by Fiona Harper
Faith swallowed. ‘Because to someone it meant something.’
But that would make it... That would make it...
‘Bertie was right after all,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Once upon a time there was a message in this window.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘PROVERBS, Chapter Four, Verse eighteen...’ Faith couldn’t help muttering it to herself over and over as she got dressed. A message in the window? Maybe. But a very cryptic one.
She left an earring hanging in her ear without its back so she could go and pull the piece of paper she’d scribbled the verse on out of her purse.
‘“But the path of the just is as a shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day”,’ she read out loud.
Beautiful poetry, nice sentiment, but was this the kind of message a husband would send his wife? It seemed Bertie’s message in the window asked more questions than it answered.
She put the piece of paper on the nightstand and went back to getting ready. In a moment of weakness, of sheer jubilation, after finding two bits of proof that were going to put her name on the academic map, she’d relented and agreed to go to the Christmas Ball. Bertie had rubbed his hands together when he’d heard the news, and had insisted escorting her personally to a bedroom with a wardrobe stuffed with evening gowns. Another sign that hoarding went hand in hand with the Huntington genes, she guessed.
She’d chosen a red velvet dress from the early sixties, with a scooped neck and tight bodice that skimmed her hips and then flared into a full fishtail at the bottom. It was gorgeous. Maybe a little snug, but gorgeous. Bertie had also insisted she borrow a necklace that he’d retrieved from a walnut jewellery box on the dressing table. She touched the simple V of glittering stones with her fingertips. My, she hoped they were paste.
Before she lost the matching earrings, she returned to the dresser and pushed the missing back on. The only thing to do before taking her first good look at herself in the mirror was to put on the pair of long red gloves that had been stored with the dress. She put them on slowly, avoiding the moment she had to meet her own eyes in the full-length glass.
When she had the courage to look it was as bad as she’d feared.
Not only did she look stunning, and the dress fitted like a second skin, but she had that kind of glow in her eyes a woman only got when she was halfway to falling in love.
Disaster.
She’d hoped that when she saw herself in the mirror everything would look wrong—that she’d look as if she was playing dress-up. It would be so much easier to remember that she didn’t belong, that she shouldn’t want to. Instead she looked like a princess. It was disgusting.
You can’t want him, she told herself. He’s not for you. If you didn’t fit in in plain old Beckett’s Run, how on earth do you think you’re going to fit in here?
But she’d promised Bertie she would attend the ball, even dance with him, so she couldn’t back out.
She took one last glance at herself in the mirror. Stop sparkling, she told her eyes. You have no business to be doing that. And then she took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and headed for the door.
The ball was already well underway when Faith made her way down the main staircase. She deliberately left it until late, hoping minimum exposure to all the glitz and glamour might help her stay strong.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
She should have come down earlier. Because she needed this. Needed the slap in the face it gave her when she walked down the stairs.
Even though she’d only been here a week or two, somehow she’d got comfortable with Hadsborough—with its little yellow drawing room and her quirky turret bedroom. Here, from her spot on the first landing, before the marble steps disappeared into a throng of people, she was once again confronted with the reality of this place.
It wasn’t an ordinary home. It was a castle. And it had never looked more like one than it did tonight. Candles were everywhere, their flickering light taking the evening back into a bygone age. Glasses clinked, champagne fizzed, while guests in tuxedos and ballgowns milled and danced. The Beckett’s Run definition of a ‘relaxed’ dress code was obviously very different from the Hadsborough one. Every single guest was dressed up to the nines and loving it.
Faith might as well have come down the staircase and stepped on the surface of Mars. It would have been just as familiar. She was used to home cooking and takeout, town festivals and barn dances. Parties where people drank to forget their daily life, not because they were partaking in some kind of fantasy.
And in the middle of it all was Marcus, looking elegant in bow tie and crisp white shirt, his dark suit screaming Savile Row tailoring. Her knees literally started to wobble. He looked so handsome, with his dark hair flopping slightly over his forehead, a small frown creasing his brow as he listened intently to an older woman in a tiara.
A tiara. This was the kind of shebang where people wore tiaras. Real ones.
Her fingers traced the necklace and she wished fervently there was a safe she could put it in somewhere. The last time Faith had worn a tiara she’d been seven years old, and it had been made of silver-coated plastic, with garish pink gems stuck on the front.
She shouldn’t have agreed to come. She’d known this was a bad idea.
But there was Bertie at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her and holding out his arm. She swallowed her nerves and started to walk down the stairs.
Fake it, she reminded herself. You know you look the part, even if it’s just window dressing. It’s like yawning or laughing. You start off forcing it and after a while it comes naturally.
She glanced over in Marcus’s direction as she reached the bottom step. He was still deep in conversation with Tiara Woman and, on the pretence of needing a drink, she took Bertie’s arm and neatly steered him the other direction. The only way she was going to survive this evening was if she kept out of Marcus’s way.
