My Wicked Fantasy

by Karen Ranney

  Cecily Moresham was not unlike the good pastor.

  Chapter 31

  Sometimes, at night, James could almost hear her call him. It was as if Alice visited him in his mind, the way she had often done when they were children. Once, when he was eight, he’d been helping with loading the hay in the birthing shed placed far away from the house. He’d had a terrible feeling suddenly that Alice was in danger. He’d never been able to explain how he’d known where she would be and how he’d saved her from entering one of the stallions’ stalls. She’d been only three, yet he’d felt her peril and had known, somehow, that she needed him. Ever since that day, it was as if there was something binding them together, something wonderful and magical, like an invisible string.

  Even now he could feel it. Even now, when she was dead.

  When he’d realized it, he couldn’t remember. It was as if a brilliance had faded from his life, as if all the music had seeped out of it. Samuel offered him Vienna and he had no music to play.

  He didn’t think it odd that instead of the melodies, the crescendo of violin and horn, Alice came to him. He almost came to love the night, darkness, quiet, only the sound of her voice, speaking to him with that soft tone as if her words were meant for him alone and not to be overheard by the rest of world. The rest of the world could tumble about on its own, as long as Alice was his.

  She would never have left him. Never have denied the love they shared.

  What a life they could have had. What joy they could have experienced. She inspired him, empowered him, brought to him something nothing else or no one else ever had. Alice, in the morning, with her face newly washed and her smile dusted with the sun. Alice, with her laughter bubbling freely, with the soft, trusting feel of her hand in his, who smelled of lavender and whose kisses invited him to heaven.

  There were times in the last year he’d wanted to die, if dying meant being with her. If he could have, he would have drilled a hole into his heart and let all the pain seep free. Only then could he cope with the world without Alice.

  She would have joined him if she could. They had agreed to meet at the crossroads, take the carriage to Plymouth, board a ship there for some other place, the destination not as important as the fact they were going away together.

  He would forever remember the day before they were to leave, had rehearsed the memory of it over and over again in his mind. “I wish it could be different, James. I want to begin our new life in the best possible way. I will forever regret hurting him.” She had looked like a country daisy, soft and delicate in her yellow lawn dress with matching spencer. Her blond curls were hidden beneath a soft brown bonnet. Her blue eyes had looked so earnest that he could not help but drop a kiss upon her nose, for all they were standing in the crossroads where anyone could see them. It was to have been a last meeting before they left England, for a brighter life where their love did not have to be hidden, their passion did not have to remain muted.

  “He has had you for too long, dearest,” he said, determined to incite a sparkle of joy in those expressive eyes.

  “I would still spare him, if I could.” There was earnestness on her face, a somberness he vowed to soften.

  “You are too sweet, Alice, too gentle. You would have none of us hurt through all of this. Either Archer St. John is pained, or we shall be. Which is it?”

  Her eyes softened, and a smile lit her face. “I cannot leave you now, dearest James. You are my true heart. Heart of my heart. Almost brother.”

  “If I had not known any different, I would have still loved you, you know.”

  “And never said a word.”

  “Such a love is forbidden, Alice darling.”

  “As ours is.”

  “No.” He held out his hands and she laid hers upon them. They had had this discussion before, but he could not bear to part with her for even an hour without telling her again. “It is no sin when we should have been allowed to marry.”

  “My father did not know, James, that we loved each other, else I know he would have spoken sooner.”

  “And told me I was a bastard? That there was no blood link between us? Your mother would have forbidden it regardless.”

  Her look was sad then, so much that he wanted to take back his words, prevent any grief from coming into her eyes, dimming her smile.

  “I will miss her, James, for all her faults. I will miss our family.”

  “There is but one word you must say to me, Alice, if you do not wish to leave. One word, and you will feel no guilt, no regret, no longing.”

  “And forever lose you? Oh, James, I could better tear out my heart.”

  She had turned away from him, bestowing a last, bright smile upon him, before walking back to Sanderhurst.

  She’d never been seen again.

  He’d blamed himself for too many months, bearing the burden of his guilt in silence. The morning he was supposed to meet Alice, Samuel had decided to race at Fairhaven. All of the horses entered in the races had to be transported there, a journey of but a few miles, but long enough to delay his return by three hours. When he had finally approached the crossroads, from the east and not the south as he would have had he been coming from Moresham Farms, there was no one there. Only the faint view of a carriage far in the distance.

  He had waited for six hours. Waited even longer, until the day turned into night. Had returned home heartsick, because he’d been certain that Alice had simply changed her mind and could not bear to leave the earl. It was only days later that he’d discovered she must have waited for him, that she’d not been seen since that morning.

  He knew Alice was dead. And that Archer St. John had killed her. There was no other explanation.

  And now another woman was in danger.

