by Sherry Lewis
Candlelight would have danced across the room and softened Agatha’s stern face—the face Shelby had seen only once in an old photograph in the library’s archives, but had never forgotten. Agatha had been a formidable woman. An unhappy woman. But she hadn’t been crazy. Shelby just knew it.
Shaking off the imagery, Shelby tiptoed to the dressing table and carefully worked open the drawers, one at a time. But she found nothing except rotting wood and spider webs, and a few other moldy objects she didn’t want to look at too closely. She checked for hidden compartments, careful not to break anything, or worse, disturb slumbering insects. When her fingers brushed a web hidden in one darkened corner, she let out a muffled shriek that echoed throughout the empty house.
She clamped her lips shut and felt along the wall on the off chance she’d find a secret passageway or hidden alcove. She even used the flashlight to look into the gaping holes in the floor. But if Agatha’s papers were still inside Summervale, they weren’t in this room.
Sighing softly, she looked into the broken mirror. The heat had become almost insufferable, but she didn’t let it dissuade her. There was too much at stake.
She stared into the murky depths of the glass at her wildly curling hair and dirt-smudged face and neck. “What happened here?” she whispered.
Perspiration soaked her T-shirt and snaked down between her breasts, but she ignored her discomfort and kept her attention riveted on the mirror, as if it might actually answer. “You know all the secrets,” she said, a little louder now. “Why don’t you tell me what they are?”
The mirror caught a stray beam of light from somewhere and reflected it back at her.
“Not telling, eh?” She shifted position slightly, marveling at the way the glass made her eyes look so different. Darker, somehow. Almost brown. And narrower. Shadows drifted across the room and distorted her reflection. For a moment, she imagined two faces there—hers and Agatha’s.
“I’d give anything to know what really happened to you,” she told the flickering reflection. “You know that, don’t you? I’d give anything to save this house of yours.”
A faint breeze stirred the dust around her. The second reflection faded for a moment, then reappeared. Its eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as if it had seen something that surprised it. Laughing softly, mocking her vivid imagination, Shelby tried to look away, but the eyes in the mirror held hers.
The heat intensified, and the room seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She gripped the table, praying she wouldn’t pass out up here, alone in a deserted house with nothing but insects and critters for company.
The dust swirled again, filling her throat and nostrils. She coughed, gasping for breath, and told herself she should leave. But she hadn’t even begun to search. If she could just pry the wood from the windows and get some fresh air, she’d be fine.
Still holding on to the dressing table, she took two steps toward the barricaded windows, but dizziness overwhelmed her again. Groaning softly, she leaned forward, put her head between her knees, and willed the dizziness to pass. But it grew steadily worse and the air seemed to grow heavier, more oppressive.
Again, the room tilted, whirled, swayed as if she’d had too much to drink. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything. Pictures darted in and out of her mind, delirious pictures of a large poster bed, a blaze in the fireplace, a brocade chair. Of sunlight spilling across the wooden floor and framed paintings on walls.
Sounds came next. Birds. A dog barking. The soft clop of a horse’s hooves. A man’s voice somewhere nearby. Scent came last. A sharp pungent aroma she couldn’t identify mixed with—unbelievably—coffee and bacon.
Shelby tried to take deep, steadying breaths, but she couldn’t seem to get any air into her lungs. She reached out instinctively toward the imaginary bed, knowing even as she did there was nothing there.
Amazingly, her fingers brushed something soft and warm—like fabric. Her eyes flew open again and she focused slowly. The shadows faded, and she could see the dressing table, highly polished instead of old and rotting, complete with a set of silver-backed brushes on its surface.
She let out a disbelieving, frantic laugh and stepped away from it. Her foot caught on the corner of a rug and sent her sprawling into the velvet curtains at the window.
Curtains?
She touched them hesitantly. Yep, deep burgundy velvet curtains. She was hallucinating, no doubt about that. And if she had an ounce of brains in her head, she’d get out of this room before she did pass out . . . or worse.
