“A few,” Cassie answered, thinking especially of the persistent Mr. Bates, who had come to the docks to propose one last time before she left.
He had certainly been very different from Lord Royce, loud and boastful. He had probably never opened a book in his life.
“But you accepted none of them?” Lady Royce persisted.
“I did not care for any of them in that way.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” Lady Royce chuckled. “Yes, I do see.”
Chat laughed.
Cassie wondered what they were up to, but she was just too tired to puzzle it out at present. “I think I will just go check on Antoinette before I retire, if you will excuse me.”
“Oh, yes, dear, do,” said Chat. “Make sure she has drunk the brandy and warm milk we sent up.”
“I will. Good night, Aunt Chat, Lady Royce.” Cassie kissed her aunt’s cheek, and left the drawing room with the strains of Mozart floating behind her.
Antoinette was not alone in her chamber. Sitting across from her at a small table, playing what appeared to be a game of Beggar My Neighbor, was Louisa. She was wearing a cloak tonight, a puffy blue satin affair, with the hood pushed back and her golden ringlets spilling free.
“There you are,” said Antoinette, studying the cards in her hand. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Cassie went and sat down in the empty chair at the table. “Have you? For what?”
“I thought you might like to meet Sir Belvedere tonight.” Louisa laid down another card and crowed, “I win again! I suppose my card-playing skills are not so dormant as I thought.”
Antoinette shook her head. “It is not fair! You have had almost two hundred years to practice.”
“You’ve had practice, too, Antoinette,” said Cassie. “We did nothing but play cards all those weeks on the ship from Jamaica. Now, tell me, is Sir Belvedere coming here to meet us?”
“Oh, no,” answered Louisa. “He still thinks it is improper to come to a living lady’s chamber. We will go to the East Tower.”
“When? Now?”
“Of course, if you are ready.” Louisa pulled her hood up over her head, and glided toward the door. “Just follow me!”
Then she disappeared through the solid door, leaving only a faint shimmer behind her.
“We can scarcely follow you that way, now, can we?” Antoinette called, standing up and reaching with her stockinged feet for the slippers she had discarded.
A merry laugh echoed, and Louisa stuck her head back through the door. “So sorry, my dears! Just a bit of ghost humor. Sometimes I simply cannot help myself.”
The East Tower was dark and chilly, since the maids did not go there to light fires or adjust the draperies. Only Antoinette’s and Cassie’s candles cast light into the shadows of the corners.
Louisa settled herself in a chair next to the window and called out, “Sir Belvedere! Where are you? You have callers. I hope you have polished your armor up for them.”
There was a faint clattering noise, which grew louder and louder as they listened. Cassie could not tell where the sound was coming from, even though she twisted her head this way and that, peering into the gloom. Then there was one last, deafening clank, and a tall figure in armor appeared next to Louisa’s chair.
He pushed the visor back on his helmet, and Cassie saw that he was a rather handsome, if very pale, gentleman.
“Fair ladies!” he cried, giving them a noisy, stiff little bow. “I am honored you came all this way to make my humble acquaintance.”
Cassie glanced at Antoinette, but her friend appeared to be as much at a loss as she was. What did one do with a ghost knight? Curtsy? Shake hands?
She was every bit as puzzled as she had been when she first met Louisa.
She ended up giving a small bob and saying, “How do you do? I am Miss Cassandra Richards, and this is Miss Antoinette Duvall.”
“Miss Duvall is going to find Lady Lettice for us,” Louisa said.
“Indeed! I have heard you have great powers, Miss Duvall,” said Sir Belvedere, holding up his slipping visor to look at Antoinette. “Very great.”
Antoinette demurred. “Not very great. Not at all like my mother. But I will help you in any way I can. And I know that we would very much like to hear your story, Sir Belvedere.”
“Ah, my tale. ’Tis a sad one.” Sir Belvedere sighed and lowered himself into the chair next to Louisa’s. His legs stuck out stiffly in front of him.
