“That must have been hard for her,” Eleanor agreed, refusing to let him wallow.
“I know.” Then he thought of the proof. “But that ring must stay with her. If it ever was found with us at Turvey House, it would hurt people.”
She nodded her agreement, then cocked her head at him in a way he found utterly enticing. As usual, when he looked at her sweet, upturned mouth, he had to force himself to listen to her words and not merely watch her lips.
“Although, there may come a time,” Eleanor pointed out, as they began to walk back to his mother’s lodging, “when our sons and daughters are older, you may want to tell them who their grandfather was. And by then, it might not hurt anyone. Maybe then, you will claim your ring.”
Grayson drew her arm through his. Up ahead, his mother was standing by her front door, waiting. He waved to her to signal all was well.
“Miss Blackwood, how did a woman of such tender years as yourself become so wise?”
She gave a long sigh. “Mr. O’Connor, I attribute it to many hours of reading Gothic novels.”
Epilogue
“Eleanor!” came Grayson’s voice, loudly and urgently. “Where are you?”
Lightning split the sky in the distance and sizzled the air. She laughed. This was the best place to be in the whole world as she watched the storm clouds roll in.
The hatch to the captain’s walk suddenly snapped open, making Eleanor gasp. Then Grayson’s head appeared, followed by the rest of him.
“I’m here!” she said belatedly, jumping up from where she’d been seated on the roof of their home while peering through the telescope.
“Didn’t you see me arrive?” he asked, taking her in his arms.
“I confess, I was not looking for you but at the sky. The stars were out only minutes ago, and then—” She gestured to the horizon and the massive thunderheads. “All that blew in. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I looked for you in the drawing room and our bedroom. But naturally, since a vicious storm is about to strike, my delightful wife is on the rooftop.”
She giggled, grabbed his face between her hands, and kissed him. When she released him, she asked, “Did you solve the problem?”
Grayson had been called to the main house when the upstairs plumbing was gurgling in the bathtub, just as Maggie’s nanny was trying to bathe Rosie.
Maggie, ready to deliver any day, could not possibly bend down to bathe her daughter which she loved to do, making her already a little cranky. Everyone wanted to keep her happy and calm, even if that meant plumbing work at nighttime.
“I did. Rosie had stuffed her cloth bunny in the drain. Everything is fine now, and when I left, Margaret had her feet in the air to lessen the swelling in her ankles, declaring the baby inside her wanted strawberries and sponge cake. I stayed with Cam for a little while and had a glass of brandy while poor Cook started baking. It’s mayhem, frankly.”
“It will all return to normal after the baby is born,” Eleanor mused as thunder boomed in the distance.
Loud and insistent barking drew her attention to their own small charges.
“I guess the dogs know the storm is nearly upon us.” They’d taken all four of Lord Angsley’s hunting spaniels a month earlier since he rarely hunted anymore, too busy as the queen’s ambassador to Spain, and the dogs were neglected and restless. Eleanor enjoyed walking with them twice a day in any weather and turning them into well-trained pets.
“Let’s go downstairs before they start chewing up the chair legs again,” Grayson suggested.
She laughed. Apparently, he had noticed their dogs weren’t quite so well-trained yet.
Her husband descended the compact circular staircase ahead of her to the landing at the end of their upstairs hallway. Then he turned to make sure she came down safely.
Silly, sweet, dear man! she thought. It was simply a staircase, albeit narrow and winding, but his chivalrous manner of caring for her touched her heart as much as ever.
It had been five months since their country wedding at St. Paul’s Church in Bedford. Five months of evenings spent learning about each other, laughing, stumping each other with ever more difficult riddles, and reading together in the drawing room.
Five months of love and lovemaking, of learning what it meant to be a husband and wife, and enjoying every minute of it.
Mrs. O’Connor had even come to their home for the first time, though she vowed never to set foot in Turvey House. She and Mr. Stanley would be setting up their own home in the upcoming summer, when the butler retired.
Holding hands, Grayson and Eleanor went downstairs. Barking seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, so they spent a few minutes herding the spaniels into the drawing room and settling them on the rug with a bone each.
Grayson poured himself a brandy and Eleanor, a glass of sherry, which she preferred. They ran a small household, with a part-time cook for evening meals, and only two maids to help out. She adored everything about her life, especially their evenings.
Their drawing room was more like a library. Naturally, after marriage, she brought her books to nestle on the shelves with those Grayson already had. Moreover, her family had given them volumes as wedding presents, including a Shakespeare collection from her Scottish cousin Maisie and some pirate stories from Beryl and Philip. More books seemed to arrive weekly.
Nearly every night, they read together, often aloud, sharing stories or silently seated side by side, each with their own interest. Tonight, Eleanor had a surprise for her husband, a secret she’d been keeping for a month.
“May I read you something tonight?” she asked him when he sat down on the sofa next to her.
