by Angie Ray
“What else can I believe? Why else would I be here?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said slowly. “I don’t think I really believe in curses.”
“You believe in ghosts but not in curses, you foolish woman? You and the doltish Bernard have more in common than I thought.”
Margaret stiffened. “Phillip--“
“Don’t you understand what this means?” he interrupted impatiently. “I am trapped here.” He stopped in front of her. “Just as you will soon be trapped in marriage to Bernard.” He laughed, but without humor. “Our fates are very similar, do you realize that, Margaret? Both of us are trapped--forever.”
Chapter Twelve
Phillip’s words haunted Margaret all night and gnawed at her through breakfast. Bernard had to repeat her name twice to gain her attention.
“Margaret! Were you able to reassure Aunt Letty last night?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Margaret replied. “She is very upset about this curse.”
“Hmmph. Perhaps I should sit down with her and explain that there is no scientific basis for her fears.”
“I don’t think she would believe you,” Margaret murmured.
“I don’t understand why she’s never mentioned it before,” Bernard muttered. “I will have to think of some way to prove to her....” He broke off and said more loudly, “I will talk to Aunt Letty.” He paused again, then said, “There is an interesting bridge not too far from here, Wynch Bridge. If you would like to ride out with me, I’ll show it to you.”
She had an urge to say no, to run away and try to escape. Stifling the foolish impulse, she nodded.
Half an hour later, after changing into a habit of dark-green cloth and a matching Spanish hat with a black feather and veil, she met him by the stables. He helped her mount, then they rode in an easterly direction.
The day was already warm. She was sure the linen collar and cravat of her habit were wilting, but the exercise did feel good. She had been spending too much time in her room lately.
They kept to a steady canter, covering the distance quickly. As they rode, they passed workers in the fields, and sheep and cattle grazing. She could hear blackbirds, thrushes, and other unidentifiable birds singing with all their might. Marigolds and foxglove provided bright patches of yellow and purple against the lush green of the rolling hills. The pleasant scene lifted her spirits.
She could hear the roar of the falls almost before Wynch Bridge came into view.
Margaret’s breath caught when she saw it. A long narrow bridge, perhaps sixty feet long and two feet wide, was suspended by iron chains over a deep gorge. In a great sheet of foam, the falls rushed over the cliff and crashed onto rocks far below. A mist rose up to cool her heated face.
“How beautiful,” she breathed.
“What?” Bernard shouted.
“I said it’s beautiful!” she yelled back. The veil of her hat fluttered in her face. Pushing it back, she walked towards the bridge.
He hurried after her. “Wait, Margaret. Where are you going?”
“I wish to go out on the bridge.” She continued forward, craning her neck to get a better view of the gorge. A rainbow danced into view, sparkling and glowing. Smiling with pleasure, she had placed a foot on the bridge when Bernard caught her arm and pulled her back.
“Margaret, I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go out on the bridge. It’s not safe.”
Her pleasure ruined, she stepped back just as two boys brushed past them and ran out on the bridge. They stopped in the middle, laughing, evidently taking much enjoyment from the way it swayed. It did look rather dangerous. Margaret stared longingly. It also looked enjoyable, exciting, thrilling, and for one wild moment she was tempted to ignore Bernard and follow the boys.
“Those lads will be lucky not to break their necks,” Bernard muttered, escorting Margaret back to her horse.
Margaret looked at him. When they were both children, they would have been right out there with those boys, trying to make the bridge sway, daring each other to let go of the chains, laughing and shouting. How had Bernard changed so much? How had she?
Trapped.
Later that night, Phillip’s words still echoed in her head. She tried to read her favorite book, Journal of a Residence in the Sandwich Islands, but she kept imagining Bernard’s reaction to some of the natives’ more unusual customs. She was frowning down at the page, when Phillip appeared.
“Phillip!” Setting the book aside, she smiled up at him.
