The Everdon Series- the Complete Set

by L C Kincaide

  “We have the same coloring, but that’s all.”

  “Well, I think there’s definitely a resemblance.” Emma insisted. She pointed to His Lordship. “You two make a cute couple.” She burst into giggles, her happy nature restored.

  Ivy’s face warmed in a blush and was saved by a voice behind them.

  “Excuse me, Miss Emma.” Clyfford appeared. “Your mother would like a word with you before she retires for the night.”

  Emma worked to restrain her giggles. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” She gave Ivy a resigned look. “Do you remember the way back? It’s down that way, turn right into the short hall then left, and right again.”

  “Emma,” She called to her friend. “Thanks for inviting me. This is great.” Her arm swept the hallway.

  “No prob.” Emma grinned back. “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning. And don’t worry about those stories,” she said over her shoulder, “that’s all they are.” She continued down the hall and disappeared around the corner.

  Ivy would have liked to spend more time studying the portraits, but she wasn’t particularly comfortable wandering about alone, ghost stories or not, and turned back. She made her way along the hushed, dimly lit hallway, the only sound an occasional creak of the ancient boards beneath the carpet runner.

  A grating kind of sound at some distance stopped her in her tracks. She scanned the hallway from where she had come, her pulse already quickening. The noise was a familiar squeaking made perhaps by a gear that needed oiling, but there was nothing with gears anywhere that she could see. With a shake of her head, she continued along, moving from one circle of soft light to another, yet even as she moved further away, the sound persisted. What makes a rhythmic, squeaking and grating sound? Ivy puzzled turning around again and squinted down the long stretch.

  A faint glow emanated at the far end of the corridor where it branched off to the north wing, and the grating seemed to originate from there, becoming louder and growing closer. Following the next squeak, a shadow flung itself against the wall — a wheelchair, the old-fashioned kind with large front wheels, a high back and a small third wheel at the rear. She glimpsed a hunched figure propelling the chair slowly, laboriously, but resolutely forward.

  Heart racing, Ivy didn’t wait to see who sat in it. She was so distracted by the apparition; she fled past the connecting corridor they had used earlier and toward the far end of the gallery. Light up ahead glowed from the right, and aiming for it, Ivy hoped it connected with the open gallery that led to the stairs. She turned and quickened down the rest of the hallway, counting the doors until she was at her room. She pushed the door, and to her horror found herself in the doorway of an unfamiliar bedroom instead. Dear God, had she gone in the wrong direction again?

  Mortified, she held her breath waiting to see whom she was rousting out of bed. If this continued, she would find herself turned out into the front yard before long. The squeaking wheelchair crept closer, and she had to decide — either get in or deal with a crazy woman, ghost or whoever was in the chair. Ivy was not afraid of old people, or people in wheelchairs, but many thanks to Emma’s story, that one terrified her, and she was willing to face embarrassing consequences rather than the occupant of the chair, and she quickly closed the door behind her.

  Leaning against it, Ivy strained her ears for sounds of anyone inside, but only a deep silence met her, and no other breathing except her own. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she began to discern white shapes. Through a gap in the curtains, the waxing moon offered just enough light to reveal the room was unoccupied with only furniture covered in dust sheets, which came as an enormous relief. Yet again, she had managed to stagger into the unused wing. Perfect! She would not want her as a houseguest.

  Holding her breath, Ivy listened for sounds from the hall and watched the door handle for movement. If there was a lock, she would have used it, but so far, it appeared she was on her own, and for the moment, the danger passed. Counting slowly to fifty, no noise from outside broke the silence, and the doorknob hadn’t turned.

  She stepped farther into the dusky chamber and looked around. It wasn’t musty-smelling and stale as one would expect of an unused room. Instead, it smelled fresh, as if it was aired out frequently, and all the furniture lay protected under dust sheets as if waiting for someone to take possession at any moment.

