by Angie Ray
“Don’t be embarrassed, Miss Westbourne. I don’t hold Letty’s eccentricities against her. We are good friends. She comes every month to my card parties.” He swallowed some more wine. “I pride myself on my little parties. I’m having one Saturday. You and Bernard must come. And you too, Mr. and Mrs. Barstow. Letty, you’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Aunt Letty said.
“Excellent. Card games are one of the few breaths of civilization in this benighted part of the country. I have something of a reputation for cards,” he boasted to Margaret. “In fact, why don’t we play a few hands when we’re all done here?”
“Unless you’d prefer to play billiards,” Bernard said. “You have something of a reputation for that also, don’t you?”
To Margaret’s surprise, Geoffrey and Cecilia both laughed, although they tried to stifle it. Mortimer flushed.
“Don’t tease our guest, Bernard,” Aunt Letty admonished. “We will play cards.”
Mortimer must be an exceptionally poor billiards player, Margaret decided.
They all went into the front parlor, except for Geoffrey, who excused himself, claiming his leg was paining him. Cecilia professed a disinterest in cards, so she sat and sewed while the others played.
The game went on for quite a while. Margaret noticed that Aunt Letty seemed totally immersed in play. Her eyes had a feverish gleam to them. Bernard was competent, but nothing more. Margaret herself was not very good, and her luck was definitely out. Over the course of the evening, Mortimer cleaned out the small amount of funds she had allotted for the evening’s entertainment.
“Barnett, have another drink,” said Mortimer, pouring out some more wine.
“I’ve had enough,” said Bernard.
“One can never have enough. When will you understand that, Bernie?”
Mortimer drank heavily throughout the evening. Every time it was his turn to deal, he shuffled the cards skillfully, his rings flashing. Especially the large ruby.
It looked familiar, but Margaret couldn’t quite think why.
“That’s a magnificent ring,” she commented when the hour had grown late and the game was nearly done. “Is it an heirloom?”
“Of a sort. My grandfather won it in a game of hazard.” Mortimer dealt out the last hand. The ring blinked and sparkled. Something nagged at Margaret’s brain.
Mortimer won the last of their money and rose to his feet. “That was most enjoyable. Are you certain you don’t wish to continue? I’d be glad to extend you credit.”
“I prefer not to indebt myself,” said Bernard.
“You must learn to enjoy yourself, Bernie.” Mortimer slapped Bernard on the shoulder and the ring flashed again. It was very large, Margaret thought. And she could almost swear she had seen it somewhere before. But where?
“Lord Mortimer, would you mind if I looked at your ring?”
“Not at all, Miss Westbourne.” He approached her and held out his hand.
She hesitated. She had thought he would take it off.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I never take it off. It’s too valuable. But you may hold my hand.”
Reluctantly, Margaret took hold of his smooth hand and lifted it up. His palm was cold as ice. Trying to ignore the shivers of revulsion she felt, she carefully looked at the ring. The base was wide and deep and ornately wrought. Excitement bubbled up in her. She recognized it now! It was exactly like--
Margaret felt a pressure on her fingers. It was repeated, and hastily she dropped Mortimer’s hand.
The creature had actually squeezed her hand!
“Now I must bid you all good night,” he said with a leer in her direction and a bow to the others.
Aunt Letty rang for the butler, but he did not come. “That’s odd,” she said. “Gibbons is usually so reliable.”
Margaret wished Gibbons would hurry. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Mortimer left, the better. Besides, she was eager to see Phillip and tell him all she had discovered.
Fruitlessly, Aunt Letty rang the bell a few more times, then looked apologetically at Mortimer. “I suppose I will have to show you out myself, Mortimer.” She opened the door to the dark hall.
Bernard picked up a lamp to light the way. Margaret followed him, eager to go upstairs. Cecilia drifted behind.
“I will see you next week, Letty,” Mortimer was saying. “I look forward to--“
“Eeeeeekkkkkk!” Cecilia shrieked.
