He couldn’t ask anything else of her.
Phoebe Pennington was smart, beautiful, talented, and in a position to do as she pleased when it came to writing her article. But after their talk, he realized she wasn’t after accolades; she wanted positive change. He admired her for it.
Yesterday, he sent over to the Edinburgh Review’s offices for the past issues containing Gaius Gracchus’s articles. Last night, he read them. As he’d expected, she was well-read and projected an attitude in which principle took precedence over self-interest, and pragmatism had little value in governance. He had no interest in arguing with Phoebe right now about political compromise and what it took to run a city such as Edinburgh. But someday he sensed they would have some lively discussions.
She had more to say. But instead, she picked up her kid gloves from the seat, smoothed them on her lap, folded them, and put them back.
“You’ve changed,” she said finally. “Or perhaps I had the wrong impression of you when I was younger.”
“At the risk of sounding vain, I’d be interested in what your impression was then,” he replied. “And even more interested in how it’s different now.”
“You’re patient and understanding of other’s positions now. Of mine, for example.”
Her compliment was soothing as a gentle breeze. He understood her nature. It was defined by her passion. He would be very unhappy if she decided to abandon their relationship because of differences in their opinions.
“And that was unexpected,” she continued. “For if my memory serves me correctly, you had a reputation of being overly protective and insistent on having the final say.”
“That sounds like my sister’s perception of me.”
A shadow of sadness clouded Phoebe’s expression. She nodded.
Sarah’s complaints echoed in his memory to this day. She’d rebelled against his demands that she report where she went, and with whom, or when she would return. So many times she’d accused him of taking the responsibility of her guardianship far too seriously. He was only her brother, she’d say, and he was ruining their friendship with his “draconian strictness.” And then she’d laugh and do what she wanted anyway. No wonder she and Phoebe had been such good friends.
“How far apart in age are you and your brothers?” he asked.
“Hugh is nine years older. Gregory, three years.”
“Are they protective of you?”
“Too protective. In fact, most times they’re impossible,” she asserted. Realizing she might have been too loud, she checked on her sister before continuing. “Of course, I’m speaking of my brother Hugh primarily. But Gregory is no better if he thinks no one else is supervising my every move.”
She glanced at her sister’s sleeping form again. “And I do mean my every move,” she repeated. “They’re far more trusting of Millie.”
Ian understood why they might worry more about Phoebe, but he decided to make no comment.
“They’re like a pair of mastiffs taking turns guarding a bone. My father expects it of them too. I’m certain of it.”
Regardless of all their protectiveness, Ian knew how much trouble Phoebe could have found herself in if he hadn’t been patrolling the Vaults the night of her attack.
“Fathers and daughters. Brothers and sisters,” she said a moment later. “I take your point.”
He wouldn’t say it to Phoebe, but his biggest regret in life was for not being more protective of his sister. But how could he have stopped what happened to her? He was not about to keep her locked away like some fairy tale princess. The truth was that no matter what one did, it was never enough.
Ian contemplated the rolling hills rising to the north. The mystery of the night Sarah was murdered continued to gnaw at his mind. The senseless nature of the violence did nothing to explain her actions.
“Have you gone back to the Vaults since that night I . . .” Phoebe paused and the words hung in the air between them, drawing Ian’s attention back to her. “Since the night you came across me there.”
“I have gone back,” he admitted.
“Many times?”
He didn’t want to tell her that he rarely slept well at night. Roaming the city streets and hunting through the Vaults beneath South Bridge was an act of necessity. Finding someone to help or frightening a would-be attacker off with his presence seemed to give him a kind of reprieve from the ghosts that haunted him. Until the next sleepless night.
“Do you go every night when you are in the city?” she pressed, not giving up.
He shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention. I go when I feel the need.”
Phoebe started to say something but then seemed to decide against it. She stared out the window. But that didn’t last long. Her eyes were stormy when she looked back at him.