Louisa twisted one of her ringlets around her finger. “It is not as sad as all that. Not nearly as sad as my story.”
Sir Belvedere gave an indignant huff. “Getting drunk and falling down the cliff is not sad.”
“Neither is tripping on a loose stone and falling off the tower into the moat,” Louisa retorted.
Cassie watched them bickering, and wondered if there was something in the air of Royce Castle that caused silly arguments, like the one she and Lord Royce had had over the music.
Then again, did ghosts even breathe air? She had no idea.
And it appeared that this was a long-standing conversation between Louisa and Sir Belvedere. They just shook their heads and looked away from each other to smile at Cassie and Antoinette.
Antoinette perched herself on the edge of the high bed. “I don’t remember seeing a moat here,” she said.
“It was filled in after Louisa’s time,” Sir Belvedere explained.
“My husband’s brother’s wife, who was Lady Royce after me, thought it smelled too foul,” Louisa sniffed. “I rather miss it, though.”
Cassie sat down on the bed next to Antoinette, listening as Sir Belvedere went on to tell some tales of life at Royce Castle in the Middle Ages, and marveling at the entire strange scene. She had grown up surrounded by tales of spells and spirits, and had never doubted the existence of an unseen world. But she had never thought she would be sitting about casually conversing with two ghosts.
And she would never have thought it would be so very ordinary. They chatted about all the other generations Sir Belvedere and Louisa had seen come and go, the ghosts that had stayed for a while and then gone on to nobody knew where. They talked of Cassie’s and Antoinette’s lives in Jamaica, about Antoinette’s mother and Cassie’s parents.
It really could have been any tea party anywhere, if their fellow conversants had not been slightly glowing about the edges.
Then the talk turned to the current living inhabitants of Royce Castle.
“We quite like Lady Royce, don’t we, Sir Belvedere?” Louisa said. “She’s always trying to talk to us.”
“A fine lady indeed. Much better than her mother-in-law ever was,” Sir Belvedere agreed. “You would have thought that a lady whose marriage was arranged by Lady Lettice would be more receptive to spirits, but no.”
“But Lady Royce’s son is very different. Always so logical,” said Louisa. She made “logical” sound like a rather dirty little word. “Always buried in a book. But he is fun to tease a bit.”
“We switch his papers about all the time,” Sir Belvedere added. “He just thinks it is the housemaids, and asks his mother not to let them tidy in there anymore.”
Louisa laughed. “He always forgets that no one does clean in there! They stopped months ago.” Then she turned a shrewd look onto Cassie. “I think Miss Richards rather likes Lord Royce, though.”
“Does she indeed?” Sir Belvedere said in a highly interested tone.
“She thinks he looks like a dashing poet,” Antoinette offered.
“Antoinette!” Cassie cried, feeling her face grow warm. She pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Please.”
“Well, do you not think that?” Antoinette said innocently.
“We could assist you,” said Sir Belvedere. “Put some suggestions into his head, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, no! Thank you, but no,” Cassie said hurriedly. That was the very last thing she needed; ghosts matchmaking for her.
Antoinette then said, “He is not reall
y her ‘sort of gentleman,’ you see.”
And, without explaining who she did think of as her sort of gentleman, Cassie said good night and retired back to her own chamber.
Chapter Twelve
Once in her bed, though, Cassie found she simply could not sleep. The excitement of talking to the ghosts still hummed in her mind, and she tossed about for a long while remembering it.
Finally, she gave up any attempt to fall asleep, pushed back the bedclothes, found her slippers and dressing gown, and went downstairs to the library.
There she bypassed the shelf of novels and found the neat row of leather-bound books that bore Lord Royce’s name on the spines. She pulled out the first volume and took it over to the desk.
She sat in the thick silence of the night. Time stood still as she turned over the pages of the book. She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she opened the volume, but not this complete absorption into another world.
