A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  “What’s an eye-biter?” I asked.

  “An eye-biter is . . .” Gage paused to consider his words, almost as if he didn’t want to say them. “Well, she’s a witch who enchants men with her eyes.”

  The base of my spine tingled. “A witch?”

  He looked uncertainly at his cousin. “Yes.”

  The use of that word always alarmed me, for I’d been tarred with the same brush by those who saw my enforced involvement with my late husband’s anatomy work as proof that I was unnatural. They’d made up all sorts of appalling rumors to support this belief, even going so far as to accuse me of being a siren, a murderer, and a cannibal. So I was always wary when the term was bandied about without any further proof whatsoever of its veracity.

  That being said, I did have Scottish blood flowing through my veins. As such, I wasn’t quick to dismiss the existence of superstitious things. After all, I’d encountered my fair share of strange phenomena I couldn’t easily explain—second sight, ghostly apparitions, unsettling curses. However, the intensely logical side of myself found it difficult to wholeheartedly accept any of it as truth. There was always room for doubt.

  Gage, on the other hand, had rarely wavered in his belief that such occurrences had a rational explanation. Perhaps one we simply could not yet deduce or understand. Which was why I found it so intriguing that he didn’t immediately contradict his cousin’s assertion about Lorna Galloway. Though his reply was not without a hint of skepticism.

  “And you think she’s . . . bewitched Alfred?”

  At this Rory seemed to soften his disdain, for he shrugged. “I know he’s visited her several times in the past few months.” He leaned forward in his chair. “And Mother claims he’s been drinking some sort of tincture Miss Galloway gave him.”

  “I assume you’re suggesting this tincture is connected to his stomach complaint,” I asked when Gage didn’t speak up, but instead silently studied his cousin.

  “Can you tell me that’s not suspicious?” Rory challenged.

  “I would say it’s interesting, but until we know what was in that tincture and when exactly he started ingesting it, I wouldn’t care to speculate.”

  Rory’s eyes hardened and I could tell he wanted to make an angry retort, but he merely jerked his head in confirmation.

  In truth, I did find the fact that Alfred was taking some sort of remedy from Lorna Galloway highly suggestive, but not necessarily for the reasons Rory did. Had Alfred sought out Miss Galloway specifically for the tonic, and if so, why? Had he been suffering from his stomach complaint much longer than we realized? Or was some sort of other illness plaguing him?

  “Did Alfred keep the tincture in his chamber?” Gage asked.

  Rory shrugged. “I assume.”

  “Then we’ll have to search his rooms for it. I suppose a visit to this Miss Galloway is also in order.” He slid forward in his chair, preparing to rise. “After we speak with those in the village and surrounding farms about these Swing letters.”

  A soft creak issued from the direction of the doorway, but when I glanced behind me, no one entered. I turned back around to find both men watching me. “I thought I heard something.”

  “It’s an old house,” Rory replied, as if that were explanation enough. But he cleared his throat as Gage pushed to his feet. “You might want to speak to Grandfather before you go to the village.”

  “To tell him about the Swing letters? I intend to.”

  “Well, yes, and . . .” He grimaced. “I’ll let him explain. Just . . . don’t go anywhere without speaking to him first.”

  Gage and I shared a look of mutual exasperation. What else had they been keeping from us?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “What do you mean most of the villagers don’t know Alfred’s missing?” Gage’s voice snapped with restrained ferocity. A ferocity I couldn’t blame him for. I also felt it itching along my skin.

  Lord Tavistock scowled up at his grandson from his bed. Even though the evening light filtering through the windows should have been kinder to his appearance, he looked worse than he had that morning. Dark circles ringed his eyes as he struggled to remain upright even with the support of his mound of pillows. But the stubborn man wouldn’t recline further. He was determined to face us on as equal a footing as he could manage.

