“Is there someone you wish to marry but it is forbidden?” her aunt asked, sitting opposite Elizabeth on the large window seat. She clasped Elizabeth’s hands gently.
“No.” Elizabeth squeezed her aunt’s hands.
Looking doubtful, Aunt Ophelia frowned. “You fear you are too long past the age for marriage? It is a reasonable fear.”
“No.”
“Your beauty alone is much commented on and admired by every man you meet. You are without match, an incomparable.”
“Oh, Aunt.”
“It is true. And your ability with needlework and painting is very favorable. No man could wish for more in a wife. I can see Lord Simmerton is unusually keen to know you. That must count for encouragement.”
Elizabeth smiled weakly. Perhaps she had given her father’s sister less credit than she deserved. “You are very kind.”
Aunt Ophelia dropped Elizabeth’s hands and sighed heavily. “If you’re looking for some incredible romance, my dear, it is not practical. Your late uncle and I had no love for each other when we married, but as time passed we discovered a great affection for each other that was enduring and everlasting. It was more than we could have hoped. That is what you must strive for. Love is…I don’t know. I’ve never had this love you speak of.”
Elizabeth gazed out at the clouds that cried huge tears. “I have a great affection for my brother George. I don’t want that with a husband.”
“You misunderstand me. Passion may not last. It is better to have a strong union of mutual affection. I wouldn’t press upon you any man who was unkind, or that I knew would treat you unjustly. I want you happy, Elizabeth, just as your father does.”
Elizabeth turned to fix a steady gaze on her aunt. “He is not concerned with my happiness or he never would have destroyed my paintings.”
Aunt Ophelia gasped. “Destroyed?”
“I see he didn’t tell you how he planned to break my will. How he knew that my art is more precious to me than anything but for…”
Aunt Ophelia released her hands and stood as Elizabeth’s voice trailed away. “How could he do such a thing? It is insupportable. Tell me more.”
Elizabeth explained the scene that had occurred, and when she finished Aunt Ophelia wrung her hands and her lips drew down in sharp disapproval. Elizabeth didn’t tell her aunt about Damian.
“I’ve never known you to tell a falsehood, Elizabeth, and I know my brother well. Though perhaps not so well as I once believed. I’m very sorry this has happened to you, my dear.”
“Thank you. I shall go to the ball tonight. I won’t subject you to gossip and conjecture, Aunt Ophelia. I shall smile and make polite conversation and perhaps dance with Lord Simmerton.”
Aunt Ophelia smiled gently. “And if he makes an offer of marriage?”
Elizabeth’s smile was rueful. “What choice do I have but to take it?”
“Well, then, let us get you ready for the evening. Time flies swiftly and we have few hours before the ball.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I long to be back at Cromar. I shall start my paintings over.”
“My dear,” Aunt Ophelia said, “there is one thing you must acknowledge. It is not healthy for you to continue to paint Cromar. Can you try to find something else in your life to paint? Penham Manor is a wonderful place. I imagine you may be able to paint it in all its glory.”
Elizabeth tired of hearing about how she must paint other things. In the back of her mind she knew someday she would paint other places. As a child she knew the world offered more for her than the confines of Penham Manor. How she was going to achieve this goal of seeing the outside world she did not yet understand. It lay just outside her grasp, like in a dream where she could not quite reach a door no matter how hard she tried.
Deciding to appease her aunt, she said, “Of course.”
The edge of happiness Elizabeth had found today with her aunt would not replace the listlessness in her body and soul. Life might return to normal when she returned to Penham Manor or if she accepted marriage to a suitor such as the Earl of Simmerton.
Yet without Damian the days could never be quite as brilliant or the nights so intense.
Nor could her paintings of Cromar be as meaningful.
* * * *
Chickering House, west of London, glittered with all the trimmings of a family well able to afford the finer things in life. Elizabeth, who enjoyed lovely and elegant things, did not care for the heavy touches of baroque in the house. If she had this home as her own she would lighten the furniture, do something to breathe new life into it.
