Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  “A visit to the country is always refreshing, Miss Burton, but I must get back to London by the 4 o’clock train,” he explained. “That should give us more than enough time to take care of matters without rushing and still have me at home to sit down to dinner with Mrs. C. at 9.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry you had to come all this way if you cannot bide overnight,” Claire said.

  “It’s no bother. I wanted to see how you were settling in. If you don’t mind, I could avail myself of some light refreshment while we dispose of the paperwork, and then we will have some time to chat.”

  “Of course. Let us go in and begin.”

  As he whisked the last of the papers back into his portfolio and Claire poured them both another cup of tea, Mr. Chambers sighed with satisfaction.

  “Most suitable, I thank you,” he said. “And if I may, Miss Burton: Please let me remind you again, should your mind or your circumstances change at any time, it is a simple matter to add codicils to the current document or change your will entirely. In fact, I advise all my clients to review their arrangements at least annually, not something most of them can be induced to do.”

  “I assure you this arrangement to provide for my brother and nephews meets entirely with the wishes of myself and my family.”

  “No doubt,” the lawyer replied drily. “Always remember, dear girl, I represent your interests entirely and no one else’s when it comes to your affairs. If you ever need counsel, I hope you will feel you may turn to me.”

  Claire murmured her thanks as Chambers continued.

  “Now that the real property is taken care of,” he said, “you need to think about Josiah Carter’s literary property, principally his papers, any unpublished works that may exist and the like. Most of his work was purchased outright by his publishers, so those books won’t bring you any money. His papers, diaries and unfinished manuscripts, on the other hand… well that is another matter entirely. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes, do go on. Josiah talked a great deal about how publishing worked and I believe I understood most of what he said.”

  “Good. Now I’ve consulted with some of his colleagues, including his publishers, and there is great interest in getting a ‘life’ into the hands of the Josiah’s devoted readers as quickly as possible. The publishing concern can recommend an author to produce a biography if you agree and are willing to give access to Josiah’s papers.”

  “I will need to think about that,” Claire said slowly as she considered the implications of the proposal. “I’ve barely had a chance to discover what there may be. I know there are some diaries, perhaps some notebooks, but I would have to review them before letting a stranger see them. I must protect his privacy and will feel an intruder myself, I know. I’m not sure I am ready.”

  “Well, this idea will keep. The more pressing issue is whether any unpublished work exists. There’s ‘The Rector’ being serialized in the London Journal, half finished and the public clamoring for more. It’s my understanding Mr. Carter brought the final chapters back with him from the States but never sent them to his publisher.”

  Chambers took a sip of tea, then shifted uneasily in his chair. “There is one more thing. Lord Montfort’s agent wrote again increasing the offer for this property. I assume the answer is still no.”

  “Of course! Why can’t he accept that?”

  “The current viscount is known as a man who gets what he wants,” Chambers remarked. “If he is in the neighborhood, you would be wise to keep that in mind.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Out here in ‘the wilds,’ as your father would put it, a peer still rules with an iron fist if he chooses. The family own just about everything around you, including the village itself, and it’s said the current viscount exhibits a savage temper when crossed. This land you now own had been part of the Montfort holdings since the 15th century. There was a fine Tudor manor house here until it was pulled down to make way for this house.”

  “I appreciate your advice, but I don’t see what harm his lordship could do me.” She rose and offered her hand. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Chambers.”

  Claire’s bravado dwindled as she watched the dapper lawyer climb back into his hired gig and drive away. As he disappeared down the drive, she felt her isolation more acutely. Determined not to give in to the megrims, she hurried back into the house, donned a bonnet and light cloak and set out to walk off her mood.

  Feeling adventurous, she headed through the garden and into the wood that gave the house its name.

  Soft shafts of light filtered down through the vaulting branches of ancient trees, and a bird shot through the hushed space, glimpsed then gone. A winding path of wood chips cushioned her footfalls and kept her skirts from peril as Kip trotted close behind. Careful pruning preserved the appearance of wildness without exposing the nature lover to brambles or leaf stain. Along the fringe, young ferns raised their curled heads and a few late dog violets bloomed.