* * *
There was a flash of red at the corner of Marcus’s eye. He didn’t know why he turned towards it. When his eyes had focused on it properly, however, he fully understood why his jaw had dropped and his throat had tightened.
Wow.
Faith was on the other side of the room, in a red velvet dress that clung to every inch of her slender frame. He’d known her slim lines and understated curves appealed to him in jeans and a sweater, but tonight...
And then she turned round, revealing a low-cut back to the demure-fronted dress that made him realise he might be an earl but he was also part caveman.
She was talking to someone, smiling broadly and using hand gestures. He knew when she realised he was looking at her because she suddenly went still. A second later she twisted round to meet his gaze. Above her crimson lips was a pair of large, questioning eyes. The problem was his brain was so fried by the sight of her in that dress that he had no idea what the question was, let alone the answer.
He’d always thought her beautiful, right from that first day in the chapel, when he’d seen her studying the window, her face aglow with its colour. But here, tonight, in that dress, looking as if she was made for it, he couldn’t help wondering if he should stop fighting that feeling that she was made for him.
He didn’t know what to do about that.
Especially as he’d promised her he’d keep his distance.
Especially as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t forget his own sensible plans for the next woman in his life.
But part of him ached to make the jump anyway, to give whatever was simmering between them a chance. However, the part that had been burned by Amanda’s departure was backing off fast, shaking its head. Hadn’t he’d thought Amanda the perfect fit too? On paper, much more so than Faith. He had to give Amanda her dues—she’d stuck with him a full six months after his father’s death before she’d finally jumped ship.
That had stung. In his own charge-the-world-head-on way he’d still been grieving. He’d needed her u
nderstanding, not his spare keys in his palm and a kiss on the cheek. He’d thought she was the one person in the world he could rely on. And he’d been wrong. It didn’t help to know that Faith McKinnon was a hundred times more skittish.
Even so, he excused himself from the conversation he’d been having and walked towards her, not taking his eyes from her face. He saw her heave in a breath, saw her eyes grow wide, knew the exact moment she’d decided to run but found her feet glued to the floor. It gave him a flash of male pride to know she reacted to him that way, that he wasn’t the only one in its grip.
He could make her change her mind if he wanted to. He knew that. And, oh, how he wanted to. But he’d given
his word.
Nothing to say they couldn’t have a platonic dance, though. Especially at a big Christmas party like this. It was practically expected.
He reached her and opened his arms. She placed one gloved hand in his and the other slid to his shoulder, leaving his left hand to rest on her shoulderblade, touching delicious bare skin. Wordlessly they started to dance, moving through the chatting guests until they joined more couples on the dance floor.
Marcus hardly noticed who else was there, waltzing with them. He wasn’t really aware of doing anything—not moving his arms or legs, not dodging the other couples, just looking down at Faith, with some silent conversation going on between them.
He wished that duty and decency hadn’t been drummed into him since he was in nappies. Wished he could say what the hell and sweep her into his arms, drag her under the large bunch of mistletoe hanging from the chandelier over the dance floor and kiss her senseless in front of all these people. Suddenly he was slightly irritated with her for making him promise, because he couldn’t quite bring himself to steamroll over her feelings and take what he wanted as easily as he’d like to. That damn protective instinct of his kept him at bay.
That was why, when the music ended, he let her nod her thanks and slip from his arms, find another partner. Why he turned his back and did the same, refusing to watch her go.
But as he moved his feet to the rhythm of the music a thought started to pulse inside his head. Just for one night he wanted to ditch his blasted code of honour. He wished he could be wild and reckless and not care a bean about what the morning would bring. He’d hardly chosen a thing for himself in the last two years, always doing the right thing, always doing his duty, what was good for the family.
Tonight, for once, he wanted to choose something for himself. And he really wanted to choose Faith.
* * *
Faith had deliberately sought out the villagers of Hadsborough to talk to. She understood them, knew what they were about. And they were keen to chat about the restoration of the chapel and the stained glass window, keeping her busy, keeping her mind off where Marcus was and who he was with.
But after a couple of hours of being ‘on’, of having to smile and chat to one new person after another, Faith began to tire. In the back of her head she was still mulling over the puzzling Bible reference in the window, trying to work out if it meant something.
And when she wasn’t trying to figure that out, and make small talk with the next person who asked her about the window, there was Marcus. Every time she caught sight of him she experienced a sudden stab of breathlessness.
‘May I have another dance, my dear?’
She turned round to find Bertie beside her, smiling. He was in fine spirits this evening, and more energetic than she’d ever seen him.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she said, and offered him her hand.
Bertie shook his head as he took it and led her onto the dance floor. ‘Time was when I’d have put on a good show for a pretty thing like you,’ he said. ‘I was quite the Fred Astaire in my day, I’ll have you know.’ He sighed. ‘No more dips and turns for this old back any more, though. You’ll have to put up with my shuffling instead.’
Faith laughed as Bertie took her in a classic ballroom hold. ‘And very elegant shuffling it is, too.’
He smiled back at her. ‘You’ll have to get Marcus to give you another spin round the dance floor.’
