by Cheryl Bolen
“Then I’m surprised it still exists, seeing as Sir Joshua destroyed everything else to do with her. You found it amongst some other old pieces?”
“Yes, but that’s not the only reason I think she did it. It’s because the square which now contains the monument to her son isn’t there. Instead, there is a statue—of Eros, I think. That must have been the original plan for the square.”
Richard snorted. “Perhaps that is why her irate husband replaced it, the annoying little god having shot his arrow awry.” He let out a breath. “Eros is a damned nuisance, if you ask me.”
*
Edwina’s heart plummeted much as that lantern must have done. Must Richard make it so entirely clear that he didn’t love her? That their mutual attraction of the past was nothing but that—erotic but meaningless and to be avoided.
She dragged her heart back up where it belonged and set the pain aside. All that mattered was doing her best to save John. Perhaps this near miss was both a warning and a reprieve. She smoothed the embroidery again and summoned her flagging courage. “Richard, I promise I wasn’t lying to you last night. The ghost did speak to me, and she spoke to me again this morning.”
She could have sworn he bristled. “Did she say anything more useful this time?”
“Not really. She slapped me awake. She was angry at me, but she didn’t tell me to go away.”
“She slapped you?”
“Yes. There’s quite a bruise developing on my cheek.”
He strode across the room, plucked the second lantern down, and brought it close to her face. He grunted softly, his expression impassive, returned the lantern to its hook, and went back to sweeping. Once again, indignation surged within her. Did he think she was lying about the bruise? “No, I didn’t walk into a bedpost on purpose.”
“Did I suggest you had?”
“Not overtly,” she began, but stopped herself. No jumping to conclusions. Self-control at all costs. Besides, she had something more important to say. “I think she was angry at me for…for accusing you of lying.” That was true enough; she couldn’t bear to mention the consequences of that action. Not when he couldn’t love her anymore. “Once again, I apologize. I thought over what you said, and I realized it was wrong of me to disbelieve you. My father investigated your circumstances, and although he thought you a fortune hunter, he never found anything about a large debt. He would have told me if he had.” She hung her head. “I know it’s too late to mend anything, but I still wanted to say that I’m terribly sorry.”
After a silence, Richard said, “It occurred to me yesterday, and occurs even more strongly today, that the timing of my arrest for debt just when we were about to elope was…uncanny. So uncanny that I wonder if it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”
“You mean it was planned?” she said, and when he nodded, she retorted, “By whom?” Indignation rose up, but she tamped it down enough to say in an even voice, “Not my father. He was an honest man.”
“I’m sure he was,” Richard said. “I’m less sure about Harold White.”
“I wouldn’t call him dishonest,” Edwina said slowly, feeling her way through the frightful suspicion Richard had just aroused. “But he was a selfish sort of person, and he wanted to marry me.” She paused, thinking it over. “He was a friend of my father’s. I had told Papa that I preferred you. Maybe he relayed that news to Harold, who decided to take matters into his own hands.”
“Precisely,” Richard said, his voice cold and flat. “He could have paid someone to falsify papers about a debt I had never incurred.”
Edwina dashed tears from her eyes. If she’d had more sense, more staying power, less of a temper…”Yes, it’s possible. He was the sort of man to do anything to get his own way.” She willed the tears away. She would not succumb to misery and regret when far more than her paltry feelings were at stake.
Richard stilled the broom. “Once I got out of prison, I was paid a reasonable amount of compensation for the error. It never occurred to me to investigate how it had happened. I was relieved it was over and glad of the extra money, seeing as I had decided to marry.” Bitterly, he added, “Not that Mary, who came with expectations similar to yours, ever accused me of fortune hunting.” He resumed his work.
“I regret my hasty behavior,” Edwina said, twisting the embroidery in her hands. Apologizing did not come easily. “Perhaps I could have“ She took a deep breath. “No, I should have stood my ground and insisted that you loved me, that you weren’t a fortune hunter. I could have continued to refuse Harold, but I let my temper get the better of me. I knew he didn’t want me for my money.” She let out another breath and spread the crumpled embroidery, smoothing it again. “I shall try very, very hard not to lose my temper anymore or to accuse you of anything without proof.”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice only slightly less chilly than before.
“You were lucky to find such a good wife, Richard. Lucky to have a happy marriage.”
After a pause, he asked, “I gather yours wasn’t happy?”
“At best it was boring, at worst quite revolting,” she said. “He gave me plenty of pin money; my role was that of a beautifully turned out and adoring wife. Whenever I wanted to do something to help others, I had to manipulate him into believing it enhanced his prestige.” She flapped a hand to show how little that mattered now. “I get a horrid feeling of urgency from the ghost. That’s why I’m so sure this wasn’t an ordinary accident.”
He grunted again. “As I said before, I leave all options open as to what I do and don’t believe. Just because people see apparitions and hear chains doesn’t mean a ghost can pick up a lantern and drop it on my son. Why would the ghost ask you to help on the one hand, and on the other hand threaten my son’s life?”