  Claire rounded a curve and stopped in astonishment.

  As far as she could see in every direction, bluebells carpeted the wood with vivid color. A faint aroma like honey wafted on the breeze and she caught a low insect hum that heightened the air of enchantment as her senses filled. Bewitched, she drank it in and experienced a surge of bliss.

  Movement at the edge of her vision broke the spell. She spun right and caught sight of a dark figure receding into the woods. A second glimpse suggested a woman, shrouded in black, and infused with purpose. Kip saw the gliding figure, too, and quivered before bounding off in pursuit.

  “Kip! Heel!” The dog ignored her. Claire hesitated, then followed.

  In barely a minute, Claire lost sight of both, but she plunged on through the undergrowth. The wide path had dwindled to a mere track, but crushed vegetation indicated a rough trail and she continued without thought, guided by the ever-fainter sound of Kip crashing through dead brush. The woodland grew dimmer as the high tree canopy blocked the sun. Claire felt chill as shadow blended into shadow and twigs caught at her skirts. She picked up her pace, alive to the deepening silence around her. Kip had vanished, and the woman—had she even been real?—was gone as well.

  Alone now and disoriented, Claire emerged panting on the edge of a large meadow. Massive blocks of stone lay scattered among the weeds, and on the far side of the site stood high broken walls of brick and stone.

  Claire immediately recognized the famous Montfort Abbey ruins—how could she not? A lithograph of the romantic scene formed the frontispiece of the novel that launched Josiah’s fortunes and a larger version—hand tinted—hung over the fireplace in his drawing room. A companion picture on the opposite wall showed the abbey before the Roundheads despoiled it during the English Civil War. The artist of the latter painting showed brave Lady Jacinta Montfort trysting with her fugitive husband in the orchard adjacent to the castle. That part of the scene bit at Claire’s heart—the loving Royalist couple gazes at each other in bliss, ignorant of the sorrow soon to befall them at the hands of the Roundhead enemy.

  Alert for any sign of the stranger, Claire advanced slowly into the ruins of what once was the sacred heart of the abbey. The large, eyeless windows of the transept at the western end soared high above her, but the entire southern side was rubble. The northern wall retained a few broken mullions, and tall weeds grew where grand doors once guarded the sacred space. The choir, though open to the elements, most resembled its intact state, and with a little effort, Claire imagined how glorious the stone carvings, vast stained glass windows and gilded bosses must have looked before the destroyers fell upon it.

  Across what must have been a courtyard two centuries ago, Claire made out low, irregular lines of stone and brick. Eager to explore what she supposed was once the main block of the castle, she hastened toward them seeking Lady Jacinta’s tower, the mysterious woman forgotten.

  The haphazard path dwindled into a stand of stinging nettles and she ran forward—only to be seized from beh
ind.

  She shrieked and, feeling herself released, spun around.

  “Mr. Latimer!”

  “Miss Burton!” He seemed equally astonished. “I... I thought...”

  “Oh, but you frightened me!” Claire gasped with relief before he could finish. “I was closeted with my solicitor all afternoon and just had to get out. And then I thought I saw someone in the woods and followed her here—I wonder if too much time indoors has me seeing phantoms where none exist. You must think me very silly indeed.” She offered the rector a sheepish smile. Mr. Latimer did not smile in return.

  “She?” he asked pointedly. “You followed a woman? Here?”

  “Yes. I suppose she must have been one of those literary ‘pilgrims’ Mr. Carey has been telling me about. Apparently we are to be plagued with trespassers now the weather is fine.”

  Latimer frowned. “This is a dangerous place to be trespassing. Take my arm, Miss Burton, and I will show you what I mean.”

  Claire hesitated. “Perhaps you would just lead the way and I could follow behind?”

  “Come then—but slowly, and mind where you step.”

