Oxford Whispers

by Marion Croslydon

  “I couldn’t resist. The Pre-Raphaelites …” She waved at the paintings.

  “Your favorite subject at the moment.” He glanced around the room. “Thank you for your report on Godfrey Dallembert, and all the pictures. I checked my emails after the seminar and it was already there. You work quickly.”

  “I went overboard with your digital camera. I kind of convinced myself I worked for the CIA.”

  “Much appreciated.” He stared at her in a way she couldn’t interpret. “I’d like to know about Magway Manor, and if Mr. Vance behaved himself.” His voice failed to hide his disdain.

  Not sure what he meant by “behaved,” Madison stayed on neutral ground. “He was polite and helpful.”

  Her tutor hesitated, his lips pursed, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “He knows Oxford very well, so I hope he can help you find your way around.”

  “It’s all going fine with Rupert. He’s cleaning up his act.” Her taking up the defense of Earl Boy surprised even Madison.

  Jackson turned his attention toward one of the paintings. Maybe it was his proximity or her having chewed over the same thoughts too long, but the words jumped out of her lips.

  “I know who the Cavalier is, I mean, was …”

  The history professor turned to Madison. His raised eyebrows prompted her explanation.

  “Robert Dallembert, Godfrey’s son and therefore second Earl of Huxbury.”

  Jackson didn’t look convinced. “How did you find out?”

  “I saw his portrait at Magway. The resemblance is striking, and the time and place match.”

  He reflected on her words for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on an invisible point underneath the painting. “What about the girl and her fiancé?”

  Her fiancé. The word resonated in her.

  “I don’t know anything about them, but Robert married within the aristocracy, not among the Parliamentarians. He died young and childless.”

  She must have betrayed her disappointment because Jackson laid his hand on her shoulder. Shock shot a freezing jolt through her bloodstream. No Superman moment this time, but the experience was swoon-provokingly intense.

  Jackson removed his hand, and she made it back to the exhibition room and being good old Madison LeBon. Phew. The guy had quite an effect on her.

  “It’s as if what happened to this people matters to me, personally.” Jackson commented, as if nothing had happened. “What about you?”

  Pure academic interest. Lifelong passion for the Pre-Raphaelites. Fascination with the English Civil War.

  “I dream about it all the time.”

  His handsome face didn’t show any reaction. He must think she was totally whacko. “Tell me about those dreams.”

  Dreams. Visions. My belly is ripped apart. I can’t breathe anymore. I’m dying.

  “Nightmares.” A wave of embarrassment flew over her, and heat burned her cheeks.

  “I see in your eyes that they’re more than nightmares.”

  “I feel that I know these characters, that we have a special bond. It comes from my grandmother, and the women in my family before her. Mamie practices voodoo. Magic amulets, calling the dead and all that.”

  Shut up, Madison. This guy is grading your papers.

  “I take it this has happened before.”

  “Never this overpowering. I think about the painting all the time. The characters are haunting me, at least the girl and the Puritan.” Staring down at her gray Converse sneakers, Madison employed all her self-will to avoid the searching look of her tutor.

  “Don’t be ashamed of telling me. I, for one, believe in things happening beyond the realm of reason.”

  “Why?” She had sounded incredulous.

  He burst into laughter. “I’ve always been fascinated by the occult, witchcraft or magic, whatever you call it. When I was sixteen, my grandmother told me about an ancestor of ours, who was hung for being a witch. It was 1693, in Salem.” He paused, maybe thinking of that poor woman and her final moments, then continued. “I’m from Boston. So I spent a lot of time researching the Salem witch trials, and from there I read a lot about all these things that can’t be explained by science or reason.”

  Madison turned her eyes back to the painting on the wall, away from Jackson. But his words had prompted her to open up. More than she had ever. “We’re not just into voodoo. My grandmother says we have a gift. The gift of the dead. My great-grandmother wound up in an asylum. At the end of her life she fell into a state of mental delusions. Her p-powers,” she stuttered, “consumed her. Most of my female ancestors have in one way or another known the same fate.”