  Irregular shapes jutted up beneath the sheet on the dresser, probably framed pictures, maybe a clock. Against the opposite wall stood a tall shape that was very likely a dressing table with a mirror. This had been either a lady’s room or the bedchamber of a married couple. An enormous armoire occupied a good portion of space at one end, the only piece that was left uncovered, and curious, Ivy crossed the room for a closer look. She may never have another opportunity like this, she reasoned.

  Her fingers traced lines around floral marquetry and bronze gilt details, and she pulled on the handles. Inside, clothing hung on the hangers; a lady’s gowns and a gentleman’s evening wear. She ran her hand over a sumptuously beaded gown in flowing, rich wine silk and took it out of the armoire, all the while her mind protesting against it. She faced the mirror mounted to the inside cabinet door and held the garment against her body.

  The gown was exquisite and sparkling, even in the pale moonlight. A delicate pattern of matching seed beads embellished the bodice, starting at the deep scoop of the neckline and extended to the off the shoulder puffy sleeves, tapering to a V at the waistline. Luxuriant folds of the skirt cascaded to the floor. She wouldn’t mind having a gorgeous gown like this, she sighed dreamily, turning this way and that, the silk swishing softly. She wondered who it belonged to. It was too small to fit Elinor, and it didn’t seem to be Emma’s style. If anything, it was her style, but enough of that; she was only postponing letting go of it. Her conscience reasserted itself, and she rehung the lovely garment on the rod and closed the doors on temptation.

  Back at the door, she listened for any telltale sounds from the hallway before risking it open, even a crack. All was quiet. Trying to remember the route she had taken earlier with Mason — if she had been paying attention to such things, for he had consumed most of it, she hurried along, mainly on hope. Somehow, following a journey of twists and turns, she found her room and darted inside with no one being the wiser. In contrast to the rest of the house, her bedroom was bathed in the cheerful glow of her bedside table lamp. The covers were turned down, and flames danced in the fireplace.

  Not taking any chances, Ivy listened for peculiar sounds, but she heard nothing apart from the logs crackling in the grate. Was there a way to lock the door? She didn’t see a latch, only a keyhole in the door knob plate. She glanced around. Where would someone leave a key? Even as she searched the night table drawer, the placid voice of reason that seems to have retreated to the farthest regions of her mind suggested her actions may be construed as being paranoid. Then again, she was in a strange house with weird noises and unknown occupants, some of them possibly incorporeal, in which case, locking the door was utterly pointless. But if she didn’t do something to set her mind at ease, sleep would not come, and that much was certain. She closed the drawer, having no luck. The desk drawer was her next option and, success, she produced an old-fashioned iron key. Wasting no time, she turned it in the keyhole and sighed with relief when the latch clicked into place. Only then did she ready herself for bed. After carefully putting away her clothes, she climbed in and burrowed beneath the covers looking forward to a hopefully restful night.

  Ivy rose gently from the depths of sleep. She had been dreaming, but as she surfaced to consciousness, the memory of that wafted away, and she gradually realized that she was no longer sleeping and she smelled smoke. Bolting upright, her eyes darted around the room searching for flames. Only a handful of embers glowed faintly orange beyond the fire screen, and they produced no smoke. Her heart wedged in her throat, she jumped out of bed
and stumbled to the door. No tendrils curled from beneath, and handle was cool to the touch. She turned the key and carefully opened the door a crack and still detected nothing that could have produced the acrid stench. She poked her head into the hall. There were no evident signs of danger, and nobody else was about. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Closing it, she went to the bathroom for a drink of water, and with trembling hands raised the glass to her lips. Her heartbeat had slowed down a fraction, but her hands remained unsteady. The smoke seemed so real; thick, acrid, and suffocating. It was ridiculous, even as far as dreams went, if that is what it was. Maybe — and she didn’t want to acknowledge it as a possibility, but wasn’t the smelling of smoke a prelude to a seizure? She’d never experienced a grand mal seizure, and the doctor had reassured both her and her mother the petit mal seizures she’d had as a child would not evolve into that, and further reassured them she would outgrow those in time as well.