She had thought Lord Royce’s work would be dry and academic, and it was certainly very learned. But it was also warm and vivid; it brought scenes of an ancient, long-dead place to life. She could almost see the public squares of Greece, where philosophers taught rapt young students and servants hurried to the marketplace bearing amphorae of olives and wine. It almost made her think of Jamaica.
Cassie did not see the logic that Lord Royce claimed to hold so dear, but she did see much more. And she also saw that Lord Royce saw more, too. Probably more than even he realized. He saw the true vividness of life. Why, then, would he deny the richness of what was in his own home?
Cassie was very puzzled. Both by Lord Royce and by herself.
Then, as she eagerly turned over another page, she heard the soft click of the library door opening. She looked up and noticed, without much surprise, Lord Royce himself standing there, a pile of papers in his arms.
Despite the slight chill in the air, he was in his shirtsleeves, his hair falling in a rumpled mass to his shoulders. He looked startled to see her there, and, for one second, the candle in his hand wavered.
“Lord Royce,” she said with a smile. “We really must stop meeting like this.”
“Miss Richards,” he answered slowly. “I did not expect anyone to be about at this hour.”
“I could not sleep, so I came down here to find something to read.”
“And what did you find? A novel?” He came closer to the desk, put his candle down next to hers and the papers atop some books, and sat in the chair beside her. He smelled of clean soap and night air; his warmth and nearness was natural, comforting.
“No. It is the first volume of your series on ancient Greece.”
“Indeed?” His dark brow arched. “What do you think of my work, Miss Richards? Too stuffy and academic?”
Cassie shook her head. “You are a very talented writer, Lord Royce,” she said quietly. “I could almost imagine myself there.”
“That is a very kind thing for you to say.”
“It is not kindness. It is the truth. Through your words, I can see the marketplace in my mind. Smell the wine and olive oil, feel the Grecian sun on my face, and hear all the chatter and laughter.” Cassie looked back down at the open book. “In a strange way, it reminded me of—of Jamaica.”
“Of Jamaica? Ancient Greece? In what way?”
She wondered if he was making fun of her. After all, ancient Greece and Jamaica were really nothing alike. But when she glanced up at him, she saw only interest written on his face. “In the way so much of life is lived outdoors. In the warmth of the sun, and the diet of fish and fruit and wine. When I was a child, Antoinette’s mother would take us to the market in Negril with her. I remember how much I loved that, how I loved the sights and smells, being surrounded by all the life . . .”
Her throat grew tight, and she lapsed into silence.
“You miss it very much, don’t you?” he said quietly.
“England is not so very bad,” Cassie answered. “It has its own sort of life. But yes, I do sometimes get homesick, even now.”
“Why did you not stay on there?”
“My parents were gone; Antoinette was all I had left. And Aunt Chat wrote so often, urging me to come stay with her. It seemed the best thing to do.” Cassie ran her hand over the cool smoothness of the paper. “There are women who can run their own plantations and succeed. But I do not think I could be one of them.”
“I think you could do anything you set your mind to,” he said.
Cassie looked up at him, startled. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. No one had ever thought her capable, or sensible, or able to do much of anything. Even her parents and Antoinette, who loved her, never had. “You do? Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Then I shall have to set my mind to something.” She closed the book and looked down at his name embossed on the cover. “I wish I could write a book, like you.”
“You could probably write a grand horrid novel,” he suggested. “Strange noises in the night, mysterious servants. Exotic ceremonies in seaside tunnels.”
Cassie grinned at him. “Oh, so you have heard about that scheme, have you?”
He grinned back. “My mother said something to me about it. She also said I could come along, if I like.”
“Of course you can come along. They are your tunnels, after all. But no cynical comments, if you please.”
“The spirits won’t appear if there is an unfriendly presence, eh?”
“Something of the sort.”
“Then I promise, no comments of any sort. You read my book; the least I can do is be polite at your—ceremony.”
