Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie's Curse

by Deb Marlowe

  “I see.” And she did. She saw the bench right through his swinging legs. She swallowed, remembering Marjorie’s talk of ghosts. But oddly enough, he didn’t frighten her. “What is your name?”

  “Paul. What’s yours?”

  “Tamsyn.”

  “It’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.” She let her gaze wander back towards the castle walls. “You’re Paul Hambly, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” He sat quietly for a moment, before leaning in to look at her face. Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “You look . . . upset.”

  “I . . . I feel a little strange.” It was her first encounter with a ghost after all. “This is a strange place, isn’t it?”

  He sighed. “Yes. A lot of people say so. But Cornwall is full of different tales.”

  She knew that to be true. Even back in Truro they had a haunted inn and her mother’s physician swore that the ghostly figure of a woman carrying a baby appeared to him every time he entered a certain house.

  “Tamsyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you afraid of new things?”

  She thought of her resistance to the move to this place, of her odd reticence when her sisters talked excitedly of going to London for the Season. “Sometimes.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe you’ll remember something for me?”

  She nodded.

  “Many strange things do go on here—but they are not all bad.”

  She was touched by his earnest expression, dazed by the very fact of their conversation. She glanced back at the castle again. “I’ll try to remember.”

  She turned to smile at him—but he was gone.

  He’d tried. Truly he had. But his plan for an early morning visit—and escape—from Castle Keyvnor had been thwarted by a note asking him to postpone until the afternoon. Even then, he’d been forced to cool his heels in the library while Hunt met with some London clerks. And now that they’d finally got down to business, it was taking a lifetime for Hunt and Drake to consult maps and make copies.

  Gryff answered questions, paced and hoped he wouldn’t run into any of the earl’s daughters while he was here. Not that they were not nice girls. They were, with gracious manners and pleasing natures. And not because he hadn’t noticed how elegantly Tamsyn had grown up, with new and lovely angles in her face to go with that pointed chin and new, delicious curves to tempt a man’s hands.

  Because he had. Oh, hell yes, he had noticed.

  But they were all young ladies of the peerage now. Tamsyn was now Lady Tamsyn. As daughters of an earl they would find similarly noble and likely elegant husbands in London, and have even less use for brawny, mere misters from the Cornish backcountry.

  What did it matter, in any event? He was not in the petticoat line. All he wanted was to make it safely out of here and home. Once there he just might go into early hibernation. By next spring the ladies would be off to London and it would be safe to leave Lancarrow.

  Behind him, Drake sighed and set down his pen. “There. That’s all of it. Thank you for your patience, Cardew.”

  Gryff nodded.

  “I hope you’ll find the wait worth it,” the solicitor said, as he folded papers neatly into a file. “For the job’s nearly done. All I need is Lord Banfield’s signature and the land will be yours once more.”

  “And now we’ll have copies of the papers once again, our own record of both transfers.” Drake sounded relieved.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Gryff was relieved. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why you are so eager to get that parcel back?” Hunt asked. “It’s small enough, with naught but a closed quarry and a bit of timber.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve plans to open that quarry. Must keep the crop of young tenant lads busy, you know. But mostly I want it back due to a matter of long-standing family tradition.”

  “Well, there’s no arguing with that.” Hunt grinned. “And if anyone knows it, it’s a solicitor. What is mere law against the way it’s always been done?” he asked ironically.

  “I wouldn’t like your chances against my aunt,” Gryff laughed. “She’s one for the old ways, as are many people on this swath of the coast. In any case, I will be looking for a quarry manager, if you know of someone you’d like to recommend?” Gryff asked.

  “Not my line, I’m afraid, but I wish you luck.” Hunt offered his hand.

  Gryff shook it and took possession of his papers. “I’ve seen the number of guests you have on hand,” he said to Drake. “I’d just as soon avoid the delay of social introductions. If you don’t mind, I’ll go out at the back and exit out the terrace doors.”

  “Are you sure?” Drake asked. “There are some lovely ladies—”

  “I’m sure.” Gryff clapped the steward on the back. “But I appreciate your interest.”

  “Well then, have a drink with the pair of us before you start back.”

  Gryff tried to demure, but Drake insisted, and in the end he had to admit that the earl kept a fine brandy. He would make his escape in a moment. He’d been through the house with his father and the old earl a number of times. He knew how to slink out without being seen.

  “Here’s to family traditions.” Hunt raised his glass.

  “And lovely ladies,” Drake added.

  Gryff laughed and drank.

  She’d tried. Truly, she had. She’d tried to heed young Paul—taking advice from a spirit!—and be open and accepting to . . . whatever this thing was that was happening to her.

  She’d worried at breakfast when her father assured her that he was adjusting well to the burden of his new duties, even though he’d conjured an image of himself swimming against a raging river current.

  “At least you are holding steady,” she’d ventured. “I’m sure you’ll be making headway soon.”

  He’d brightened. “Yes. Thank you, Tamsyn.”

  He’d gone off with a smile, so she’d ventured to hope that Paul had been right and all would be well.

