced on the tips. I rarely saw him display his gift for fire so openly, but I suspected he considered himself to be among friends and safe. I also suspected he did it to impress Quin.
Quin seemed intrigued at first, but then merely shrugged. "A few flames won't worry a ghost."
"I don't want to worry it. All I need to do is distract it." He shook his fingers, extinguishing the fire. "Occupy it with one weapon, cut it open with the other."
Sylvia tutted. "Honestly, Jack. Can't you leave this discussion for later?"
The angles of Quin's face shifted into hard, unforgiving planes. "You are not coming, Langley. The only reason I'm allowing Cara to go with me is so she can direct me. You aren't necessary."
"Oh dear," Hannah muttered. "This isn't going to end well."
It was a little like watching two gladiators clash—neither was willing to give in, each as capable as the other.
"If it will just be the two of you, who will drive the coach?" Jack asked.
"I will," Quin said.
"So if you get into difficulty and must flee the scene, you expect to be able to outrun ghosts who can simply reappear wherever they want, gather up the reins, ensure Cara is on board too, and drive off again?"
I refrained from telling him that I was capable of ensuring I was on board all by myself. My interruption probably wouldn't be welcomed by either man.
"If you come, it's another person I must protect. I cannot be everywhere."
"Precisely. For one thing, I can take care of myself, and for another, who will remain near Cara and protect her if a spirit gets past you?"
Quin's lips pinched into a bloodless line. His nostrils flared. After a moment he released a sigh and gave a single nod.
Jack smiled. "I'm glad we see eye to eye."
I thought appealing to Quin's protective instincts was a low blow. It was, perhaps, his only weakness.
"You will not get in my way."
Jack held up his hands and nodded. He was still smiling.
"And you will not get yourself injured or killed."
"It's not on my agenda for the day."
Their boundary-setting was interrupted by Tommy storming out of the dining room. I hadn't been watching him as the two men argued, but I did catch the strained look on his face as he left. I suspected he was upset that he couldn't help too. For someone who'd been involved in protecting Frakingham and its occupants through many battles, it must be frustrating for him to not be able to do so this time.
Sylvia got up and followed him. Nobody asked her to wait.
After breakfast, we dispersed briefly to freshen up before leaving for the Tudor house. It had begun to rain and I thought a sturdy umbrella might be of use, not only to keep dry but to use as a weapon against the spirits if they got too close. Tommy would know where to find one so I went in search of him in the service area. I also wanted to see if he was all right.
It took some time to locate him, and Sylvia also seemed to have disappeared. The housekeeper suggested I look in the cellar, since Tommy had mentioned fetching some wine for dinner, much to the new butler's annoyance. I did find him down there, but he wasn't alone. Sylvia was with him, and they were kissing.
CHAPTER 6
My gasp caused them to spring apart. Its echo bounced off the low ceiling of the cellar and lingered a moment before finally fading away. I stared at them. Tommy avoided my gaze and shuffled his feet, but Sylvia approached me. Her face was ablaze, her lips swollen from Tommy's kisses. She touched trembling fingers to them.
"I was…we were just…" Her hand fluttered down to the choker at her throat. Her gaze slipped away. "Uh…"
"Looking for some
wine?" I suggested. I was still in a bit of shock, but not quite as much as Sylvia appeared to be.
"Yes," she said weakly. "Wine." She cast a glance at the rows of bottles in the rack near Tommy.
Tommy withdrew one without glancing at the label. He didn't look quite so keen to pretend, but he went along with it, perhaps for her sake.
Sylvia touched her hair self-consciously. "Thank you, Dawson. I'll see you in the drawing room at ten." To me, she said, "Hannah and I have some thoughts on Tommy's future here at Frakingham that we'd like to discuss with him."