“I learned a great deal from your book, Lord Royce,” Cassie said. “Perhaps you can learn something from me.”
He looked at her steadily, his eyes serious. “I am sure I can, Miss Richards.”
Cassie returned his regard for a long, still moment. The room around them seemed to disappear. Books, ghosts, castles, Jamaica—nothing else existed in the world for that one instant. Nothing but him and herself, held together in a strange accord.
It should have been an uncomfortable moment, a nervous thing. Yet it was not. It just felt—right. Completely right, to be here with this man, in this moment, alone in the quiet of the night.
Then he looked away, and the odd enchantment was broken. Cassie, too, glanced away, afraid she might be overcome with this strange emotion, these vague yearnings, and start to cry.
“Why must we go specifically to the tunnels on Friday?” he asked in a strained voice. Then he leaned back casually in his chair, his arms crossed, and Cassie thought she must have imagined that hoarse tone, that moment of intimacy. “Why not the drawing room or the breakfast room?”
He could not be feeling the same way she was. He was logical and rational; she was prone to flights of romance and fancy.
She tried to focus her mind on his question. “Antoinette says that the phase of the moon will be just right on Friday, and somehow her fainting episode told her that the tunnels are the right place. I fear I have not studied these things as she has, so I could not tell you why that is. You will just have to come and see for yourself.”
“Oh, I shall. I am quite looking forward to it.” The old tone of doubt was back in his voice, in his expression.
Cassie could feel them falling back into what was already a familiar pattern, and she was grateful for it. She would need time alone, time when she was not so confused, to examine these strange new feelings. “And so am I, Lord Royce. Very much.”
“You know, ‘Lord Royce’ sounds terribly formal, considering our circumstances. Perhaps you could call me Phillip? Just when we are alone?” He sounded quite endearingly shy and hesitant as he asked this, not at all like his usual self.
Cassie’s eyes widened in surprise at this informality. “Call you—Phillip?”
“Well, you do not have to, of course. It just sounds ridiculous for you to be calling me Lord Royce all the time.”
“I should l
ike to call you Phillip. When we are—informal like this. Perhaps you could also call me Cassandra.”
He smiled at her. “Very well, then, it is a bargain—Cassandra.”
She smiled, too. Her name on his lips sounded different than when anyone else had ever said it. It sounded exotic and elegant, and very sweet.
“Would you care to go riding with me tomorrow, Cassandra?” he continued. “Mother has assigned me to deliver some invitations to the masked ball to her friends in the village. You could meet some of them.”
“I would like that very much, Phillip. Thank you.” Then the little clock on the fireplace mantel struck two. Cassie looked at it in surprise. “Is it so late already? I should retire.”
“Yes,” he answered. “So should I.”
Cassie stood up, still holding the book in her hands. “Would you mind if I borrowed this? I would like to finish reading it.”
“Not at all. Keep it as long as you like.”
“Well, then. Good night.” Then she hurried off to her own chamber, the book clutched very tightly against her.
Phillip watched Cassie leave, then sat down in her vacated chair behind the desk.
The faint scent of her perfume still clung to the air. Phillip shook his head to try to clear it of the enchantment of that fragrance.
What a very odd night it had been. He had been unable to sleep, unable even to stay still in his bed. Something in his mind had kept urging him to get up, to go to the library. He had thought it was just an urge to work, something that came on him rather often late at night.
Then he walked into the library and saw Miss Richards—Cassandra—sitting there. Her black hair fell loose from where she had tied it back carelessly with a ribbon, and the candlelight gave it the sheen of the ocean at night. Her eyes were wide and dark and startled as she looked up at him.
Phillip usually disliked it when people came into the library, a place he regarded as his own sanctuary. But it seemed strangely right to see her there.
It seemed right to see her anywhere in his home. In the short time she had been there, the place had become a brighter and more cheerful place. A place full of interest and variety. He found himself looking forward to going to the tunnels on Friday night, and even to his mother’s silly masked ball.
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