A Loving Spirit

by Amanda McCabe

  A Loving Spirit

  Lessons in Temptation

  Book One

  by

  Amanda McCabe

  Award-winning Author

  A LOVING SPIRIT

  Reviews & Accolades

  "An intriguing and clever mix of the living and the dead, this lively tale is sure to please."

  ~Romantic Times

  "An engaging romp with a romance that’s sure to please."

  ~Romance Reviews Today

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-683-1

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright ©2003, 2014 by Amanda McCabe. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Chapter 1

  England, 1811

  "Why is it always so cold in England?" Cassandra Richards murmured, burrowing deeper into her fur-lined cloak as she watched the Cornwall landscape roll by outside the carriage window.

  "I think my toes are frozen." said her friend Antoinette Duvall. "They will never be warm again." Her usually merry coffee-colored face was glum, at odds with her bright red-and-black printed turban.

  The two of them sighed, and leaned against each other disconsolately.

  Cassie's aunt, Charis, Lady Willowby, called Chat by all her many friends, looked across the carriage at them and shook her head. "You girls! It is only October. There is barely a nip in the air. What are you going to do when it is December and snow is thick on the ground?"

  "Snow!" Cassie cried. She had lived for the last fourteen years in hot, sunny Jamaica; she had not seen snow since she was five. All she remembered was that it was very cold and very wet.

  And that her father used to make little balls of it, and throw them at her laughing mother.

  That memory of her parents, who were now gone and left behind in the small cemetery of their plantation near Negril, gave her a sharp pang. How she missed them! How she missed their life together, a life of sunshine and warm sea.

  Even four months in England had not erased her homesickness.

  But at least Antoinette had agreed to come with her, she thought, reaching out with the toe of her half boot to nudge the flannel-wrapped brick closer to her friend's feet. Home never seemed quite so far away when she could hear the lilting, musical cadence of Antoinette's voice. And Aunt Chat really was trying to make her feel welcome. She had given parties at her house in Bath to introduce Cassie to all her friends, and now she had organized this trip to Cornwall to visit yet another of her friends, the Dowager Lady Royce.

  Cassie knew that Aunt Chat hoped that being near the sea would help cheer her up. The least she could do was enjoy it.

  She smiled at her aunt. "I cannot wait to see Royce Castle, Aunt Chat! It sounds most intriguing. We don't have buildings that are over five hundred years old in Jamaica."

  Chat smiled back. Her pretty, round face was relieved beneath her plumed bonnet. "I am sure you will enjoy it, my dear. My friend Lady Royce is wonderful, and the castle itself most intriguing. There are underground tunnels, secret rooms, and supposedly many ghosts in residence."

  Antoinette brightened a bit. "Ghosts, Lady Willowby?"

  "Oh, yes. Several, I believe, though I do not know the details. Melinda or her son should be able to tell you all about it." She shivered a bit. "Though I certainly hope we do not actually meet any!"

  "Oh, I do!" Cassie said, clapping her gloved hands in delight. "A ghost would be ever so exciting. Did you bring your mother's book of incantations, Antoinette?"

  Antoinette was already digging about in her valise. She came up with a thick, worn, brown leather-covered volume. "Of course! I never travel without it. One never knows when one might need an incantation. I also brought some herbs and potions." She pulled a bottle out of the valise, and held it up to the pale sunlight. Small flowers and stems floated about in a clear liquid.

  "Wonderful!" Cassie said. "Antoinette's mother was a Yaumumi priestess, Aunt Chat. She taught Antoinette to find all sorts of things that we cannot see. If there are any ghosts, she is sure to find them."

  Antoinette nodded firmly. "Yes. And if there are unfriendly entities, we shall banish them."

  Chat eyed the bottle a bit nervously. "My dears, are you sure this is a good idea? Perhaps we should leave the, er, entities alone. We wouldn't like to get them upset, now would we?"

  Cassie gave her a reassuring smile. "You mustn't worry, Aunt Chat. Antoinette knows exactly what she is doing. Now, tell me more about your friend. And her son! How very fortunate that they live in such a spirited place. They must be terribly interesting people."

  * * *

  "Dearest, I do hope you are going to change your clothes before Lady Willowby and her niece arrive," Melinda Leighton, the Dowager Lady Royce said to her son, when she came into the library on a wave of lilac scent. She proceeded to open the draperies at all the windows, sending sunlight into the gloomy corners of the room.

  "What is wrong with what I am wearing, Mother?" Phillip, the Earl of Royce, said distractedly, not even glancing up from the volume he was perusing.

  "What is not wrong with it? The edges of the coat cuffs are frayed, and is that a hole in the elbow? You should put your new green coat on. And a fresh cravat. You have made ink spots on that one."

  Phillip turned over a page. "I will. Later."

  "But they will be here at any moment!"