It was more information that I, as a guest, needed to know. I suspected she felt compelled to prove how normal everything was, how she was still a lady and Tommy the footman. Except it could no longer be that way. Their kiss changed everything. I could see it in her eyes as well as his. There was uncertainty in them, but mostly I saw something that I'd seen in Emily and Jacob's eyes many years ago. A sense that they'd found the thing they'd not known they'd been searching for. It was impossible to return to the life they'd led before the kiss, no matter how much Sylvia pretended otherwise.
I only hoped she didn't hurt Tommy before she came to that conclusion.
She marched up the stairs without looking back. Tommy wasn't quite so eager to leave. He approached me. The scars on his face weren't so noticeable in the dim light of the single lantern, but they were still a bald reminder of how close he'd come to losing his life to save the people and home he loved. "If Langley finds out about this," he said quietly, "Sylvia will be in trouble."
"I won't say a word. But as her friend, I must caution you."
He bristled and I worried that I was about to overstep the mark. But I had to say what was on my mind. She was my friend, and a somewhat naive one.
"Please give serious thought to the consequences before you engage in amorous endeavors again. You must consider whether this is a boulder you wish to push down the hill or not. Because if you do, you won't be able to stop it."
"Wise words," he said through a tight jaw. "Perhaps you ought to take your own advice." He walked off up the stairs too, his pace a little slower than Sylvia's.
"My situation is nothing like hers," I said to his retreating back. "You and she at least have a chance."
He didn't say anything, just kept climbing the stairs. I grabbed the lantern they'd left behind and followed, wondering how he'd known I had feelings for Quin.
***
I never did fetch an umbrella, but the rain eased before we reached the lane that led to the Tudor house. It had stopped entirely by the time we pulled up to the gate. I peered through the coach window, but there was no one in the front garden, living or dead.
Quin jumped down from the driver's seat and opened the door. He lowered the step and assisted me out. "We decided that you will sit beside Jack and direct me from there. That way he can drive off quickly if necessary and you are out of harm's way."
I glanced at Jack. He had the decency to look sheepish. "Do I not get a voice?"
"No," they both said.
I sighed. "And here I'd called your thinking enlightened this morning, Quin."
The corner of his mouth twitched, but the smile was so fleeting that I wondered if I'd imagined it. "It's for the best."
"For me, yes, but how will I be able to direct you from up there? I won't be able to see the ghosts at all."
"I'll lure the spirits out of the house."
I wasn't so sure that it was a foolproof plan, but I doubted I'd sway him into allowing me to go with him. He took my hand and assisted me up to the driver's seat beside Jack. As he turned to go, I grasped his shoulder. "Please be careful. If it gets too dangerous, you must leave."
He nodded and walked off through the front gate. I was about to tell him that he'd gone far enough, when he shouted, "Come out, Redbeard! I have a proposition for you."
"Redbeard is the leader?" Jack asked me.
I nodded, not taking my eyes off the house.
"Come out, coward!" Quin called again.
Still nothing. He looked back at me. I shrugged and shook my head.
"I need to investigate." I was about to climb down when a spirit suddenly appeared. "Quin! Straight ahead, at the bottom of the steps!"
He drew his sword, but remained where he was. The steps were too close to the front door, and too far from me, for my liking.
"You there!" I called to the spirit. "Come closer. We need to speak."
"You're that medium," he called back. He was a tall, solidly built fellow with midnight-black hair that fell past his shoulders in limp, oily streaks. He wore a jerkin of indeterminate color beneath all the blood, and matching wide pants that ended at the knee. Half a ruff formed a semi-circle around his neck, the other half probably having been blown off along with that side of his face.
"And you shouldn't be here," I countered. "You've already crossed over."
His lips peeled back from his teeth in a sneer, or what was left of lips and teeth. "And how do ye' know that, Ghost Girl?"
"I spoke to a gentleman haunting Frakingham Abbey. He told me that he'd crossed to a dark place then been called back to this realm. I know you were with him, but he chose not to join you here."
