by Silver, Lily
“Powerful magic keeps peace from her, ancient magic wrought by your wife’s ancestors.”
“Elizabeth’s English ancestors?” He asked, confused by Maureen’s words.
“No.” His grandmother appeared directly in front of him, startling him. “Your wife is a descendent of the ancient priesthood who ruled Ireland before the Christians. She’s a child of nature. You cannot keep her confined inside. She’ll wither like a flower kept in a dark room. Take her outdoors.” She floated toward the opened veranda doors. “Let the healing energies of the earth restore her strength.”
Donovan nodded. “Why is this spirit bullying her? What does she want?”
There was no reply. Moonlight spilled through the balcony doors, illuminating the large, empty room with pale blue glow.
Chapter Twenty Nine
“Ghosts! Yes, I told you. There are ghosts at Ravencrest Estates. Everyone told you.” Gareth finished when Donovan faltered in recounting the bizarre visitation.
Unable to close his eyes after the disturbing encounter, Donovan had lit all the candles in his suite, locked the door and paced about the room with uncertainty until the first strands of light appeared in the sky. All along, his logical mind screamed at him that he was being irrational; candlelight and a locked door were hardly a deterrent to spectral visitations.
When it was no longer night he had marched down the veranda to his uncle’s room and pounded on the louvered balcony door.
Presently, they stood on the veranda, facing one another as dawn colored the grey skies.
Donovan scowled. Gareth’s words rang true. Everyone, Tabby, Pearl and even Donovan’s mother claimed to see both Marissa’s and Maureen’s ghosts and even the spirit of his grandfather on occasion.
He seemed to be the only one who could not see the spirits wandering about his home.
“I was drunk.” Donovan countered, fearing the disintegration of logic and reason. “I drank half a bottle of scotch—it could be a hallucination brought on by—“
“’There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies.’” Gareth quoted the bard he adored. “I suspect you’ve just discovered that truth.”
“I do not believe in ghosts!”
“We can’t all be hallucinating, Donovan.” Gareth scoffed, crossing his arms about his chest. “We can’t all be drunk or given to too much imagination!”
Donovan sucked his breath in with a hiss and struck the balustrade with his fist.
Sleepwalking, she said, and he believed the little vixen. Lizzie knew he’d never believe she was being bullied by a spirit. Not until he was confronted with it himself.
With them; two spirits in one night.
“Maureen is a good spirit.” Gareth pointed out. “She may be trying to protect your wife. What does this malicious spirit want from her?”
“I don’t know.” Donovan tossed up a hand. “Maureen said Elizabeth’s ancestors were magicians--sorcerers—some damned thing. As I said, I was drunk.”
“There’s a spirit catcher on Basseterre. I’ve heard he does wonders.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does miracles, for the right price.” Donovan retorted. “I’m not inviting a charlatan here to burn weeds, mutter incoherently and present me with an outrageous fee. I’ll figure this out on my own. What about O’Flaherty?”
“He’s an apothecary.” Gareth shrugged. “What would he know about angry spirits?”
“I meant did he stay the night?”
“Yes.” Gareth gazed oddly at him. “You invited him to stay, as I recall.”
“Good. Keep him distracted until Ambrose returns from Basseterre with his report.”
*******
An hour later, Donovan summoned Miss Ramirez to his laboratory.
Seated behind his desk, he watched the woman’s reaction to the preserved specimens adorning the shelves. As a rule he didn’t allow strangers into his laboratory, particularly women, who tended to be squeamish. The one time he summoned Elizabeth here he’d had the more offensive specimens covered by a canvas to preserve her tender sensibilities.
The rest of humanity could run shrieking from him and good riddance.
Elizabeth was the one person he did not wish to repulse with his studies in anatomy.
Miss Ramirez started and gasped as she saw the grinning skull on his desk. “El Diablo!”
“Not the devil, one of his hirelings.” Donovan replied. “I killed him and fed his body to the sharks. Sit, Miss Ramirez.” He gestured to the chair.
