The Kingdom tgqs-2

by Amanda Stevens

  “Grandfather, I’d like you to meet Amelia Gray,” Thane said.

  I went forward to greet him. “How do you do, Mr. Asher?”

  He had been clutching a leather-bound book, and as he laid it aside, I caught a glimpse of gold tooling on the cover, an emblem that triggered some distant, elusive memory. Then it was gone as he took my hand in his, and that strange quiver traversed slowly from the base of my spine all the way up to the back of my neck. It was all I could do not to pull my hand from his.

  “Leave us,” he commanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He means me,” Thane said.

  “Oh…”

  “How about that drink?” he asked cheerfully, unruffled by his grandfather’s bluntness. “What would you like?”

  “Some white wine?”

  He glanced down. “Grandfather?”

  The older man answered with an imperious wave, and Thane sauntered off. I was then summoned to a seat next to the wheelchair, and I perched on the edge, as uneasy as a rabbit caught in a snare.

  “So you’re the restorer I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said. “The one who’s come to save our little cemetery.”

  I glanced at him sharply, searching for evidence of animosity or sarcasm, but I found nothing in those black eyes but a mild curiosity. “I don’t know about that. I’m just here to do what I’ve been hired to do.”

  “Have you seen the cemetery yet?” His voice, more than the wheelchair, gave away his frailty. It had a brittle quality that couldn’t be masked with a throw.

  “As a matter of fact, I spent the day there photographing headstones.”

  “And what did you think of it?”

  It was the same question Thane had asked earlier, and like then, I had a feeling Thorngate was merely a blind. The man was after something else. But then I wondered if my uneasiness—more than his words—had created the suspicion. “I was just telling Thane earlier how much I admire the statuary. The faces are so expressive. They remind me of some of the statues I saw in a Paris cemetery once.”

  “Père Lachaise?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Have you been there?”

  He nodded. “You have a good eye, my dear. Many of the statues in our cemetery were sculpted by European artists. They’re priceless.”

  “Then it’s lucky there’s been no vandalism,” I said. “You can’t imagine the kind of damage that can be done with a can of spray paint.”

  “No one would dare.”

  The comment was so offhand I almost missed the supreme arrogance, but it was there in the haughty glitter of those obsidian eyes, in the thin, mirthless smile that sent another shiver up my spine. I hadn’t come here expecting to like Pell Asher. His greed had destroyed a cemetery, and in my eyes, that was an unforgiveable sin. But despite his past deeds, despite the pomposity, I was strangely intrigued by the man. I’d fallen victim to his mystique even as his very nature repelled me.

  “Tell me more about your travels,” he said smoothly. “As you can imagine, I don’t get out much these days. I tend to live vicariously. You mentioned Paris. Do you travel abroad often?”

  “Whenever I can. But Paris was some time ago. A high school graduation gift from my aunt.”

  “A very generous one, I’d say.” His smile was now warm and inviting, almost eager. I couldn’t help responding.

  “Too generous, according to my father,” I found myself telling him.

  One dark brow rose in sympathy. “He didn’t want you to go?”

  “He’s always been…protective.” And I would say no more on the subject. My relationship with Papa was a private matter, but that brief conversation had stirred a hornet’s nest of memories. He’d been so dead set against that trip. I’d rarely seen him so angry. Looking back, I understood why. The notion of my straying so far from the hallowed ground of Rosehill Cemetery must have terrified him. He’d always kept such a watchful eye. But Mama and Aunt Lynrose had been relentless. They’d had their own worries about me. They didn’t know about the ghosts and so couldn’t understand why a girl of my age was all too content to sequester herself in an old graveyard with only her books for company. It was high time I had an adventure, they’d said. A bit of culture. So off to Paris I’d gone. And while my aunt toured the Louvre and Notre Dame, I’d slipped off by myself to wander the pathways of Père Lachaise where the likes of Chopin and Jim Morrison and Édith Piaf had been laid to rest. I’d had a wonderful time despite the ghosts—Paris had been full of them—and when we returned, the chasm between Papa and me had grown even wider. To this day, I didn’t understand that distance. I still didn’t know why that first sighting of a ghost had changed our relationship forever.