  She’d flinched a little when first the butler and later a footman spoke to her, pleasantly enough, but projecting images of the things they’d rather be doing—fishing and frolicking in the servant’s hall, respectively.

  And she smiled now, meeting Lord Ashbrooke before dinner in her mother’s newly appropriated parlor. He said everything pleasing, and paid her sisters some very pretty compliments, but clearly his mind was only on Lady Claire Deering. The girl was here attending the reading of the will with her father, but it looked like, if Lord Ashbrooke had his way, she’d also soon be thoroughly kissed in the garden.

  The crowd in the room grew, and Tamsyn started to be a little overwhelmed with the discord between what was being said and what was being shown to her. She retreated to the back of the room, turned her back on the guests and concentrated on the artwork on the walls.

  Not such a hardship, as it were, for there were some beautiful pieces, in different mediums. Some looked incredibly old and she suspected were valuable indeed.

  “Morris?” She beckoned the butler as he finished speaking into her mother’s ear. “Will you tell me about these?”

  “Ah, yes.” The butler approached and puffed up, clearly proud. “The previous earl’s father was a collector of art—and he especially loved art that featured the local area. This is a collection of some of his favorite work.”

  “This looks quite ancient.” Tamsyn gestured toward a carved ivory piece.

  “It is reputed to be from the time of the Domesday Book, my lady. Ancient and very rare, too.”

  “What is the subject?” It was a stylized relief, curved and weathered. It appeared to represent a priest, presenting a token to a young boy.

  “It is a depiction of a local legend, Lady Tamsyn.”

  No stray images had formed over Morris’s head while he spoke, so she ventured to ask, “Will you tell me of it?”

  “I may not be as familiar with the tale as others, but I understand it concerns
a child named Grindan. He was a miner boy who was thought lost in a collapse. But for three days birds gathered at the mouth of the mine, birds of every sort, just hovering and waiting and making a racket and refusing to leave. Someone took it as a sign that the boy might yet be alive and a party was sent down to search for him—and he was found. The local priest said it was God’s work and presented him with a brooch, as is shown here.”

  The brooch was gorgeously rendered in the carving, a round piece, intricate with Celtic designs and with a raised hawk’s head in the middle.

  “Is it known what happened to the boy?”

  Morris shrugged. “There are different accounts. Some say that the knockers got to him while he was down there and he was never quite right afterwards.”

  “Knockers?”

  “Pixies, my lady. Sprites who live in the mines and knock to warn the men of danger.”

  “Oh.”

  “Most tales agree that he left town and made his fortune, only to come back and become one of the wealthy local landowners. His family flourished here for generations, although I think they’ve died out now.”

  “Thank you, Morris.” She regarded the collection thoughtfully. “This part of the country is truly full of strange tales, is it not?”

  “Yes, my lady. Strange and wonderful, to many of us.”

  She wondered, would someone sometime speak of the earl’s daughter who saw visions?

  He slid away and Tamsyn breathed deeply, collected herself and turned back to the gathered guests.

  She eased into a small group containing her sisters Rose and Gwyn. Their chatter kept the mood light and she began to relax—until she felt something . . .wrong. She glanced about. This—this was not a small untruth, but something else altogether—and it was coming closer.

  She was watching the doorway when a man wandered into the pre-dinner gathering and Tamsyn gasped out loud. Her father greeted him and began to introduce him about. Mr. Lucien de Roye was suave and utterly handsome—but something else hung over him like a shroud. A dark, menacing presence—and it knew at once that Tamsyn had spotted it. It leered, swirling larger and darker and grinning while it beckoned her with tendrils of smoke.

  “I . . . I . . . Excuse me.” She retreated and took a step over to her mother, her eyes locked on the glowing pair that followed her movements.

  Oh heavens, they were drawing nearer.

  “Mama? Mama . . . I . . .”

  “Tamsyn, dear, are you all right? You are as white as a sheet.”

  “I can’t. I must go . . . I’m sorry!”

  She fled, terrified of the horrible creature attached to Mr. de Roye—and of her strange new affliction. Shaking, she ran blindly until she reached an intersection—and collided with a tall, sturdy form.

  Gryff! She knew him at once and instinctively reached out—but then she gasped and covered her eyes. Whatever it was that he hid from the world—she had no wish to see it.

  “Tamsyn? What is it? What’s wrong?” He grabbed her shoulders. She burrowed close and buried her face in his chest. She couldn’t get those burning eyes out of her head.

  “What is it?” She could feel him turning slightly to scan the corridors. “What’s frightened you?”

  “I don’t know! It is this place! It’s done something to me. Something is wrong with me.” She couldn’t keep from peering back the way she’d come.

  “Hell and damnation, you are trembling.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She started to cry, and to blubber about fishing and kissing and monsters and seeing things that weren’t there.

  “Here now,” he said soothingly. “Is that all? Don’t you worry. Everything will be fine.”

  Frowning, she blinked as she looked up at him. “Say that again,” she demanded.

  His mouth twitched. “You’ll be fine.”

  No image bubbled into existence between them.

  It meant something. It had to.

  “Come.” He urged her toward a door. “Let’s go outside and get to the bottom of this.”

