Mesmerized

by Candace Camp

  “I’m sorry,” Olivia began.

  “Hush,” he told her, smiling. “I enjoy this.”

  She chuckled and relaxed in his arms. The shivering had stopped, and for a moment she let herself luxuriate in the warmth. A movement in the hallway caught her eye, and she turned, looking out the door. She stiffened.

  Irina stood in the hallway, looking in at them. She said nothing, her face carefully blank, just watching them.

  Stephen felt Olivia’s movement in his arms, and he, too, looked up, following her gaze. For a long moment, the three of them simply stared at one another. Then Stephen’s arms dropped from around Olivia, and he walked over to the door and closed it firmly.

  “Stephen!” Olivia said on a gasp, part astonishment, part amusement. “Miss Valenskaya caught us in a compromising position. You just made it even worse.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my house. I don’t care to be spied on.”

  Olivia groaned and sat down on the edge of her bed, shedding the blanket he had wrapped around her. “I wonder what tale she will carry back to the others.”

  “I find it hard to care.” He stopped beside her, his hand wrapping around one of the posts of the bed. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” Olivia shook her head. “It has been the strangest day. I feel as if I am disconnected from myself.”

  After a moment, she went on softly. “My grandmother used to tell us that she communicated with my grandfather—after he was dead, that is. And with her dead parents, too. She liked to say that she knew things before they happened. She frightened me terribly.” She cast a sideways glance at Stephen. “She, of all of us, was the most deserving of the term ‘mad Morelands.”’

  “Olivia…”

  She shook her head, smiling. “No, let me finish. Kyria and Reed and the others always laughed off the nickname, but it bothered me. I think it was because I would think about Grandmother and wonder if it was true. She was an absolute harridan. She bullied everyone. Poor Great-uncle Bellard was terrified of her. Anyway, I remember once she told me that I was like her, that I had the second sight. She said I could see things and hear things that others could not. That was what scared me the most about her, I think. I told myself that everything she said was absurd. I didn’t want to be like her. I didn’t want to believe any of that was possible. I think that is why I started investigating mediums, discovering their tricks and exposing them.”

  “You wanted to prove that it wasn’t possible?”

  Olivia nodded. “Most of all, to prove that I would not, could not, be like her. And now…”

  “You are not like her,” Stephen said decisively. “Whatever you have seen, you are not mad. And you certainly are not a harridan. You are a thoughtful, witty, compassionate and altogether remarkable woman. Don’t you remember my telling you that?”

  Olivia smiled at him. “Yes.”

  Stephen moved closer to her, and unconsciously she leaned toward him. His lips brushed hers. “If I stay here any longer,” he said, his voice husky, “I really will put you in a compromising position.”

  He kissed her again, a light, firm peck on the lips, then turned and left the room. Olivia sighed and lay back on her bed. Just that light kiss, his very closeness, had her whole body thrumming, and she knew that, if she were honest, she would much prefer to have been compromised.

  Supper that evening was subdued. Mr. Babington was still lying in his bedroom in his unconscious state. No one else could bring themselves to be very lively, even Belinda, whose recent scares had made her much quieter. Madame Valenskaya was obviously distressed over Mr. Babington’s state, and during the course of the evening, she waxed sentimental over her attachment to the “dear man.” Olivia, sitting beside the medium in the drawing room after supper, began to suspect the woman was tipsy.

  The following morning, Olivia and Stephen began a search of the library for books regarding Blackhope and the Scorhill family, having already examined all the books to be found in Stephen’s study.

  “Whatever it is we are seeing,” Olivia reasoned, “it has something to do with this house during the Middle Ages. If we could find a history that gave us information about the house during that time, perhaps it would help us.”

  St. Leger agreed, and they went to the library after breakfast to begin a thorough search. Olivia enjoyed spending the time with Stephen, but after a morning of searching, they had little to show for their efforts.

  “I never realized how many arcane and useless books we had in this library,” Stephen commented as they sat down at the library table for a rest and a revivifying cup of tea.