  The old hurt flitted away as Thane placed a glass of wine in my hand. I looked up with a smile. “Thank you.”

  His gaze on me was attentive. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded.

  “You need to see about Maris,” his grandfather said darkly. “She’s started to drink, and you know she can’t hold her liquor. Go head her off before she makes a fool of herself.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Thane murmured.

  I took a sip of the wine—a dry, crisp Riesling—and savored the acidity on my tongue as I watched Thane over the rim. He’d gone straight over to Maris and bent to say something in her ear. She looked up with a grateful smile and nodded, her hand fluttering to his sleeve. I was reminded of the way Angus had nuzzled against Thane earlier. It seemed he had a way with strays, and I wondered if he regarded me as such.

  Hugh had drifted out to the veranda with Luna. I could see the two of them out there talking through the open doorway. There was nothing inappropriate about the way he stared down at her. Nothing particularly intimate about her answering smile. But it hit me like a thunderbolt that Hugh Asher was the man who had been with her in the library. I thought now of the laughter and whispers, those animalistic sounds of pleasure. His voice was nothing like Thane’s, but they had a similar accent, a certain inflection in the long vowels that had caused me to jump to the wrong conclusion.

  My gaze shot back to Maris. Did she suspect? Maybe that was why she’d clung to Hugh so proprietarily during my introduction. But allowing her husband’s mistress into the house? I couldn’t imagine a more cutting humiliation. However, it wasn’t my place to judge her marriage or her forbearance. I couldn’t help feeling sympathy for her, though, and a deepening appreciation for Thane, who had managed to coax a smile and some semblance of animation from her.

  Pell Asher said something at my side, and I turned with an apologetic murmur. “Sorry. I was just admiring this room. The whole house is incredible. A far cry from my modest place.”

  He adjusted the throw over his legs. “Thane tells me you’re from Charleston.”

  “I live there now, but I grew up in Trinity. It’s a small town just north—”

  “I know where Trinity is,” he said. “A very good friend of mine lived there for years. After she died, I used to drive down every so often to visit her grave.”

  “Where was she buried?” I inquired politely.

  “Rosehill Cemetery. Do you know it?”

  My brows shot up. “My father was the caretaker at Rosehill for many years. I grew up in that white house near the gate.”

  He gave me another of those strange smiles. “I remember that cemetery very well. It was always so beautifully maintained. I used to marvel at the grueling hours it must have taken to keep all those graves so pristine.”

  “And that was only one of several cemeteries he cared for,” I said proudly. “But Rosehill was by far the largest.”

  “I recall seeing him during some of my visits,” Pell Asher reminisced. “Tall, stoop-shouldered, hair as white as cotton. We spoke on occasion. A very dignified man.”

  “Yes, that’s Papa,” I said with a pang of loneliness.

  “He sometimes had a little girl with him. A sole
mn, golden-haired child who seemed quite at home among the dead.”

  What an odd way of putting it, I thought. And how unnerving to catch a glimpse of my childhood self through the eyes of this stranger. The whole conversation edged toward the surreal…to think of such a happenstance meeting with Pell Asher all those years ago.

  “Are your parents still living?” he asked softly.

  “Yes. My father’s retired, but he still helps out in the cemetery from time to time.”

  “It must be a comfort to them to have you nearby. Charleston is what…an hour’s drive from Trinity?”

  “If that. But I don’t get back home as often as I’d like. Even when I’m working in Charleston, the hours are long.”

  “You should make the time. Without the touchstone of family, one leads an imbalanced life.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Of course, it’s true,” he said. “The strongest ties are blood and land. They are constant. Romantic love is all too fleeting.”