“Do you always go down there alone?”
“I do.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why not take a footman? Or Mr. Crawford, your valet? You could even hire a bodyguard like Duncan Turner. Or a company of guards.”
Another man might have been amused by her suggestions, but he wasn’t. He knew her concerns were legitimate. She’d faced a dangerous assailant down there. Her encounter was far more perilous than any he’d ever had. Still, he thought better than to make light of her fears.
“You’re seriously asking me to hire a small militia to accompany me when I go down there?”
“Why not.”
“What you are saying is preposterous.”
“I worry for you.”
The words were a mere whisper, but they pierced him and encircled his heart. He reached out for Phoebe’s hand and took her fingers in his own.
“I’m always armed. I’m always careful.”
He wanted to remind her that he’d faced far more dangerous opponents while fighting in the war than he was likely to meet down there. But he doubted anything he said would lessen her fears. She again started to say something but stopped and glanced first at her sister. Millie was still sleeping peacefully.
“Have there been any other . . . ?” Her free hand fisted on her lap.
He knew what she was talking about. Killings.
“None that the authorities know about.” Ian had enough paid informants among the constables to know that no dead bodies had been newly discovered.
“The killer,” she whispered. “You said he’s consistent in how he leaves his victims. Is there any consistency in when he attacks his victims? Perhaps at the full moon?”
“No, you’re not doing this. This is not a topic for your writing,” he warned, squeezing her hand before letting go. “Gaius Gracchus writes about politics and corruption. You are not getting involved in this.”
He must have been too loud as Millie stirred and opened her eyes.
“You’re not getting involved in what?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
Neither of them answered, and she looked from Ian to her sister.
“Nothing,” Phoebe said, adjusting herself in her seat. “I’m not getting involved, so there’s nothing to talk about.”
Chapter 10
Sarah was a mature sixteen-year-old the first time Phoebe met her. But the similarity of their likes and dislikes and their temperaments were such that they immediately became fast friends. And that was the start of the many crossings of the Firth of Forth as Sarah came to Baronsford and Phoebe traveled to Bellhorne, sometimes with Millie, but often alone.
As the carriage turned off the main road and started up the long drive to Bellhorne Castle, the memories tossed and churned like rushing water following the curve of a river. Phoebe recalled the conversations they shared, the stories they told, the quiet havens they escaped to.
She stared out the carriage window and remembered how often the two of them stole away and walked to the top of the highest hill on the estate, a favorite place to sit in the grass. They’d look out at the Firth of Forth for the white sails of ships and talk about their dreams of traveling to faraway places. From there, they co
uld see the ancient oak where Sarah’s father had proposed to her mother after he returned from the colonies in America. One time, they’d seen the smoke of a cooking fire rising from a camp of Romani travelers, and she told Phoebe about a wedding the passing nomads once held there. The romantic music of the fiddles and tambourines had drifted across the fields till nearly dawn.
Their visits to the stony shore were frequent too. Phoebe recalled a wet and misty day they’d spent looking for perfectly matched shells they could each save. It was the first time she came to Bellhorne. Sarah had told her about the handsome minister in the village, and then grown somber, relating the news from Ian’s latest letters about the battles on the continent.
But when the lightning and thunder of Fife’s summer storms flashed and raged outside, they would go at night into the west tower in search of the ghost of a dashing Jacobite rebel that her friend claimed roamed through the castle in search of lost treasure.
Once he’d returned to Bellhorne from the wars, however, the only specter that interested Phoebe was Captain Bell, who might appear unexpectedly, show his handsome face, greet them sternly, and then go as suddenly as he came. A hero in the fight against Napoleon, he was now master of Bellhorne, its fishing village with the stone kirk, and the rolling lands that went on for miles and miles. But to Phoebe, he was a wounded knight errant, returned to the towers of his grey stone fortress, awaiting the arrival of his true love.