  “Mmm. The Moreland library is like that, especially the one in the country seat.” She grinned. “I think even Great-uncle Bellard hasn’t read all the books there.” She paused, resting her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the table. “You know, I have been thinking about that dream I had. I keep feeling that Lady Alys was trying to tell me something.”

  Stephen sent her a quizzical look, and she blushed. “Yes, I know. I sound nonsensical, thinking that some long-dead person—if, of course, she even existed—is communicating with me. But I cannot help feeling somehow connected to her. Why did I dream about that gold casket? And why did she say that to me about holding on to things that are precious?”

  Stephen shrugged. “All right, I’ll go along. Why?”

  “I don’t know!” Olivia said in frustration. “That is the problem. But, you know, I have been thinking and thinking about the dream, and I think—I know this will sound odd, but I think some of the things were missing.”

  “What?”

  “They were not in the box you showed me yesterday. That girdle I saw her put in, for instance. And there was a rather pretty chain with a smaller cross hanging on it, as well as a large bracelet—a wide golden band—that were not in your box. Yet there was an elegant little dagger in it that was not in there in my dream.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know that any of that is significant. If the Martyrs’ treasure does come from the era of Sir Raymond, then by the time it reached the Lord Scorhill, who was beheaded, any number of things could have been added to or taken from the casket—lost or stolen or sold, even melted down to make some other piece of jewelry. There is no reason to think that all the jewelry would have survived.”

  “No, I suppose not. And yet, it seemed as if she was trying to tell me something.” Olivia groaned, putting her hands to her face. “Oh, dear, I sound idiotic even to myself, thinking that a woman who doesn’t even exist is trying to tell me things in my dream.”

  “At this point, I am not discounting anything,” Stephen told her. “You know, it is your mind working in your dreams. I have heard of people who have lost something and in a dream saw where they lost it. They had just forgotten what they knew. Perhaps this is something like that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What was it she said to you?”

  “I wish I could remember exactly.” Olivia pressed her hand to her forehead. “You know how dreams are. At the time it seems so clear, and then you begin to forget the exact details. But it was something about keeping the things that are precious to you safe. Or maybe it was storing the things that are precious.” She started to speak, then stopped.

  “What? What were you going to say?”

  “Well, this is nothing, really, but I just had a thought. Maybe some of your really old books are stored. Is that possible? That they’ve been boxed up and put away somewhere? I mean, it seems likely to me that a book that concerns this time period could be quite old.”

  “Or very dull,” Stephen added. “Which would make it a likely candidate for being stored away. All right. I’m willing to try it. We are nearly through with the books here, and we’ve found nothing useful. Where else shall we look? The unused wing of the house?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think there are books there?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible. Or there could be boxes of books in the attic, I suppose.”

/>   They decided to explore the attic first. After a consultation with the housekeeper as to where such things as books might have been salted away, they climbed to the highest floor, where they went up a narrow staircase into the large attic. It was a vast gloomy room under the roof, lit only by windows at either end. Stephen had come prepared with a lantern, but its circle of light illuminated only the small portion around them, leaving most of the rest of the huge room in shadows.

  They started toward the east end of the attic, the bobbing lantern in Stephen’s hand casting ever-changing light and shadow over the hodgepodge of objects they passed. There were cabinets and other odd bits of furniture, as well as trunks and hall trees and assorted oddments, including canes, a dressmaker’s form that looked heart-poundingly human at first glance, and even a grotesque umbrella stand made out of the foot of an elephant.

  When they reached the far end, where the housekeeper had directed them, Stephen put down his lantern on a nearby trunk, and he and Olivia set to work opening the various trunks and boxes around them. They found an assortment of things inside the trunks, usually clothes and shoes and toys, mementos of days past. They came at last to a cache of books, and they went through two trunks, taking out each book and looking at it, then going on to the next. They worked side by side in companionable accord.