  I didn’t necessarily agree, possibly because I had no blood ties, and the only land I’d ever been attached to was hallowed ground. But I knew about love. The bond I’d felt with Devlin had been so swift and irrevocable that even now, months apart, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop wanting him. It was a constant ache.

  I glanced at Pell Asher. His gaze was hard upon me, and I felt that odd little shiver again.

  “Blood and land,” he repeated. “That’s why we treasured our cemetery. Alive or dead, Ashers are compelled to return home.”

  The cemetery—I noticed he refused to call it Thorngate—had been so valued, in fact, that he’d given it away as atonement for his sins. I had no idea if the family was still involved with the upkeep, but it occurred to me that Pell Asher could very likely be the secret benefactor. Who else in town would be so inclined to make such a large donation to the Daughters of our Valiant Heroes for the purpose of a restoration? And who else would find discretion necessary in order to avoid poking any lingering resentment?

  “It’s a lovely resting spot,” I murmured, for lack of anything better to add.

  “Have you been inside the mausoleum?”

  “I took a peek. I didn’t go down into the tomb, though. I’ve found it best not to explore underground chambers alone. One never knows about the stability.” Among other dangers.

  “It’s perfectly sound,” he said. “But if you’re worried, get Thane to go with you. You’ll want to see the vaults. Julia’s, my wife, is especially beautiful. And he’ll want to show you the Sleeping Bride.”

  “Is that another statue?”

  “No, my dear, the Sleeping Bride is my great-aunt Emelyn Asher, my grandfather’s youngest sister. She died on her wedding day, trampled by a team of runaway horses. The family had her body sealed in a glass coffin where she remains to this day as perfect as the day she died. Thane can tell you the rest of the story. He was fascinated by it as a boy.”

  I could imagine. “Did he grow up here?”

  “He came to me when he was seven. His mother was married to my son Edward for a time. After she passed, Thane stayed on with my son because he had nowhere else to go. But Edward wasn’t long for this world, either.” I heard the sharp edge of grief in his voice. “After his diagnosis, he brought Thane here, and in time, I grew to love the boy as if he were my own flesh and blood. God knows, he’s done more to restore the family’s holdings than my son.”

  My gaze strayed back to Thane. His grandfather had painted a very different picture from the image I’d formed on the ferry. But Thane’s own words had led me to believe him a shallow, aimless man given to drink while awaiting his grandfather’s passing. Now I was starting to see him in a different light.

  “He’s been through a lot for someone his age.”

  I sipped my wine without replying. We were straying into territory I had no wish to explore. None of this was any of my business, and I would be horrified to learn that Mama or Papa had ever spoken to a stranger about my personal affairs. Not that they would. We Grays were a private lot even with one another. But in spite of my discomfort, I found myself listening attentively.

  Those black eyes gleamed, as if he sensed—and enjoyed—my uneasiness. “Thane lost his mother and the only father he’d ever known in a very short period of time. He recovered, of course, because he is nothing if not a survivor. But then he lost Harper…”

  He had purposefully trailed off to make me curious. He knew exactly what he was doing and so did I, but I took the bait, anyway. “Harper?”

  “The girl he wanted to marry. They were inseparable for a time, but it was a match that was never meant to be.”

  Such a high-handed proclamation. I felt resentment on Thane’s behalf. “What happened to her?”

  “She was killed in a car accident. Driving too fast in a rainstorm…missed a turn…” He sighed. “She’d been up here to see Thane that night, and he blamed himself for allowing her to leave in such terrible weather. But Harper was headstrong and that is putting it kindly. Truth be told, the girl was unstable. So reckless and out of control she was a danger to herself and to others. Thane refused to see it, of course, and her parents were useless. They could have gotten her help years earlier, but they preferred to bury their heads in the sand. It was easier to let someone else clean up her messes. I’m just grateful she didn’t take Thane with her that night.”

  “It sounds like you knew her well.”