She regarded him with horror, as if he would slit her throat if the mood took him.
Smiling, Donovan gestured again to the seat opposite his desk.
With reluctance, she sank into the chair. “Please, do not send me away.” The woman blurted, near the point of tears. “I talk too much, it annoys my lady—I will try to be—“
Donovan raised his hand, indicating silence. “I did not summon you here to reprimand you. I need your assistance. How long has the ghost been haunting Elizabeth?”
“You know about the spirit, my lord?” Her eyes grew wide with alarm.
“She visited us last night. It threw Elizabeth to the floor, right in front of me.”
“Dios! I did not think the spirit would attack her in your presence.”
“What does she want?”
Chloe clutched the arms of the chair and pressed her lips together, as if the truth might fly from them unbidden. Her doe-like eyes begged him not to ask her to betray her lady.
Donovan maintained his impervious stare.
She crumbled. “I do not know, my lord!”
“Has Elizabeth said anything to you regarding the ghost? Who is it?”
“Her mother, my lord.”
Donovan’s heart chilled at the woman’s words. “Her mother? What does she want?”
“I do not know, my lord. My lady does not speak of her mother at all. She talks about her grandmother often, but . . .” The woman paused. Her eyes took on a terrified cast as something slowly became apparent to her.
“Elizabeth is being harmed.” He insisted in a severe tone. “If you have any insights, no matter how slight, now would be the time to share them, Chloe.”
She stared at him, considering her predicament: angering the master, who paid her wages, versus reporting the truth to him about his lady. Her lower lip quivered, her eyes brimmed with rising tears.
Bloody Hell, Donovan cursed silently. That last thing he needed was another weepy female to deal with. Lizzie had been weeping off and on for days, and he fully expected that storm to worsen before it was over. He loved Lizzie, and dealing with her tears left his heart in shreds. He couldn’t endure a bout of hysterical weeping from another woman—he’d rather die, by his own hand.
As he glowered impatiently at the servant, waiting for her to explode into an annoying torrent of tears, she straightened her spine, clasped her hands together tightly, and appeared to tuck her raging emotions neatly away beneath her colorful shawl for another day.
“At first,” She sniffled, and went on in a throaty voice, “The spirit did not harm Madame. She appeared a few times to her at night and during the day she would toss items about my lady’s room. Several times, we would find the wardrobe emptied all over the floor. After questioning me as to the reason for the mess, my lady realized it was the spirit doing this to get her attention. She said her mother was a having a—Oh!” She spun her hand in the air. “—acting like a child who does not get its way? I do not know the word, my lord.”
“Having a tantrum?”
“Yes, that is the word my lady used. Every few days there would be an incident. Madame and I would pick up the mess and she cautioned me to keep silent. Lately, the spirit started attacking her. My lady has been pushed, slapped, shoved, and once she was locked in a closet.”
“Yet, you did not come to me.” Donovan chastened.
“My lady swore me to silence, my lord. And you are a man of science,” She gestured a
round the room. “What could I have said to make you believe my tale?”
The woman did have a point. He would not have believed her—not before last night.
“Nothing like this happened on the ship. These attacks seem to have begun after our arrival here. What could have disturbed her mother’s spirit since then?”
Her dark eyes moved about the room, from the stuffed raven to the owl and the lizard perched on the shelf behind him as if seeking the answers. “There is a magic charm in Madame’s possession. She discovered it among her grandmother’s things after we unpacked her trunks. My lady believes the charm is a protection against nightmares.” The maid tugged her shawl about her. Her dark eyes widened. “But it is pure evil, my lord.”
Donovan pondered her words. Maureen’s ghost had said Elizabeth’s ancestors were sorcerers. If senile Old Sheila had fashioned a malicious charm, it seemed prudent to remove it from Elizabeth. “Bring it to me.” He instructed.
*******
Twenty minutes later Chloe returned with the mysterious pouch.
