Shadows in Scarlet

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  “Is that really his sword?” a teenaged boy asked. “Will you run up the staircase for my camcorder?” asked a girl. “A duel,” sighed one middle-aged lady. “He died for her in a duel. How romantic.”

  Malcolm drew the sword and posed by the staircase, back straight, chin up, only the angle of his brows giving away his sense of humor. He politely but firmly refused any action shots.

  Over lunch Amanda, Malcolm, and Carrie shook their heads. “Even when the book comes out,” Amanda said, “we’re never going to drive a stake through the heart of the Sally-and-James-as-tragic-lovers story. People have to have their illusions.”

  “Like believin’ their ancestors were romantic heroes,” said Malcolm, “no ordinary folks like themsel’s.”

  Carrie shook her head. She was the only person who knew the full story, not just the truth about James, but the truth about his ghost. “The book will make your reputation as a scholar, Amanda.”

  “You’re doing the hard part,” Amanda told her.

  “No, you and Malcolm did the hard part, you lived to tell the tale.”

  Malcolm lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If you wrote aboot the ghost you’d spoil your academic reputation but make a pile o’ brass.”

  “Yeah, like I’m going to go on the tabloid talk shows with the sordid details,” Amanda retorted.

  “For God’s sakes don’t tell Cynthia about the ghost,” added Carrie, “or she’ll make that film of hers even mushier than it already is. James Grant, dead for love.”

  “Love had very little to do wi’ it,” Malcolm stated.

  Speak of the devil… . Cynthia’s melodic voice drifted into the kitchen, playing counterpoint to Bill Hewitt’s staccato sentences. “… enough material, Bill? Good, good, the reconstruction is going beautifully, we’ll start serving tea in the summerhouse this spring. Wayne, you naughty boy, there you are.”

  “Good afternoon, Mother,” said Wayne’s courteous voice.

  “How’s the new apartment? Are you hanging up your clothes? Honestly, Bill, I know children have to have their little rebellious moments, but it’s just so hard on the parents.”

  Hewitt’s mutter was unintelligible, not that Cynthia was listening to him anyway.

  “Wasn’t Amanda pretty as a picture last night? So sweet. If you children would just communicate properly, be up front, like I am, we’d never have had that little misunderstanding over an engagement.”

  Cynthia and her entourage, Hewitt and Wayne, swept into the kitchen. “And here the little lovebirds are!” she trilled, air-kissing in Malcolm and Amanda’s direction. “I’m so glad I was able to play a part, however small, in bringing you two together.”

  “Very kind o’ you.” Malcolm bowed. “Most obliged.”

  “I’ll be at the summerhouse,” Hewitt said. “No need for you to come, Cynthia. It’s very muddy.” He fled through the back door, slamming it emphatically behind him.

  “How considerate,” said Cynthia, glancing down at her black patent pumps. The rest of her outfit consisted of red stockings, a starched white blouse, and a wool jacket and skirt in what must have been the tartan of Clan Las Vegas. “Wayne, call that Ms. Brown and tell her I’ll be much too busy to receive her this afternoon.” She turned to the others. “Another one of these so-called psychics, she says she’s doing a story for the Washington Post but I suspect it’s more like the National Enquirer. Honestly, where do these people come from? The real story of Sally and James is interesting enough without dragging in supernatural claptrap.”

  You think? Amanda forced herself to keep a straight face. Carrie said something about the next tour group and made a break for it. Wayne turned on his heel and followed, almost making it out the door before he laughed.

  “Well then,” said Cynthia, beaming so broadly at Malcolm and Amanda they shared a cautious glance, “a winter wedding, how lovely, we’ll decorate the church with Christmas lilies and poinsettias and evergreen boughs. I insist we hold the reception at my home. And I’ve had another of my inspirations! We can have a period wedding! I’m sure we can recreate an eighteenth-century bridal gown, and that uniform, Malcolm, defines glamorous.”

  “I’d really like to keep the role-playing compartmentalized,” Amanda told her. “And December is too soon.”

  Cynthia waved her hand airily—easy come, easy go. “Lady Norah is planning to attend, Malcolm? And Lord Dundreggan?”

  “When we’ve set a date, I expect so, aye.”

  “My family couldn’t care less,” said Amanda.

  Cynthia sailed on. “Good, good. How about the middle of January? It’s sort of a dull spot, a wedding would get everyone’s interest.”

  “My internship’s up in December,” Amanda reminded her, setting up a future discussion on references. “And I have to go back to Ithaca to defend my thesis in January.”

  “As though anyone would be attackin’ it.” Malcolm had read her completed thesis while she polished the sword and given it his seal of approval. Not that he was going to disparage her work, but she hoped he’d have told her if he found anything off base.

  “I’ll have to reserve the florist,” Cynthia went on, “and the caterer, and I know a baker who makes a perfectly scrumptious groom’s cake, but he’s always booked well in advance.”

  “We may not even be here when the time comes,” Amanda said. “I have to find a job somewhere. And Malcolm has his business to run—I mean, thank goodness for computers and everything, he can do it from here for now, but …”

  Malcolm concluded, “It’s gey early to makin’ weddin’ plans.”

  “Absolutely,” said Amanda, and added, “Right now we’re basically in it for the sex.”