Many times when she came to see her friend, Phoebe tried to get the brother to notice her at dinner, the only time he joined the family for any extended period. On the journey home from each visit, she let herself imagine that next time, he’d discover she was witty and engaging and worthy of pursuing.
And now she was here, at Bellhorne, escorted by the only man she’d ever yearned for. She was happy about that, of course, but Bellhorne itself would never be the same. All those golden afternoons, all their adventures, all their heart-to heart talks were a thing of the past. A past she could never reclaim. Sarah was gone. Her friend was lost. Stolen away and brutally murdered. It was a fate her sweet friend did not deserve. And there was an empty space in her own life that would never be filled.
The lump in Phoebe’s chest burned painfully. But there was nothing she could do to bring Sarah back.
“Here we are,” Ian said. His eyes and his gentle tone made her think he knew where her mind had wandered. He seemed to understand the sadness that visiting Bellhorne would summon in Phoebe. He shared in that loss, and she knew Sarah’s absence haunted him.
Whatever sorrow Phoebe was feeling, however, she needed to hide it deep inside of her, for there to greet them as the carriage door opened was Mrs. Bell, her face shining with joy at the sight of the visitors. She met them with the same effusive warmth and affection she’d always greeted them with when her daughter was still alive.
“Lady Phoebe! Lady Millie! You do indeed brighten our quiet corner of the world, coming to see us here. My dears!” She sighed happily as Ian bent to kiss her cheek. “So many precious memories.”
Before the introductions and greetings could continue, the older woman faced Phoebe, thin cool fingers cradling her face. She touched her cheek, caressed her hair, showering her with the affection of a mother. “You, my dear. My sweet girl. I’m so glad you are here.”
Words struggled to emerge, apologies for not coming sooner, regrets for not writing to her. Condolences that she couldn’t voice. She bit her lip, and when her eyes burned, Phoebe hugged Mrs. Bell before she could discover the runaway tears.
When the two of them pulled apart, Ian was standing beside her. There was a tender touch on the small of her back, almost a caress, as he introduced her and Millie to his cousin, Mrs. Young, and continued on with good-natured grumbling about how he was hungry enough to eat an ox.
As they all headed toward the house, Mrs. Bell walked between Phoebe and Millie and ordered a late luncheon to be served.
“We’ll eat in the garden by Sarah’s roses, shall we?” she suggested, pointing the way with her cane. “As we always did when the sun peeked out.”
As they strolled around the castle and entered the gardens through the archway, Phoebe detached herself from the other two and paused to look out at a distant hill, rising from a thick of oak trees. Sarah once told her the story of a relative hiding in that forest for an entire summer following Culloden.
Phoebe was recognized as a storyteller by everyone who knew her from the time she could hold a pencil to paper and string words together. Sarah took great joy in telling her the legends and ghost stories and gossip that permeated the grey stones of the thirteenth century castle. You’ll rival Mrs. Radcliffe with your stories, she’d say with a laugh, and make her sorry she ever took up a pen. She wondered what her friend would think of the new direction her writing was headed now. To create fiction or report facts. Phoebe was certain she had the answer a month ago, but now she wasn’t too sure.
Ian moved beside her. “The Rebel Oaks,” he said, following her gaze.
“I’ve always wondered if a tale Sarah told me about it was truth or legend.”
“Quite true,” he replied. “The man spent nearly two months in a burnt-out tree trunk.”
Taking her hand, he put it on his arm, and Phoebe felt the warmth of his body as they trailed after the others.
“Thank you for bringing us to Bellhorne,” she said in a low voice.
“I wanted you to see the place again. To see my mother.” He paused. “I wanted you to come.”
Phoebe blushed, not at all certain if she had any right to entertain the hope warming in her heart regarding his intentions.
The maids had already set up the luncheon before a lattice wall of flowering clematis. The gardens spread out around them.
“Shall I send a message to Dr. Thornton and Mr. Garioch, and ask them not to come to dinner tonight?” Mrs. Young asked as they arranged themselves around the table.