  Olivia’s hands and skirts were soon streaked with dust, and she suspected that her hair and face had gathered quite a bit of dust, too, but, frankly, she didn’t care. She felt sure that someone like Pamela would scorn what she was doing, but she was enjoying it. She and Stephen talked about this book or that as they pulled it from the pile, joking and exclaiming over some of his ancestors’ reading choices. He looked equally grubby as she, she saw with amused affection, one cheek streaked with dirt and his hair decorated with a cobweb of dust.

  They did not find anything helpful in the first two trunks of books, but they continued back the way they had come, opening and exploring more boxes and trunks. They came upon another trunk full of books, and it was there that Stephen at last held up a volume in triumph.

  “‘A Compleat Historie of Black Hope Manor,” he read aloud, and grinned at Olivia.

  She let out a squeal and said, “What does it say?”

  He opened the front cover and held it closer to the light. “It seems to be a piece of pompous puffery, as best as I can tell, written by one of my illustrious ancestors.” He sighed. “He writes about the house, but he begins with the St. Leger acquisition of the place.”

  “Hardly what I would call ‘compleat,”’ Olivia complained.

  “Yes, well, it looks to me as though his chief objective is illustrating how grand the St. Leger family is. He focuses more on the additions than anything else.” He flipped carefully through the aged leaves of the book. “Wait. Look. There is a piece of paper folded and stuck in the back cover. No. It’s glued in there, I believe.”

  Gently he unfolded the fragile paper until it was four times as big as the back cover to which it was attached.

  “It looks like a family tree,” he said.

  Olivia moved closer to look over Stephen’s shoulder at the multitude of connected lines. “Your ancestors?”

  “I guess—no, look—” His voice rose in excitement. “These are the Scorhills. This name is the martyred Lord Scorhill. See the date?”

  “How far back does it go?” Olivia asked, peering down to look at it.

  Stephen’s forefinger traced the lines back. “Here! Look—Sir Raymond, born 11??, died 1173.”

  “No descendents,” Olivia said, “but here are three bars out to the side. These are wives, are they not?”

  “Yes.” Stephen pointed to each name, “One unknown, one Gertrude of Rosemont.”

  Olivia following his finger, finished for him. “And one Alys.”

  A chill went through her as she looked at Stephen. “We have found her.”

  12

  They stayed in the attic for another hour, looking through trunks and boxes in the spots that the housekeeper had deemed likeliest to contain books. They found nothing else significant, although they did come across a history of the county that seemed to date back to the medieval period and another general history book that they thought might have possibilities.

  It was getting on toward teatime when they emerged, dusty and disheveled but still excited by their finds. They carried the books down to Stephen’s study and set them on his desk for later perusal.

  Olivia looked with a wry smile at her dusty skirts and said, “I fear that first I must clean up a bit.”

  “We are not exactly presentable for the tea table,” Stephen agreed.

  Just as Olivia turned to leave, there was a quiet knock on the door, and the St. Legers’ butler entered. “There are two gentlemen to see you, my lord,” he began, not betraying by even a twitch of his face that he found Stephen’s and Olivia’s appearance unusual.

  “Now?” Stephen looked surprised. “As you can see, I must clean up before I can meet anyone. Who are they? What do they want?”

  “As to what they want, I cannot say. One is a Mr. Rafe McIntyre, an American gentleman, I believe. And the other is the Lord Bellard Moreland.”

  “Rafe!” Stephen exclaimed, looking thunderstruck.

  “Uncle Bellard!” Olivia gaped at the butler, then ran past him and down the hall to the entryway. Stephen was close on her heels.

  “Uncle Bellard!” she cried again when she saw the small man sitting on a bench not far from the front door, gazing about him with interest, his hands resting on his gold-topped cane.

  Beside him sat a much larger and younger man with tousled light brown hair, streaked with gold by the sun. Both men rose at Olivia’s entrance, neither of them appearing taken aback by her disheveled appearance or unladylike enthusiasm.

