by Amberlee Day
Beverly still glared. “Ned, you seem like a smart enough guy to know that we can see that your father’s ‘grouchiness’ seems to be exclusively for us. If you could explain that, it would help my aunt and me feel much more comfortable about staying here.”
“I concur,” Dr. Tune said. “If your father’s indeed the owner and he doesn’t want us here, it would be better if we go.”
Ned’s smile faltered, but he said, “I promise, it has more to do with him than with you. And probably something to do with me. If I asked him, I doubt he’d even be able to remember your names. He doesn’t usually interact with the guests much.”
Neither of them looked like they believed him, so he put one hand on Dr. Tune’s ancient rounded back and the other on Beverly’s soft, gauzy dress, his thumb happily landing in just the right spot to ride along her back shoulder bone. Despite his discomfort surrounding his father, Ned’s focus shifted pleasantly to the present company.
“I refuse to let my father’s antisocial behavior ruin our evening. Now, if you’ll come this way, I think you’ll enjoy the castle’s miniature ship collection.”
He exhaled in relief when they took his lead, and wondered not for the first time if it wouldn’t be easier to just leave the castle to his father’s whims and pursue a life without all this stress. Locking the library door behind them, though, old Nathan Demander caught his eye again. No, whatever headache his father was, Ned couldn’t just walk away from his history.
It wasn’t that Beverly didn’t like Ned now that she’d been around him; it was more that she didn’t get him. Clearly he had secrets, some purpose for wanting Aunt Affie there, and something about that involved his father, and the castle. Was there something he was trying to hide? No, that wasn’t likely, or he wouldn’t want them there at all. Maybe there was some mystery he needed to solve, or that he’d already solved but needed help uncovering the truth to the world. Something his father wouldn’t want known. Yes, that could be it.
She also didn’t understand anyone who scorned fiction. Not that there was anything wrong with histories. Clearly there was a need to learn history, and it was admirable that he pursued it. But from the sounds of it, Ned Sterling didn’t respect fiction much, and from that twinkle that wouldn’t leave his eyes, she suspected he laughed at her for loving mystery—an obviously unforgiveable viewpoint for him to hold.
They finished in the drawing room and moved on to a conservatory, a music room (which bore a glass pocket door identical to the library’s), and even a modest-sized ballroom. Their last stop on the main floor was Ned’s study, which housed a spectacular miniature ship collection.
“Does it meet approval?” Ned asked her pointedly when she moved closer for a better view of a model labeled Albatross, 1813. Was he being condescending because of the whole history/fiction thing?
“It’s alright,” she said lightly, not wanting to make things easy for him. “I mean, if there were a few replicas of fictional ships instead of just real ones, that would be fun.”
A wrinkle appeared on his forehead. Ha! Take that, you condescending playboy.
“Why wouldn’t we want real ships?” he asked.
“No, they’re fine, but think how much more complete the collection would be if it covered a variety of interests. People relate to fiction, and they’d get a kick out of it. There are lots of ships in fiction. The Dawn Treader, for instance, or the Gloria Scott. The Hispaniola from Treasure Island. The African Queen.”
Ned scoffed and tried to pull Aunt Affie into the discussion, as if he were looking to the historian to back him up against Beverly’s childish ideas. “Replicating real ships is impressive,” he said, “because the artist has to be accurate to actual details, not what they imagine an author meant by … Wait, did you say the African Queen? Was that an actual ship?”
Beverly suppressed a giggle. “No, silly. It’s fiction. Did you think it was real?”
He rolled his eyes. “I mean, it was a movie. Wasn’t it just an old fishing boat?”
“It’s from a book as well. But what does it matter, if it’s all fiction?” She was getting to him, and she enjoyed it. Let him squirm trying to make conversation with her and hold on to his superiority at the same time.
“Then why not include the Flying Dutchman and the Black Pearl?” he suggested, trying to make her look silly.
“True, and those definitely are from movies, not books.”