“Not at all. Not at all. I want them here,” Mrs. Bell told her companion before addressing the guests. “You know my doctor and the rector. It will be delightful to reunite such old friends.”
Phoebe exchanged a look with Ian. She’d heard both men’s names mentioned on her prior visits, but she had met neither of them. There was no purpose in saying so. From what she’d seen and heard so far, it wasn’t Mrs. Bell’s memory that concerned her as much as the older woman’s fragile state of health. Walking to the garden, they’d made a number of stops for her to catch her breath.
“Tell me about your dear mother,” Mrs. Bell asked as they ate lunch. “And do your parents still divide their time between the Borders and Hertfordshire?”
While Millie brought their hostess up to date with all the news of their parents and siblings and marriages and additions to their growing family, Phoebe’s mind turned again to her lost friend.
The grassy lanes and garden beds were brilliantly colored with the fondest memories. The scent of roses evoked a very different period of time in her life. Many nights during a visit, Phoebe and Sarah would sit together on the bed and share stories until dawn, while the night fragrances of the garden wafted in on the summer breeze.
Phoebe remembered her last time here. Sarah had been adamant that she was hearing footsteps in one of the spiral staircases. A fortnight before, she said, her red slippers had gone missing, only to be found two days later at the foot of the same staircase. Long before, she’d told Phoebe the tale of a young woman named Anne Erskine who lived over a century ago in the castle. The details were unclear, but somehow she fell to her death from a window at the top of the west tower, and now haunted the castle. Sarah believed the footsteps and the theft of the slippers meant the lonely spirit was trying to reach out and befriend her.
Bellhorne was already home to at least one ghost. Even though Sarah died in Edinburgh, her earthly remains had been brought back to the home she loved. Phoebe wondered if her friend’s spirit would find the way back here where she could haunt the stairwells with Anne
Erskine.
Suddenly she noticed the table had grown silent. A question had been directed at her. She discreetly glanced at Millie for help, but her sister only directed her gaze toward Ian’s cousin.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Young. I was distracted for a moment. Did you ask me something?”
“I’ve found volumes of your aunt’s novels in the library and—”
Mrs. Bell held up a hand, hushing her. Her dark-eyed gaze rested gently on Phoebe’s face.
“I know she’s not here with us, but you feel her presence too, don’t you?”
Phoebe tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. Sarah was indeed with them, in memory, in spirit, in the brush of the breeze over the leaves and the flower petals. She struggled. No answer she could give came to her. The conversation she had with Ian on the ferry about his mother not knowing of Sarah’s death, the promise she’d made to him of not destroying the pretense, all rushed back. But at this very moment, looking into the clear, intelligent eyes of their hostess, Phoebe could not help but wonder if she knew.
“How can we not think of Sarah while we sit here breathing in the sweet fragrance of all those roses that were planted in her honor?” Ian asked, putting an end to the prolonged silence. He laid his napkin on the table. “Unfortunately, I need to meet with Mr. Raeburn this afternoon, if you ladies can do without me for a few hours. Mother, do you want to rest before dinner?”
Thin fingers stretched out toward the son. “Indeed. Indeed, I should. And Alice, would you be kind enough to make sure Lady Phoebe and Lady Millie are settled in their room? Have Mrs. Hume assign maids to see to each of them.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
As the servants cleared away the luncheon, Ian escorted his mother to her rooms while Phoebe and Millie were ushered in by his cousin.
“I’m sure it must be very difficult—as old friends of Sarah’s—to carry on this pretense,” Mrs. Young said in a low voice once they were out of hearing range of their hostess.
Phoebe watched the woman lead them across the great hall toward the stairs. From the information Ian offered on their journey here, she gathered Mrs. Bell’s companion was in her mid-thirties. She’d been married to a clergyman in Maryland and widowed about a year before coming at Ian’s request to Bellhorne.
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