  She followed as he moved a scant three yards beyond where he had stopped her. He gripped her forearm and drew her forward.

  “Carefully, Miss Burton, carefully,” he said, his voice gravel in her ear. Then as she stood close by him, he said sharply, “Look down.”

  She peered over the low, broken wall and gasped. Instead of weedy ground and shattered stones, emptiness yawned. She jerked back, her head spinning.

  “The old dungeons,” Latimer said. “It’s a 30-foot drop in some places. The locals stay away from here, some because they know it’s dangerous, more because they believe—or tell their children to believe—the old tales of hauntings here. For a stranger like yourself, curiosity could be deadly.”

  “That woman! What if she doesn’t know?”

  “Go home, Miss Burton. I know these ruins well and will take a look around to see if anyone is here. It could be she was on her way to visit a servant friend at Oakley Court and passed on before you arrived.” His expression lightened. “Do not worry yourself. I am here.”

  He escorted her to the edge of the meadow and left her with a courtly half-bow. “I hope to see you again next Sunday,” he said.

  Halfway across the meadow, she turned to see him watching her and gave a little wave. He remained motionless, like a sentinel. When she entered the woods, she looked back again. Latimer still hadn’t moved. She felt a little ashamed, not only caught chasing shadows but by him.

  Claire’s liking for Oak Grove grew somewhat as she began to grasp the ingenuity Josiah’s architect had employed for creature comforts. The house itself might be ugly, but in addition to modern conveniences like cold running water with just the turn of a tap in the dressing rooms, the house was equipped with gas lighting in the public areas of the ground floor. Light was produced, again with just the turn of a valve, thanks to a small coal-powered gas plant out of sight (and smell) of the house.

  Tonight, she and Simmie relaxed before a cheerful fire in Simmie’s rooms, discussing the mystery woman and Claire’s encounter with Edward Latimer. The soft light cast by the paraffin lamps created a sense of safety and intimacy.

  Kip, already back at the house when Claire returned, now lounged at the hearth by their feet.

  “... but now I reflect on it,” Claire said, “she couldn’t have been a servant. She was too far away to make out much of her costume, but she had the figure of a lady, with full skirts and a regular hat and veil. In fact, I fancied we saw her Sunday in the churchyard.”

  “No doubt it was someone from the Great House. One of the young ladies, perhaps,” Simmie said. Acknowledging Claire’s raised eyebrow, she added, “That’s what Mrs. White calls Oakley Court—the Great House. This”—she made a sweeping gesture—“is the New House.”

  “But why would one of the Montfort ladies be walking through Oak Grove wood? Surely they are too grand.” Claire reflected on her behavior and sighed.

  “If the Montfort ladies are like their brother, they still regard this as their property. Though it does seem unlikely that a fine lady would be walking unescorted. A better question would be where was she coming from?”

  “Visiting a tenant?”

  Simmie scoffed. “A Montfort? On foot? Visiting tenants?”

  “Are they that awful a family?”

  “Well, Mrs. White says...”

  Claire laughed at her friend. “I’m beginning to feel jealous, Simmie! You and Mrs. White are becoming thick as thieves! She is still quite cool toward me.”

  Miss Simms tsked good-naturedly and continued. “Mrs. White says the Montforts are cursed. Blood was spilled to get the land and the land demands blood every generation to hold it.”

  “Oh, gracious heavens!” Claire scoffed. “That’s fantastical.”

  “We’re out in the real country now, remember,” Miss Simms admonished. “You’d be surprised how superstitious people still are today. In fact, I’ve a notion for a project. I want to learn all those local stories and write them down. This is a veritable faeryland, compared to other parts of England. It would be a shame if they were lost.”

  “You mean write a book? That’s a marvelous idea! We’ll be quite a pair of scholars, won’t we, Simmie? I can see us now, buried in heaps of papers, fingers smudged black, burning the midnight oil. I fancy I see a dab of ink on your nose now.”

  Miss Simms touched her nose involuntarily, then smiled. “I was thinking of something a little more modest, but who knows?”

