by Silver, Lily
“Oh, I like that.” Michael made a face. “Half an hour in and already bossing me about.”
At that moment, Donovan entered the library. He took one look at the quartet gathered near the fireplace and his hands flew to his hips in his typical commanding stance. “What is this?” His question was directed to Elizabeth. “I can’t leave you alone for an hour? We decided to wait until things settled a bit here before bringing Kieran out.”
“You decided. I wanted my brothers to meet. So I took care of it.”
The silence from the three other men in the room was oppressive. They all seemed to take a fastidious interest in the furnishings as they waited for the lord of the manor to scold his lady.
Elizabeth did not flinch. She glared at Donovan with no apologies.
Donovan sighed, his exasperation evident as he held her defiant gaze. “You should have listened to me, Elizabeth. Now, if you will all leave us, I wish to have a few words with Lord Greystowe.”
Kieran and Michael rose. They looked askance at Elizabeth, then Grandfather. When neither interceded, they shuffled out of the room without daring to look at Donovan.
“Elizabeth.” Donovan insisted. “You will respect your grandfather’s wish for privacy.”
She looked to Grandfather, hoping he’d ask her to stay, but she knew he would not. He would never interfere in a matter of another man’s domestic disputes. She wanted to say something. She wanted to lash out at Donovan for being so high handed in front of her grandfather. Wasn’t it just like him, to come into the room and transform a perfectly sunny moment into darkness, suspicion and gloom? This was her family. Yet, he was dismissing her as if she were an impudent child, reinforcing Grandfather’s arrogant beliefs and humiliating her.
She turned to leave before she said something she would regret later.
As she reached the door, Donovan’s hand circled her wrist. “Lizzie, wait.” His voice was no longer commanding. “I asked you to leave because I need to examine him, privately.” He turned her about to face him. “I’m not angry with you.”
“What a relief!” Elizabeth quipped. “I can’t say the same. This is my family, Donovan. My brothers. You’ve no right to interfere.”
Donovan looked down at the floor and then away, grimacing. He glanced over at the man in the chair by the fireplace before turning his gaze back to Elizabeth. He cupped her cheek with his big hand. “I’m not angry with you for defying me by bringing Kieran here and presenting him to your grandfather without preparing the old man for the shock of it first. I understand, believe me, I do.”
He paused, searching her eyes desperately before adding, “But please understand this; your grandfather is dying.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
“I don’t think he meant it would be today, Liz.” Michael assured her as the trio gathered in the sunny yellow salon at the front of the house. “Think of Old Sheila. We always said she’d never survive another winter, and yet survive she did, year after year, if you recall.”
Elizabeth didn’t remember. She didn’t recall many things Michael nattered on about. She meandered about the confines of the large salon, her arms about herself. She should have known. Why hadn’t she sensed it when she touched Grandfather? She touched him many times in the past week and she had no idea. She turned to Kieran. “Did you sense it?”
“No, but I did not touch him. Even so,” Kieran shrugged, and looked askance at Michael before continuing. “It doesn’t work with everyone, particularly blood kin.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, considering his words. “What about spouses?” She didn’t understand why she could not read Donovan as she could others.
“That, too. I’ve heard.” He replied, eyeing her and then their brother, clearly uncomfortable discussing their gift. “It’s a form of protection for the seer.” He stepped casually toward Elizabeth where she stood near the window. “Imagine being able to know everything your husband thinks and feels every time you touch him. It would be overwhelming. It’s the same with children and other blood kin. A safety mechanism within the gift.” He touched her arm, and she felt the familiar tingling as he did so. She felt his anxiety, his uncertainty. “You and I are different. Magnets.” He said emphatically, giving her a knowing smile.
“Care to explain? Magnets?” Michael asked with a wave of his hand, watching them from across the room. “I know, I’m not an O’Flaherty, but I am your brother, too, Liz.”
Elizabeth didn’t need the gift of the seer to tell her Michael was feeling left out and more than a little jealous of Kieran’s closeness. “Do you recall Sheila claiming she could see and sense things about people, hidden things?”
