by Nora Roberts
No, he amended. Her eyes were beautiful even then. As bright as stars and bluer than the sea.
And then, in her seventeenth summer, the tomboy had grown up into a young woman. She was certainly different from the society girls he knew. Lively and unaffected, with keen intelligence and a curiosity that went beyond gossip or the latest fashion.
And now she was here at Thorne Court.
If I were wise, I’d send her away. But, God help me, I cannot!
Phoebe’s cheeks flushed with color as she became aware of his scrutiny. She spread preserves on a wedge of toast and wished he’d look away. “Have I smeared blackberry jam on my face?”
“Why did you never marry?” Gordon asked abruptly.
She almost dropped her knife in surprise. “Why, I didn’t think marriage would suit me after all.”
“Was it because I ended our engagement?”
“Thus giving me a distaste for all men? I never thought conceit was one of your vices, Gordon!”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Phoebe.” He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Are you saying that you sacrificed your youth out of duty to your father?”
“No,” she corrected gently. “Out of love.”
“That does your heart credit, Cousin, but not your head!”
The anger in his voice surprised her. Phoebe felt her color rising even more. “Acquit me of martyrdom. I was perfectly content at Willow Cottage.”
“With no desire to see the world—and take your rightful place in it?”
She lifted her chin. “None.”
“Little liar.”
She lost her temper. “In recent years my father was ill, with rapidly failing sight, and no more idea of how to keep house than a . . . a cat! Do you think it would have suited me to leave him in such a state?”
“No.” Gordon’s tone softened. “Your sentiments do you honor.”
Phoebe flushed. “In the end we all do what we must.”
She set down her fork. “You’re staring at me again. Is there a smut on my nose?”
“There is now.” He reached over and dabbed the corner of her mouth with his napkin. “There.”
He watched the faint flush of color tinge her cheeks. “I was merely wondering which of Wickersham’s likely prospects you’d turned down: Squire Dudleigh’s dashing son? The young curate? Or perhaps that sturdy yeoman farmer who watched you from afar with such mute admiration?”
She was startled and felt a warm blush rising up her cheeks. “You seem to have noticed quite a good deal more about the village and its inhabitants than I ever imagined.”
Gordon gave a wry smile. “I had no choice but to notice them. They were all looking daggers at me as you and I strolled along the village green. That was the day I first realized that . . .”
He broke off, frowning. “But that is all in the past. Tell me, did you sleep well last night?”
Phoebe wished he hadn’t changed the subject. She wanted very much to know what he’d felt then—and what he felt now. She managed a smile. “I slept like a babe in arms. Mrs. Church made sure I had every comfort and my suite is lovely.”
“Good. I hope you’ll find your new chambers as much to your taste.”
Phoebe set her cup down in surprise. “New chambers?”
“Yes. There’s a leak in the roof over your window,” Gordon said blandly. “I’m afraid repairs must start immediately. You needn’t concern yourself about it. By the time you’ve finished breaking your fast, your things will have been transferred to the Rose Bedroom.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed any leaks this morning.”
He shot her an impatient look. “It is only visible from the outside. I noticed it as I was riding across the park.”
He excused himself and rose. “I must attend to business affairs today. We’ll meet again at dinner tonight. Meanwhile, Mrs. Church will show you over the house. If there are any changes you wish to make you have only to tell her.”
Phoebe didn’t buy his explanation of why her room had been changed. When she’d finished her meal she went upstairs and found Elsie hovering in the corridor.
“Your things have all been moved, miss. I’m to show you to your new room.”
“Ah, yes,” Phoebe said. “I understand there was a leak of some sort?”
Elsie blinked nervously. “I don’t know about any leaks, miss. But Mrs. Church has put you in the Rose Room.”
Mrs. Church was waiting for Phoebe in a magnificent room, all rose and gold and palest green. Phoebe checked the view out the window. Her suspicions were confirmed. This room was on the opposite side of the house from her previous bedchamber and overlooked the ornamental lake and woodlands.