She kept her expression neutral. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to matchmake, would you, Bertie?’
He shrugged. ‘The boy needs to have more fun.’
Faith didn’t say anything, just let him lead her round the dance floor. Slowly. She didn’t disagree with Bertie, but whatever was going on between her and his grandson definitely wasn’t fun. It felt more like torture.
The music changed, and Bertie bowed to her and took his leave. Faith tried to curtsey back, but she wobbled badly in her borrowed shoes. A warm hand at her elbow steadied her. She turned to find herself staring up into a pair of smoky blue eyes.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
His lips curved upwards. ‘Hi.’
And just like that her last defence fell. She’d thought it was made of cast iron, but sadly it snapped like spun sugar. The band were playing a slow number and she ended up with her head on his shoulder, one arm looped around his neck.
Try not to notice, she told herself. Try not to notice how well your head fits in the space near his neck, or how your bodies slot together like jigsaw pieces. Or how your chests rise and fall together, even when you’re not trying to match rhythm.
To distract herself she started thinking about the verse in the cartoon—the one that could be the key to Bertie’s past. Why hide it if it wasn’t? Why would someone have gone to all that trouble if the verse had nothing to do with the story Bertie had heard about his mother? And did the numbers have significance? Or was it in the words of the verse themselves?
‘Proverbs Four-Eighteen?’ he whispered in her ear.
She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. ‘How did you know?’
He shook his head, a rueful expression on his face.
‘What do you think the verse means? Have you had any thoughts?’
He pressed his lips together, then said, ‘Plenty of thoughts. Not sure any of them lead anywhere.’
Faith breathed out a little. This was easier, safer. They needed to keep talking about the window.
Marcus frowned as he pulled up a memory. ‘My great uncle told me once that his brother was very fond of treasure hunts. He used to lay one out every Christmas in the grounds for the village children.’
Faith’s eyes grew wide. ‘So maybe the reference isn’t a message in itself but a clue to something else? Another verse? Another destination?’
‘We should look for key words,’ he said.
‘Path,’ she said, nodding to herself.
‘And shining light,’ they both said, at exactly the same time, then both looked away and back again in complete synchronisation.
‘Stop doing that,’ she said. ‘It’s freaking me out.’
A mischievous glint appeared in Marcus’s eye. ‘It’s not just me.’ Then his expression became thoughtful. ‘There are paths all over the estate, but we don’t even know if it refers to something literal or figurative. As for shining lights...’
She closed her eyes, attempted to visualise the parts of the grounds she had visited. Shining light...
Her lids flipped open. ‘How about that grandfather clock in the cellar? That has a sun on it.’
‘Maybe...’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘But if this is a clue leading to something else there should be something there to find—some more writing or another verse. Like a treasure trail. We had a good look at that clock and I didn’t see anything like that.’
They’d still been swaying to the music as they’d been talking, but suddenly Marcus went completely still.
‘Of course...’ he said on an out-breath. ‘I’ve been so stupid not have seen it!’
And then he went quiet again.
Faith punched him on the chest softly. ‘Marcus!’
He blinked and looked down at her. She gave him a look that said she might have to hurt him if he didn’t spill the beans.
He laughed loudly e
nough to make some of the other dancing couples close to them look their way, then stepped back, grabbed her hand and pulled her in the direction of the door.
‘I know where there are both paths and a shining light,’ he said, picking up speed.
Once they were out of the ballroom he guided her towards the front door.
‘Marcus! I have heels on.’
He gave her a blank look.
‘And it’s been snowing outside! I want to solve the mystery as much as you do, but I’d rather not get frostbitten toes doing it.’
He nodded and changed direction, heading for the small staircase that led to the kitchens. They ran right through and to the back door.
‘Here,’ he said, and threw a padded coat to her. Once she had it on over her dress he nudged a pair of Wellington boots her way. ‘They’re Shirley’s,’ he said, ‘and she always keeps a spare pair of socks inside.’
While she kicked off her heels and sank her feet into the boots, which were at least a size too big, he pulled a coat off the row of pegs and shoved his feet into his own boots.
Then the back door was open and icy air was chilling their cheeks. Marcus grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the moonlit night.
* * *
There was something thrilling about running out of the castle with Marcus on this snowy night, her skirts caught up in her free hand, not knowing where she was going. The paths round the estate were mostly cleared, and they kept to them as much as possible. Faith kept lagging behind, caught up in staring at the formal gardens and the rolling fields beyond, all sparkling in the moonlight as if someone had dusted them with glitter, but the insistent tug of Marcus’s hand in hers kept her travelling.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, frowning slightly. For some reason she’d thought they might end up at the chapel, but they were jogging in the opposite direction.
He turned to grin wolfishly at her. ‘We’re almost there.’
She looked around. High yew hedges ran alongside the path they were running on. She didn’t think she’d ventured into this part of the estate before—too busy stuck in her studio bent over bits of glass to notice what had been right under her nose.