He couldn’t help smiling back a little. Did she know what she did to a man when she smiled like that? He doubted it. Yet the unconsciousness of her invitation made her even more desirable, more enticing. He only wished he could accept it. She was so full of warmth and light. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to feel anything except this damn miserable cold.
He looked into her eyes, and something tugged at his heart. The icy coldness receded a little.
He enjoyed being with her. God, how he enjoyed being with her. She helped keep the coldness, the darkness, the loneliness at bay. He wanted to be close to her--as close as it was possible for a ghost to be.
Glancing about the room, his gaze fell upon the settee. Invitingly, he beckoned. “Come, sit here next to me.”
Margaret stared at him. Uncertainly, her gaze moved to the settee, then back to him. There was something different about him, she thought nervously. He seemed friendlier. She didn’t want to leave the protection of the concealing covers. To do so seemed so...immodest.
“Seeing you in that bed is unbearable torture,” he said in a provocative voice.
Margaret jumped from the bed. She grabbed a sea-green shawl to cover her nightgown, even though the high-necked white cotton was perfectly respectable.
“You look perfectly respectable,” he echoed her thoughts. The wicked glint was back in his eyes, although it was softer, gentler, than she had ever seen it. “Very virginal. Bernard is a lucky man.”
Margaret blushed, not sure how to respond. “I don’t think we should be talking about this,” she said primly.
“What better for a man and woman to talk about?”
“I think we should be talking about this curse.”
“Not tonight, sweeting. Tonight I simply want to enjoy your company. Come, sit down.”
She sat on the edge of the settee, her knees pressed together, her arms folded across her chest.
For some reason he looked vastly amused. She tilted her chin.
He chuckled.
Turning her head, she glared at him. Quickly, he composed his face into more serious lines, but she was not deceived. His eyes were still gleaming.
Phillip leaned back, lounging in a disgraceful way against the back of the settee. “Tell me, why have you betrothed yourself to that dull--I mean, that dashing fellow?”
Margaret looked away and pulled at the lace fringe on her shawl. “Our fathers arranged it years ago.”
“Oh, so you’ve known Barnett a long time.”
“Yes. We played together as children. In fact, he was my best friend. He was different then. Often quiet, but not so rigid. He intimidated many of the neighboring children because he was so studious.”
“But not you?”
Margaret smiled a little. “No. I was a trifle headstrong, you understand. I did very much as I pleased. And it pleased me to play with Bernard. Although he was quiet, he was always willing to enter into the most outlandish of my games. We would imagine ourselves Hindu royalty or Chinese peasants. The captains of a ship sailing around the world. All sorts of things.”
Somehow she had relaxed enough that she was now leaning back against the settee, too. His arm rested just behind her, so close she could feel the coldness radiating from it, so close it was almost an embrace. It should have been uncomfortable. Instead she found she rather enjoyed his proximity.
“So you fell in love and he proposed?”
“Oh no,” Margaret laughed. “We never thought of each other like that. I wa
s in love with a boy named Corbin. He was a perfect idiot, but he had beautiful golden hair and bright blue eyes. As for Bernard, he regarded me like a little sister. No, we didn’t fall in love. We were too young, actually. I was fifteen, Bernard eighteen, when we became betrothed. We lived on adjoining estates, so it was a very practical match.”
“Then why haven’t you married him long since?”
“Something happened the following year.” She paused, remembering the terrible scene. Slowly she continued, choosing her words carefully. “The servants gossiped a lot, as servants do, and they weren’t always careful about what they said around a sixteen-year-old girl. Anyway, I heard them talking about a maid, whose master had gotten her with child and turned her off without a reference. They went on to enumerate the other girls this same man had seduced and abandoned.”
Margaret traced a finger over the settee’s velvet upholstery, not looking at Phillip.
“I was horrified, naturally, but I also felt a certain...detachment, I suppose. Somehow I assumed this must be going on somewhere else, not in our own little parish. I couldn’t believe anyone I knew could be so wicked.” She shook her head at her own naivete.