No chance of seeing those mysterious lights from here, she told herself.
The housekeeper waited anxiously. “I hope it meets with your approval, Miss Sutton?”
Phoebe smiled to put her at ease. “It’s lovely. I’m sure I’ll be happy here.”
Mrs. Church relaxed. “Then all’s well. The master asked me to show you about, if this is a convenient time.”
“Very much so.”
They spent the next hour looking through various rooms and cupboards.
“Such a lovely spring day,” Mrs. Church said. “I thought to have James and one of the gardeners take down the draperies and pull up the carpets to beat out the winter’s soot and dust.”
This was just the opportunity Phoebe had hoped for. “Perhaps the book room would be a good place to start, since Lord Thornwood spends so much of his time there. And if you meant to set the maids to dusting and polishing the furniture, I have a wonderful recipe for restoring dull wood to its former glory. I’ll be happy to make it up for you.”
Mrs. Church took the hint. By lunchtime the library was transformed. The draperies had been taken down and aired out thoroughly, the wood paneling burnished and carpets beaten free of dust. Holloway had swooped up all the silver ornaments, taken them off to the butler’s pantry for polishing and returned them gleaming once more.
When almost everything was restored to its rightful place, Phoebe was finally allowed into the room to see their handiwork. She looked around in delight.
“How beautiful this room looks now!” she said.
Mrs. Church sighed and folded her hands at her waist. “Indeed it does, miss. It reminds me of old times. So hard it is to keep things up, what with the damp and drafts, and with only Dorcas and Elsie and James.”
“Good Heavens, yes!” Phoebe said. “I will speak to Lord Thornwood about hiring more help. Meanwhile, perhaps we could employ some local girls to help out with the daily work.”
Mrs. Church’s eyes went wide. “Lord love you, miss, the village is ten miles away. And I’d wager my year’s salary that not a one of the village girls would set foot in Thorne Court!”
It was Phoebe’s turn to be surprised. “And why is that?”
The housekeeper regretted her hasty exclamation. “Well . . . there’s always stories about old houses, miss.”
Phoebe let it go. After lunch she changed into her riding habit. She wanted a closer look at that place where she’d seen the castle.
As she exited her room she saw Elsie leaving one of the rooms at the far end of the hall with a basket of linen. The maid closed the door with her foot and hurried down the back stairs, not realizing that the door didn’t catch. It swung silently open and Phoebe went along to close it.
As she drew near she heard a woman singing. The tune was plaintive, the voice like an angel’s. She was drawn by its haunting beauty.
“Lord Jack did gallop up the hill, his broadsword by his side.
He rode up to the castle gates and they were opened wide.
A bonny lad, so bold and true, the bravest of all men
But seven long years did come and go, ere he was seen again.”
Phoebe peeked into the room. It was a large and sunny chamber filled with old-fashioned furniture. The pungent odor of turpentine
filled the air and there were paints and sketches everywhere. Someone had attempted to make some sort of order to it, judging by the dozens of stacked canvases around the room, their faces turned to the wall.
Phoebe spied the singer, a small woman with delicate features, wearing a ruffled pink dressing gown. Her white hair was braided in a regal coronet atop her head and she sat with her back to the door, gazing out at the moor. She seemed to sense Phoebe’s presence, and her song ended in midnote.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Phoebe said, stepping inside the room. “Please go on. You have a lovely voice.”
“I’m glad you liked it. That was ‘Lord Jack and the Faerie Queen,’ ” the woman told Phoebe. “Do you know it?”
“No, but I should like to learn it,” Phoebe said.
“I expect you will, in time.” She smiled and her hazel eyes lit with warmth. “I’m Lady Gwynn, and you are Phoebe Sutton, of course. Would you like to see what I’m working on?”
She lifted the sketchbook from her lap and held it up. Phoebe took in a quick breath. Lady Gwynn’s deft pencil strokes had captured a wide view of the moor, crowned by an airy structure of towers and turrets and crenellated walls
“This is the faerie castle on the hill,” she said. “Have you seen it yet?”
