“And if you cannot see, you will never believe.” Ghosts could not be measured in his experiments and tests. She couldn’t give him proof of what she’d seen.
He stopped pacing and came to stand before her. “You speak of an unmeasurable, unobservable phenomenon, but should we not consider a physical cause first?”
“Such as?”
“Have you ever worn spectacles?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.” Except that she was working very hard to keep from rolling them.
Septimus was right back where she’d been the first time she’d seen an apparition. Doubting the evidence of her own eyes. Telling herself that perhaps something ailed her. Fearing she might be losing her vision entirely.
“But if you’ve never been examined, how can you be sure? Lights, dimness in your periphery, and odd shapes are all potential symptoms of an optical condition which might be easily corrected.”
The breeze pulled her hair loose from its pins, and Septimus reached to slide stray hair behind her ear. The simple kindness sped her pulse, and a delicious rush of pleasure spiraled through her, from her ear, down her neck, and across her chest.
He touched her too easily.
She enjoyed his hands on her far too much.
“The phenomena you speak of may be entirely normal,” he insisted.
Normal. The word had such a sweet sound to it, especially spoken in his low appealing voice. He smiled down at her as if he wished to mend her every worry, and could, given half a chance.
“We should go back to Penwithyn,” Win told him. He couldn’t make the specters go away. What she’d been battling for years seemed easily explained to him because he didn’t believe her.
She admired his logical mind. His desire to find answers. Even the fact that he hadn’t denounced her claim entirely. What must it be like to look at the world and believe there was a reasonable, rational explanation for every event?
He drew his finger across her cheek, and a shiver skittered down Win’s back.
“I already know something about your eyes.” He nudged her chin up, stroking his thumb against the edge of her jaw. “They’re unusually pretty.”
“Unusually pale.”
“Unique.”
“I’d prefer they were ordinary.” So unspectacular that she never turned a head out of curiosity or horror.
Though, she liked the way Septimus looked at her. Quite a lot.
“It’s you, Win.” He bent his head and placed the lightest of kisses on her cheek. “Whatever the color of your eyes,” he whispered, his breath warm against her face, “you couldn’t be ordinary if you tried.”
Her cheek tingled where he’d kissed her. The first kiss of her life. Her silly stubborn heart leapt even as Win pulled away from him.
“Did I say something amiss?” He looked miserable, and she hated being the cause of it. But his words—though tenderly spoken and no doubt meant as one of the compliments he wouldn’t stop heaping on her—served as a stark reminder.
She would never be normal. Not because of the way she looked but because of what she’d seen, where she’d come from, the secrets she could never reveal.
6
Sep remained at Penwithyn longer than he planned the next morning. Beyond taking the daily readings in his observatory, he intended a trip to Castle Keyvnor in order to work on the device he kept there.
But first he needed to speak to Win. He’d overstepped. Misspoken. Kissed her and upset her. Not at all the combination he intended.
Their kiss haunted him. He’d never wanted to kiss Miss Simmons so badly. So impulsively. Nothing in his life had torn at his defenses so quickly as Lady Winifred Gissing. He told himself he simply wished to help her. But his feelings were far less charitable. He wanted to know her, spend time with her.
He wanted to kiss her again.
Yet that impulse served no purpose but to drive him to distraction, so he focused on practical action. The previous night, he’d been up until dawn combing the works of James Ware. Books, along with a few medical instruments, comprised the sole inheritance he’d received from his father. Ware had committed his life to studying the maladies of the eye. With Sep’s minimal knowledge on the topic, the man’s books were hard going.
But he’d discovered, as he’d assured Win, that there were conditions which could explain the symptoms she described. With a simple examination, he could rule out whether she suffered from one of the conditions Ware described.
If she ever allowed him to touch her again.
He hadn’t managed a private moment with Win all morning. He’d seen her at breakfast, where he’d endured an animated conversation between her, Cornelia, and Mrs. Renshawe on the topic of the upcoming nuptials at the castle. Later he’d sought her out in the sitting room, only to find her reading quietly, while Mrs. Renshawe knitted in a nearby rocking chair. Eventually Cornelia joined them with a pile of mending in hand.
Sep took up one of his own books and tried not to stare at Win as she read. He struggled to focus on the printed words before him, rather than watch how her eyes danced across the page, her brow intermittently arcing high.
Then she caught him watching her, and her brow winged higher. Scooping up her book, her face lit up in a conspiratorial grin as she lifted the volume to show him the spine.
The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe.
A peace offering, finally.
Sep rose from his chair and approached Win’s. Her aunt and Cornelia pretended not to notice.
“Is the story any good?” he asked casually.
“It features a ghost.”
“Which is why I refuse to allow Winifred to read to me from that book,” Mrs. Renshawe put in without lifting her eyes from her knitting. “Especially here in Bocka Morrow, where even the milkmaid whispers of specters.”
“Wasn’t there a rational explanation for the ghosts in the end?” Cornelia asked, needle poised in the air before sewing her next stitch. “Pirate, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Win looked into Septimus’s eyes. “The ghosts were explained away.”
“There, you see,” he whispered.