“Are they, though?” Ned was making an attempt to tease, and even though she knew he was wrong, it irked her that he thought he was right.
“I stand by my original statement,” she said. “I think your collection would benefit from a few fictional vessels. Maybe round things out a bit here. Lots of history, obviously, but if you really want to impress visitors, stirring in a little fiction doesn’t hurt.”
Aunt Affie had been quietly inspecting details about the room, but now she piped in. “Don’t let her distract you, Ned. My niece’s preference for fiction over fact will be her downfall.”
“Aunt Affie, I don’t prefer fiction over fact. I just think there’s room for made-up stories, too. They make life more interesting.”
“Not here, they don’t,” Ned said. “Like I mentioned earlier, we have documents and evidence surrounding any and all infamous incidents that occurred over the years at Demander Castle. If we didn’t, that real history would be lost, and people could make up any old story about the place.”
“And that’s not historically accurate,” Aunt Affie said, agreeing with him.
Beverly sensed she was losing this battle, and while she didn’t mind losing to her aunt, she did mind losing to Ned. “Historically accurate may be important for the history books—including whatever portion of your book covers Demander, Aunt Affie—but last I checked, you’re running a hotel here, Ned. I can tell you from our travels this summer, as a hotel you’re competing with haunted castles, some previously owned by celebrities and outlaws, some holding murder mystery weekends … people coming to a hotel want entertainment, not just history. It wouldn’t hurt you to bring a little of that into your place for its future.”
She’d been talking over her shoulder at him while making her way along the display shelves. When he didn’t respond, she turned around, stunned to find his sense of humor had disappeared completely. What had she said that made him so mad?
“I’m sure we could update this place for the tourists,” he said. “Fabricate titillating stories to bring people in, maybe record ghostly voices to send through the air vents and hire someone to jump out from dark corners. Maybe I could be what you accused me of earlier, and bring even more attention to this place. But that’s not my purpose, Miss Tune. My goal is to preserve the history of Demander Castle the best I can. The true history of Demander, not something made up.”
Ned’s blue eyes had turned from sparkling to dangerous, and Beverly couldn’t look away. She didn’t know how to respond, but Aunt Affie was suddenly at her elbow.
“Here, here!” Aunt Affie agreed, though her voice held a touch of resolve to end this conversation. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Sterling. Now, I think I’m going to have to ask that we reschedule the rest of this tour tomorrow. Beverly knows me well, and she was right about me getting tired. I’m afraid my energy is run out for the evening.”
Ned didn’t immediately appear to have heard her, but eventually he closed his eyes, and when he opened them he looked more relaxed. “Of course. Is there anything else you need tonight?”
“No, we’re fine.” Aunt Affie took Beverly’s arm firmly enough that Beverly knew her aunt’s energy hadn’t waned as much as she claimed. “Good night, Mr. Sterling,” her aunt said, pulling Beverly out of the room. “We look forward to seeing more tomorrow.”
“Good night,” he murmured behind them. When Beverly turned to look back at him for one last look, she suddenly thought of a character in another book she’d read, nobly holding on to something grand, but dangerously willing to do anything to protect
it.
Chapter 7
Beverly sat in the chair next to her bedroom window, looking out at the view. She’d been too busy that afternoon thinking about her novel, but now, with that finished, she paid more attention to what was outside.
Demander Castle sat high on a hill overlooking the tiny town of Grantsport, which was as picturesque as she could hope for. But it was the view beyond that that really caught her eye. Water stretched around the point where the town lay, with a ferry just leaving from Grantsport presumably to whatever the tree-lined land she could see across the water. The sun had set, but it was a clear evening and still light enough to see a white-capped mountain range in the distance.
Aunt Affie hovered over her shoulder for a moment. “Spectacular, isn’t it? I suppose that view has been here even longer than the castle.”
Beverly laughed lightly. “I suppose so. What all do you know about the Sterlings, Aunt Affie?”
