“If this isn’t a day of all me bloody days. ‘Tis bad enough there be a robin in the house and Tessie prattl’n on and on about bad luck.”
A plump woman with graying brown hair and a round rosy face with a double chin, Mary stepped into the main hall. “Such gibberish,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Noticing him, surprise widened her blue eyes. “Mercy me lad, who ye be a carryin’ like a wee babe just out of the cradle?” She hurried to his side.
“I don't rightly know. I found her lying unconscious in our woods. She is sick with fever.”
“Then why be ye a standin’ there as still as the wooden horse’s head outside of Deane’s Shop and Forge? Come along now. I'll be a seein’ to her needs.” Mary turned and he followed her up the wide stairwell.
They entered the chambers and he placed the young woman down on the bed.
Her pale skin seemed more translucent as she lay amidst the white pillows. Her high cheekbones appeared sunken and emphasized the slenderness of her heart-shaped face.
How had she come by that bruise?
Anger singed the corners of his control.
What half-witted mullipuff could mar such a delicate face?
She looked so small and frail in that big bed.
Once again, an overwhelming surge, a need to protect her, slapped him. His hands itched to tuck the blanket around her in comfort.
Damnation!
Seeing her lying so sick reminded him of another.
He tore his gaze off her as a ghostly shimmer of recollection seeped into his thoughts.
A suffocating ache took root in the base of his throat.
The stale odor of sickness still filled his pores. Remembered hours spent bedside, engulfed in a uselessness that devoured him, even now seized his gut.
He glanced at the sleeping form before him. The chit was under Mary’s care now. He’d done his part.
Philip stepped away from the bed and turned toward the door.
Bringing her here was indeed a mistake.
Chapter Three
Damn his curiosity! Philip stood in the hall and hesitantly reached for the latch.
All he could think about for the last two days was the sleeping woman lying in the room beyond the door. How did she fare? Had the fever taken control?
Several times, he had wanted to look in on her when no servants were about. Several times he’d stared blankly at the papers on his desk, had shuffled the shipping orders and daily receipts around aimlessly, his only thought on the vision of loveliness lying unconscious upstairs.
He couldn't shake the feeling of concern and protectiveness he had for this wee bit of a woman of whom he had no knowledge.
Ah bloody hell.
Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair.
He was a busy man, with much to fill his day, yet here he stood cork-brained, undecided whether to enter or not.
He grasped the door handle of her room for the second time that day.
“And where might ye be goin’?” Mary asked, her voice heavy with condemnation.
He turned with a start. “I thought to look in on our guest.”
She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “With everythin’ I've taught ye and still ye insist on doin’ what ye pleases. ‘Tis not proper and ye knows it.”
Always acting like the mother he never had, he knew better than to be angered by the stern look on her face.
“Now, Mary, what's the harm of just taking a quick peek? My curiosity has gotten the better of me, nothing more.
“Ye knows very well the ways of gossip. If’n you hadn’t overheard Tessie talkin’ nonsense about Rebecca, God rest her soul.” Mary made the sign of the cross. “Rebecca and another man… why ‘tis nonsense.”
“I do not wish to speak of my wife.” His hand clenched.
He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth; to crush Mary’s fancy of his wife. “As for the lady in this room…” he pushed open the door, “…she is a guest in my house and my responsibility. Therefore, I intend to see about her health.”
She shook her head. “Oh, now, don’t ye go and get yer feathers all ruffled up. I hear ye. Far be it from me to say another word. Me mouth is closed. Only--”
“Mary.”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust, turned and waddled away.
Philip stepped into the room, strolled over to the bed and stared at the woman’s sleeping form. God's bones what a beauty. Thick lashes lined her eyes and he remembered their color, a golden green he had never seen the likes of before.
“Damn it woman! Open those beautiful eyes.”
He ran his finger against her cheek. Her skin felt cool, a good sign her fever had broken. He could see the slow steady movement of her breathing.
What would it feel like to have her lay beside him, her breathing blending with his?
Devil begad! He did not want a woman in his life. Not now. Not ever. He had loved once, wholly, giving all he had. That love had been destroyed by deceit. Damn his wife!
He jammed his fist in his palm. Rebecca wasn’t even around to confront.
He tore his gaze from the wood nymph’s sleeping form and stared blankly at the wall.
As soon as this woman gained her health, he would send her back from whence, she’d come.
He glanced to the table beside her bed, picked up the diary he’d found in her pocket, turned the book over and carefully examined the worn leather binding. On the cover, etched in gold, the letters R O S E glimmered in the sun’s light.
Once again, he was brought back into the woods by that name, remembering the sweet fragrant smell of wild flowers. Her name, he assumed. Aye, ‘twas a fitting name at that.
Her soft moan brought him back to reality and he glanced down at Rose.
Her eyes drifted open, wide, translucent, strangely beautiful eyes. And as he stared down at her, willing her to come to life, he could feel himself drowning in a sea of green.