Win narrowed an eye at him and pressed her lips together, as if she wished to retort, but couldn’t do so in front of her aunts. He too preferred being alone with her so that they could speak freely. He needed to hear more about the shadowy figures she saw. Any detail might help to find the cause and determine a treatment.
“Septimus, why don’t you bring out your machine to entertain us?” Cornelia asked him.
“I don’t think—”
“What machine?” Win set her book aside and edged forward in her chair. “Something you invented?”
“Constructed, but to another’s design. The apparatus generates a slight electrical shock.”
“What does it feel like?” Win asked, eagerness sparking in her eyes.
“A tickle,” Cornelia opined. “Tingling, a bit of warmth.”
Like the heat and sparks he’d felt hours after brushing his lips against Win’s soft cheek.
“Shall we let Winifred see for herself?” His godmother was the most persistent woman he’d ever known.
Sep nodded. He’d half-expected her request. Mention of his machine had spread around Bocka Morrow, and a few villagers had come to visit Penwithyn solely to be shocked by the device. Anytime they entertained guests, Cornelia encouraged him to bring out the box to amuse them. Usually, Sep didn’t mind providing the diversion.
But today, he simply wished for time alone with Win.
“Is it heavy?” Win asked, as he started across the threshold to retrieve the machine from his study. “Do you need any help?”
Sep nodded a bit too eagerly. “Thank you, Lady Winifred.”
As she stood to follow him, Sep noticed that Cornelia, head bent over her sewing, wore a knowing grin.
He heard her whisper to her sister as Win stepped past him into the hall. “He’s never needed any help before.”
* * *
“So many books.” Win ran her finger along the titles, neatly arranged on half a dozen bookshelves lining the room. Bacon, Newton, Linnaeus. No fiction whatsoever.
“No matter how many I collect,” Sep told her, “I always find another I need.”
“I understand.” Win knew the power of books. They’d been her solace and escape when life at Gissing Park became unbearable. Stories took her someplace else. Even frightening stories were preferable to the nightmare at home. “Books are hard to resist.”
“Then we agree.” Septimus lifted his head from the desk where he’d begun to assemble his machine. “On storms and books, at least.”
His smile ignited a tingling warmth in the center of her chest.
She could so easily forget that she was odd, and he was a man of rational beliefs. One of his rare, devastating smiles would be enough to fuel her daydreams for weeks. Daydreams of kisses that were not just a brush of his mouth against her face and jaunts to the beach that were not haunted by a desperate specter she suspected might be Septimus’s father.
How could she tell him what she’d sensed from the apparition when she didn’t entirely understand herself? Not that he would believe her anyway. She understood his need for a reasonable explanation. Initially, she’d craved one too. How could she blame him if, with his scientific mind, he sought to solve a problem rather than embracing her otherworldly ability?
“Take this.” He lifted a string out to her.
Win reached for the length of twined cotton, noting that there was a thread among the strands that glinted in the morning light. “What is it?”
“A very thin filament of copper.” Septimus brushed her arm as he came to stand next to her. “The metal works as a conductor, transferring the charge from the machine to the hand of whoever’s holding on.” Septimus hadn’t let go of his end of the string. He collected the slack to draw her closer. “If I blundered yesterday—”
“You didn’t.” He’d given her the sweetest kiss of her life.
“I only wish…” He stalled as if the next words wouldn’t come. “To help you.”
Ah yes, to help her. To convince her that the ghosts she’d seen for years were nothing more than a play of light, a fault in her eyes.
If only the world were as ordered and logical as Septimus believed.
“I followed you into this room to help you.” She tried for a playful tone, eager to avoid a subject on which they’d never agree. “Shall we take the machine into the sitting room?”
He wanted more from her. More openness. More trust. His every word and action spoke of his desire to know her better. But she couldn’t be as honest as he was to her. She hated the disappointment shadowing his gaze.
After dutifully collecting the machine, he led her back to the sitting room. Aunt Cornelia clapped when they entered, and Aunt Elinor warily inspected the device.
Septimus positioned the machine on the floor, attached the string, and beckoned Win over. “Help me test it?”
She was dubious about the pleasure of receiving an electric shock but too curious to resist. “What must I do?”
“Just hold the string.” He pointed to a lever with a knob on the side of the machine. “As I crank the wheel, a charge will build and transmit through the strand.”
“Will it hurt?”
Lifting his hands from the lever, he held stock still and waited until she paused too. He focused on her as if there was no one else was in the room. “I’d never hurt you.”
I’d never hurt you. Win had heard those words before. But not from him.
She hadn’t believed her enraged father, but she believed Septimus, and that was a shock. After the burning of Gissing Park, she’d doubted she’d ever be able to trust anyone again. Only Aunt Elinor had been able to slip past her grief.
Septimus spun the crank and watched for her reaction. Her aunts moved closer to observe.
Win shook her head. “Nothing.”
He bent to adjust a knob inside the machine and Win let out a gasp. A tickle started up her arm. Then a subtle vibration. As if her entire body itched at once. Yet it wasn’t irritating, more of a frothy, bubbling feeling, as if her insides had turned to syllabub.
“Miss Renshawe, would you like to try?”