  She climbed into bed, foregoing putting another log on the dying embers, and pulled the comforter up to her chin and waited. She hadn’t seen a clock in the room, so she had no clue what time it was though she sensed it was late. Clicking on the bedside table lamp, she reluctantly got out of bed and retrieved her bag from the armoire for her phone. The LED display glowed two am and no bars. She turned it off and packed it away. The battery was at sixty percent, so it didn’t need to be charged yet.

  After several minutes of squirming around, trying to find a comfortable position and failing, she realized getting back to sleep was an impossibility. She was wide awake, and her nerves were still raw from her earlier episode in the hall and ensuing nightmare, which she was now certain was all it was. What she really needed was something stronger to drink than water.

  Wrapping herself in a robe, also from her armoire, midnight blue velvet with a satin sash, certainly prettier than the plain cotton one she had packed, she slipped her feet into matching slippers and padded down the hall to the stairs. At least she would look presentable if she stumbled upon another insomniac though she hoped that will not happen.

  It appeared the house was asleep, and the sconces glowed faintly, and she found her way easily. Just one little drink, and she’d be back in her room all cozy and ready to sleep. At least that was the plan.

  Ivy crept along the hallway and downstairs, her hand sliding down the banister — the tragic Lady Everdon fell down these stairs — in the hushed silence, dwarfed in the vast expanse of the central court, or hall; she still hadn’t decided which term suited the space better. She passed the grandfather clock that kept solemn sentry in its alcove showing six minutes past eleven, and turning to the parlor, she noticed the dancing glow of firelight from the partially open door. Too late to turn back, she timidly, for she didn’t know who was on the other side, pushed it and discovered Mason standing by the fireplace gazing at her.

  He had replaced his formal jacket with a silvery black smoking jacket. She had never seen one worn by a man apart from the movies, and she found the look most appealing. He appeared elegantly casual.

  “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Ivy. Please come in.” Mason indicated for her to enter.

  She stepped inside, her hand moving to the collar of her robe to make sure it wasn’t gaping open, then sank into an armchair by the fire.

  “Trouble sleeping?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. It must be the new surroundings.”

  He turned to her, concern showing on his face. “Is your room satisfactory?”

  “The room is lovely, perfect really. It’s me. I actually came down looking for a drink.”

  Mason grinned. “So, what shall it be — Brandy, wine, Sherry?”

  “Brandy, please.” She didn’t particularly like the liquor, but it was strong, and she had better go to sleep at some point if the day ahead was going to be an eventful one.

  Mason handed her the glass, sat in the chair opposite hers and raised his snifter. Ivy lifted hers in return, and they sipped. The fireball rolled down and exploded in her belly. As the warmth spread throughout her body, the tightness in her muscles relaxed. Peeking at him surreptitiously between sips, she thought back to the portrait. The likeness between the two men was uncanny. If not for the different hairstyles, and if Emma hadn’t said anything, she would have sworn it was him.

  His arms resting on the armrests, Mason gazed into the flames, the firelight playing across his well-formed features. She studied his profile, the straight nose, strong chin — if she had her sketch pad and pencil she’d draw his portrait. Then it occurred to her she already had one, and it was pressed between the pages of Jane Eyre. At least a very striking likeness, but it has been a long time since she had looked at it.

  She sipped again and allowed the Brandy to play with her imagination. The psychic may have drawn the original sketch, but her improvements made the difference, more her own, so to speak. Then again, the drawing may well differ completely from what she remembered. The man who was sitting across from her, swirling his drink in the snifter was real and not only broodingly handsome, but charming too. There he is, she mused, Edward Rochester and Lawrence Talbot, maybe even a touch of Mr. Darcy, all in one. Oh, yes, the Brandy was definitely working its magic.