How unlikely. Penham Manor, once so beloved to her, would remain in her mind as the place where her paintings had been destroyed.
Inside the ballroom on the second floor, Elizabeth watched the sumptuous affair like a spectator and not a true participant. Sitting on a chair in a secluded section, she watched couples step through dances and tried not to wish Damian could be with her. Holding her hand. Swirling with her across the floor. But that could never be. Something held him from her. And she knew in her heart that if she discovered why, it would break her soul in little pieces.
She’d danced twice with Lord Simmerton and each time he was warm and encouraging in word and deed. He’d gone off to dance with two elderly ladies, and all the women simpered after him. When she saw that he was as attentive and sincere with two other young women at the event, Elizabeth wondered if she’d imagined he paid special attention to her.
A chill trembled through her, much as it had earlier in the day, and nausea rolled in her stomach. Perhaps she would leave early.
“Why, there you are,” said a smooth, feminine voice.
Lady Deaning made her way delicately through the crowd, her dress of green duchess satin shimmering in the light from a hundred candles. Standing as tall as most men, she commanded the attention of many in the ballroom. Her lustrous silver blonde hair, her thin nose, full lips, and flawless skin were beyond beautiful. She was a social flower much praised or maligned, depending on who was speaking of her.
Her husband, Sir Edward Deaning, lavished her with gifts, clothing, and whatever she wished with great regularity. Sir Edward, Lady Deaning, and their three equally obnoxious children planned to leave for their country estate in Derbyshire in less than a week and saw the ball as a last chance to socialize with the London set.
Elizabeth smiled and didn’t mean it. “The ball is wonderful. Thank you for including me in your festivities.”
Lady Deaning’s skirts brushed against Elizabeth’s and the older woman gracefully fluttered her open fan.
“With pleasure. I hear you are in London for only a fortnight more. Hardly enough time to take in the sights, I should not wonder.”
“I’ve been to London many times and taken in all the worthy sites.”
“But of course there are always new things to be seen, new people to meet.” She sat in a chair next to Elizabeth. “I noticed Lord Simmerton has circled the room more than once with you.”
Elizabeth heard approval in the statement. “And?”
The older woman sighed. “Well, he is the catch, isn’t he? You should do your best to show interest. After all, there is more than one woman in the room after him, and at least three or four are younger than you. Richer, too.”
Elizabeth took offense at Lady Deaning’s tone, but what could she say to the woman who’d invited her here? “Of course. But I’m not certain I want to show interest.”
Lady Deaning seemed unaffected by Elizabeth‘s statement and continued with, “I imagine, though, that the advantages of Penham Manor keep you occupied most of the year. Who needs a man when you have an estate such as that?”
“Yes. The gardens and grounds are always beautiful, despite the time of year.”
“Do tell me, is what they say true about that awful castle on the hill but a short distance from Penham true?”
Elizabeth snapped to attention. “Cromar Castle?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth shift
ed uncomfortably. “What do they say about the castle?”
Lady Deaning smiled. She snapped her fan closed. Her eyes glittered with conspiracy and delight. “Heavens then, do let me enlighten you. Cromar is terribly old. It is also most haunted.”
Elizabeth nodded, her smile indulgent. “I heard as much.”
“Well, then, you know the half of it. For centuries no one with sense has gone near the place. They say that it was abandoned in the 1600’s during the time of the Civil War. The castle belonged to a Royalist by the name of Damian Cromar.”
Elizabeth gasped and her heart felt as if it might stop. How had she avoided hearing this information, living so close to the castle?
“My dear.” Lady Deaning laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, I think so,” Elizabeth said. “My apologies. I think perhaps it is too warm in here.” Elizabeth opened her fan and welcomed the brush of cool air on her face as she used the fan. When the other woman said nothing, Elizabeth smiled. “Do please go on. I’m most intrigued.”