  Bellard Moreland smiled in his shy way at his great-niece, setting aside his cane and reaching out his hands to her. “Olivia, my dear.”

  Olivia hugged her great-uncle as Stephen came up beside them, saying, “Rafe! I never thought I would see you here.”

  The other man laughed and drawled, “Stephen, old son, how’re you doing?”

  “Better now that you are here,” Stephen replied, laughing. “Olivia, I want you to meet my friend and partner, Rafe McIntyre.”

  Olivia turned and took a longer look at her great-uncle’s companion. He was a tall man, taller even than Stephen, with tanned skin and brilliant blue eyes. He had handsome, even features, and a charming grin that lit up his face when he smiled.

  “Mr. McIntyre,” Olivia said, extending her hand.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” he replied, taking her hand and bringing it up to his lips. His blue eyes twinkled at her as he went on. “You must be the pretty niece that Mr. Moreland here was telling me about.”

  Olivia could not help but smile back at him, even as she felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “I—I didn’t know Lord St. Leger had a partner,” she said, then felt hopelessly inept, as she usually did when making conversation with strangers.

  Rafe McIntyre, however, was a person who made it difficult to feel inept. He grinned and said, “Yeah, St. Leger tries to keep me hidden.”

  “Indeed,” Stephen agreed, smiling. “But it is a losing proposition, I’m afraid.” He turned toward Olivia, explaining, “Rafe and I met in Colorado.”

  “He saved my neck, matter of fact,” Rafe contributed. “I got into a little contretemps with a couple of Yankees.”

  “Yankees?” Olivia looked puzzled. “But I thought—”

  “People from the northern United States,” Stephen interpreted. “Rafe is from the South, you see.”

  “Oh. But it’s been ten years since the war there was over, hasn’t it?” Olivia asked. “Surely there’s not still fighting.”

  Rafe grinned. “Not in any official way. This was just a little private quarrel regarding the other fellow’s ancestry.”

  “It was actually over a card game,” Stephen put in. “And Rafe here was a
trifle outnumbered, so I stepped in.”

  “Stepped in with a Winchester, I’m happy to say,” Rafe went on. “And we got along, so we decided to pitch in together.”

  “I see,” Olivia replied, although she wasn’t entirely certain she did, what with the combination of the American’s accent and his vocabulary.

  “We were partners in the silver mine. Then I sold my share of the mine to Rafe when I had to return to England,” Stephen explained.

  Great-uncle Bellard entered the conversation. “Mr. McIntyre and I met on the train up here. We were quite astonished to discover that we were bound not only for the same village but for the same estate.”

  “Helped to pass the time, having somebody to talk to,” Rafe said.

  “We had an interesting conversation,” Great-uncle Bellard confided. “Mr. McIntyre told me quite a bit about the state of Virginia, where he is from originally. I was intrigued to discover that one of his ancestors was a follower of Bonnie Prince Charlie in his doomed attempt to capture the throne, and he fled to the American colonies after their defeat.”

  “The McIntyres have always been given to lost causes, you see,” Rafe stuck in with a self-deprecating smile that Olivia noticed did not quite reach his eyes.

  “But why were you on the train in the first place, Uncle?” Olivia asked curiously. “Not that I am not happy to see you, for of course I am. It’s just that, well, it is unusual for you ever to leave London.” Indeed, it was unusual for Great-uncle Bellard to even leave the house, but Olivia saw no reason to add that.

  “I received your letter,” he explained. “About the untoward things that had been happening here and your questions about the history of the house and all that. As it happened, I had already been looking into the St. Leger family—idle curiosity, I’m afraid,” he said, with a shy smile to Stephen. “And when you wrote me, of course, I went to see Addison Portwell, who is something of a scholar on old estates. He lent me several of his texts. Highly interesting, I must say. It led me to a wonderful book on the Scorhill family—written by a St. Leger, so naturally I cannot be certain of the accuracy of it.”