  “Discretion was called for.” His throat rattled with congestion. “The situation is delicate. I couldn’t have the Duke of Bedford finding out before I knew what had happened. Otherwise he might withdraw his permission for Alfred to court his daughter. And if the worst should come to pass, forbid Rory from paying court in the future. So I instructed the men to be circumspect in their search.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure that approach yielded adequate results,” Gage sneered, turning to pace up and down the length of the bed.

  “I’m sure their search was thorough. Probably saved us a lot of unnecessary trouble by not having every commoner from here to Yelverton knocking on the door to offer up one made-up story after another in exchange for a reward.”

  Gage paused in his pacing and joined me to glare down at his grandfather in disapproving disbelief. Did he wish to find his grandson or not?

  Had one of my loved ones gone missing, I would have scoured the earth for them, left no stone unturned to find them, especially if their safety were in question. But Lord Tavistock continued to give conflicting information. One moment he was certain something bad had befallen Alfred—even going so far as to suggest it had been foul play—and the next he was telling us not to ask questions in the village. Not yet.

  If I was frustrated by his fickle, contradictory behavior, Gage must have been beyond exasperated.

  “Are you expecting him to just come strolling up the lane?” he demanded.

  “No! I expect you to find him.” His grandfather stabbed a finger up at him. “Without a lot of fuss.” He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth, trying to stifle the cough that rattled up from his chest.

  The hoarse sound of it alarmed me. When I flicked a glance at Gage standing next to him, his face seemed to close in on itself, wiping away all trace of emotion.

  “That’s why you asked me here to investigate, isn’t it?” he asked once his grandfather’s coughing subsided. “Your chief concern was discretion. And by asking me, a family member, to handle the matter, you believed you would get it.”

  He spoke with indifference, as if the truth didn’t greatly concern him, but I could sense the roiling sentiments beneath the surface. I knew how much such a realization must cut him.

  His grandfather didn’t know him as well as I did, so he could not know the pain he caused. Or perhaps he did and didn’t care. Either way, his only response was a cold stare.

  To break the standoff, I stepped closer to the foot of the bed. “So I take it no one has spoken to Lady Juliana about the matter?”

  Lord Tavistock turned to me in annoyance. “No.”

  I considered the viscount. His body appeared to be shriveling before our very eyes, sinking into the mattress. And yet his eyes gleamed like two silver daggers, resolved to exert his will, whatever the cost.

  “Would Lady Juliana know anything about all of this?” After everything we’d learned, I found it difficult to believe Alfred had shared more than pleasantries with her.

  “How should I know that?” Lord Tavistock replied defensively, perhaps unwittingly providing an answer to my question.

  “Somehow I don’t think Alfred was as keen to marry Lady Juliana as you’ve led us to believe.”

  He lifted his chin, attempting to stare down his nose at me. “The boy will do as he’s told.”

  Gage’s mouth quirked derisively, telling me that was doubtful. “Is that what you and Alfred argued over? Was he refusing to marry the Duke of Bedford’s daughter?”

  His fists clenched where they rested over the counterpane as he
bit out his next words. “He had some misguided notions I had to correct him over.” Then suddenly the tension in his body released and his face paled as he sank deeper into the pillows. “I don’t wish to talk about this anymore.” He closed his eyes. “It has no bearing on the matter at hand anyway.” He blinked open his eyes to look at Gage for a brief second before shutting them again. “Just find Alfred.”

  I wasn’t so certain his impending engagement to Lady Juliana was unrelated to what had happened to Alfred, and I could tell Lord Tavistock wasn’t either, but it was pointless to pursue the matter now. Not when he could barely open his eyes. Our conversation had fatigued his already exhausted body. He needed to rest.

  Gage followed me from the room, but when I would have turned left to return to our chambers, he grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me to the right instead.

  “Where are we going?” I gasped as we hurried around several corners.

  “To search Alfred’s room.”

  “Are we racing someone?”