Michael nodded. “Scared me to the devil when I was little, all that mystical mumbo jumbo and talk of seeing spirits everywhere.”
“It’s hereditary.” Elizabeth informed him with impatience. “Sheila died and now I have her gift, as does he.” She gestured to Kieran. “We’re cursed with being able to see other people’s secrets, their desires, their sins, all their flaws--“
A flush of raw, pent up fury washed over her. She moved to the doorway and stood with her back to her brothers for a moment, trying to contain the emotions flooding her. She turned to them. “It’s a damned shamed it doesn’t work with the people we actually care about!”
*******
Donovan found Elizabeth hours later. He searched everywhere in the house, to no avail. As he gazed out at the gardens from the second floor window he had an idea of where she might have gone.
Sure enough, when he reached the stone terrace he found Elizabeth sitting beyond it in the grass outcropping beneath the gnarled old tree. She was sitting cross-legged, shredding blades of grass between her fingers as she stared violently out at the sea.
She looked so forlorn he didn’t have the heart to chide her for her excursion outdoors alone. Donovan maneuvered past the crumbling wall, making a mental note to have it fixed. Carefully, with arms balanced and his steps precise, he went to where she was sitting so precariously on the sloping grass mound overlooking the sea. He sat behind her and placed a light hand on her arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked, anger seeping into her voice.
“I should have.” Donovan conceded. “Your grandfather made me promise not to.”
“How long does he have?”
“It’s hard to predict.” He admitted. “A few months at most. He came here to die, Elizabeth. The voyage was difficult. He endured the hardship because he wanted Michael to be safe with us when he died so there would be no chance of your stepfather interfering in the months it would take for us to arrive in England after news of your grandfather’s death reached us here. James made me Michael’s legal guardian from this point forward. That was before he knew about Kieran. I’m sorry, Lizzie.”
“Where are my brothers?” Her voice was wet. He could tell she wanted to cry, but refused to allow herself to do so. That was his Lizzie, defiant to the last.
“I left them in the salon. They were getting to know each other.”
“And Grandfather?”
“Upstairs, in bed. It was a severe shock for him.” He rubbed his hand along her spine.
Donovan was of two minds on the subject now that it was over and done. He intended to wait for a few weeks, allow Wentworth time to recover from his arduous journey as much as possible before springing the news on him. Elizabeth had the blindness and invincibility of youth on her side as she rushed boldly into the fray. She didn’t stop to consider the old man’s age or health, any more than Donovan would have at her age. Given Wentworth’s precarious condition, had they waited the old man might have died without knowing his eldest grandson was still alive.
“I recommend limited visits from the three of you in the coming days. Half hour increments, no more.”
She nodded, and sniffled. “I’m sorry. I just wanted them to--“
“I know.” Donovan wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her back to lean against his frame. They
sat together like spoons with his long legs bracketing her hips as she reclined in the shelter of his arms. The only sound was the wind and the waves as they crashed over the rocks below. He didn’t like her sitting on this small outcropping. The thick grass provided some traction, but even so, if it were wet or her shoe slipped, she could fall to her death on the jagged rocks. “We should go in. The lads will want to know you’re alright.”
“Oh, Donovan!” She cried out, “It doesn’t work.”
He pressed his cheek to hers from behind. “What doesn’t work, my love?”
“My gift. Kieran says it doesn’t always work with immediate blood kin. I didn’t know. I didn’t know Grandfather was so ill.” She wilted in his arms, turning toward him for comfort. She wept bitterly, for her grandfather, and because she was angry with herself for not being able to see the outcome of her impetuous scheme.
*******
It was past midnight, two days after O’Flaherty returned from Basseterre.
As the candles burned low in the salon, the only sound was the steady thwacking of the cards as Michael shuffled and dealt the next hand.
Gareth picked up the cards the lad dealt and studied them before making his opening bid.
Marceau, the boy’s tutor, had a definite tell, his lips warped into a twisted grimace.