“Perhaps to show how pressing matters have become. I think she wants to break the curse. Or maybe the curse has run its course and must come to an end, but she would prefer a—a happy ending, so to speak.” She paused. “I can’t leave my options open. I have no choice now but to believe in the ghost and must act accordingly.”
“As you please,” he said, as if he didn’t particularly care what she thought or believed—or maybe because he still didn’t believe her. “I appreciate whatever help you may give me,” he added politely.
She nodded. “I shall do my best.”
He found a dustpan, swept it full of shards, and dropped them into the bin. “So, Edwina—may we now let bygones be bygones? Start afresh?”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” she said, although it broke her heart. Goodbye to their misunderstanding about the past, yes. To the love they had once shared…how could she wish that? But for Richard’s sake, she would do her best to put it behind her and to complete the task allotted to her by the ghost. And for Lizzie, who dreaded mourning her brother, and for John, who was far too young to die.
“As to your question yesterday about my plans,” she said, “I would prefer to remain here through the Christmas season.” Hopefully, by then the necklace would be found and Richard in a hurry to seek a new wife. “After that, I shall look about me for another position.”
“Very well” was all he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Diligent search of the rest of the attic revealed no necklaces but led to other ideas—such as new clothes.
After dinner that night—boiled tongue and turnips in white sauce, not an elegant meal but a delicious, sustaining one—Edwina broached the subject. They sat at the table in the kitchen, drinking tea, except for John, who carefully copied sentences in Greek. Not for the first time, she wondered what went on in the boy’s head. Apart from a slow, assessing gaze at the bruise on her cheek, he hardly spoke at all during and after the meal.
“Sir Richard, there are chests and chests of discarded clothing in the attic. Would you mind if I used the fabric to make some new gowns for Lizzie? A special one for Christmas, perhaps, and some others for everyday wear. She has almost outgrown what she has now.”
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“An excellent notion,” Richard said. “You may make a few new gowns for yourself as well.”
It took a moment to find her tongue. “Thank you, but I don’t require any new clothing.”
“Indeed you do,” Richard said. “One ugly brown gown and an equally ugly grey one are not only insufficient, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t have something less faded and worn.”
She colored with shame. Understandably, he didn’t want a shabby governess—although why should he care, when she would be leaving in a month or so? “Perhaps, but the fabrics we found in the attic are inappropriate for a governess, who must dress in sober colors.”
“Oh, fudge,” Lizzie said. “I agree with Papa. What about that lovely blue wool? I’ll wager there’s enough for a gown for each of us, even if there are a few moth holes here and there.”
Maybe so, but it verged on improper for Richard to provide Edwina with anything but serviceable clothing. That wool was far too costly for a mere governess.
She strove to suppress the yearning in her heart. How she would love to wear pretty colors again.
“There’s a seamstress in the village who would welcome some work,” Richard said as if the matter was settled. “She may not be acquainted with the latest modes, but if you design the gowns, she is competent to sew them.”
“The robe…robe a l’anglaise is a beautiful dark green,” Lizzie said. “I would like a gown made of that. There was a crimson gown, too. Crimson would suit you, Mrs. White.”
“Perhaps, but it would be completely inappropriate,” Edwina said, her cheeks heating. Crimson did indeed suit her—it was the color she’d worn the night she and Richard had waltzed together into the dark garden.
“As you wish,” he said, echoing his indifference of earlier in the day. “If you need any thread, ribbons, and so on, you may send to Chester. Which reminds me, it is past time to start thinking of Christmas baskets.”
“Christmas baskets?” Lizzie asked.
“For all the villagers,” Richard said. “They’re good people and deserve a festive holiday. I’d like to provide each household with a ham and perhaps a goose as well, and a wheel of good cheese.”
There was a silence, during which Edwina was sure they all pondered the shadow that had been cast over many Christmases in Rawden. How horrid to wonder, each year, whether it was now the firstborn’s time to die. She resisted the urge to glance at John and hurried to fill the lull. “How very thoughtful of you, Sir Richard. My late husband wanted to be considered a great benefactor but was selfish by nature. I had to persuade him that to appear generous, he had to be generous.”
“We’ll send to Chester tomorrow and hope the weather holds good for the next while,” Richard said.
“Might we give them all cakes as well?” Lizzie said. “That’s what I like best at Christmas.”
“I wish we could, but we don’t have the staff to make and bake for the entire village,” Richard said.
“You may be able to get fruitcakes from Chester as well,” Edwina said. “When I was married to Mr. White, I ordered cakes for all our dependents, and of course we held a Christmas feast for the entire household.”
“We don’t have much of a household at the moment,” Richard said, and Edwina wished she had kept her mouth shut. There were ways of getting around the lack of servants, but it wasn’t a governess’s place to offer suggestions or make comparisons to previous households or do anything but remain quietly in the background. She’d hated manipulating her husband, but it was even more tedious to say nothing at all.