  “I do not think it proper, Samuel, that that woman is back in our midst.” Cecily Moresham emerged from behind the screen draped in a voluminous cotton gown, as impenetrable as a tent over her small, plump frame. Her husband met her on the other side of their bed garbed in a similar fashion, a nightcap the only addition to his wardrobe. He would have preferred to sleep naked, but such an act would have horrified his wife. Together they denuded the bed of its duvet, folded it neatly at the foot. Their movements were identical; years of sharing this chore had made them partners in it.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you did not think upon it, Cecily. She seems to upset you.”

  “She upsets all good people, Samuel. All who would recognize the extent of her evil. Even the Bible states that proper ‘women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with braided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; but with good works.’”

  Samuel, neither long-suffering nor remotely interested in his wife’s eternal prattling about good works, held the opinion that Cecily’s show of charitable intent was less because she genuinely cared for those less fortunate than that she was concerned about looking the part. His wife was, he had long since decided, an obnoxious servant for the Lord.

  “It is my duty to consider the moral climate we live in. Although others would dismiss the harlot for the sake of her fortune. All my life people have excused the St. Johns their behavior, simply because of their rank and their possessions.”

  “While you covet both.”

  Her sharp inrush of breath was the only indication of her indignation.

  Samuel slipped into their communal bed with such gallantry that not an inch of his skin was shown to distress his wife of twenty-seven years. Conciliation might be the best course. “Perhaps the years have added a matronly quality to her personality, rendering her less dangerous.” He had extinguished the candle, so there was no way to see his features.

  “I will not have you defending her,” she commanded irritably.

  Samuel wanted to tell his wife that someone needed to defend the targets of her religious zeal, but instead, he remained mute. Night was the worst time of his marriage. Once Cecily got a topic between her teeth, she worried at it until it
had been gnawed to the bone. His only desire was for sleep, not conversation.

  Cecily finished her prayers, straightened her gown, realigned the pillow.

  “I want to talk to you about James.”

  Silence. Should he pretend to sleep, or offer protection for the boy? Curiosity won out, after all. “What about James?”

  “He needs to be directed from his ruinous path, husband.”

  “And what ruination is that, Cecily?”

  “He wants to dabble in music, Samuel, not give his efforts to following in your footsteps.”

  “I see nothing wrong with James using his talents, Cecily. It is, after all, not a great legacy I give to him.”

  “You are a baronet, Samuel. You must not forget your role in life, to serve as an example for the less fortunate.” Her voice was uncomfortably strident.

  “I but wish to tend to my horses, Cecily, and leave the examples to others.”

  “That is the reason your son needs guidance. And the very reason he has not come to worship in the last year.”

  “I think it has more to do with the services lasting four hours, and those damn hard benches.”

  “You show levity where there is no place for it,” she said sharply.

  “Someone in this family should remember how to smile, Cecily. Since Alice was married, I’ve not heard laughter in this house.”

  “You would have me welcome wickedness?”

  “Has losing Alice done that to you, my dear? Expunged all your sense of humor?”

  “I do not wish to speak of Alice.”

  Perhaps it was too painful for her, as it was for him.

  “Then let us speak of James. I do not know the Bible as well as you, my dear, but isn’t there something about a joyful noise to the Lord?”

  “The Psalms are ungodly, Samuel. They should not have been included in the true word of God.”

  “You have a narrow view of what is proper and not, Cecily. I cannot blame James, then, for failing to attend your worship. Your intolerance for the beliefs of others wears thin at times. You’re a dour bunch.”

  She drew herself up and looked down at her husband.

  “You will speak to him, then?”

  “No, Cecily, I will not. I want him happy, wife, and it’s plain he’s been unhappy for a long time, now. I’ve offered him the money to go to Vienna to study, Cecily, and I’ll hear no more of it.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Samuel?”

  “Just that. He’ll have enough funds to reside there and learn his music. He needs a change of scenery, perhaps, something to divert him from his great grief.”

  “And what great grief is that, Samuel Moresham?”

  He sighed. “You know as well as I, Cecily, even though you’ve tried to deny it. He grieves for Alice.”

  “A brother’s love.”

  “A lover’s heart.”

  “You blaspheme. You bring wickedness into this house. Sin. Evil.”

  “I bring nothing but the truth, my dear. Ugly, perhaps, but the truth, nonetheless. There was nothing before man or God to prevent their union. Except, of course, ill-timing and the Earl of Sanderhurst.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Your voice is trembling, my dear. But come, it can’t be that great a shock. Did you never think to yourself that James did not favor me?”

  “You label him bastard, then?”

  “To my everlasting regret, I wish I always had. It has diminished his consequence none and would have aided his happiness.”

  “There is more to life than happiness, Samuel Moresham.”

  Aye, didn’t he know it.

  Chapter 32

  Mary Kate sat upon the second bench of the Sanderhurst chapel, immersed not so much in thought as she was the yellow light from the huge stained glass window at her back. Her thoughts were better saved for another place, one not as blessed and sanctified to glorify God. But they were stubborn things, these thoughts, creeping around her best intentions and slithering beneath the door of her defenses.