  A cold dread invaded her as the words were drawn out of her. She looked back at Jackson. “I don’t want to end up like them.”

  Her dirty little secret, one she didn’t even admit to herself, was out. Relief relaxed the tension that had settled in her neck. She brought her hand to her mouth and covered a faint sob.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Jackson reassured her. “But if you don’t accept who you are, your life will be an utter lie.”

  Doctor McCain was her teacher, but right then Madison wanted to pour all her tears on his woolen jersey. She had already made a fool of herself, so maybe a touch of self-control would do her good.

  “Ignoring what’s happening to you with this painting will drive you mad. You have to understand why these people are so important to you, what they mean to you. I doubt you’ll find it by only researching my book.”

  “I have no idea how.”

  “It’s the same for everyone, Madison. We must all accept where we come from. You’ll have to open your door and let the ghosts into your life, accept that they’re part of you.”

  His words echoed those of her grandmother, the woman who had raised her. But hearing it from Jackson McCain made the words resonate deeper in her mind. Taking a step back, she shook her head, rejecting his suggestion.

  Any power she might yield could threaten her sanity. But if Peter existed she would need to fight him. Sarah had said he was out to kill her.

  Some options … She could lose her mind, or her life. And if she was unlucky, she might lose both.

  Chapter 13

  RUPERT HAD ESTABLISHED his Oxford headquarters at the well-hidden Turf Tavern, right from the first day of his first term. A couple of decades earlier his parents had met there, around the low-beamed front bar.

  Today, after winning a boat race, he crashed in exhaustion at the pub with Claus—his “best mate” now after today’s victory—and other Oxford rowers. Surrounded by a crowd of students and the smell of stale beer, Rupert recovered from the afternoon’s inhuman experience.

  “Another bitter?” asked one of his teammates with a pronounced Aussie accent.

  Nodding, Rupert leaned against the bar to release the pressure on his battered legs. He needed alcohol to dull the pain, even if drinking breached Coach Bartlett’s orders.

  He would have died rather than show his weakness to the giants standing on either side of him. The hours spent on the blonds and runs in the cold had all paid off. He wasn’t sure he could keep up with the training. But tonight, pride made him stand taller. His victory would make his father happy.

  Madison would arrive soon. The thought of her pint-sized frame standing next to him cheered him up. Rupert hadn’t imagined teamwork with the Yank would go so smoothly. Since her visit at Magway two weeks ago her help had come in handy; he could dedicate his time to training.

  He had promised her he would arrange a meeting with Archie Blake, his family’s genealogist, once the guy was back from traveling in the States. In exchange, she’d kept her promise about McCain and convinced the professor they worked fine together. Which was true.

  With his Internet connection down at home, she’d even agreed to bring him the memory stick with her part of their weekly assignment.

  “Look at this pretty little thing,” Claus said, leering over Rupert’s shoulder.

  Following his gaze, Ruper
t turned his head and saw Madison heading toward him. She made him more breathless than the race. Her black hair circled the heart-shaped face he had grown familiar with. The December wind had colored her cheeks. She looked him straight in the eye and flashed a smile.

  “Hey.” Rupert had meant to welcome her, but his tone had fallen flat. The girl had an effect on his vocal cords, in addition to many other places in his body.

  “Good evening. I’m Claus, Rupert’s friend.” The Dane had already shoved Rupert aside and extended his hand to Madison.

  It was too late for Rupert to interrupt. Madison had seized the paw and introduced herself. Taking the gesture further, Claus brought her fingers to his lips and gave her hand a ridiculous theatrical kiss.

  What the fu—?

  Madison shifted on her feet. Taking back her hand, she hid it inside the pocket of her duffel coat. Rupert stepped closer to her and surrounded her with his body.

  “Would you like a drink?” the Australian asked, competing with Claus for Alpha Male of the Year.

  Hands off, you moron.