“So that Sunday, when the vicar denounced Colleen from the pulpit, I was stunned. I knew Colleen, you see. She was a kitchenmaid at Lord Barnett’s, and she would often sneak us treats. I realized Bernard’s father was the horrible monster who seduced servant girls.”
“You must have been very shocked, young as you were,” Phillip said gently.
“Yes. Well, actually, I was furious. Not only at what he had done, but at the hypocrisy of the vicar in denouncing Colleen. My temper got the better of me, and I stood up--right there in church--and I said some horrible things to Lord Barnett.”
“In church?” Phillip’s shoulders began to shake. “I wish I could have been there.”
She smiled a little. Looking back, it had been rather funny. The gentlemen turning purple, several ladies swooning, everyone gasping with shock. Unfortunately, the rest of the story wasn’t quite as amusing.
“My parents hustled me home, but I remained unrepentant. Next Sunday, we went to church and not a single person spoke to me. I didn’t care, but my mother almost had a fit. She confined me to my room for a month. When the month had passed, I thought everyone would have recovered from their anger, but they hadn’t.”
Phillip stilled, his laughter gone.
“When I went to church, no one spoke to me. When I went into the village, people avoided me. Friends I had played with my entire life weren’t allowed to associate with me. I was completely shunned.”
“That’s ridiculous. Surely people would make some allowance for your age.”
“Perhaps they would have, but Lady Creevy was particularly outraged. Everyone followed her lead. At first I tossed my head and said I didn’t care, but I did. It was so difficult to pretend, especially when Mama would apologize over and over to Lady Creevy for me.” She glanced away from him. “I felt so alone.”
Anger surged through him at the hurt he saw etched on her delicate features. Why hadn’t her parents just stared everyone down? Such a small scandal would have been soon forgotten. “Where was your betrothed during all this?”
“I don’t know precisely. He...he wouldn’t look at me that day in church. I expected...that is, I thought he might call the next day, but he never came. Later, I heard he had gone away.”
“And your betrothal?” Phillip asked tightly.
“Was assumed broken, although nothing was ever said. Indeed, the old Lord Barnett never spoke to anyone in my family again. I didn’t see Bernard until years later, right after Lord Barnett died. By then I was at my last prayers. Fortunately, Bernard agreed to honor the marriage contract.”
“Your last prayers? I find that difficult to believe. Didn’t you have a Season in London? You would certainly have been snapped up there.”
Margaret shook her head, smiling sadly. “As luck would have it, Lady Creevy was in town my first Season. She spread the tale of my disgrace. I think she hated me, though I never understood why.”
“She probably had a couple of whey-faced daughters.”
“Why, yes. Five of them. At least, I mean they were very sweet, not at all like their mother. What did they have to do with anything?”
Phillip only shook his head. “And her spite drove all the men away?”
“Almost. I confess, my own foolishness chased away a very likely prospect. My second Season, Lord Hugh began paying me particular attention. I was on my very best behavior, you understand. I barely spoke a word and behaved with the utmost propriety. He was equally proper, or at least, so I thought. But one day I saw him in the park with his mistress. And I so forgot myself as to stare. And I kept on staring until, even though he appeared not to see me, he blushed. He never called again.”
Phillip was at a loss. He understood Lord Hugh’s reaction. One of the most basic rules of society was that a lady should turn a blind eye to men’s infidelities. His first wife had understood that; his second hadn’t. By far, he’d preferred Mary to Alicia. No man wanted a wife who would raise a fuss over a minor indiscretion or two.
And yet, part of him could almost believe that Margaret would have been worth it--because he sensed that if she cared, a man would never even want another woman....
Margaret, watching the play of emotion on his face, wondered what he was thinking. Wanting to lighten the tension, she asked brightly, “What of your childhood? Do you remember it now?”
“Bits and pieces. I recall I wanted to be a priest.”
“A priest?” Margaret stared incredulously at him.