All heads swivelled. Cecilia pointed a shaking finger toward the front door. Everyone turned. There, a noose around its neck, a ghostly figure hung suspended in midair, dangling in the dark shadows.
Chapter Eighteen
“Dear heaven!” gasped Margaret.
“Phillip?” Aunt Letty asked vaguely.
Bernard stood frozen and Margaret was similarly afflicted.
“Eeeeeeekkkkkk!” Cecilia screamed again, hands on her cheeks.
Bernard snapped out of his stupor. He held the lamp up high and walked forward. As he approached the grisly figure, light illuminated it, and Cecilia abruptly stopped screaming.
“Why, it’s only a dummy,” she said, her hands falling to her sides.
And indeed it was. A makeshift figure, covered by a sheet with a crude face drawn on it. The rope was tied to the chandelier.
Margaret was dumbfounded. “Who would do such a thing?”
Cecilia apparently reached her own conclusion. “That boy! I’m going to blister his backside.” She stormed up the stairs.
The remaining three looked at each other.
“Where’s Lord Mortimer?” Margaret asked, suddenly realizing he had disappeared. Everyone looked about the hallway.
“There he is.” Aunt Letty pointed to a figure huddled under a table at the far side of the room. “Mortimer, come out. It was only a prank by that foolish boy.”
Bernard walked over and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Is...is it gone?” His face was white with terror.
“It’s nothing. Only Jeremy’s idea of a hoax.”
“Oh.” Mortimer stood up. He was still shaking, but now his face turned red with anger. “I hope someone will give that brat the thrashing he so richly deserves.”
Grabbing his hat and gloves, he stormed out of the house.
“Dear me,” said Aunt Letty.
Bernard’s face was carefully blank.
“I think I will go to bed.” After one quick survey, Margaret avoided looking at anyone’s face. “Good night.”
She walked sedately up the stairs. Once out of sight, she hurried down the hall, beginning to gasp. She rushed into her room, slammed the door behind her and burst into laughter. She laughed so hard the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Your evening was amusing?” asked a cold voice.
*****
“Phillip!” Margaret wiped her streaming eyes, her soul filling with a ridiculous joy. She smiled radiantly at him.
He looked rather strange, but in her excitement she didn’t pay too much attention. “I think I have discovered how to break the curse!”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I visited a Gypsy today. She said we must retrieve a token--such as a strand of hair or watch or ring of yours--and the curse will be broken!”
“I see.” He turned away from her and studied the panel of her dressing screen where Actaeon was being torn apart by his dogs after spying on Diana bathing.
Margaret’s excitement began to dim. She had expected a more joyous reaction from him. She had expected him to be thrilled. Instead he sounded cold and distant. “Aren’t you excited?” she asked uncertainly.
“About what? About looking for a strand of my hair? Frankly, it could be in any of a thousand places. But if you wish it, then by all means let us begin searching. I will look here and you can go search your beloved Bernard’s room.”
Margaret stiffened. “You need not be sarcastic,” she said indignantly. “And I don’t think we will need to search at all.
Lord Mortimer has a ring--like the one in your portrait.”
“Very possible. Mortimer did win such a ring from me.” He didn’t turn around from his study of the screen.
“Phillip, stop looking at that silly screen! How can you be so calm? Don’t you understand, it must be the token!”
He turned around, his grey eyes cold and silvery. “Forgive me. You may be correct, but how will we get the ring from Mortimer? He is unlikely to give it up willingly.”
“Perhaps he would give it to me if I explained.”
“I doubt it. The Mortimers were ever a greedy, spiteful bunch.”
Margaret ignored his pessimistic remark. “We are going to a card party there next week. I shall ask him then.”
“It won’t do you any good.”
“Do you have a better idea?” she asked in exasperation.
“Perhaps I can come along and take the ring if he’s not wearing it.”