  “I’m meeting my friends here. I just have something to give to Rupert.” She didn’t seem aware of her effect and handed Rupert the little flash drive. He grabbed it and their fingers brushed. He felt heat. Their eyes locked.

  As quickly as she’d arrived, she passed him and sat at a corner table next to her bespectacled friend, Oliver. Rupert wanted to lodge himself between the two of them, even if Pippa Connelly was at their table too. The girl gave him the creeps.

  “Is he her boyfriend?” asked the Australian, staring at the guy sitting next to Madison.

  “No.” Or maybe the nerd was. Rupert had never asked her any personal questions. “She’s not one-night-stand material anyway. So forget it.” He wasn’t going to leave Madison as fair game for the alphas.

  “Tell me she’s coming to your Christmas party next week.” Claus ignored his warning.

  “No. Well, I haven’t asked her.”

  “Come on, man. For your teammates.” Claus joined his hands in a fake praying clasp.

  “No problem,” Rupert conceded. The idea of seeing Madison outside of their work assignments brightened his thoughts.

  Pippa left the table and paraded past Claus and Tyler on her way to the entrance door.

  Once she had left the pub, Rupert said, “Her ginger friend is much friendlier, though, if you see what I mean.” He wanted to draw their dirty minds away from Madison.

  “I don’t care. That American girl is what I need.”

  Rupert brought his pint of beer to his lips, keeping his hands busy. Claus had always grated on his nerves, but now he wanted to punch the arsehole’s arrogant excuse of a face.

  Attractive or not, Madison LeBon wasn’t for Rupert. Even if he tried to be a better man, he wouldn’t ever be enough for her. He wasn’t even sure he could commit to her the way a girl like that deserved to.

  She was not for him.

  AN HOUR AFTER Madison had sat down with Ollie, she saw Rupert stumbling out of the Turf. His so-called friends had let him leave, even if the dude was totally rat-assed.

  She mumbled an apology to Ollie, and throwing her duffel coat over her shoulders followed in Rupert’s footsteps. He had found his way along St. Helen’s Passage, the narrow winding alley next to the old city wall leading away from the pub. He held his arms against his chest, as if any movements would tear at his muscles.

  “Hate rowing. Hate my father,” she heard him mumble.

  Madison didn’t know if she should help him. The guy was grown up.

  He looked shit-faced though. She was about to retrace her steps and go back to Ollie when Rupert shouted. Her heart missed a beat. A silhouette, blurred by a cape, covered Rupert’s body, pinning him to the ground.

  She couldn’t let anyone hurt Rupert. She had to fight for him. She had to save him. Just like Sarah had saved Robert. So long ago.

  Chapter 14

  Oxford - June 1650

  TWILIGHT SETS THE sky ablaze.

  I welcome the sight of the rundown barn with infinite relief. After stealing the oldest of my father’s horses, I had to lead it through the darkening woods, all the time looking behind to make sure I was not being followed. I cannot afford to fail at my efforts. Robert’s life is at stake.

  My audacity has succeeded in protecting him to this moment, but luck might turn against us.

  Three weeks ago, when Peter went for a physician and for other bloodthirsty men, I carried the Cavalier to a hidden barn and tucked him in amid the hay and sacks of grain. When I returned to the oak tree I was out of breath from pushing and shoving his almost-dead weight. I told Peter and the authorities that the Royalist had threatened me with a dagger and escaped. I did not have to feign fear and shock, for I was scared they would not believe my lies.

  Finally, after weeks of devoted care, I have brought my Cavalier back to near health. This is a miracle given the limited means at my disposal. Now he must leave. How much I’d like to keep him close … But his safety has to prevail over my desires.

  I open the gate of the barn, making it squeak. When Digby the horse is in, I return the latch to its place.

  “Robert, Robert,” I call.

  The dusty, sweet smell of hay infuses my nostrils. Digby swishes his tail and huffs. Behind the cobwebs in the back corner I see the blond crown of Robert’s hair. He gives me the tenderest of smiles, and my resolution falters.