  He seemed to be in a contemplative mood with nothing more to say, which was fine. It was late, and she didn’t require a constant stream of chatter and found it enjoyable just to share drinks by the fire. She took another swallow, larger than she intended, and it caught in her throat, which sent her coughing. Aroused from his contemplations, Mason reached for the snifter before she dropped it and swiftly returned with a glass of water. The coughing subdued, Ivy took the drink from him in both hands and sipped carefully. Grateful, yet totally flustered and embarrassed, she searched for a witty remark as she set down her glass.

  “Apparently, I have a drinking problem.” She joked, hoping he would find her attempt at witticism amusing.

  Looking up, she found him watching her intently, an odd expression on his face. Oh, he is not amused. Her heart sank, their lovely moment of communal silence now ruined.

  I must be a sight, she thought, red-faced, eyes watering. Bent before her, a handkerchief in hand, he reached toward her face and gently wiped a tear from her cheek. Horribly self-conscious, she reached up intending to take it from him and dab at her eyes when she misjudged the distance, and her hand covered his instead. Their eyes locked, and he leaned closer. Oh, my God, Ivy thought, he’s going to kiss me! As this insight flashed through her mind, his mouth found hers, and his other hand was in her hair, pressing her face closer to his. She closed her eyes as his lips possessed hers, hot and sweet from the Port he had been drinking, his tongue parting her lips. Matching his hunger, her tongue sought more sweetness, and her hand found its way to the back of his head. Her fingers weaving in his thick mane, she pulled him closer still. Whatever cautionary thoughts may have followed the last one were gone. The world folded itself into this moment, and everything else fell away. He pulled her into the black velvety depths, and willingly she tumbled ever so deeply, joined by touch and something else. There was no way to explain the sensation.

  Her eyes still closed, he withdrew then softly brushed his lips against hers. Her hands dropped into her lap, and when she opened her eyes, she found herself gazing into an empty room. She jerked to attention and blinked rapidly. Mason was gone, and the fire was dying with only a few wisps of flame left licking at the embers. How much time had elapsed? She noticed her drained snifter rolled off to the side by her feet. Her eyes swept around, but she was very much alone in the parlor. She picked up the empty glass and sniffed it smelling Brandy, so that at least was real, even if she didn’t remember pouring it. She rose, and on unsteady legs set it down on the drinks cabinet.

  Searching the room to confirm she was indeed alone, Ivy realized w
ith dread she must have experienced a petit mal seizure. The abnormal electrical impulses in the brain that manifested as blanking out for a few seconds though this seemed longer, was something she thought she had long outgrown. Rarely did it still occur in adulthood, she had been told. Wonderful! She was the exception, and this was a hell of a time to make that happy discovery! At what point had she blanked out? When she walked in or before? Had she dreamed everything, including Mason?

  She licked her lips. They were tender and tasted of the sweet wine, but her snifter had contained Brandy, not Port. If she hadn’t imagined the whole episode during her “time out”, then where was he? Her senses did not lie, but she could not explain what had just happened unless she first had some Port and chased it with Brandy? Or was it the other way around? In any case, she could expect a monstrous hangover headache in the morning and find herself well on her path to alcohol abuse, except she didn’t feel drunk. Confused, but sober.

  Leaving the parlor, she quickly crossed the central hall, her slippers tapping softly against the marble.

  She stepped into a silvery patch of moonlight, and for a moment had to squint, so bright was the light reflected in the pale floor. Following the line alongside the carpet edge on her way to the staircase, she noticed the corner was folded over as if someone had kicked into it. She bent to turn it back in place when something in the marble beneath it caught her attention. Tentatively, she peeled back more of the rug to reveal a discoloration. It was faint, rust-colored and rounded, as if it had pooled to form this contour. She pulled it farther back to discover the darkened patch was quite spread out and larger than it first appeared. So, this is why the carpet was laid down here, to hide the splotch. Marble was known for its permeability and a tendency to stain, and she was sure this spot had taken much scrubbing before finally giving up on and covering it.