  He slowed his steps. “My apologies.” His voice was stilted with residual anger. Seeing his grandfather in such a weakened state palpably upset him, but it was easier to be irate. Less complicated.

  “I’m as eager as you are to find out if any of the tincture Rory mentioned is in Alfred’s chamber, but shouldn’t we be dressing for dinner?”

  “I can’t stomach the idea of eating dinner with Aunt Vanessa and Rory just now. We’ll have trays sent up. Do you mind?” he asked almost as an afterthought.

  “Of course not.” As if dining alone with my husband was any hardship. After all of our travel and this day’s rushing about, I would have quite happily secluded myself in my chamber with naught but Gage for company for an entire week. But given our current investigation, I would take what I could get.

  In truth, much of the urgency of our quest had drained from the situation. Alfred had already been missing for nearly a fortnight, so any trail he had left behind had already grown cold. Combined with the fact that his family, many of the key players in this melodrama, were being less than forthcoming about all they knew, it was impossible not to notice that our inquiry was hopelessly stagnant. One night away from our hosts could not harm our progress any more than their deception was already doing.

  We veered down a corridor heavily cloaked in shadows and stumbled to a stop. Even the sconces in this part of the manor were not lit.

  Gage backed up a step. “Stay here.” Retracing our path, he picked up two candlesticks sitting on one of the tables. Then he reached up to light their wicks from the flickering flame of the last wall sconce left burning. Returning to me, he passed me one of the candles and took my hand to guide me down the passage.

  The air here seemed cooler than in the other part of the manor. Perhaps because it felt uninhabited, almost forgotten. And yet Alfred’s bedchamber was here.

  Unless Gage was wrong. Maybe his cousin had switched rooms in the years since Gage last visited.

  I opened my mouth to question him when something fluttered in the corner of my eye. Something pale and gossamer. My heart climbed into my throat and my steps faltered.

  “What is it?” Gage asked as I forced myself to look behind me.

  There was nothing there.

  “What?” he reiterated.

  “Nothing. I . . . I just thought I saw something, but I . . . must have imagined it,” I replied haltingly. But even as I spoke the words I felt a chill across the back of my neck. It trailed downward, as if someone had stroked a finger along my spine.

  “It’s probably just the ghosts.”

  “Ghosts,” I squeaked.

  “Be calm,” he chided gently, pulling me forward. “I was joking.”

  I swallowed. “Oh.”

  We halted before a door and he frowned. “My cousins used to try to tell me the manor was haunted. They swore a gray lady and a man named Stephen roamed the corridors. Stephen? Really?” he scoffed. “You’d think they could have been more subtle.”

  Given the fact that Gage’s father’s name was Stephen, and since he had been away at war fighting on a Royal Navy vessel so they never knew from one day to the next where he was, I thought it particularly cruel. “They claimed it was your father?”

  “They never went so far as to do that. But they implied it.” His brow furrowed. “Though Rory told me once he supposed it was actually the spirit of the Stephen who has a grave marker at a crossroads on the moor near White Tor.”

  Before I could ask why that Stephen was buried there, Gage pushed open the door to the bedchamber. The scents of sweat, cologne, and traces of smoke wafted toward us, confirming that this room was indeed still inhabited. But one step deeper into the chamber also told us that in Alfred’s absence it had not gone undisturbed.

  In the gloom, I might have mistaken the mess for simple untidiness, except that it seemed apparent someone had been searching for something, and recently. Drawers hung open, their contents rifled. The doors of the wardrobe gaped, the clothes hanging inside having received similar treatment. No self-respecting valet would have left his employer’s garments in such disarray, and from what Anderley had told me, I gleaned that Alfred’s valet was even more fastidious than most.

  I turned to ask what Gage made of the matter, and was surprised to see that he’d expected this. His eyes registered no shock, only weary acceptance.

  “How did you know we would find Alfred’s room like this?”