“It is evil, Sir.” She admonished. “I offered to make a new charm when she showed it to me, but Madame wouldn’t allow it, sir. Destroy it. Let it be devoured by flames.”
Donovan rolled his eyes, tired of the woman’s penchant for the dramatic. “Say nothing of this to Elizabeth.” He cautioned. With a curt wave, he sent her back to her mistress.
Once alone, Donovan withdrew a sheet of parchment from the drawer and dumped the contents of the pouch onto the paper. Oh, it was evil, all right; it reeked of mold and decay. He sniffed the odd coil of rope. It was encrusted with dirt and rotting plant litter. Intent upon his inspection, he stabbed the odd, bi-colored rope with the tip of a letter opener and lifted it from the moldy debris. He turned the specimen about on the knife edge.
The hair on the back of his nape prickled. The rope was made of human hair.
With an oath, he dropped the disgusting coil onto the paper and scraped away some of the dried, red-brown film between the twisted strands.
He lifted the blade to his nose: dried blood.
Human hair coated in blood.
Revolted, by the coiled hair and the implications behind it, Donovan folded the paper to contain the gruesome contents, shoved the packet into his desk drawer and turned the key.
Chapter Thirty
He was being so sweet, so attentive, so unfailingly tender, and it was killing Elizabeth.
She couldn’t meet Donovan’s eyes. She was afraid if she looked into those lovely pale depths and saw the tenderness inherent in his every word and touch, she’d start weeping, again.
So, she made deliberate attempts to avoid his gaze. She’d cried enough to fill an ocean in the past days. Now, she knew the reason she’d been so melancholy; her courses. She always became morose days before their onset. She would feel as if the world were crashing down around her. And then, days later, she would look back and be dismayed with herself for being so distraught over dust motes when everything was just as it had always been.
This time she’d made a horrific mess. She upset her husband and even involved his friend—all because she succumbed to a fit of the dismals due to her monthly cycle. As her perpetual misfortune would have it, she succumbed to the wretched pains of the first day while recovering from her seizure in Donovan’s bed, and thus, kindled his appalling curiosity.
Most men would avoid a woman at such an uncomfortable time, not daring to trespass across the distinct feminine boundaries regarding the mysterious monthly occurrence.
Not him. As a scientist he was bold and inquisitive where other men would gladly take the coward’s way and leave her to her maid’s care. Granted, his medicine did help her through the worst of the pains--but she also had to endure and answer his many questions on the subject. Talking about it with a man, with any man, was humiliating.
Donovan’s continual presence was unsettling. He hovered over her and treated her as if she were made of spun glass and would break easily in his hands if he weren’t very careful.
He returned from his business affairs just before lunch, and sent Chloe on her way.
The change from constant chatter to silence was refreshing. Still, it was a heavy, tense silence that only reminded Elizabeth of her shame.
She sat quietly in the bed, resting, as her husband insisted, and listened to his enchanting voice as he read aloud to her from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He had asked her earlier in the week which of Shakespeare’s plays she liked the best, and she replied “the one with the fairies.” And so, to pass the time he started to read it aloud to her after lunch.
Elizabeth gazed about the room, her mind too fractured and splintered by all that had happened in recent days to really follow the story. She liked listening to his voice, however. It was calming, so deep and serene when he read to her like this. He had read to her a great deal while they were on voyage here. He had read the entire account of Tom Jones to her, and started to read Shakespeare’s works during the long days. They made it through As You Like It and Romeo and Juliette and Hamlet by the time they arrived here.
It was good to have him so near again, as long as she didn’t need to look directly at him. As her eyes moved about the room she noticed the broken mirror near the door. The glass had been swept up from the floor but jagged pieces hung loosely from the frame and the board behind it. There was writing on the exposed board that would support the unbroken glass.
Perplexed, she slid from the bed and moved across the room to investigate. She knelt before the broken looking glass and traced her fingers over the painted letters on the board. It was a craftsman’s mark, painted under the mirror on the board behind, to identify the maker.