  "Surely not. You said they would not be here before teatime."

  "It is already past four, dearest."

  Phillip did look up then, squinting through his spectacles at the clock on the mantel. "Oh. So it is."

  Melinda came over to the desk, and pushed all the piles of books and papers aside to lean over the volume he was reading. "What is it that you find so interesting, Phillip?"

  "Thucydides, Mother. It's a very important source for the monograph I'm writing." He marked his place in the volume, closed it, and reached up to remove his spectacles.

  "The Pelo-Pelo..." Melinda murmured, running one finger over the gilt letters on the book's cover.

  "The Peloponnisian War," Ph
illip said, rubbing at his eyes. He had been working for hours, since just after breakfast, but had not realized at all how late it was growing.

  "It sounds horribly depressing," Melinda said. "I am truly glad we are to have some company. You spend far too much time in this room, Phillip. A little society will be good for you."

  Phillip leaned back in his chair and smiled up at her. "Poor Mother. I know it's terribly dull for you here in the wilds of Cornwall, with only my sorry company."

  "We were not speaking of me! We were speaking of you. Of how excellent it will be for you to be around people for a while."

  "I am happy with the way things are. It's very important that I finish my work on the Peloponnesian War; it is a very vital part of my series on ancient Greece."

  Melinda shrugged, as usual not listening to her son's obsession with the order and rationality of the ancient world. She was always far more interested in the confusion of the modern world—gossipy letters from her friends, good works at the church, soirees on the rare occasions she was in Town.

  She went to a mirror on the wall and straightened her cap and her lace shawl. "Nevertheless, dearest, you can take the time to be polite to my friend." She laid her palm against her still-smooth cheek. "I wonder what Chat will think of me. It has been a long time since we saw each other, though I get a letter from her every month. I was much younger then."

  "She will think you have not aged a day, because you haven't," Phillip said, coming around to kiss her cheek. "But didn't you say she is also bringing a child with her? I shouldn't think there would be much here to amuse a child."

  Melinda laughed. "Her niece is not a child, Phillip! She is eighteen or nineteen, I believe, and she has only just come here from Jamaica. Or maybe Barbados."

  Phillip drew back suspiciously. "Eighteen or nineteen? Mother."

  She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "What, dearest?"

  "You are not matchmaking again, are you?"

  "Certainly not! When did I ever play matchmaker?"

  "When you invited Mrs. Meecham and her daughter to visit. When you invited Lady Bryson and her four daughters..."

  "Oh, well, that. But this is different, Phillip, I assure you. I did not even know that Chat had a niece when I invited her to come here. I am sure the young lady would not be quite suitable, having been out in the West Indies for so long. There is no telling what odd habits she acquired there. Chat writes that she is bringing a very unusual companion with her—a native woman! I have never seen a native woman before. And she probably cares nothing for ancient Greece."

  "If you say so, Mother," Phillip said, not entirely convinced of her innocence.

  Melinda patted his arm reassuringly. "Do not worry, dear. We are going to have a very nice time. Now, I want to go check on the guest chambers just one more time and be sure things are in order. Please, do go change your clothes." She turned away to leave the library, then suddenly shivered and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. "Such a chill! It must be one of the ghosts."

  "Mother!" Phillip called after her, exasperated, as she walked away. "I have told you over and over that there is no such thing as ghosts."

  "Change your clothes, dear!" she called back blithely.

  Phillip watched his mother go, and turned his attention back to his books with a sigh.

  He was glad his mother was excited about having guests, truly he was. But why did they have to come to the castle now? His work on the new book was only just beginning. There was so much to be done, and time spent socializing was time wasted away from his work.

  And, as his mother pointed out, his wardrobe was hardly up to the fastidious standards of ladies. He ruefully examined a spot of ink on his shirt cuff.

  They would just have to take him as he was, he thought as he closed up his books. Perhaps he would not have to see them so very often, after all. Supper and the occasional outing ought to suffice.

  Chapter 2

  "It is very grand, Aunt Chat. Just what a five-hundred-year-old castle ought to look like," Cassie commented, leaning against the carriage window to watch as Royce Castle drew closer and closer.

  It was set high above the roiling sea, a great, dark stone sentinel on a craggy bluff. Towers and turrets loomed; windows glinted in the fading sunlight like eyes watching their approach. Not a very welcoming place, certainly. Not at all like the low, bright yellow terraced house she had left in Jamaica. But it was very intriguing.

  And it became even more so when Antoinette said, "I feel a great many presences in this house."

  Cassie settled back onto the seat. "Truly, Antoinette? All the way from here?"

  Antoinette closed her eyes and nodded. "It is very powerful. So many emotions—love, hate, anger, laughter, jealousy. Sudden death."

  "How grand," Cassie said happily. "I cannot wait until we arrive and can start our explorations. If, of course, Lady Royce does not mind."