  The first time she’d come to Sanderhurst had been as a prisoner, in truth. Oh, a little bemused and certainly never coarsely handled, but without much say in her own destiny. The second time she’d returned because she’d been distraught and a bit afraid, and Archer St. John had offered her a haven, one to which she’d grown accustomed. Too, there was the assuagement of a lifetime of curiosity, and a passion she suspected she would never be able to forget.

  And this time, Mary Kate? What had he offered this time? There had been no words between them, no coaxing, no dictates, no stern admonishments. She had simply returned to Sanderhurst, as docile as a lamb leading the wolf to a secure and hidden place where there would be few witnesses to view her slaughter. She was no prisoner, unless she was guilty of constructing her own cell, walking into it and slamming the door behind her, then calling out to be praised for the joy with which she’d followed orders never spoken. The cell had somehow become home.

  If he were truly hers, she would never leave him. She would be there always, a shadow to his substance, eager to offer company when he wished not to be alone, amusement for his days of worry, eagerness for his hours of teaching. She would be everything he wanted, more than he believed possible, a day of sunshine for his clouds, rain for his parched summer. Such dreams and she was awake.

  Was this, then, love? The emotion that made idiots of men and weeping wrecks of women? This longing to be everything for one person? How insidious a feeling this was. It crept up on you unaware, promised impossibilities, led an intelligent person to thoughts of an implausible nature. Stripped away pride and left in its place a passion for life and dreams that could not possibly come true. Was it love? Such an emotion was dangerous to think about, was it not? Such dioramas played in the mind to ruinous results. Scenes of candlelit passion, or those of a family on a picnic. Archer, teaching their child to ride one of the massive St. John horses, together exploring the unused east wing of Sanderhurst. Telling stories in the library, playing snapdragon at Christmas, tasting cookies that the temperamental French cook created from butter and sugar and all manner of St. John spices. Visions to render the watcher starry eyed and unaware of reality.

  She must leave, that was certain. She must find a place as secure as this spacious and well-appointed prison, one without a gaoler who captivated her so easily, who spoke words in a voice as smooth and rich as ribbon candy, whose eyes glittered at her in rage or passion or barely banked humor.

  She must leave.

  It had become, these three words, more than a set of instructions. It was a fervently voiced prayer.

  “She used to meet me here, you know,” James Moresham said, words that would have jolted her had she not heard the sounds of his footsteps. For a second, a flash of time, she’d thought him Archer, and had prepared herself for the sight of him.

  “Alice?”

  “Yes.” He came around the pew and stood before her, yellow light bathing him in radiance. He looked, she thought, like an angel gone astray. Bernie was right. James Moresham was an exceedingly handsome man; the only detriment to his appearance was the expression in his eyes. And a mouth that looked not to have smiled for an eternity.

  He turned and looked up at the round stained glass window that faced east. Rather than having a predominantly rose cast, the east window was lemon colored, allowing the full force of the sun to illuminate the family chapel. Nor was the scene depicted in the window of an overtly religious nature, but merely blooms of something that resembled flowers, but that Mary Kate suspected were spices. How like the St. Johns to have incorporated into their place of worship the source of their great income.

  The chapel was not large, but it was superbly appointed. The altar cloth was snowy lace, the chalices and candlesticks looked to be solid gold. Even the small bench upon which she sat was indicative of wealth; a crimson and gold cushion was laced to it and a well-padded kneeling bench lay just beyond her feet. Mary Kate held out one trembling hand
before her.

  “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry, I did not mean to.”

  “No, I’m certain you did not.” Dare she tell him that she’d almost become inured to being frightened lately? The presence of a resident spirit numbed you to other, ordinary frights. And even though Alice St. John had had the delicacy to limit her appearances over the last few days, Mary Kate doubted it was a permanent absence. Another reason to sit huddled in the chapel? A prayer for absolution, for freedom from a mind ghost whose tenacity was, after all, greater than her own.

  “I wanted to speak without the earl present. When I saw you enter the chapel, it seemed the best course.”

  “Your vigilance was wasted, Mr. Moresham. The earl remains in London.” Should she tell him that Archer expanded his search for his wife, that even now he hired people to search the length and breadth of England?

  She remained silent, after all, unsolicited loyalty keeping her mute.

  He nodded, then came and sat beside her. Together they faced forward, neither speaking, both immersed in their individual thoughts. Mary Kate wondered why she could not feel the presence of Alice more strongly in this sacred place. Together, they’d watched the sun for long moments, content, if not peaceful.

  “It was our very favorite place to meet, this chapel. Sitting here, it was almost possible to believe there was a chance for happiness, that our hopes for a future would materialize.”

  “You loved her very much, didn’t you?” Of course he had. And she had loved you as well. Why else that strong reaction when Mary Kate had first met him? It seemed so simple to know these things now, as they sat together much as he and Alice must have.

  He turned and his gaze seemed to study her. It was an inspection she’d become used to at Sanderhurst, having been the object of intense curiosity.