The older woman cleared her throat delicately. “It seems this Damian was a man of great wealth and title, and he had a wife he most prized and adored. Her name was Elizabeth.”
A ripple of cold moved along Elizabeth’s spine, and her heart started a dreadful pounding.
Apparently oblivious to Elizabeth’s discomfort, Lady Deaning continued with her story. “During the Civil War his castle was besieged by Cromwell and in the battle his wife was tortured and killed most unspeakably before Damian’s very eyes.”
Elizabeth could not speak. What Lady Deaning was telling her confirmed in her mind what she might have suspected all along.
Damian isn’t real. In her befuddled mind she must have concocted his appearance. At some time, perhaps when she was a child, she had read this tale or someone had told her about it. And now, in her loneliness, she had created a dream lover.
It was as everyone had said. She was not stable.
Mad.
If she did not take care, she would be sent away to live her life with others considered mad.
Lady Deaning observed Elizabeth with curiosity. “Shall I go on, dear? I didn’t know the story, but one night my husband and his friends spoke of it and I overheard them. It seems they deem such stories not fitting for feminine ears.” She laughed lightly. “That is what makes it ever more delicious.”
“Most diverting. Please, finish the story,” Elizabeth said, the hand that held her fan trembling slightly.
“Damian’s castle was set alight, and most within the walls were killed or taken prisoner. Damian managed to escape his captors and he killed the men who had done such horrid things to his wife. He was cut down by a blade and died.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts spun out of control. Lord, save her. Perhaps this was what Damian had meant when he told her he could not be with her. If he was real, if somehow he had been truly with her…no, it was not so…
“Please excuse me, Lady Deaning. I must get some air,” she said, her voice faint in her own ears. Her vision seemed to waver, as if she teetered on the edge of a dark abyss.
“Why of course, my dear. Would you like me to go with you?”
Elizabeth stood unsteadily. “No, thank you. Perhaps a little air and quiet will do me good.”
Composing her thoughts as best as she could after hearing the startling news, she made her way across the ballroom to the French doors and into the fresh air. Outside, cool air touched her face. A gentle fog drifted across the promenade below. She drank in deep breaths of air and attempted to steady the erratic pace of her heart.
* * * *
Elizabeth’s sorrow spiked Damian’s heart into fresh life, bringing his ghostly body into corporeal form once again.
As the pain lashed and pounded him, he realized she had called his name. From wherever she was she had called him and needed him more than anything in the world.
He groaned as his head throbbed. He clutched his fingers into fists as his body refused to materialize entirely. Fear twisted his gut.
“I must find a way to go to her. Please, God, grant me this reprieve. She needs me. I will ask nothing ever again as long as I can go to her this last time and help her.”
But there was no answer from the pure darkness around him, only the agony of knowing his beloved needed him, and he could not go to her.
“Damn you!” he screamed to the inky heavens. “Please do not let my sweet Elizabeth leave me again. For this woman is all I need. All I will ever need.”
Just when he thought there would be no answer, he heard the sound of laughter and voices. Instantly light appeared, dazzling his eyes and making him squint. All the sights and sounds of a ballroom assaulted his senses, leaping and loud and unruly. He had seconds to realize he wore the clothes of a nineteenth-century man and not his usual garb. The ballroom where he stood looked nothing like the stone of a far older castle.
He stood before the doors leading out of the ballroom onto a balcony. Drawn to the opening, he saw his beloved Elizabeth. Her back was turned to him.
* * * *
A man’s deep voice came from nearby. “Miss Albright, I see you have taken the fresh air as well. Rather warm inside, isn’t it?”
Lord Simmerton exited the ballroom, and she didn’t know whether to be glad for his presence or wish he would leave. “Miss Albright.” He frowned. “Are you all right?”
She put a hand to her throat, her head feeling light, her body almost floating. “I’m not certain.”