  Chat still regarded them rather doubtfully, but she nodded. "I am sure Melinda will not mind whatever you do. She was always interested in—spiritual inquiry. And I wrote her about Miss Duvall and her unusual activities! But I am not certain about her son."

  Cassie laughed. "Oh, yes! The classical scholar. I am very glad you warned us about him, Aunt Chat. Anyone with such a passion for—how did you say it?—order and accuracy would not appreciate our kind of explorations. We shall simply have to be discreet, then, won't we, Antoinette?"

  Antoinette gave a warm chuckle.

  "Cassandra, my dear, Lord Royce is a brilliant man," Chat admonished. "Everyone in my Philosophical Society says so. His work on the economy and society of ancient Greece is much appreciated."

  "Perhaps," Cassandra said doubtfully. "I am sorry, Aunt Chat, but he sounds a rather dull old fellow. One who would not appreciate the great romance of the very house he lives in."

  Chat gave an odd little smile. "I think you will not find him to be a dull old fellow at all."

  Before Cassie could question her aunt about this rather strange statement, the carriage drew to a halt outside the massive front doors of the castle. As they stepped down onto the gravel drive, one of the enormous, nail-studded doors opened and a tiny woman came hurrying out.

  She looked like a little Dresden shepherdess in her pink-striped gown and lacy shawl, with silver curls that sprang free from beneath her cap. Her small hands, swathed in lace mitts, fluttered in excitement as she rushed down the stone steps to kiss Chat's cheek.

  "My dear friend!" she cried. "Here you are at last. Oh, it has been too long."

  "Far too long, Melinda," Chat answered. "I will never forgive myself for not coming to Cornwall sooner."

  "Nonsense! You have been so busy, with your niece coming and everything. And this must be her!" Lady Royce turned her fairy-smile onto Cassie. "How do you do, Miss Richards? Why, you are the very image of your aunt when she was a girl!"

  Cassie very much doubted that. Aunt Chat was reputed to have been a great beauty, and she was still very handsome. Cassie knew herself to be not much above the ordinary, being short and dark where blonde and willowy was the fashion.

  But it was a nice compliment for Lady Royce to pay. Cassie smiled at her in return, and bobbed a small curtsy. "I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Royce. My aunt has told me ever so much about you."

  Lady Royce laughed merrily. "Not too much, I hope! We did have some larks together when we were girls, didn't we, Chat?" Then her bright eyes slid curiously to Antoinette, who stood a bit behind Cassie, uncharacteristically shy.

  "Oh!" Cassie said, reaching for Antoinette's hand to draw her around. "Lady Royce, may I present my companion, Miss Antoinette Duvall?"

  "The lady that I wrote to you about," Chat added.

  Antoinette curtsied and said in her musical voice, "You have a lovely home, Lady Royce. Very active."

  Lady Royce clasped her hands together in delight. "Do you mean spiritually active, Miss Duvall?"

  "Miss Duvall's mother was a, er, priestess," Chat offered. "
In Jamaica."

  "A Yaumumi priestess," Antoinette answered. "Her gifts were very great. Mine are only a small part of hers, but I sense many entities here."

  "Good or bad ones?" Lady Royce asked eagerly.

  "I cannot say as of yet," Antoinette said.

  Lady Royce nodded. "I have often felt things here, as well, but my son insists there are no ghosts. Oh, but here I have kept you standing about outside when there is a chill in the air! You must all come inside and have some tea. I am very eager to discuss this subject further!"

  Lady Royce took Chat's arm and led her through the front doors, the two of them laughing and talking. As Cassie moved to follow them, she glanced up at the house. She thought she saw a movement at one of the upstairs windows, but when she blinked there was no one there. Only a small movement of the draperies.

  * * *

  Phillip watched from his bedroom window as their guests arrived. It was the first time they had had company since Lady Bryson and her daughters almost a year ago, and the household was abuzz with excitement. Most of the servants were gathered in the foyer on one pretext or another, eager to see his mother's friend and her niece and strange companion from the islands.

  Phillip was feeling rather reluctantly curious himself.

  He had not really wanted them to come. His work was progressing so well, and guests could sometimes be a confounding, demanding nuisance. But his mother had looked so happy when Lady Willowby's letter arrived that he had not had the heart to refuse her.

  Now he wondered about these people who were going to be living in his house for the next several weeks.

  Lady Willowby was just as his mother had described. Tall, dark-haired, impeccably fashionable in a purple pelisse and feathered bonnet, a printed India shawl about her shoulders. She looked a sensible sort.

  A woman stepped out of the carriage after her, swathed from head to toe in a hooded red cloak. This had to be the niece from the West Indies. Phillip had wondered what a girl who had lived most of her life on a tropical island might look like, but it seemed he was not to find out just yet. She was as well-wrapped as any Saracen lady would be.