  His touch was gentle as he led her onto a stone terrace and toward a bench near the balustrade. She sat, and he perched next to her. Gradually, the shaking subsided. She felt safe, so close to his large, warm frame. Almost cherished.

  “Now.” He enveloped both of her hands in his. “Tell me slowly, what has upset you?”

  She stared up at his rugged, handsome face. Could she tell him? She felt the calluses on his hands, recalled the broad firmness of his chest—and saw the concern in his eyes.

  She sucked in a breath and told him everything.

  He listened without interrupting, letting her pour it all out. All of her worry and fear came with it. But when she finished, he merely nodded.

  “Well?” she asked quietly. “Do you think I am going mad?”

  “No.”

  Her gaze jumped upwards, but no image appeared.

  “I think you’ve got a touch of the Sight.”

  “The Sight?” She frowned.

  “That’s what it sounds like. One of my old aunts has it. She can tell if a babe will be a boy or a girl, or if a couple will be happy in marriage. But yours is a truth gauge, isn’t it?” He laughed. “I can see you looking up to see if it will show you something different than what I’m saying.”

  “Yes. That’s it. A truth gauge,” she said wonderingly. She shivered. “But why? Why me? And why now?”

  He shrugged. “And why only men? Every instance you’ve described has been associated with a man. Are there others?”

  “No. I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this!” She smacked the stone bench with her hand, then shook it when it stung. “I never asked for any of this!”

  “Who would? But you’ll learn to live with it.”

  “I don’t want to!” she protested.

  He merely waited.

  She let her anger deflate. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually act like a petulant child.”

  He glanced obviously over her head and she laughed—then noticed the deepening shadows. “I’m so sorry to keep you out here. Had you come for dinner? I’m afraid we’ve likely missed it.”

  “No. I was here on business and on my way home.”

  She shouldn’t pry, but neither was she ready to let him go.

  “Business?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated, but went on. “Perhaps this will make you feel a bit better . . .” He told her the story of the small parcel of land passing between their two families—and about his own family’s traditions about the pixies.

  “The butler just mentioned the pixies too. And your family truly believes they bring them luck?”

  “My aunt still leaves a thimble of milk for them on her window sill in the evening,” he confided.

  “Then why would your father sell the land?”

  “A good question—one I asked myself.” He paused. “Perhaps the answer will help show you the way of things out here.”

  She raised a brow.

  “My father sold the land to old Lord Banfield because Maevis Grayson advised him to do so.”

  “Who is that?”

  “She lives in the village, an older woman—and she’s reputed to be the head of the local coven.”

  Tamsyn’s mouth dropped. “Coven? As in . . . witches?”

  “Yes. She came to him and said danger was looming. A tragedy. And the loss of the pixies and their blessings, if something drastic was not done.”

  “And he sold the land based on that warning?”

  “He did. Granted, it was a temporary sale, but I didn’t understand either. Later, though, I was extremely thankful that he’d done it.”

  “Why?”

  “A man came into the area. A dandy, wealthy and said to be a favorite with the Prince of Wales and his set. My father met him in the village and found him to be a man of knowledge and manners. The stranger even gave him some good advice on some issue with our tin mine. Father had him and some others to dinner one night and they turned to cards
as the evening wore on.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was deemed too young to play, but I watched from the shadows. And I saw that Rowancourt had some odd sort of influence on the others. He would make the most outlandish predictions of which way the play might go—and it would. The others didn’t seem to notice or care. When my father had played his fill—and lost quite a bit—he tried to quit. Rowancourt would not let him. He pushed and wheedled my father to continue—and said he’d even take a worthless bit of land as a stake.”

  “The land with the pixies’ barrow?”

  “Yes. He pressed relentlessly. I could see my father struggling, in some way. He kept telling the man it wasn’t possible, but the stranger refused to listen. He suggested they all walk out there, in the dark, for a lark. My father tried to object. It almost looked as if he struggled for breath. He kept insisting that he couldn’t offer the land and Rowancourt just stared daggers at him as he grew red and obviously distressed. Finally, I could take no more. I stood and shouted that the land wasn’t ours anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “The stranger stood, shouted a curse and threw his cards. My father slumped. We all ducked and covered our heads. It was as if a thousand decks were flying about the room at once. And then Rowancourt strode out—and we never saw him again.”

  “Goodness!” She rubbed her brow and he gathered her in close. What a comfort it was, to be drawn into the protective circle of his arm. “I think I’ve had my fill of peculiar events and stories.”

  His hand slid along her arm in a slow caress. “Ah, yes, but you are in Cornwall now, land of mystery. Perhaps the development of this new skill of yours is merely to show that you are one of us.”

  She shuddered at the notion. “I’ve no wish to be one of you, then!”

  He stiffened and the gentle warmth drained from his expression.

  She looked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it emerged. Forgive me?” She held on to him, giving no chance to retreat. She’d brought that flat affect back to his face and she couldn’t bear it.

  She took a deep breath. “I was wild with curiosity on that day, so long ago. And even now . . . I remember, the pixie’s barrow . . . where they dance in the moonlight.”