Her aunt settled down on the smaller chair, facing Beverly instead of the window. “I thought he might be on your mind,” she said like the know-it-all academic Beverly teased her she was.
“Aren’t you curious?” Beverly asked. “It all feels so off. That father really doesn’t want us here for some reason, no matter what Ned says. And Ned … he’s really nice, but why? It feels like there’s something behind it. I mean, he already knows you’re planning on including his castle in your book.”
“Yes, but Demander will be just one of eighteen that make the book.” Aunt Affie screwed up her eyes and fiddled with a loose piece of wood on the windowsill. “And while it’s a beautiful place … well, you’ve seen some of the others we’ve been to.”
“Sure, but isn’t this one special, like he keeps going on about? Original family ownership, all this documentation, whatever that means. It’s old, too. That’s for sure. That really cool one in Napa Valley’s only, like, ten years old.”
“He’s right. It’s special here. I wish we could spend some extra time going over it. But the funds I budgeted for this trip are running short, and you’ve got to get back and make sure that friend of yours hasn’t run your shop to the ground.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. “Her name is Julie, Aunt Affie. You know Julie. What I’m saying is that something’s not right here.”
Aunt Affie tapped the loose wood back into place and turned her sharp eyes back on Beverly. “Here’s what I know. Demander has passed from male heir to male heir since the late eighteen hundreds, as Ned already told us. Of course, it’s only passed to the males because their oldest have managed to be males during that time, nothing favoring them. This isn’t eighteenth-century Scotland, even if some of the stonework did come from there.
“About thirty years ago, Ned’s mother, Susanna Demander Sterling, inherited the place, the first woman in the line to do so. That meant that for the first time, when she died, the owner no longer had the name Demander.”
“It still seems like Ned should have inherited,” Beverly pointed out, “since the Demander blood runs in him.”
Aunt Affie shook her head. “It confuses me, too. That’s something we’ll have to find out, why her husband inherited the castle.”
“Didn’t I tell you? He told me that first night. His mother’s death was so unexpected, she didn’t have a will in place. Everything went directly to her husband.”
“Philip Sterling. Well, that explains that. And I don’t know anything about him except what we saw. At the very least, he’s disinterested in the place.”
“If that’s the case, why doesn’t he just give it to his son? Ned’s clearly devoted to it.”
“Who knows? Maybe you can get on that phone of yours and see what you can find about him.”
Beverly nodded. “I will.”
“Now,” Aunt Affie said, leaning her bent body over to take Beverly’s hand, her voice more like a seasoned smoker’s than a sweet old lady’s. “Tell me what else you’re thinking about Ned Sterling.”
A flutter stirred in Beverly, but she still shook her head. For a woman who never married, her aunt was awfully interested in seeing her nieces hitched. “In Ned, I see someone who thinks what I do for a living is ridiculous,” Beverly said.
Aunt Affie chuckled. “He does seem to, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t think it’s funny. It’s … small-minded and lacks imagination.”
“Hm.”
While Beverly mulled over how much she didn’t like Ned Sterling, an image came into her mind of the corner of his mouth; that corner told her when he was amused or irritated or sincere. Normally it was clean shaven, but there’d been stubble when he caught her exploring the castle on her own. She’d seen it that first day when they danced at Trenforth, and it fascinated her to watch the subtle changes there. A slight turn of a muscle up or down, or stretched into a wide, open smile. Funny that such a little thing would come to her mind thinking about this suave, good-looking guy with the sexy eyes.
Beverly put her hand over her eyes. What was she doing, playing with those thoughts? “Are we still planning on starting home in two days?” she asked her aunt.
Aunt Affie took a long breath. “I suppose we’ll have to. When the budget’s up, it’s up.”
Beverly nodded. “Then it doesn’t matter what I think of Ned. But I’ll tell you, Aunt Affie. I know Ned is very attractive, and smart and funny, and dresses well, and smells like oranges—”
“Oranges? Why didn’t I notice that? I like oranges.”