“I am nearly at the end of The Last of the Mohicans. It’s rather gripping,” he said, and she thought he might turn her down. “But I would rather listen to you read Cook’s shopping list simply for the pleasure of hearing your voice.”
Shaking her head at his obscene flattery, Eleanor rose once more and went to the shelf where she’d left a leather sheath filled with paper. Then she resumed her place beside him.
“What is this?” he asked, leaning close.
Just then, lightning flared outside their paned windows and thunder rocked their house, sending shivers down her spine and causing the dogs to start nervously barking again.
She hugged the pages to her chest. “Sit back,” she ordered her husband, waiting until he had done so. “Quiet!” she commanded the spaniels, who miraculously obeyed.
“I shall read you the title—The Widow’s Walk.”
“Never heard of it,” Grayson said. “Who wrote it?”
Taking a deep breath, she looked up, her gaze locking with his. “Edgar Blackwood.”
He frowned, and then, slowly, a smile spread upon his face. “You are looking particularly lovely tonight, Edgar.”
She giggled, feeling nervous at sharing her work-in-progress.
“It’s a Gothic novel,” she confessed. “With the title being a play on words of our roof walk as well as meaning some creepy widows walking. People will have to read it to find out. Of course, most of the women are dressed all in black and are rather a scary crew. And our heroine, Isabella, is hoping not to become one of them by saving her husband who is incarcerated for piracy and who might hang. If she can locate the true pirate’s treasure, she will have proof of his innocence.”
“That’s wonderful,” he enthused. “You are wonderful.”
“I haven’t figured it all out yet. I only had the germ of an idea about a month ago. This is just the first few chapters.”
“You have the patience and intelligence and love of story to be an excellent writer. I have no doubt. And you can even illustrate your own book.”
She shrugged. “I hadn’t considered that far ahead. I simply thought since I have now lived a Gothic adventure, thanks to you, I could write one, too. Or maybe a few of them. I seem to be filled with ideas.”
He leaned close again and whispered against her ear, “I want to k
iss you and then take you upstairs early.”
His confession left her momentarily speechless, while anticipation trickled through her. When his lips touched the skin at her neck, she tingled all over, and her breath escaped in a sigh of pleasure.
“In fact, I want to make ardent love to you, Edgar,” Grayson added, and Eleanor began to laugh until tears came to her eyes.
After she’d gathered herself, he said, “But first, dear wife, read to me.”
He leaned his head back against the sofa, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes. “Read me your story.”
About the Author
Sydney Jane Baily writes historical romance set in Victorian England, late 19th-century America, the Middle Ages, the Georgian era, and the Regency period. She believes in happily-ever-after stories for an already-challenging world.
Born and raised in California, she has traveled the world, spending a lot of exceedingly happy time in the U.K. where her extended family resides, eating fish and chips, drinking shandys, and snacking on Maltesers and Cadbury bars.
After obtaining degrees in English literature and in history, besides writing novels, she has spent time as a copyeditor, cat snuggler, website designer, book production editor, mother of two, and faithful friend to her dog, among other endeavors both literary and not.
Sydney currently lives in New England with her family—human, canine, and feline.
You can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter (and get a free book), and contact her via her website at SydneyJaneBaily.com.
Connect with Sydney on Facebook or on Twitter.
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Raven
Violetta Rand
Chapter One
The cold October gales shrieked across the sea, reaching the manor house within which the eighth earl of Darkmoor lived—or some would say barely existed—five years after the disappearance of his dearest joy, his future wife, Lady Raven Winthrop, the daughter of the Duke of Everly.
The night she went missing brought back vivid memories. As if the lady stood before him in the flesh—her crystal, blue eyes focused on him, her black hair, reaching the small of her back, unbound and wavy, lifting in the breeze to show off her delicate, pale skin, and proud shoulders in the crimson gown she had worn the night they were to formally announce their engagement.
The northlands of England, the famed moors of legend, were a nightmare to some, frightening them. But not to the noble inhabitants of the rich and vast lands. These people, his people, were tireless and loyal, hard-working and prosperous. Their children survived the cold winters and thrived in the short summer months. Twas a fair trade for inhabiting a long-cursed place. The ancient Vikings who had invaded and subdued his ancestors had long since died off—leaving behind a mixed bloodline and traditions as old as time.
He braced himself on the iron railing that ran the length of the balcony overlooking the lake below his study. He gripped the railing so hard, his fingers went numb. The sun would set soon, and it was then his mind would play games with him, never letting him forget her countenance, her smile, and tinkling laughter that had promised to bring light into his world.
Their world…
How much easier it would be to endure, one foot firmly planted in the world of the living, the other in the realm of the near-dead, those whose souls had no purpose to keep going but had no choice but to draw air every day. Yet he must hold on, for he had a younger brother and sister to think of, and he would not have them suffer as he did.
He sucked in a deep breath, picturing his beloved Raven, hungering for whatever part of her still haunted his mind and heart, and every stone of his manor. As he turned, a light knock sounded at the door.
He sighed, unhappy with the intrusion. “Come.”