***
Somewhere betwixt sleep and reality Elizabeth expected to hear the sharp trill of the birds, the rustle of the leaves and to feel the hard earth beneath her. There was a silence, save for the ticking of a clock and a softness against her back; which was odd.
Light seeped through the darkness of her closed lids. A heavy warmth covered her; a warmth that could not be that of wet foliage which moments ago had made it difficult to run. Run?
Instantly awakened her lids flashed open.
She’d been running for her life!
“Mistress Rose…”
Bewildered, she stared at the man with the deep mellow voice.
“Mistress Rose, I am pleased to see you have graced us with your presence.”
Was he talking to her? He spoke her mother's name, not her own.
Fighting through the cobwebs of her sleep-filled mind, she couldn’t speak. The heavy gold brocade fabric of the canopy above dominated her vision. A claustrophobic, breathlessness engulfed her. She wheezed.
The stranger stared down at her with piercing blue eyes.
Delicately, he reached under her head and rearranged her pillows.
“Your hair, ‘tis so thick,” he whispered, as he picked up a long strand and ran it through his fingers. “The color of… moonlight on the water’s edge.”
Her mind all balled up, she barely heard his next words. That he was actually real and touching her took her dazed brain a few moments to comprehend. But when reality finally seeped in, it hit her like a slap in the face.
Elizabeth jolted to a sitting position, threw off the covers, “where…” her gaze darted around the room, “who…”
Were they alone? Dear Lord, he could…
Everything came flooding back—the enraged mob—her guardian’s vile attack.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Nausea rose in her throat. She swallowed.
Gently the stranger pushed her back against the pillows.
Sheer black fright strangled the air from her lungs
“Where do
you think you are going?”
“I-who-” She gasped, peered wide-eyed around the room. Dear God, we are alone.
“I am Philip Ablington. You are in my home; and you, my dear, are too ill to go anywhere. You must lie back and get some rest.”
Her heart beat erratically.
The snug grown, pressed tautly against her chest.
She cast her gaze around the room in search of her clothing; shifted her weight freeing the material caught beneath her back.
The chill silence enveloped her.
Ice blue eyes, seemingly pupil-less, beheld her.
She clutched the sheet tighter to her breasts.
A cold knot of fear drained the blood from her face. “I… my clothes-I mus-”
“Milady…” He loomed above her, very large, threatening; an unwelcome presence. “Rose-”
“My name is not Rose.”
No man was to be trusted. Especially one whose unshaven hewed face and raven hair was as dark and sinister as Satan himself.
“Nay? That is the name on this cover.” He held up the diary.
“My--”Her throat dry, she swallowed. “My name is Elizabeth Rose Morgan. That book belonged to my mother.”
“I see.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Again, she glanced around the room, wishing desperately to escape.
“Mistress Elizabeth.” He turned toward the table. “You looked parched.”
Exchanging her mother's diary for a white porcelain pitcher, he poured the clear liquid into a crystal glass.
“Allow me.” Gently he lifted her head from the pillow, cradling her neck in his arm.
She tensed; a numbing tremor cramped her limbs.
He brought the cup to her lips.
The sharp ugly memory, of the near violation of her person, jolted through her mind. She twisted her head away; thrust her hand to his chest. “Sir, I beg you.”
Horrified, her gaze transfixed on his face.
He drew in a deep breath. A spark of some undefined emotion slipped into his eyes. His chest expanded.
She felt his hard muscles move beneath his shirt. Terrified, she jerked her clammy hand away.
Water spilled from the glass. Cool droplets slithered down her neck.
His suffocating closeness threatened to choke her. His fixed gaze sent a sickening wave of terror to her belly.
His dark brows arched in surprise. He didn't move, just stared, as though uncertain of his next move.
“Why Master Philip, what is this I be a com’n upon?” A woman’s Irish brogue cut through the air like a sharp axe.
Startled, Elizabeth glanced at the door.
A heavyset woman entered, carrying a large silver tray laden with food, which she placed on a table, then, she ambled over to the bed.
Her round cheeks flushed, her mouth pinched, she gave them a stern look. “I've a good mind to take the whip to yer backside I do. Now, be gone with ye.”
Surprised by the servant’s outspoken words, expecting a harsh reprimand, Elizabeth’s gaze darted to the man before her.
A vein pulsated in his jaw. “I can assure you no harm has come to pass.” He calmly placed the glass on the table.
“Well, let me do what ye pays me for.” The servant placed her hand over her amble hip.
Overwhelmed by all the commotion Elizabeth sat quietly, her arms wrapped around her chest, and took a deep calming breath.
“I be a thinkin’, there be someone else that be a needin’ yer attention.”
Already dismissing their presence, the housekeeper strolled over to a large bureau, took out fresh bedding, then waddled back and placed the sheets at the foot of the bed.
Despite the look of disapproval on his servant's face, the stranger leaned closer. “I shall call upon you again tomorrow morn.”
Elizabeth leaned away from him; as far as she could; not far enough.
His deep, sensual voice sent a disturbing awareness through the length of her.
“Is there anything you wish for, anything you require?” His cool, detached tone and aloof expression pricked through the veil of bewilderment clouding her thoughts.