“I don’t know. It’s more like orange trees, I guess.”
“Okay. I’ll have to take your word on that one,” Aunt Affie said.
“And he’s sophisticated, and he’s passionate about his work.”
“Sorry, tell me again what you don’t like about him? I’m getting confused.”
Beverly sighed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Aunt Affie.”
“Try thinking about what I’m going through. I’m watching what a perfect couple you and Ned Sterling would be, and you overreact when he doesn’t like fiction.”
“Doesn’t respect it! That’s a big difference. And no, we would not be the perfect couple. He’s all pretty-boy sophisticated, and I’m—”
“A hippie.”
“No, I’m not a hippie.” Her long braid dropped forward when she looked down at her new dress again. Her feet were bare now, but the beaded sandals that wrapped up around her ankles were next to the bed where she’d taken them. “Okay, maybe I am a little bit of a hippie.”
Aunt Affie patted her hand. “Yes, you are. Or at least you dress like one, and you’re about as ambitious as one. You like things that are down-to-earth. And, you like novels.” She stood up and headed into her own adjoining room. “But it doesn’t mean you can’t be interested in a debonair castle owner.”
“Castle manager.”
“Future owner, then.” Aunt Affie shrugged. Before closing the door behind her, she added, “Now get on that internet and do your research. I’m going to bed.”
Beverly sighed, and turned back to the window. Outside, it was fully dark. All she could see were lights—from the town, from whatever lay across the water, and from the ferries crossing to and fro.
She pulled out her phone. Yes, she would look up Philip Sterling, see what she could find on him. But first she wanted to see what she could find on his son. Social media, alma mater, criminal record? Mostly she hoped to find a close-up picture of him, so she could study those challenging blue eyes and the set of his mouth without him watching her back.
Chapter 8
That night, Beverly had another dream. It was dark, and she was wandering around the castle in her bare feet and the flowy dress she’d worn to dinner. A breeze blew down the darkened passageways, and as it whipped her hair around, she knew that her braid had come undone. She came to the library door and looked in. She didn’t try the door but knew it was locked, and there was just enough moonlight shining in the windows to show that all the books were turned backward, spines hidd
en. No time to fix them; something else in the castle beckoned her, so she moved on.
She needed to head upstairs to that passageway she’d visited, the one that was too dark to see what lay beyond. Ned had said a broom closet, but she knew it wasn’t. He was hiding something, a secret. As she moved closer to the stairs, however, a light came on under one of the doors. A faint light, but it glowed through the heavy darkness. She could smell something bad as she got closer to the door, but couldn’t tell what it was. The light drew her, and when she stood in front of it she could just read a faded black word in scrawled lettering: Dungeon.
Fear buzzed through her veins like bees in a hive, but she couldn’t keep away from the door. She turned the small metal knob and opened it.
Cold stone steps spiraled downward, but the light didn’t grow as she descended. Frightened, she turned to go back just as a large hand snatched her ankle and pulled her down. In her dream, she couldn’t scream.
When she looked up again, she saw that Philip Sterling was her captor. He was even more terrible than she remembered, with a scar down one side of his face. He wore a nasty-looking cloak that nearly reached to the floor, and a top hat on his head. He laughed and spoke some kind of language she couldn’t follow, and dragged her across the floor toward a dank, barred cell.
Suddenly, Ned was there. In tall black boots and a bright red uniform jacket, his blue eyes gleamed with purpose as he challenged his father. A mist blew into the dungeon just then. Beverly blinked to better see the dueling men, but the mist only thickened. She tried calling out Ned’s name, but her voice disappeared into the grey nothing … until, suddenly, there was Ned, triumphant, coming to claim her. He embraced her, lifting her up as if she were made of air. Her arms went around his neck and he lifted her in his arms. As he carried her up the stairs, he kissed her …
Something hit Beverly in the face, waking her. She pushed away the pillow that had been thrown at her and sat straight up, just in time to see Aunt Affie disappearing through the adjoining door.