“Lizzie?” Donovan put the book down and rose from his chair beside the bed, just realizing she’d slipped away from him while he’d been reading. “What are you doing?” He was at her side in a trice, crouched on his haunches beside her and talking to her as if she were a little girl, a very beloved little girl. “Here, now. Don’t fuss with this. You’ll cut yourself. We’ll order a new full length mirror to replace this one. Come, back to bed.”
“She told me it was there.” Elizabeth muttered, ignoring him as she finally realized what Marissa had been trying to show her last week. She turned to look at Donovan. “I have to go upstairs. I need the keys.”
Donovan was peering at her with concern. “No dearest. You need to go back to bed.”
“I know where it is!” She insisted, rising and moving behind the dressing screen to retrieve her robe. She slipped it on. Donovan followed her about the room with a frown. “She asked me to help her. She can’t leave here unless I do. I have to help her.” She looked into her husband’s eyes for the first time in days as she spoke. “We need the keys, my lord.”
Donovan merely stared at her, as if trying to judge whether she were delirious or lucid. “Who are you talking about?” He asked in a cautious tone.
“There are spirits in this house.” She said quietly, knowing he wouldn’t believe her.
“Yes.” His response startled her. “And one has contacted you, asked something of you?” Elizabeth was stunned. He was agreeing with her? “You believe me?”
“I’ll always believe you, Lizzie.” His reply, while reassuring, was also disturbing. He sounded as if he were indulging a child’s fantasy. Perhaps in his mind, he was.
Regardless, she had a duty to help Marissa find peace. She held out her hand. “We need the key to Marissa’s room.”
Moments later, Elizabeth and Donovan stood in the small, luxurious room hidden on the third floor. The box of Marissa’s personal belongings was still on the bed where she’d left it last week. She’d been packing up everything, intending to give it to Gareth when she finished. Captain Rawlings’ visit had interrupted her labors. She’d had the argument with Donovan, and the seizure, and hadn’t been able to return here since.
Donovan looked uncomfortable in the room, as most people seemed to. There was a deep
, pervasive sadness, as Marissa had taken her own life here. He stepped to the window and took to inspecting the rough marks along the frame where the men had pried away the iron bars that had made this a prison cell instead of a servant’s room.
Elizabeth went behind the dressing screen and knelt at the shattered cheval glass mirror. She began picking away at the glass, piece by piece.
“Be careful.” Donovan came around the screen, anxious to see what she was up to. He crouched beside her. “You’ll cut yourself. Let me.” He pushed her hands away from the slim wedges of glass and then gazed about the room. Spotting a discarded cleaning cloth left behind from her earlier visit, he snatched it up and used it to protect his fingers as he began to pull the glass wedges out of the mirror frame and set them on the floor, one by one.
After pulling several long, sharp shards away from the frame, they could see a folded parchment wedged up between the broken glass and the support board. Donovan pulled it out, and unfolded it.
He quickly scanned it and then gazed at her with awe. “Do you know what this is?”
“A promise.” She replied. “Marissa was bound by guilt for leaving her baby to fend for himself after she died. She was the only one who knew of the existence of this promise. She hid it to keep his legacy safe until Gareth could claim it, but then weeks later, she killed herself.”
“She took her own life?” Donovan seemed surprised by Elizabeth’s claim. “We were told she died of Childbed Fever.” He shook his head, gazing about the room with distaste. It was apparent he knew the reason for the lock outside the door and barred windows. “It makes sense. No one should be forced to live at the mercy of another’s perverse whims.”
Donovan looked at the paper again, apparently shocked by its existence. He gazed tenderly at her. “My sweet, clever girl. This is an amendment to my grandfathers’ original will. It gives Gareth one-third ownership in the plantation. Two thirds is to be retained by my mother’s offspring, namely myself and my descendants, but Gareth is to receive a generous income from the estate as this document acknowledges him as the natural son of Richard O’Donovan. My grandfather never told my mother about this. He didn’t tell any of us.”