“Madame?” A woman’s voice cut through the silence.
Startled, Shelby whirled around and found herself staring at a short, gray-haired woman with a pleasant, round face.
Embarrassed at having been caught, Shelby stammered, “I’m . . . I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded odd. Lower, perhaps. Almost hoarse. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“Well, of course I’m here.” The woman bustled into the room carrying a silver tray loaded with food. It looked incredibly heavy and real. “Where else would I be?”
Shelby backed a step away, and heard the distinctive swish of skirts and petticoats as she moved. She looked at her legs, stunned to see deep gray broadcloth instead of faded denim. She touched it gingerly, then pulled her hand away as if the material had scorched her. “Where did this come from?”
“Where did what come from, Madame?”
“This . . . This dress. Why am I wearing this?”
The woman stopped walking and a quick scowl marred her features. “It’s the morning frock you asked me to lay out for you, Madame. You specifically said—”
Shelby cut her off with a quick shake of her head. “No. No, this isn’t real. I didn’t ask for this.”
“Excuse me, Madame.” The woman’s scowl deepened and Shelby caught an almost imperceptible flash of irritation in her eye. “Perhaps I made a mistake.”
“Or I did.” Shelby took another step backward, certain that she’d made a big mistake. She must have passed out. She was dreaming, that was the only logical explanation. And she wondered how long it would be before a real person found her.
The imaginary woman’s gaze grew solemn. Worried, even. “Forgive me for asking, Madame, but are you quite all right?”
Shelby massaged her temples slowly. “I don’t think so. I think maybe I passed out from the heat.”
“Then perhaps you should rest a while.”
Give in to the delirium? Not on her life. “I can’t. I have to find the papers.”
“Papers Madame?”
“Journals,” Shelby said impatiently. “Letters. I’m not sure what I’ll fine, but I have to find it or I can’t save the house. Both houses.”
“Which houses, Madame?”
“Summervale,” Shelby explained impatiently. “And Winterhill, of course.”
The woman studied her closely for a long moment, then slowly carried the tray toward a small round mahogany table. “Perhaps you’d like me to open the window a bit further. The heat is oppressive today.”
“Yes. Yes. The window. That’s what I need.” Shelby rubbed her temples frantically and gave a thin laugh. “I’m just having a dream. A hallucination. All this furniture . . . and you.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again but the woman hadn’t disappeared. “Other than talking to a figment of my imagination, I’m fine.”
The woman stepped away from the table and gave the lace on her collar a twitch. “You think you’re imagining me?”
“Not just you,” Shelby said. “The furniture, too. And the food. Everything.”
“But surely you recognize me, Madame. I’m Meg.” The woman glanced around the room as if she was seeing it for the first time. “And most of the furnishings in this room were left to you by your mother.”
“My mother?” Shelby gave herself a mental kick for coming up with that one. Obviously, Jon’s comment had planted the idea in her mind. Aloud, she said, “That’s not funny. I don’t have a mother.”
Meg nodded slowly.
“To be sure, your mother has passed on, but I didn’t intend to make light of that, Madame.”
“Will you please stop calling me that?” Shelby took a steadying breath and another long look around. The room, from the heavily draped windows to the smallest table, looked exactly like the few old photographs she’d seen of Summervale. What a strange trick for her imagination to play. “Or maybe it’s not so strange,” she muttered.
Meg pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Something’s strange,” she said firmly. “Perhaps I should help you back to bed.”
Shelby put a chair between them, nearly falling as she tried to maneuver in the long gown. Her imagination had gone into elaborate detail with it, from the draped skirt to the fitted bodice to the pagoda sleeves. She lifted her arm and stared at the complex embroidery, then laughed softly.
Meg took a hesitant step toward her. “Madame, are you quite all right?”
Shelby didn’t answer immediately. She ran her fingers along the gleaming wood of the dresser and touched the silver-backed brush set. She turned to the bed and fingered the bed cover, then crossed to the round table and touched a gilt-edged plate on the tray. “Everything seems so real. I can even smell the breakfast.”