  “I knew her only too well,” he muttered, or at least, that’s what I thought he said.

  He watched me with those dark eyes. I had the unsettling notion that he was trying to plumb my deepest thoughts. I had no idea why he’d spoken so frankly about something so personal, but I suspected he did nothing without premeditation. What he wanted from me, I couldn’t imagine.

  I was relieved when Thane materialized before us. “You’ve monopolized Amelia enough for one night,” he said and reached for my hand. “I promised to show her the library.”

  “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait.” Pell Asher’s gaze shot to the doorway where a split second later, the maid appeared to announce dinner.

  Thirteen

  Candlelight masked the water stains and peeling wallpaper in the dining room, but that faint scent of mildew followed us through the arched doorway. The table, however, showed no sign of the deterioration that plagued the rest of the house. Antique china and crystal gleamed on a bed of ivory lace, while silver candelabras flanked a centerpiece of purple wildflowers in shades so complimentary to Luna’s dress, one might assume she’d had a hand in the selection. Surely, no woman in her position would be so brazen, but Luna was an enigma. I wondered if, like candlelight, her luminous façade veiled some deeper flaw.

  The table display was lavish for such a small gathering, and I was reminded of Thane’s earlier comment about the extravagance of cemetery statues—money that might be better spent on the living. I was no expert, but I had to think that even one or two of those exquisite place settings may have netted enough at auction to fix a leaky roof. Why, then, had Asher House been allowed to fall into such a state of disrepair?

  Handwritten cards designated the seating arrangement, and with a little shuffling, we all found our places. Pell Asher dominated the head of the table, and Maris nervously took a seat at the other end. I was sure she would have preferred to be nearer to her husband, but etiquette and tradition dictated her position. When we were all settled, I noticed that Luna had somehow ended up next to Hugh, making me wonder if she’d engineered a last-minute switch. I didn’t dare glance at Maris to confirm my suspicion. It was hard to look at her knowing what I knew, but my awkwardness paled in comparison to her situation.

  I was seated to her right, Catrice Hawthorne to her left. At the other end of the table, Luna and Bryn bookended the elder Asher while Thane and Hugh claimed the middle chairs, directly across from one another. Despite poor Maris’s discomfort, it was the best possible arrangement for me, with Bryn Bir
ch on Thane’s other side. I would have hated to spend an entire evening next to her.

  Regardless, I wasn’t looking forward to the meal. The library beckoned, and I was itching to get started, particularly if the records turned out to be the treasure trove Thane had promised. As a restorer, I tried to remain as faithful to the original vision and layout of a cemetery as was humanly possible, which was why I spent hours scouring old newspapers and church books before I ever removed so much as a thistle. But it wasn’t often that I had the opportunity to examine photographs from the late 1800s. The prospect of studying those historic images excited me almost as much as the possibility of uncovering information about the hidden grave.

  That grave. I was self-aware enough to know that I wouldn’t have peace of mind until I could put a name to it. Until I made sure it was given proper respect. The site was so remote and lonely. I couldn’t imagine why someone had been laid to rest in such a desolate spot. It made me sad to think of it.

  As I contemplated how best to go about finding my answers, I realized the most fruitful resources might not be the cemetery records at all, but someone seated at this table. The grave wasn’t that old. Interment had probably occurred during the lifetime of everyone present, with the possible exception of Thane. And me, of course.

  Earlier I’d been hesitant to reveal my discovery, but now I couldn’t see the harm in asking a few questions. After all, it wasn’t as if someone had used the grave to hastily dispose of a body. The site was sheltered, but nothing had been done to disguise the appearance. Quite the contrary, the mound had been decorated with pebbles and shells and marked with a headstone. And at one time, someone had taken great pains to remove the grass and weeds.

  “You’re very quiet,” Thane observed as we began the first course—a delectable acorn squash soup flavored with a hint of curry. “Grandfather didn’t say anything to upset you, did he?”