  Cynthia’s face went blank. Her cheeks took on a rosy color deeper than the delicate pink of their cosmetic coating. “Oh, ah—oh, well… .” She turned and hurried from the room.

  “Well played,” Malcolm said with a grin.

  “Yeah, I’ve thought all along she must’ve found Wayne under a cabbage leaf. Not that we are only in it for the sex, there’s a lot more going on here than the biomechanics.”

  “Oh aye? And here I was thinkin’ you were usin’ me for my …”

  “Amanda? Malcolm?” Lucy Benedetto stepped through the back door, carrying a towel-covered bundle scented with cinnamon.

  “Oh, hello, Lucy.” Malcolm offered her a smile as gracious as the one he’d used on Cynthia, just without the edge.

  “I thought you’d like a pie,” said Lucy. “American as apple pie, you know.”

  Amanda took the warm plate from her hand. “Thank you very much. This is really above and beyond, Lucy.”

  “Oh no, no, we so enjoyed the party last night. It was really nice of you to invite us.” Lucy backpedaled toward the door and disappeared.

  “Thank you kindly,” Malcolm called after her.

  “I’ll put this away. We can have it tonight.” Amanda took the pie to her kitchen, and was turning back toward the front of the house when the outside door opened.

  “Amanda! Hi!” Helen Medina burst into the hallway, her cameras clinking like Malcolm’s belt. “I’m on my way down to the summerhouse, but I wanted to bring you the proofs of the pictures for the book. You got some nice shots at the castle last summer.”

  “Malcolm and Wayne got the nice shots. Most of mine are off-center or blurred.” Amanda accepted a big brown envelope. “How’s the film going?”

  Helen made a face. “Right now it’s a tug-of-war between a documentary and a soap opera. I’m thinking of doing two, one for the academic and tourist circuits and one for Cynthia to show her garden club buddies.”

  “Hang in there, Helen,” Amanda said with a laugh.

  Helen turned to go, then glanced back. “Oh, you remember those pictures you took with my camera right before you left last summer? The ones of your apartment?”

  Oh. Those. “Yeah… .”

  “They’re in the envelope. Kind of dark, you should’ve used the flash.”

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nbsp; “Thanks,” Amanda told her, adding, “I think” under her breath after the door shut.

  She opened the envelope. Between the slick contact sheets were two snapshots. There was her living room again, looking in the photos just as it did now, except that the colors were murky. She saw the bedroom door. She saw the furniture. What she didn’t see was a man wearing a scarlet coat and a tartan kilt, his hand resting firmly on an empty scabbard.

  Go figure, Amanda told herself. But she didn’t need to prove he’d been there. Not any more.

  Leaving the envelope on the counter next to the warm apple pie, she walked briskly back toward the main house, opened the door into the entrance hall, and stepped through.

  The front door stood ajar, framing a block of color and sunshine. Malcolm sat on the staircase, sword resting against a tread, kilt draped gracefully, petting Lafayette as he rubbed against the checkered socks. The cat’s purr rumbled like a tiny engine in the momentary silence of the house.

  Leaning on the banister, Amanda asked, “Do you think history moves in cycles, with each turn a little bit different from the one before?”

  “Oh aye, it does that. The trick is to recycle the parts that bear repeatin’ and move on beyond the rest.” Malcolm smiled, a broad, brilliant smile that had nothing in it of devastation.

  Amanda caught his smile and repeated it. Beneath her hands the banister stretched smoothly upwards, its scars healed at last.

  About the Author:

  After starting out in science fiction and fantasy, Lillian Stewart Carl is now writing contemporary novels blending mystery, romance, and fantasy, along with short mystery and fantasy stories. Her work often includes paranormal themes. It always features plots based on history and archaeology. While she doesn’t write comedy, she believes in characters with a sense of humor. Her novels have been compared to those of Daphne du Maurier, Mary Renault, Mary Stewart (no relation), Barbara Michaels/Elizabeth Peters, and J.R.R. Tolkien’s colleague Charles Williams.

  Her fantasies are set in a mythological, alternate-history Mediterranean and India. Her contemporary novels are set in Texas, in Ohio, in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, and in England and Scotland.

  Of her Lucifer’s Crown, Library Journal says: “Blending historical mystery with a touch of the supernatural, the author creates an intriguing exploration of faith and redemption in a world that is at once both modern and timeless.

  Among many other novels, Lillian is the author of the Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron cross-genre mystery series: America’s exile and Scotland’s finest on the trail of all-too-living legends. Of The Secret Portrait, Kirkus says: Mystery, history and sexual tension blend with a taste of the wild beauty of the Highlands. Of The Burning Glass, Publishers Weekly says: “Authentic dialect, detailed descriptions of the castle and environs, and vivid characters recreate an area rich in history and legend. The tightly woven plot is certain to delight history fans with its dramatic collision of past and present.”

  With John Helfers, Lillian co-edited The Vorkosigan Companion, a retrospective on Lois McMaster Bujold’s science fiction work, which was nominated for a Hugo award.

  Her first story collection, Along the Rim of Time, was published in 2000, and her second, The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth, in 2008, including three stories that were reprinted in Year’s Best mystery anthologies.

  Her books are available in both print and electronic editions. Here is her website. Here is her Facebook Fan Page