Margaret felt her jaw drop a little. “Can you do that? Go to another house?” Somehow she had thought he must stay at Durnock Castle.
Frowning, Phillip stared into the dark corner. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It would be very difficult. Perhaps it might be easier to hire some thugs to do the job for us. They could steal the ring.”
“Thugs! But they might hurt Lord Mortimer!”
“Forgive me if the possibility does not make me weep.”
Actually, she didn’t much care either. But still... “I don’t think I could condone illegal activity.”
Phillip rolled his eyes. “It’s only fair that you be recompensed for the money he stole from you tonight.”
“Are you saying he cheated at cards?”
“Of course. All Mortimers cheat.”
Margaret considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I still don’t like it.”
Phillip’s temper flared at her stubbornness. “Why such concern? He doesn’t deserve it. But then, it seems women have always been attracted by the Mortimer brand of oily charm. Have you fallen victim to it too?”
Margaret gaped at him.
“Tell me,” he continued furiously. “Did you enjoy having that slimy bastard squeeze your hand?”
“How did you know about that?” The implications of his earlier remark about Mortimer cheating finally struck her. “Were you spying on me?”
Arrogantly, he looked down his nose at her. “I only wanted to see Mortimer’s spawn. The sight was as unpleasant as I expected. Almost as unpleasant as watching him slobbering all over your hand. I actually felt nauseated. If I had known I’d have to watch you and him making calf’s eyes at one another--“
“Calf’s eyes! Why you--“
“Don’t bother to deny it. I see now that you are not to be trusted. You consort with my enemies--“
“I was not ‘consorting’ with Lord Mortimer! The man is repulsive.”
“And do you find Bernard equally repulsive?”
“Bernard? What do you mean?”
“I mean Bernard, your fiance, is descended from Robeson. Do you dare deny it?”
“No. At least, I believe he must be--“
“Tell me, how does it feel, knowing you are marrying the descendent of the man who sentenced me to hang? Or have you changed your mind? Perhaps you intend to throw over the namby-pamby Bernard so you can pursue that slimy villain, Mortimer.”
Margaret stared at him incredulously. “Are you insane?”
He glared at her, his aura shining brightly. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Then slowly, gradually, the light around him began to fade. His aggressive stance softened and he passed a hand across his eyes. “I...I apologize, Margaret. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” Weariness lined his face and his glow dimmed even further. “Knowing they can touch you...when I cannot--“ He stopped abruptly and looked at her, his eyes dark, intent.
Then with a sigh he faded away.
Chapter Nineteen
The next night, when the clock chimed midnight, Margaret realized Phillip wasn’t going to appear. She took off her cherry-satin robe and carefully folded it over a chair. Pulling back the covers, she crawled into bed and lay staring up at the underside of the pagoda-roof.
She thought of the picture there, concealed by shadows. She could visualize each fluffy white cloud--even the one with the coupling man and woman.
Impulsively, she reached over for the candle and held it high above her head, illuminating the picture of the sleeping Chinese man and his dreams.
She examined the man’s face. It was unlined and a blissful smile curved his lips. For the first time, it occurred to Margaret that perhaps the scene was meant to represent death, not sleep. A peaceful serene death, where one dreamed of beautiful places and adventures and love.
Her gaze moved to the lovers. This time she did not look away. She studied the position of their arms and legs, the look of ecstasy on the couple’s faces. Would she feel pleasure like that? she wondered.
Knowing they can touch you--when I cannot....
Abruptly, she blew out the candle and lay back down, resting her head on one hand, holding the blankets beneath her breasts with the other.
Why hadn’t he come tonight? She wanted to talk to him. To say something. To tell him...what?
She didn’t know exactly. Words were so difficult sometimes. It would be much easier if she could take his hand in hers and hold it as tightly as possible. Or if she could wrap her arms around him and hold him against her breast. She wished she could give him everything, but she was afraid she couldn’t give him what he wanted.