“If we had the necessary help,” Richard said, “I would hold a feast for the entire village, as has been the custom for the past two hundred years.”
Again there was a lull, during which Edwina pondered the courage of the Ballisters, who had held a feast whether the curse loomed over them or not.
“But if no one will enter the house except the scullery maid, I don’t see how it’s possible,” Richard said.
“I do,” Edwina blurted.
*
Starting afresh wasn’t going quite the way Richard had hoped.
Hell and damnation, he didn’t even know what he hoped for. He’d been doing his best to believe her a liar, but she’d gone so pale at the sight of John, and her voice had trembled with genuine concern, and…poof, as if a fairy godmother had waved her wand, he was besotted with her again.
And then there was that bruise. How could he have stooped so low last night as to think her a conniving little slut who would do anything to regain his sympathy? She hadn’t come to seduce him. What a laughable notion that was. They’d been on the way to mending their fences, or so he’d thought, but she wasn’t really letting bygones be bygones—he’d seen the look on her face—and now she would rather dress in rags than accept some discarded gowns from him.
Particularly a crimson one—but best not to think about that.
He supposed he would have to believe wholeheartedly in the ghost now, which he didn’t want to do, as it left him—and more importantly, John–utterly at the mercy of the blasted curse. Before now, he’d retained enough skepticism to believe he could pretend to end the curse and get the same result.
He forced a smile. “Tell us, then.”
She had stiffened as if she regretted speaking, but now she relaxed a little and said, “Why not get the whole village involved in preparing for the festivities? They can cut greenery and bring it here, and we’ll put it up. They can cook most of the food, too—I’m sure each housewife has her specialties. You would supply the ingredients and pay them for the work, of course.” She colored again. “If that’s all right with you, Sir Richard?”
“Of course it’s all right. It’s an excellent idea and just what we all need—a festive Christmas.” His eyes rested on John, whose nose remained firmly in his book. Involuntarily, Richard exchanged a glance with Edwina, whose concern mirrored his almost as if she were the child’s mother, not just a governess. She would make an excellent mother—or stepmother.
Perhaps Fate had taken a hand here, and he should weigh his options, with their positives and negatives, like a sensible man. “Mrs. Cropper, come help us plan the food. Sam Teas can provide ale for wassail, and there’s plenty of wine in the cellar for punch.”
“May we give pennies to all the children?” Lizzie asked. “And oranges! May we order those, too?”
“Why not?” Richard said, leaping up. “I’ll get pen and paper, and we’ll make a list.”
And if he sent for something not on that list, just on speculation…why not?
*
What an orgy of list-making that was, thought Edwina, almost content as she prepared for bed. She hadn’t seen Richard so enthusiastic since the day, twelve years ago, when they had made their plan to elope. And been thwarted…
She sighed. He seemed willing enough to let her plan the festivities, but why wouldn’t he? She was his employee—nothing more. She would do her best whilst searching for the necklace as well. She intended to enjoy this Christmas before embarking on her tedious life as a governess once again, and to ensure that Richard, his children, and the entire village of Rawden enjoyed it, too.
That is, if no further ‘accidents’ befell John…
*
How dare you think I would torment that child on purpose?
Edwina woke abruptly to a pitch-dark room, braced for another slap. When it didn’t come, she asked, “Why can’t you simply tell me where to find the necklace?”
I’m doing my best, you fool. Look about you, for the love of God. There’s not much time.
“Your best is dropping a lantern on a boy’s head?” she retorted, but the ghost was already gone.
She groaned and sat up. Look about you. Did that mean the necklace wasn’t hidden at all? Or, more likely, that by taking stock of her surroundings, she would realize where it must be?
That sounded much too easy. She lay down again but couldn’t sleep. What if she could find the necklace, just
like that? Richard would be so grateful. He might even smile as if he liked her a little.
She stifled these unworthy thoughts and got out of bed. The love between her and Richard was dead as the fire on the hearth—deader, since she managed to light a taper on a deeply-buried coal. Very well, if she should look about herself, why not start right here?
The floorboards were icy cold, so she donned her only pair of warm stockings and went slowly around the room. There wasn’t much to see—the bed, a chest of drawers which held her clothing, a chair over which she had draped her ugly brown stuff gown. The papered walls; the strapwork on the overmantel, its elaborate pattern much like that found in the Great Hall. A painting of a supercilious-looking man with a pair of equally superior hounds at his feet, all staring into a nondescript distance. A rather more pleasant (if excessively sentimental) painting of a little girl with a kitten. Even such a sparse room held hiding places aplenty, such as inside a hollow bedpost or a secret drawer. But none of the furnishings were more than a hundred years old, so how could the necklace be hidden there?
She would have to search further afield. She parted the curtains slightly to look out the window. By the position of the moon, it was hours till dawn. She really should go back to sleep.
A man came around the corner of the house, a gun over his shoulder, his shape ominous in the moonlight. Behind him padded a huge dog… She let out a breath of relief—it was only Richard and Felix.