She laughed again when she realized how hungry she was. Jon’s visit had taken away her appetite for breakfast, and the light dinner she’d eaten the night before was nothing more than a distant memory. She’d probably passed out from heat and hunger.
But even realizing that didn’t make Meg disappear. The imaginary woman started toward the try, keeping a wary eye on Shelby as she walked. “You’ll feel better after breakfast, I’m sure.”
Shelby laughed again, more relaxed this time. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t had such a fun dream in ages. Walking slowly—demurely, she thought with a silent chuckle—she rounded the end of the bed and started to sit in the rose-colored brocade chair near the table.
Halfway into her seat, something gave her such a sharp jab in the ribs, she let out a cry of surprise and jerked upright again.
Of course, that brought Meg’s head up with a snap and deepened her scowl. Shelby sent her a reassuring smile and tried again to sit, but another sharp jab pulled her to her feet once more.
What on earth—?
She touched her ribs and realized in disbelief she was imagining a corset. She didn’t mind a little realism in her dreams, but couldn’t she have left out the cage? She couldn’t even breathe, much less sit.
Meg watched her uncertainly. “I mentioned the roses to Colin this morning, Madame. He said he should be able to prune them by mid-week.”
Shelby perched carefully on the foot of the bed and decided to play along. “Thank you, Meg.”
Meg’s hand froze and an odd expression crossed her face.
“What’s wrong?” Shelby asked. “Was it something I said?”
“No, Madame,” Meg assured her, but she backed a step away and looked as if something was very wrong, indeed. “Will you be needing my assistance this morning?”
Shelby picked up a thick slice of toast and took a huge bite. Heaven. Pure heaven. “Your assistance with what?”
“With your breakfast, Madame.”
Shelby glanced at the eggs, toast, and bacon and bit back a smile. “No, thanks. I think I can manage on my own.”
Another flicker crossed Meg’s face. “Then if there’s nothing else. . .” She backed another step toward the door as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.
Shelby took another bite and sighed with pleasure. “No, there’s nothing else.”
Meg made tracks across the room as fast as her short legs could carry her and closed the door behind her with a firm click. Shelby waited until she heard her footsteps fade away, then let out the closest thing to a sigh she could manage in her confining dream clothes.
She ate half of the eggs and a slice of bacon, but the restraints of the corset made her stop there. How had women in this day ever survived when only a few bites made her uncomfortably full?
She pushed the tray aside and tried to decide what to do while she waited to wake up again. Curious to see what she looked like in this get-up, she stood again and crossed to the dresser. As she had only minutes before, she bent to study her reflection in the glass, now sparkling in the bright spring sunlight. But when she saw herself, she froze.
Gone was her curly hair and the ski-jump nose she hated. Gone were the clear blue eyes she’d inherited from some relative she’d never know and the slightly rounded cheeks she detested. Instead, she found herself staring at a woman with thick, dark hair pulled severely away from her face. A face with high cheekbones and deep brown eyes.
She dropped to the chair in front of the table, touched her cheek, and traced a finger across the full lips. Her dream was really out of whack. Instead of her own reflection, she was looking at the severe, disapproving face of Agatha Logan.
TWO
“I’m telling you, Colin, there’s something wrong with the missus.”
Meg’s husband leaned back in his chair, and laughed. His husky frame filled the poor chair to overflowing and his teasing smile irritated her no end. “There’s always been something wrong with the missus. Are you just now figuring that out?”
Meg sent him a look. The look. The one that let him know she meant business. “I don’t mean that kind of wrong,” she whispered, just in case the missus decided to prowl around as she often did. “She’s acting odd, even for her.”
Colin laughed again and tried to capture her hand. “And what would be makin’ you think that, m’dear?”
Meg avoided him with the ease of long practice and slapped his feet away from the chair he’d perched them on. “She seems disoriented. Strange, like. She acted like she didn’t know who I was when I took in her breakfast.”