What brought about the sudden change in demeanor?
“More to eat, perhaps some note paper in which to post a letter to your family? They must be concerned about your whereabouts.”
“I… I am without family.”
“You are without acquaintances?
He glanced to the diary on the table. “What of your mother?”
“She passed on a week ago.” A lump of sadness welled in her throat and she hated the weakness he saw.
“My deepest condolences.”
She acknowledged his words with a nod. “I'm afraid the landlord has turned me out.” Shame scorched her chest, but her gaze remained steady.
“I see.” He studied her intensely.
Was that a look of understanding in his eyes?
“I shall send word to my mother’s acquaintance.”
“Fine. You may remain in my home until such time that you hear from her.” He turned toward his servant. “When you are through here, send Margaret up to help her dress.”
“Of course Lord Ablington,” the housekeeper answered in an annoyed tone.
He turned on his heel.
Elizabeth chewed her bottom lip. “Sir, if you please. There is something I must request of you.”
He stopped; pivoted around.
“I… the only possession I have left of my mother’s, besides her diary, is a glass instrument the two of us played. ‘Tis very dear to my heart.”
Her pulse raced.
‘Twas her dream to be an educator of children in the language of music. Though the words tipped her tongue, she remained quiet.
Scattered thoughts battered her temples. No man would understand. That instrument was her only hope for survival, setting her apart from all others whose only talents lie with playing the harpsichord.
“Sir, your generosity is more than I could have hoped for,” she added quickly, before she lost her nerve. “I know my request is asking much, but I beseech of you, though ‘tis seems a frivolous request, please I would be ever so grateful.”
His brows tilted with uncertainty. “Where is this instrument? What does it look like?”
“Back in Hampshire, I lived two doors from the haberdashery, in the center of the village. Samuel Harthworthy he was my landlord.”
“I have often thought it a barbarous state of society that a woman, without a husband or guardian, has no rights; but until the law changes, your former residence and all of its contents now belong to the proprietor,” he stated flatly.
“Though I would like nothing more than to offer my services, I shall take no part in thieving.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with indignation, but his harsh tone rocked her confidence, and determination pushed past her apprehensions.
“One would wonder indeed, sir, why gentlemen, like yourself, have not seen fit to change this inhuman custom.”
The housekeeper grunted.
He shot her an annoyed glance.
Her mouth pinched. Her face crimped sternly.
His blue eyes narrowed.
The servant turned and busied herself with the linens.
The sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted their discussion.
An elderly man, with a slight paunchy stomach, stood stiffly in the hall. His thinning black hair was carefully brushed over his forehead and lay flat above his ear. A pair of spectacles sat on the bridge of his hooked nose.
“Well Tyler, speak up man, what is it?”
“Excuse my intrusion, Sir,” he said, his voice void of emotion. An expression of aloofness clearly visible on his face, he continued. “There is a gentleman downstairs to see you. He was mumbling something about a shipment being lost.”
“What the devil?” Lord Ablington’s voice held a note of puzzlement.
“Impossible.” He shook his head.
“In all my year
s of shipping tobacco abroad, I’ve never lost a shipment.” The floorboards beneath his footsteps thundered as he crossed the room toward the door.
Tyler didn't move.
“Well is there something more you wish to discuss with me?”
“Yes, sir, there is…” Tyler glanced toward the bed.
A tense silence enveloped the room.
“Perhaps now would not be a good time to--”
“Well man, spit it out. I haven’t got all day.”
Tyler nodded. “I couldn't help but hear your conversation with the lady. If the lady so chooses and with your approval Sir, I shall be more than happy to see to her request.
Elizabeth smiled with gratitude.
“Why, pray tell, would you take the chance of getting thrown in jail?”
“I know of this Mr. Harthworthy. He is of a disreputable character and a thief himself. A very dear old acquaintance of mine on numerous occasions has been swindled by his person. ‘Twould be my pleasure to best him, if only in this small instance.”
Ablington waved his hand through the air as if to dismiss the entire conversation. “What you choose to do on your time off is of no concern to me. Do what you wish.” He paused. “’Tis seems I now have some business to see to in Hampshire. You may take the wagon and accompany me.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Mary.” Ablington turned to his housekeeper. “See to the lady’s needs.”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded.
He glanced toward the bed. “Good day Mistress.”
Elizabeth nodded curtly.
Tyler stepped aside, allowing his master access to the hall, then followed after him.
Relieved the tense scene had come to a close, Elizabeth lay back against her pillow. A wave of dizziness blackened the space before her. The color seemed to drain from her cheeks.
Mary stepped to the bed. “There, there lassie, take it easy. Ye're still a mite weak. I've had Cooky prepare ye some dinner, need to get yer strength back.”
The fresh aroma of baked bread and the steaming, bowl of chicken broth, made her mouth water and her stomach growl
“Where am I?”
“Why ye're in Ablington Manor.” She wiped her hands on her crisp white apron.
Rebecca's Ghost Page 3