  Claire leaned forward to pour another cup of tea but the pot was empty, so she sat down on the edge of the small velvet settee to face her friend.

  “Simmie, will you be happy here? Be honest.”

  Miss Simms smiled and patted Claire’s hand. “Don’t worry yourself, my dear. Life promises to be much more interesting here than under Sir Henry’s roof. I don’t intend to miss it.”

  “Speaking of Papa’s roof, Simmie, —what do you think of offering Annie Parsons a place here? She is from this county, I learned before we left, and I need a lady’s maid. I believe she could learn. I don’t require much in that way regardless. But would it be wrong to bring her under this roof?”

  “I think it’s a capital idea, Claire, but it’s for Annie and her family to decide. Write to her aunt. That way, if they say no, Annie will be none the wiser. Now, why don’t I help you into your night things and let you retire? I admit to a selfish desire to put my own pen to paper.”

  “You are a gem, Simmie. What if you become a famous authoress and go off to be feted in London? I shall be quite lost!”

  That night Claire entered the library determined to put her reveries aside and work. Mr. Chambers was right. She owed it to Josiah and his legion of admirers to overcome her reluctance to invade his private papers and find any remaining publishable work as quickly as possible.

  She lighted the lamp on Josiah’s desk and gingerly sat in his chair. Where to start? The top of the desk held only the lamp, a fresh blotter, a letter opener, a pen tray and the first two volumes of L’Île mystérieuse, the pages mostly uncut still.

  The room looked different from here. The fire warmed this corner, but darkness swallowed the light before it reached very far. She craned her neck, but shadows concealed the gallery and bulky drapes blocked both exterior light and sound. She could have been a hundred feet underground or on the moon, for all the rest of the world mattered. She suddenly felt small and abandoned.

  On impulse, she hurried to the far windows and tugged at the heavy velvet panels until a gap opened. Masses of clouds obscured the moon, so all she saw was her own reflection staring back at her –a white-faced woman with pale hair streaming over her shoulders. She jumped even as she realized that she was the ghost in the glass. Chiding herself, she forced herself to go back to the desk. She had never been so fanciful at home.

  She slipped her fingertips under the edge of the first ri
ght-hand drawer and gave a tentative pull. It opened smoothly, to reveal an array of pen nibs and holders, ink wipers, nubs of sealing wax, a box of safety matches and a broken pocket watch.

  She tried the other drawers and found jumbles of papers and what appeared to be letters, some bundled with string or ribbon and others loose. The top left-hand drawer held smoking paraphernalia and more writing accoutrements.

  She spent the next hour sifting through the papers, scanning them for Josiah’s hand, but they seemed to be nothing more than a collection of circulars, bills and letters from admirers. Weary, she rose, blew out the lamp—and froze.

  A flicker of movement to her right, a glimpse of a face at the window before it vanished. This time, she knew it was not her own image she’d seen. Out on the terrace, someone had been watching her.

  Heart pounding, Claire schooled her breathing to still her thrumming nerves. She willed herself not to look toward the windows. It could have been anyone—a gamekeeper’s lad heading out for night patrol, even Cary, her steward taking a constitutional before retiring.

  Eyes fixed on the library door as if she were preparing to send her horse at a particularly difficult jump, she walked out of the room the picture of calm. But restless dreams plagued her sleep, dreams filled with flitting dark forms and the silent featureless figure of a man, watching and waiting.

  Chapter 6

  Only the rhythmic thud of his horse’s hooves on the soft ground penetrated Montfort’s reverie. As he cantered down the twisting green tunnel formed by high hedgerows and arching oak boughs, he ignored the intermittent drip of moisture left from the morning’s shower until one icy spill plunged down the back of his collar.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed, pulling up to adjust the collar of his black melton chesterfield. But the shiver he felt next was caused less by the cold water trickling down his spine than the sound of a pure soprano voice lilting on the air, singing, of all things, “Kathleen, Mavourneen.”