Colin’s lips twitched and his pale blue eyes sparkled. “Maybe she had you confused with one of the thousands of callers she has.”
Meg glared at him. No one joked about the missus, just as no one ever alluded to The Unfortunate Incident or its aftermath. No one but Colin, that is. She put two biscuits on a plate and handed it to him. “She thanked me for bringing in her breakfast.”
That got his attention. His smile faded and a concerned frown replaced it. “She thanked you?”
“She thanked me.” Meg sniffed and pushed a crock of butter toward him. “‘Thank you,’ she said, plain as day.”
Colin scowled thoughtfully as he spread butter on his first biscuit. “Maybe someone coshed her on the head and it’s put her off.”
“I’d almost think so,” Meg hissed, “if there had been anyone but the three of us in the house. Something’s not right.” She plunked a biscuit onto her own plate. “I tried to convince her to have a lie down, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
Colin’s scowl deepened and put crags in his weathered face. “Maybe we should have the doctor in.”
Meg shook her head and dusted her hands on her apron. “She would never allow it. And you and I would be out on our ears for even suggesting such a thing.”
“True enough. But one of these days, she’ll have to let someone in.” Colin wedged half a biscuit into his mouth and spoke around it. “She can’t hide from the world forever.”
“She can,” Meg said harshly, “and she will. ‘I’ll let the gossips in when I lay dying,’ she’s told me time and again, ‘Not a minute before.’”
Colin washed down his biscuit with coffee and wiped his mouth. “Well, maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s—” He broke off abruptly, lurching to his feet and dropping his fork to the table with a clang.
Meg knew what that meant. She turned slowly to face the missus who stood in the doorway. Lord Almighty, how much had she heard? Holding her breath, she waited for the explosion.
But instead of unleashing, the missus crossed the threshold and stared around at the kitchen as if she’d never seen it before. As if she didn’t rule it and every other room in the house with an iron fist. Instead of anger, she turn
ed a girlish smile on them. “Oh, this is spectacular. Absolutely spectacular.”
Meg let out her breath slowly. “Pardon me, Madame. But what is spectacular?”
“This.” She spread her arms and gestured around the monstrous room, at the rafters on the ceiling, the bundles of drying herbs, the scrubbed pine table and ladder-back chairs. “It’s incredible. Is this really how it was?”
Meg sent another pointed look in Colin’s direction just to make sure he’d learned a lesson about doubting her, then wiped her expression clean and turned back to the missus. “How what was?”
“The kitchen. Is it authentic?”
“It’s as it’s always been, Madame.”
Agatha came closer. Her eyes sparkled with a light Meg had never seen in them before—even when the missus was a lass. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m dreaming, you know.”
Dreaming? Saints above.
Meg tried to remain calm. She didn’t want to frighten the missus—even though the missus was scaring the very devil out of her. “Perhaps I should help you back up to your room.”
The missus danced—danced!—a step away. “Oh, no. I can’t go back there yet. I might wake up any minute, and I want to see as much as I can before I do.” She pivoted toward the back stairway so quickly Meg caught a glimpse of ankle. “The ballroom. Tell me, is that in the dream, too? And the music room?” She whirled back again. “And what about the gardens and the stables?”
The stables? Lord help them all, the poor thing had lost her mind.
Meg caught Colin’s attention and whispered, “Do something.”
He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “What do you suggest?”
“Something. Anything. We cannot let her roam about like this.”
Colin flicked an annoyed glance at her. “And what would you have me do, woman? Hogtie her?”
She swatted his arm impatiently. “Of course not. But we have to do something, that’s plain as day.”
Colin didn’t say anything else for a moment or two, he just watched the missus warily. Then slowly, hesitantly, sketched a bow toward Meg. “As you wish, m’dear. As you wish.” With shoulders squared like a soldier marching to certain death, he crossed to the missus and held out his arm. “Would you like me to show you around?”