  Please, My Lord, do not make us part forever.

  “You succeeded.” He nods toward Digby with admiration, not for the horse itself but for my successful stealing. “Walking alone in the night is too dangerous. I cannot keep putting you at risk.”

  How sweet my Cavalier is. He does not look like a nobleman anymore, at least he’s not dressed like one. Samples of my petty thefts adorn his person: a floppy, broad-brimmed hat in his hand; full breeches and doublets; and a buff coat, probably too warm for the season.

  “Once you have gone I will go back to my eventless life, so do not worry about me.” I force humor into my quip, but my eyes betray how close I am to tears.

  “How will I be able to write to you? This maid of yours, can I address my courier to her?”

  Everything in him, even his way of speaking, separates him from me.

  “You should not worry about me.” Bravado lifts my chin.

  “Sarah, I cannot bear the thought of not seeing you again.” He has seized my hands and brings them to his mouth for a kiss.

  I must not cry, not until he disappears in the dark, forever. He must keep my smile as a memory, not my tears.

  “It is time for you to go.” I open the gate, and he leads Digby back outside, the animal oblivious of the tension. Digby swishes his tail with happiness.

  Around us the deception of night confuses my perception of the world; the colors have changed, and nothing is the same anymore.

  “Be careful in the way you speak. Pretend to be simple or mute, if that helps,” I advise.

  “You would be a dangerous enemy in this war.”

  He does not realize that I am his enemy, not by choice, or even conviction, but by birth.

  I help him climb onto the horse, as his body is still battered and weakened by his injuries.

  Again, we hold hands while he settles. He looks at me and leans forward as much as he can endure the pain.

  “We will see each other again. I swear to God, I will come back for you.”

  With his hand on my cheek and lowering his head by a few more inches, he lays his lips on mine. The kiss does not last long, but I am irrevocably changed.

  He turns the mount around, and with one last glance he promises, “I will kiss you again, Sarah. God is my witness, I will.”

  IT HAPPENED FASTER than a knife fight in a phone booth. Madison should have shouted for help, or rushed back to the pub and raised the alarm. But the images of the past had already delayed her response.

  Running toward Rupert she warned, “Stop!” And again, “Sto
p!”

  The steel in her voice wasn’t hers; something stronger than her alone was coming through.

  The attacker turned his hooded head in her direction and looked back and forth between her and Rupert.

  Then she saw the sword, the blade pointed at Rupert’s throat. A storm built in the pit of her stomach, gathering power along her arm and exploding into her right palm. She held the force of a hurricane in her hand.

  The ball of flame that sat there burned her skin. She hurled the fireball at the attacker’s head. It hit his chest instead. The fury of the blow lifted him off his feet and carried him through the air to crash against a wall, five feet away.

  The shock of the moment stole her breath. She blinked at her empty hand. Her mind went into over-drive. What the hell was that?

  A groan pulled her out of her trance. She couldn’t freak out now. Rupert lifted himself and supported his body with his elbow. Her eyes moved from him to the assailant—man, woman or beast, she couldn’t tell.

  She stepped forward and yelled, “You sick son of a bitch. I’ll knock your teeth down your throat and you’ll spit them out in single file.”

  The figure jumped to its feet and vanished down the foggy walkway.

  “That’s a lot of swearing.” Rupert coughed and ran a hand over his head.

  Madison knelt next to him and helped him to sit up. A bruise was already swelling up blue on his eyelid.

  But Rupert was more worried about her health than his. “Are you hurt?” His hand cradled her face and turned it softly toward the faint light dispensed by the streetlight. He checked her out.

  Madison wanted to lean against his touch, savor it a bit longer, and pretend she had indeed been hurt.

  Loser.

  “You’re the one with the black eye, I’m afraid,” she managed to deliver in a short breath.

  “You should have called for help. He could have hurt you.” There was real concern in his voice, and the knowledge made her feel warm inside. “My ego has taken a knocking. I’ve been saved by a girl. How on earth did you manage to push him away?”