If she couldn’t, though, she wanted to talk to him. She knew her heart would somehow find the right words. She would have to tell him tomorrow night.
But Phillip did not appear the next night, or the following nights, either, and as the days passed, Margaret grew more and more worried. Was he gone forever? Had something terrible happened to him? She was not sure terrible things could happen to a ghost, but she supposed it was possible. Perhaps she would never see him again.
No. There must be some other explanation. He was probably resting. Or perhaps he was still angry at her for her “flirtation” with Mortimer. Phillip would come back.
He must.
He must. The curse wasn’t broken yet. She still had not thought of a scheme to retrieve Phillip’s ring. Once they had the ring and broke the curse, then...well, she would not think about what would happen then.
The day before Mortimer’s card party arrived and Margaret was moping in her room when she heard a firm knock on her door.
It was Bernard, with a frown on his face.
“Margaret, I wondered if you would like to take a turn in the garden with me.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know, Bernard.”
His frown deepened. “What is the matter with you? Are you ill? You didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“No, no. I am merely a little homesick I suppose.”
“Do you wish to go back to Motcomb House?”
“Oh, no! I think I’m just suffering from a case of the doldrums. A stroll will be exactly the thing to perk me up.”
The unusually hot summer had finally ended. Outside, there was a chill in the air and a cold breeze was blowing. Shivering, she huddled under her shawl. Although the bright blue wool was warm, she wished she had worn her mantle.
They passed Jeremy, bouncing an India rubber ball against the house, and Margaret could see his cheeks and nose were bright red. He looked rather lonely and forlorn, reminding Margaret of what he had said about being a bastard. She wondered again what she should do, if anything, about his problem.
“Shall we take the Honeysuckle Walk?” asked Bernard. “It is in bloom right now and will afford us some shelter from the wind.”
The Honeysuckle Walk was actually a tunnel of thick vines supported by an arched trellis. Yellow flowers cascaded from above and fallen blooms carpeted the dirt pathway, surrounding them in a golden cocoon.
Bernard stopped in the middle of t
he path. Glancing up, Margaret saw he was staring at her intently. She looked back into his eyes. They were a peculiar colorless hue. Grey actually. Almost the same shade as Phillip’s.
“Margaret, please tell me what is wrong.”
She looked away and plucked a flower from the honeysuckle vine, trying to decide what to say. She didn’t want to tell him she was concerned about Phillip. Somehow it seemed inappropriate to tell her fiance she was worried about another man--even if the other man was a ghost.
“Margaret--“
Searching for some subject to distract him, she suddenly remembered Jeremy. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Surely Bernard would know how to handle that situation.
“I’m worried about Jeremy,” she said.
“Jeremy! What is the matter with Jeremy?”
“He told me something he overheard.” She hesitated briefly. Drawing a deep breath, she plunged ahead, keeping her eyes on the flower. “He heard some servants say he is a bastard.”
Total silence met her statement.
Glancing sideways, she saw his face had reddened, but she could not quite read his expression. Was he embarrassed? she wondered. Embarrassed because she had spoken of such an indelicate subject? Or was he shocked? Perhaps he had not known his sister had been unfaithful to her husband.
“I see,” he finally said in a quiet voice. “Thank you for telling me. I will take care of the matter.”
She could tell nothing from his voice either. He was very calm about the matter. She wished she knew what he was thinking, but Bernard had never been an easy person to read.
“Is that all, Margaret?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is that all that is bothering you?”
Heavens, he was more perceptive than she had realized. “Why, yes.” He was watching her closely, and she couldn’t prevent the blush that burned her cheeks.
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “If you cannot trust me, your fiance--“
“Oh no, that’s not it,” she said hastily. “It’s only that I am worried about Phillip.”
Bernard tensed. “Him again!” he said, almost under his breath. “I might have known.” In a louder voice he asked, “What is the problem?”