Chapter 7
PHOEBE was jolted. “Then I wasn’t seeing things! There really is a castle!”
Lady Gwynn smiled. “Yes and no.” She gave a little wink. “Only those who are mad or have the second sight can see it.”
She lowered her voice and her thin white fingers wound around Phoebe’s wrist. Her grasp was strong despite her seeming frailty. “Don’t tell anyone else you’ve seen it. They’ll lock you away.”
Phoebe tried unsuccessfully to pry the clawlike hand from her wrist. Her heart was pounding. “Has Gordon seen the castle?”
Lady Gwynn stared at her a moment, then laughed. “Oh, yes. Gordon has most certainly seen it!” Her laughter grew wild and rather frightening.
Elsie came bustling back into the room carrying a glass of liquid. “Oh, miss! You oughtn’t to be here. Lady Gwynn is far too unwell today.”
“The door was open . . . I heard singing and followed her voice.”
“Aye, she sings like a nightingale. But always such sad songs.” She put her arm around the dowager’s shoulders and held the glass up to her lips. “Hush, now, Lady Gwynn. It’s time for your medicine.”
Lady Gwynn sighed and let go of Phoebe’s wrist. “Good-bye Miss Phoebe Sutton,” she said. “You must come again some other time.”
Elsie saw her to the door. “Pay no attention to anything odd she says, miss, when she’s having a bad spell. Her imagination sometimes plays tricks on her.”
But, Phoebe told herself, mine does not!
As she went out she heard Lady Gwynn’s crystalline voice pick up the threads of her song.
“Seven long years a prisoner in faerie halls he dwelled
And all that time his true love’s heart with salty tears was filled.
How can I free my bonny lad and bring him home to me. . .”
The plaintive notes were cut off abruptly as Elsie closed the door.
Something about the words was familiar and Phoebe was intrigued. She went to the bookroom, hoping she might find the ballad in one of the books from the late viscount’s collection.
She opened the door and went in a few feet, then stopped dead.
A sea change had come over it in her absence. The polished furniture, the gleaming glass and crystal and burnished brass were dull and clouded once more. Cobwebs wafted gently in the draft from the open door.
Phoebe fled the room and almost collided with Holloway in the hall.
“The book room!” she exclaimed. “Look inside! It’s as if nothing had been cleaned in there today.”
The butler peered in, then gave an apologetic bow. “Ah, yes. Dust is always a problem in these large, old country homes. Very difficult to maintain them,” he said blandly.
She stared at him while her mind worked furiously. Either he saw nothing amiss in the book room, or he was trying to convince her so. Phoebe composed herself.
“Yes, I suppose it must be so.”
Continuing along the corridor, she met Mrs. Church coming out of the drawing room. The holland covers had been removed and James was on a ladder, polishing the lusters in the chandelier. “Everything will be set to rights by this evening,” the housekeeper told her. “Master Gordon’s orders.”
“Perhaps you should save yourself the trouble,” Phoebe said. “I was just in the book room a few minutes ago. It looks just as it did last evening—as if all your work was for naught.”
“Damp and drafts,” Mrs. Church said complacently. “They are the bane of these old houses.”
Phoebe bit her lip. “So Holloway told me.”
She smiled as if nothing were wrong and continued out into the sunshine. Either I am losing my mind or they are all in some far-reaching conspiracy to convince me to doubt the evidence of my own eyes.
Everyone but Lady Gwynn. “I shall have to cultivate her acquaintance,” Phoebe said softly. There was something very wrong at Thorne Court, and she intended to get to the bottom of it.
She crossed through the archway to the stables, turning back to examine the house. Despite the brightness of the afternoon, the manor seemed to stand in self-made shadows. The windows were lusterless and the ivy-covered facade seemed to absorb the light.