The double doors flew open, and his golden-haired sister, Valerie, ran to him, arms open wide. “James,” she said with genuine affection. “Why were you not at dinner?”
He returned her embrace and smiled into her soft hair. “Need I explain every year, sweet girl?” At fifteen, his sister looked more and more like their dearly departed mother every day. “Tis the night…”
She drew back from him, gazing up at her beloved brother. “Raven…”
“Do not speak her name aloud,” he said, looking about the dark room. “If we utter her name…”
“She holds no power here, James. No ability to make you suffer. If you’d only let her go.”
James released her and stepped away, staring out the open doors again, breathing in the thick, salt air. “Can the sky let go of the sun? The night set free the moon to go on her merry way? The stars descend upon the earth and do as they please?”
Valerie had understood from a very young age what tragic loss meant, for their parents had died in a carriage accident. “No,” she admitted. “But those things could never happen. You see the world through the sad eyes of a poet, not the proud and powerful lord you were born to be.”
“There is a fine line between reality and dreams. Love and hate. Life and death.”
“No.” She closed the distance between them, taking his hand firmly. “You are the master of your fate, dear brother. Capable of banishing Lady Raven from your life. Take hold of what is in front of you. Me and Edward, your sister and brother. Our dear Aunt Mitty. And Lauren, the woman who wishes to marry you.”
He swung about then, incapable of loving another, of imagining what it would be like to take a wife other than Raven, his Raven. “Lady Lauren must never come here again.”
“But she is a suitable wife for you. And we can go back to London and enjoy our friends again.”
“No.”
“James, please.”
He could hardly resist her pleading tone, but London held no interest to him. And he would not waste his time and energy thinking about that stifling place. “Do you not love our home? The wide, open space? The moors? Our people?”
“I do,” she said without hesitation. “But we have been out of mourning for years, and I am no longer a child.”
“No.” He faced her and tilted her chin up, admiring her pretty features. “You are truly a lady. And in need of a husband soon, I think.”
She frowned. “Are you in such a hurry to be rid of me?”
“No. Only to find a way to let you live again. It was never my intention to keep you here, to make you miserable.”
“When you are happy, I am happy, Brother.”
Their brother came into the study then. “What has happened?”
James gazed at him. When had he become so tall and handsome? His younger sibling was near eighteen now—a man in his own right.
“Nothing,” Valerie said. “It’s only…”
“The anniversary.” Edward acknowledged the importance of the day with a look of sympathy. “I try to put it out of my mind. What can I do to help?”
James shrugged. Every year it was the same, as the date drew near, he withdrew little by little, hiding in his study, drinking more, silent and brooding, and always wishing for an answer—what had happened to his Raven? For she had simply vanished.
“I know,” Valerie said with forced joy. “Let us spend the evening together in the drawing room. I will play the pianoforte and sing while you and Edward play chess.”
“And the servants can even join us,” Edward offered. “Let us celebrate having each other.”
Twas the kindest offer—more than he could have expected from them. They had their own lives to live now, studies to undertake, friendships to build, and family to love. But not James. He simply waited, for what he did not know, but he waited nonetheless.
The wind picked up and blew through the open doors, sending a stack of papers from his desk to the floor. Even the flames in the hearth faltered. Was the coming nighttime trying to tell James something?
“Thank you,” he said as he scooped the missives from the carpet. “Go and do what pleases you most. I am contented to stay here and contemplate my life
, what future I have.”
Both his sister and brother hugged him, silently pleading for him to change his mind. But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. For this evening—he eyed the bottles of fine wine and Scottish whiskey on the table near the sofa—he would drink and then sleep heavily. And hopefully, by some miracle, dream of her.
Chapter Two
An hour later, as he had just finished half the bottle of wine and stretched with contentment, another knock at the door destroyed his peace. He sucked in an intolerant breath, ready to harshly chastise whoever dared disturb him again. Of course, there was one exception, and she peeked in at him—Valerie.
“James,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Of course.” He glanced at the mantle clock. “Tis only nine o’clock. What brings you back to my study so soon?”
“A nagging feeling,” she said, slipping inside uninvited.
“About what?”
She gazed out the open French doors, the breeze having eased off some. “Why do you sit alone in the dark every night? Why do you breathe in the chill? It could bring about your end.”
He leaned forward in the chair, taking in the vision of his lovely sister. He’d been a neglectful guardian and an even worse brother. Her sweetness reminded him of his Raven sometimes, her innocence and desire to make him happy. As if they had been born for one purpose, to see to his comfort.
“I was raised alongside the great sea,” he reminded her. “Practically born in the water. The salt air invigorates me, Valerie. You need not worry about me.”
“No?” She stood before him, so slight in size, yet so bold. She caressed his cheek affectionately. “I worry that one of these nights…” Her tender voice trailed off, her eyes drawn to the doors again.
“Yes?”
“Please, James, let us leave this place for a while. We could go to France. Italy. Even America.”
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 71