He came to her, his expression concerned. “What is wrong?”
What could she say? She couldn’t tell him the truth.
“She is waiting for me,” another male voice said nearby.
Elizabeth couldn’t believe what she was hearing and then what she saw as a tall, familiar man stepped from the shadows. Damian.
Suddenly her world turned ebony, and she fell into the gloom. Her faint didn’t last long, or at least she didn’t think it did.
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth, wake up.”
Someone called to Elizabeth in urgent tones. Hard, powerful arms held her tightly.
“Sweet Elizabeth. Darling, please wake.”
It could not be.
But the scent of him and the feel of him were unmistakable. Damian?
She pulled her eyes open with effort and saw she had fallen into Damian’s arms, and he held her aloft. He walked with her over to a bench and sat down with her, holding her in his lap.
“Who are you?” Lord Simmerton asked as he walked up to them.
Damian threw him an annoyed glance. “I am her betrothed, sir. I will take care of her from now on.”
Simmerton’s eyes filled with disappointment and perhaps confusion. Ever the aristocrat, however, he straightened his shoulders and nodded. “But of course. I will leave you to your betrothed’s care, Miss Albright.”
With a slight bow, Lord Simmerton returned to the ballroom.
“Are you quite well, my darling?” The worried tone in Damian’s deep, masculine voice thrummed through her blood.
She was at once terrified by the familiar timbre of his voice, at once thrilled to the bottom of her heart.
Damian was attired like other men at the ball, in clothes befitting the day and age and the formality of the gathering. What set him apart was the thick queue at the back of his neck that pulled his black hair away from his stunning face. No other man at the gathering had such long hair.
“Damian?” Elizabeth voice faltered and trembled. “Damian…how…”
“You are well?” His eyes grew serious and worried. “You called for me. I knew you needed me.” He swallowed hard as he kissed her forehead. “I knew you needed me and then I was here.”
“I…I thought you were…” She faltered, her limbs trembling. “I’m well enough. I think.”
“You are pale.” He brought her closer, looking down at her with such rapt attention she felt the warmth of his regard steady her, remove th
e illness.
“I’m well now that you have come to me.”
He smiled. “At your service, mistress.”
In Elizabeth’s happiness she did not question how he came to be there, that he was as solid and as real as anyone. She took his hand and enjoyed the warmth of his palm, the heat reminding her of their lovemaking.
“I thought never to see you again,” she said.
“And I you.”
For too long her life had been full of mysteries that could not be explained. “You are the Damian in the tale Lady Deaning was just telling me about. You’ve been dead for all these years?”
He winced slightly. It was several moments before he nodded and answered. “Yes.”
The music swelled. A waltz flowed around them like a wave, brushing against them with beautiful strains, invading their hearts and minds. She relished his hard arms about her, heedless of propriety, caring nothing that they might be discovered. She savored time that might at any moment be taken from them.
Elizabeth simply looked at him, taking in the sculpted curves of his face. The dazzling light from the ballroom illuminated his male beauty. Heaven help her, he was more handsome than any man had a right to be.
The melody finished, and Elizabeth feared he would disappear, and she would find herself sitting by Lady Deaning and that he had never been there at all. Or she would wake from sleep and find herself in her bed at Penham Manor and their time together only a dream.
But as he held tight to her hand, he remained solid and warm.
The chill of night did not penetrate her clothes. Her happiness was too distracting, her heart too complete to care. Damian was here. He was alive. And he had come to her when she needed him.
“If God is willing, I shall never leave you again,” he said.
Before she could take a breath his mouth touched hers. Warm, tantalizing, brushing, and stroking her. She wanted him instantly with the fierce desire of one who had been denied their lover’s touch. When he broke the kiss, he drew back only slightly.
“I can touch you. I can feel you against me and it is all real.” He laughed and lifted her with his strong arms, twirling her about like a top. “Then it is true. I am free.”
Meet Me At the Castle Page 6