  He leaned down to pick up a book that had fallen to the floor. “Because I fear our presence has set something in motion rather than bringing it to an end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head resignedly. “I’m not sure how to explain it, except . . .” His gaze lifted to meet mine. “No one was looking very hard for Alfred before our arrival. Not even Grandfather. Not truly.”

  “And yet he urgently sent for you,” I murmured, trying to follow his line of thought.

  “Yes, he sent for me, and then proceeded to hamper our search with half-truths and omissions. He told us he’s concerned Alfred may have met with foul play, but he doesn’t want us to ask too many questions. It doesn’t add up.”

  I hesitated to ask the question that needed to be asked, knowing it would cause pain, but it had to be addressed. “Do you think your grandfather’s illness might have . . . compromised his faculties in some way?”

  He set the book carefully on the nightstand and lit another candle as he considered my query. “I don’t know,” he reluctantly admitted. “It’s possible. He certainly wouldn’t want to admit it if that were true.” His jaw hardened. “On the other hand, he seems perfectly capable of refuting or dodging only the questions he doesn’t wish to answer.”

  “True,” I murmured, crossing to the dressing table, where a few bottles were arranged on a silver tray. Either the person who had been here before us had taken greater care not to disturb their placement, or whatever they’d been looking for would not be found in liquid form. I glanced cursorily through the labels, finding nothing out of the ordinary—cologne, pomade, ointment.

  Gage opened and closed drawers behind me while I sifted through the contents of the dressing table, finding nothing of interest. Leaving my candle on the table, I moved on to the wardrobe and flicked through the array of clothing, checking the pockets of the coats. I was about halfway through my search when I paused to wonder if there was any way to tell whether there were garments missing. Alfred’s valet would know. But would he tell us?

  “I assume this is the tincture Rory mentioned,” Gage said.

  I joined him on the opposite side of the bed, taking the bottle he cradled from his hands. It was nearly empty and filled with a muddy brown liquid. I tilted it closer to the light of his candle, trying to analyze its contents.

  “There’s also this.” His hand reached into the top drawer of the second nightstand and extract
ed a bundle of plants, roots and all, tied together with a white string. Now wilted and withered, some of the once-green stems sported tiny flowers while others supported a bristling seed head.

  “What is it?”

  “Herb bennet. It grows in the hedgerows all throughout Dartmoor.” He brushed his finger over one of the dead heads. “And these little burs stick to everything. Including little boys’ clothes.”

  I smiled at the image of a young Gage traipsing home covered in burs, but my amusement quickly fled. “Why did Alfred have some of it tucked inside his bedside drawer?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  Scrutinizing the dried stalks, I wondered if there was a book on plant and herb lore in Langstone’s library.

  He replaced the sad bouquet in the drawer while I retained hold of the bottle.

  “What did you think of what Rory said about Lorna?” I asked as he sat on the edge of the bed to open the lower drawer.

  He paused for a second before reaching in to sort through the jumbled contents. “I assume you mean that bit about her being a witch.” He lifted out a sheet of foolscap and then tossed it back in after a brief glance. “Well, there are many definitions of a witch—a wisewoman; a healer, or hedge witch, as the locals would say.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You know very well which definition your cousin was implying.”

  He sighed and glanced up at me, closing the drawer. “I do. And you know me well enough to know I think it’s a lot of nonsense. I’m not sure why Rory is spouting such claptrap. I would have thought him more sensible than that.” He raked a hand through his hair as he stood. “Whatever the case, if Miss Galloway gave Alfred this tincture, then she’s a hedge witch. And Rory plainly mistrusts her.”

  “I agree. Which makes me wonder why he didn’t mention her or her tincture sooner. And why didn’t your aunt?” Setting the bottle next to my candle, I resumed my search of the shadowy confines of the wardrobe while Gage moved on to the escritoire.

  “As I said, half-truths and omissions,” he groused. “Ones that seem pointless.” He shuffled through the papers and detritus littering the top of the desk, not bothering to take care with their contents.