"He was a coward. A weakling. He ran home with his tail between his legs." He spat on the ground. "Tell him that from us when you see him again."
"We won't be seeing him again. Nobody will, in this realm or any other."
The ghost's jaw slackened and he blinked at me.
Quin carved a semi-circle out of the air with his sword, catching the spirit's attention. His fists curled at his sides and he whistled.
"Three more have appeared," I told Quin. "Directly behind the first."
Jack swore softly and gripped the knife resting on his knee tighter.
"Where's your leader?" I asked. "The fellow with the red beard. Is he here?"
"He ain't our leader," snarled a spirit with a hole in his stomach. I could see clear through him to the other side. "We got no leader."
"Oh? It's just that he seemed like your spokesperson when we arrived yesterday."
"He's busy elsewhere." Half Face's hollow chuckle implied he was busy causing problems elsewhere.
"So it's just the four of you?" I asked.
I received no answer. Did that imply that they were alone, or that others were inside the house, staying out of sight until needed?
Quin beckoned the ghosts with his free hand. "Come closer."
"That sword a special one?" asked a fat ghost with the purplish coloring of a man who'd choked to death.
I didn't answer him. I could also play the not-talking game.
"You think he can fight four of us when he can't see us?" Half Face snorted. "Not likely."
So there were only four. I still didn't want Quin to get closer to the house, but if the spirits didn't move down the steps, he would have to. I gripped onto the small iron rail at the side of the driver's seat and told him to advance.
He did and the four spirits finally stepped down onto the overgrown path. Three of them advanced slowly, but the fourth, a pimply youth with prominent, equine features, ran at Quin.
"Prepare!" I called out. Quin settled into a balanced fighting stance, his focus dead ahead. "Strike…now!"
Quin sliced his blade right to left, but the youth jumped clear at the last moment. He whooped and danced, turning circles on the spot. The back of his head had been caved in. His brown hair was matted in the blood.
"Two feet to your right," I said, lowering my voice to a level that I hoped would still carry.
The instruction was hardly out of my mouth when Quin cut through the ghost's chest. The youth gasped and looked down at himself. There was no blood, but the blade had made a clean line from one side to the other.
"Cara?" Quin asked as he reached out.
"A little to the left. There!"
The youth's dead eyes opened wide as Quin plunged his hand in and pulled out the ghost's soul. He crushed it to dust and the y
outh's body followed.
"Bloody hell." Jack's soft exclamation was echoed by the remaining ghosts, only much louder.
They all stared, mouths agape, at the pile of gray dust scattered in the grass and leaves. One even crossed himself.
"Fool," muttered Half Face with a shake of his head. "Come!" he said to his companions. "Let's end this."
The other two spirits disappeared then reappeared almost immediately, with swords in hand, close to Quin. They slashed at him, but he parried both blows easily and danced away. The presence of the swords meant he could now locate the ghosts without needing me to direct him. The battle came down to speed. How quickly could he deflect their blows then cut them open and pull out their souls?
"Both are right-handed," I told him. Knowing that would not only help him with the angles and directions of his opponents' slices, but also tell him the approximate location of their chests.
He parried another two blows, one after the other, then had to leap out of the way of a fast descending blade. At the edges of my vision, I saw Half Face take a step back, but he remained on the front porch, also watching the fight. It was difficult to read his expression due to his wounds, but his gaze followed Quin's moves intently.
The two other spirits seemed to have realized they needed to use their ghostliness to win. They had two advantages over him that I could see. One was their endurance. Ghosts couldn't tire, and Quin eventually would. The other was that they could disappear and reappear wherever they wanted.
The fat one did just that, suddenly turning up behind Quin.
"Behind you!" both Jack and I shouted.
Quin swiveled, slashing in an arc. Sword, arm and body were one graceful yet violent motion. But his effort missed its target. Fat Ghost blinked out just in time and turned up beside Stomach Hole. He laughed as both plunged their blades at Quin at the same time.