He grinned. “I was only six or seven. I used to sneak away from my tutor and visit the chapel. My nature has always been a bit wild--which I got from my parents. Although they loved each other, they were very passionate people. They fought frequently when I was young. Our house was not a peaceful place, and I often escaped to the chapel where it was quiet and restful. The priests fascinated me. They were always calm and serene. I admired that. Father Benedicto was especially kind, and when my tutor quit out of frustration, he took over my lessons.”
“Are you a papist, then?” Margaret asked with all the repugnance of a good Anglican.
“No. My father converted shortly after the Rebellion of ‘45. Politically, he felt it was too costly to be Catholic.” Phillip smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “I was devastated. The chapel closed and Father Benedicto had already left when I went to say good-bye. However, I did see Father Clement.”
“How sad you did not see Father Benedicto,” Margaret said. “At least you were able to say good-bye to Father Clement, though.”
“Yes, he told me my family and I would roast in hell for renouncing the true Church, that God’s wrath would rain down upon us.” Phillip smiled a little at Margaret’s patent shock. “Father Clement was very zealous.”
“But you were only a child. You must have been frightened to death.”
“Certainly not. Eglintons are never frightened.” His lips curved slightly.
“I see,” she said.
“Do you? Do you really?” His grey eyes were cool and amused. “It’s all nonsense, you know.”
Margaret looked uncertainly at him. Surely he wasn’t saying...
“You do believe in God, don’t you?”
He laughed. “Oh yes. For my sins I almost wish I didn’t.” He laughed again at the confusion on her face. “Perhaps I should let you sleep on that one, Margaret.” He smiled down into her eyes.
“Oh no! Don’t go,” she said, forgetting his strange words. Then she blushed. Heavens, what was she thinking of? “I mean, I can’t sleep.”
“Probably that fascinating book you were reading.”
“Oh. That is, yes. It is called A Journal of a Residence in the Sandwich Islands.”
“The Sandwich Islands? Isn’t that in the Pacific?”
“Yes, and it is ever so interesting. The weather is incredibly
warm there; the sun shines all the time. Although it rains too. Strange fruits grow on the trees and the beaches have white, white sand, and the people swim in the ocean. They have canoes, live in huts made out of grass and they wear only a strip of cloth around their hips--“
Margaret’s rush of words stopped as her eyes met his. His were very dark.
“I...I know that is very shocking.”
“You think so? I think it sounds very sensible in such a tropical climate.”
“But to be almost naked--“
“Yes.” His voice was almost a whisper. “I rather wish we were there now.”
Somehow Margaret rose to her feet. He stood up also. Her heart pounded. She clutched the shawl more tightly to her breasts.
“I think I am tired after all,” she whispered.
He stared at her, very still.
No one had ever looked at her quite like that. His eyes flickered with some strange emotion that she did not quite recognize. A sort of wildness. As if he wanted to consume her.
The silence stretched and grew and Margaret thought surely, surely he must hear the pounding of her pulse.
“You are so beautiful, Margaret. Why are you wasting yourself on that spineless idiot?”
“I’m not wasting myself.” Margaret hated the tremor in her voice. She wanted to look away from his seductive gaze, but she couldn’t. “And I’m not beautiful.”
“Of course you are. Don’t you know it? Are the men blind nowadays?” His voice grew lower, huskier. “I suppose that frown you so often show frightens them off. But can’t they see how soft and smooth your hair is, how the light catches glints of red, like hints of the passion you try so hard to conceal?”
His voice was mesmerizing her. Helplessly, she stared into his eyes.
“And when you smile, your eyes sparkle like the bluest of jewels, like the promise of heaven. And your lips....” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How incredibly sweet, they curve so beguilingly, so sensuously. How they beckon, more enticing than any siren song. Margaret, dear Margaret, you are so beautiful and you don’t even know it. I wish we were in the Sandwich Islands. I wish I could see all of you.”