She hurried down to the stableyard, glad to escape the closeness of the manor. She needed fresh air and exercise and a chance to be alone to think. Hugh, the head groom, was a white-haired man with skin as brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell. He greeted Phoebe with a smile.
“ ’Tis a long while since we’ve had guests to Thorne Court, miss. Quite like the old days, it is, before His Lordship’s accident.”
“You’ve been here a long time, then?”
“Oh, aye. Since I was a wee lad. ’Twas I who taught Master Gordon to ride. Lord, he was full of spunk, always neck-or-nothing.”
She let him reminisce awhile then changed the subject. “Lord Thornwood said there is a mare I might ride.”
“Aye. Daisy is a sweet-goer, with fine manners,” he told her.
He brought out a dainty bay mare with a white blaze on her forehead and saddled her up. “If you should get lost, miss, just give Daisy her head. She’ll bring you home safe and sound.”
Phoebe tried out the mare’s paces and was pleased to find that Gordon was right. They were well suited. “I can see that ye’ve a light touch, miss. You and Daisy will come to no harm together.”
She laughed and took the mare out through the gate. Soon they were galloping across the parkland in the warm sunshine, with the wind at their backs.
The ruins of an old cottage gave her an excuse to stop and explore and also to look back at Thorne Court from an excellent vantage point. Phoebe had a keen eye. It didn’t take her long to pick out Lady Gwynn’s chamber or the window of her former room. There was nothing wrong with the window as far as she could tell—nor with the slate roof above.
Using the old foundation for a mounting block, she swung herself back into the saddle. She had seen what she wanted to see.
The lights and the castle were real. Real enough that Gordon had changed her room so there would be no repetition of her seeing them.
But why? What are they hiding from me?
The wind sang and she imagined she heard the faint sounds of a harp in it, the ringing of silver bells. Shadows of dreams flickered through her mind. She glanced up to the swell of land above her, where the dark rocks of the Faerie Stables loomed.
There was no sign of any structure that she could have mistaken for a castle. Nothing but the wild sweep of moor extending as far as she could see. “It must be on the far side of the hill,” she said aloud, “and I am at too low an angle to see it.”
The wind grew chill and the back of her neck prickled.
Her
fingers caressed the stone of the talisman necklace her father had given her shortly after Gordon had broken their engagement. “To comfort and protect you from harm,” he’d said when she lifted the intricate silver chain with its hematite pendant from the box. “It belonged to your grandmother, who had the gift of second-sight.”
She’d been pleased and had remembered that the silver-black stone, heavy from its iron content, was a charm against enchantment. It made a comforting weight in her hand now, and she no longer felt that strange sense of disquiet that had grown greater the closer she came to the Faerie Stables.
Phoebe looked across at the manor again, dozing in the sun as if under a sorcerer’s spell. She realized that she hadn’t seen the shining castle on the hill until her necklace had fallen off. Perhaps its protective aura had prevented her from seeing it till then. Her mind made a leap of intuition. Gordon’s accident and the Faerie Stables, Thorne Court’s haunted reputation, the vanishing castle—they were all connected somehow!
Her fingers knotted together. If only father were alive, he could help me. He would know what is wrong at Thorne Court!
But she had only herself to rely on now. And her father’s last manuscript tucked inside one of her bandboxes. Phoebe was sure she’d find some answers there.
“Come, Daisy,” she said. “Time to head back.”
She turned the horse around, intending to go back, but as they rode away sounds drifted to her on the wind. Golden harp notes, silver flutes. A faint, steady drumbeat that might be nothing more than her blood rushing through her veins.
It is coming from up there, she thought with a frisson of fear. From the Faerie Stables.
She shivered, but instead of heading back to the manor as she’d intended, she turned away and into the woods that marked the western boundary of the parkland.
Dark trunks patched with green lichen rose starkly from the barren ground. There was no sound at all now, except for the muffled thud of the horse’s hooves. She followed a path through the wood, touching the talisman that hung round her throat on its silver chain.