Aunt Elinor came forward, a kerchief clutched in one hand, the other shaking as she took hold of the string. “What does it feel— Oh my.” She blinked rapidly and turned to Win in open-mouthed shock. “That is quite pleasing, is it not? I can feel it to the ends of my hair.”
Indeed, even after releasing the string, the hair around Win’s face felt as though it were tingling.
“Take her free hand, Win.” Sep waved her toward Aunt Elinor. “See if you can still feel the charge.”
Win complied and gripped her aunt’s hand. The tickling bubbled up like boiled water until she could feel the hum in every inch of her body. A less potent sensation than when she’d held the string alone, but still detectable. “It works. How?”
“Humans may serve as a kind of conductor, and friction passes from one person to another.” He nodded toward Aunt Cornelia. “You next?”
Despite her eagerness earlier, she demurred. “Allow me to see to the machine. You go and hold hands with Win.”
Septimus’s brows shot up. “As you wish.”
“Let us see how far the spark of electricity will go,” Aunt Cornelia insisted, all but pushing him out of the way to get to the device’s controls.
When he approached, Win detected the scents of the sea—brine and seagrass and fresh air—still clinging to his clothes. He took her hand gently, sliding his fingers along the edge of hers before clasping her tight.
Aunt Cornelia had not yet begun to work the machine, but Win felt a jolt of awareness. He wouldn’t look at her, and she wondered if he felt it too.
Cornelia turned the lever vigorously several times, but Win felt nothing. She looked to Aunt Elinor who plumped her lower lip in disappointment and shook her head.
“It doesn’t seem to be working.” Septimus released Win’s hand and joined his aunt where she knelt next to the device. After an examination, he sat back on his haunches. “I’ll need to take the machine apart to determine why it’s no longer creating friction.”
“Have I broken it?” Aunt Cornelia hovered over him, her brow pleated with worry.
“I’m sure you haven’t,” he assured. “A few adjustments and it will be back in working order, I’m sure.”
“Forgive me ladies.” Aunt Cornelia turned to face Win and her sister. “Though I seem to have cursed Septimus’s electrical device, I’m sure we can find some other diversion.” After a moment of tapping foot, her eyes widened. “I know what we shall do. Let us take our tea in the village.”
“The Mermaid’s Kiss?” Aunt Elinor asked excitedly.
“The best ale and fish pie in all of Bocka Morrow.” Aunt Cornelia didn’t wait for formal agreement. She started for the sitting room door and waved toward the three of them. “Come along, my dears. The pub fills up quickly after dusk.”
7
Sep didn’t much like the noise of a crowd, but there was a coziness to the interior of The Mermaid’s Kiss that appealed to him. The pub wasn’t overlarge and the ceiling hung low, a bit like Penwithyn’s.
Win seemed less taken with the public house’s charms. After removing her gloves, she pulled her shawl snug around her shoulders and tugged her bonnet in closer around her face.
In contrast, Cornelia, who was well known to the proprietor and his wife, felt comfortable enough in the establishment to remove her hat. Her sister followed suit. Only Win continued to conceal herself underneath her bonnet, and Sep hated the reason—or at least the reason he suspected.
She was a young woman of unusual appearance. Beautiful in his eyes, but the paleness of her skin and hair and eyes had no doubt led to teasing, taunting, maybe worse. While she glanced fretfully at the clusters of patrons, Sep leaned in so that only she could hear.
“They’re generally a friendly lot,” he whispered. He didn’t add that he’d happily thrash any of them who dared trouble her.
“It’s crowded.”
“Regulars take their tea here every evening, though I suspect the crowd has thickened because of the holiday season and the upcoming Banfield weddings. Visitors have been thronging into the village for the past several days.”
“Yes, of course.” Her shoulders rounded, as if his explanation eased her worry somehow. “Do you know the Earl of Banfield and his family?”
“Not well, but I have convinced the family to permit me to conduct experiments at the castle.”
“What sort of experiments?” She turned to face him, seeming to forget her discomfort at the crush around them. “Lightning experiments?”
Sep liked being the focus of her intense interest. “Electricity experiments. I’ve constructed a Voltaic pile—”
“Must you call it that, Septimus?” Cornelia teasingly chastised him as she passed a basket of fresh bread the barmaid had deposited on their table.
“It is the name of the device.” He’d explained the whole design to Cornelia before. “It’s named after the man who developed the design, Alessandro Volta.”.
“How about calling it a tower?” Cornelia suggested.
“Is this creation of yours very tall?” her sister asked before popping a bit of buttered bread in her mouth.
“Very.” Cornelia confirmed. “And rather strangely shaped.” She lifted her hands, cutting through the air at odd angles to describe Sep’s device. “There are several pieces of metal stacked atop each other, a bit like the layers of a cake.”
“The Voltaic cake,” Win pronounced before turning a grin Sep’s way. “That rhymes.”
If anyone else had referred to his scientific creation as a confection, he’d have found six ways to denounce their ridiculousness. With Win, he found himself smiling. And when she smiled back, warmth flared in the center of his chest.
Love for Lady Winter: A Secrets of Gissing Hall Novella Page 6