Michael showed no outward sign as to the contents of his hand. The boy was a natural when it came to cards, yet he confided to Gareth that he’s never played them until the voyage here as his sister frowned on it. Michael asked him not to let his sister know of their nocturnal activities, so they waited until Elizabeth retired each night before breaking out the card deck in the salon. O’Flaherty turned down the invitation of cards for the past few nights, but Gareth didn’t mind overmuch. That one was far too serious for his liking, a bit of a spook.
“I pass.” Marceau informed them, setting his cards face down on the table.
“Five.” Michael opened the bid.
“Ah, confident, are we?” Gareth teased, pleased to see a smile break through the melancholy that seemed to envelope the lad of late. “Lead out.”
Michael led the first hand and won.
Gareth managed to steal the second from him, lowering the boy’s chances of winning his bid, unless the boy had some very good cards tucked away. He was about to lead out the next play, when a noise on the stairs distracted him. It was too late for servants to be traipsing about. Someone was mumbling at the top of the stairs. He’d spent a great deal of time listening in the shadows as a boy. As a result, Gareth had developed a good ear.
“Lead out, or are you afraid you can’t meet the challenge!” Michael teased.
“Shhh!” Gareth hissed, setting his cards aside and lifting a hand.
“No—stop it--” A high pitched, girlish voice insisted from the stairs.
Gareth was on his feet and out the door instantly. Michael and Marceau were at his heels. He stopped dead at the foot of the stairs in the foyer. Elizabeth was teetering on the top step. Dressed in her night rail, barefoot, with a distant expression on her face, he realized she was sleepwalking. Donovan had mentioned it a couple of times.
She didn’t notice the men at the foot of the stairs as she spoke to someone in her dream. “I’ll tell them the truth, you did it. I saw you—”
“She’s dreaming.” Michael said. “Elizabeth--“
“No.” Gareth commanded, grabbing the boy’s arm. “You’ll startle her, she’ll fall.”
A white mist appeared, hovering on the stairs before them. The mist moved, floating up the stairs. A female shape materialized. A dark haired woman paused at mid flight. Her angelic face became distorted and skeletal, and then she disappeared.
The hackles on Gareth’s neck rose. The woman reappeared behind Elizabeth at the top of the stairs. The devious eyes tipped him off as the spirit glowered at him from behind her victim.
“No!” He shrieked, vaulting up the steps to Elizabeth. The quick blur of ivory limbs coupled with the alarmed shouts of the men behind him spurred Gareth on.
Sudden horror on Elizabeth’s face told him she’d awakened in the fall.
Halfway up the stairs he dropped to his knees and grabbed the railing with one hand and pressed his other palm to the wall to form a barrier to stop her perilous descent. Her body jerked to a stop in mid flight. She’d managed to grasp a vertical rail. Elizabeth’s bare heel slammed into his shoulder. The knee of her other leg clouted his head.
He heard a snapping noise, followed by a cry of pain.
Elizabeth was a crumpled, moaning form four steps above him. Her arm was caught at an odd angle between the stair railings.
“Liz, are you trying to kill yourself?” Michael tromped up the stairs toward them.
“Wait.” Gareth cautioned, putting an arm out in front of the youth to prevent his passing. “Go into the salon and get a pillow, now Michael. Bring a pillow to cradle your sister’s wrist.”
The lad didn’t argue. Gareth crept up the few stairs to Elizabeth on his hands and knees, trying to remain calm in the face of what he expected to become full blown hysterics from the girl before him. “Easy, now, my dear. Uncle Gareth is here.”
Her response was a muted whimper. She was staring at her mangled arm, transfixed by the sight of her hand bending back at a bizarre angle. It wasn’t a view one could become accustomed to, except mayhap for a physician. A doctor—Yes--Donovan!
“Marceau—get the count.” Gareth instructed.
The tutor hurried up the steps. He stopped near Gareth, turning his wide girth sideways to maneuver around Gareth and Elizabeth. His boots echoed like thunder as he tromped down the hall to the master chamber.
“My lady?” The feminine voice intruded. Gareth glanced up to see his petite-amour at the top of the stairs, clad in a cotton bed-gown with her dark hair forming a luxurious mantle over her snowy gown. She glided down the stairs on nude graceful feet and sat behind Elizabeth on the step above her. Relief came at her presence. He wasn’t any good at comforting hysterical females. Chloe was Elizabeth’s friend; she’d know how to comfort her.
“What have you done to your arm, my lady?” Chloe asked in her exotic Caribbean voice.
*******
Elizabeth looked up, unable to explain why she was crouched on the stairs in the middle of the night with her arm wrenched between the rails. “I don’t know.”
Light footfalls were heard above them once more. “What happened?” Kieran appeared shirtless at the top of the stairs. He jaunted down to the step she was crouched on. His dismay as he took in her mangled limb added to the panic she’d been trying to hold in check.
“It appears I’m stuck.” Elizabeth replied. She meant it to be humorous, something Michael would say to ease the tension if he were in a situation like this. It didn’t sound half as smart as it would have if Michael said it.
“I can see that.” Kieran replied. He sat down next to her on the step and leaned close, trying to get a closer look at her distorted limb.
Voices came from above, a cacophony of servants chattering excitedly as they emerged from the third floor in various stages of undress. Had she screamed? She didn’t remember it.
“Here we are.” Michael vaulted up the stairs with the cushion Gareth requested.
Gareth was kneeling on the step below her while Chloe sat behind her on the stair above. Kieran sat next to her with his arm about her shoulder. Carefully, the three of them maneuvered Elizabeth’s mangled wrist from the rail and lowered it to the cushioned support Gareth held.
A loud clatter of military boots ricocheted off the walls as someone came down the hallway at a run. Military boots. How she hated that gut wrenching sound. Fletcher’s boots echoed on the bare plank servant’s stairs when he chased her, screaming promises to deliver fresh pain whenever he caught her. Elizabeth dropped her head to her knees and covered it with her good arm as she fought the bitter memories of life in the Mayfair Townhouse.
“I’m here, darlin’.” Donovan�
��s hand draped over her neck. Elizabeth lifted her head from her knees, relieved by his steadying presence as he took Kieran’s place beside her. He’d pulled on his breeches in his haste, arriving at her side with his torso bared, the pitted scars unveiled for all to see. And he was barefoot? Did she image that awful noise of Papa’s boots on the stairs?
She looked up at the throng gathered above. The sound came from the second floor hall. Mr. Marceau moved forward as she watched and paused at the top of the stairs, his meaty hand on the banister and one Hessian boot poised to descend and lend her further assistance.
“Elizabeth!” That flesh chilling voice sliced through her.
She turned to look at the bottom of the stairs. Mama stood there, glaring up at her and pointing to the black and white tile floor beneath her dainty shoes.
“No—go away--leave me alone!” Elizabeth shrieked.
“Shhh! You were dreaming, love.” Donovan’s arms grew firm around her as he pulled her against his scarred chest. “Shock.” He whispered to those beside him.
In defiance of his logic, Mama’s ghost remained a solid form at the bottom of the stairs.
“What is your purpose here?” Kieran inquired, startling everyone with his brusque commanding tone. “Leave this house. You have no business here.”
Gareth, Chloe, Donovan and Michael turned to gape at Kieran. He ignored their baffled looks as he glowered at their mother. His anger melted into horror as he continued to stare at the bottom of the staircase.
Elizabeth turned to see what he found so disturbing. She screamed.
Blood slowly rose from the crack between the tiles, pooling before a pair of satin feet. Mama’s face was grey and her blue lips were formed into an accusing snarl. She kept pointing ominously to the pool of blood blooming at her feet.
“No.” Elizabeth buried her face in Donovan’s neck.
“El Diablo!” Chloe’s voice quivered behind Elizabeth.
She lifted her head from Donovan’s chest. Chloe was staring at the bottom of the stairs.
Gareth turned and looked down and then gasped, as if he, too, could see the pool of dark crimson shimmering in the low candlelight at Mama’s feet.