by Candace Camp
“Uncle!”
“Oh.” The old man realized how his words sounded and looked immediately distressed. “I did not mean any slur upon you or your family, my lord. I simply meant that since the St. Legers were given the estate that once belonged to Lord Scorhill, they would, of course, have a vested interest in, well, showing that the Scorhills were not the best people to have the land. For the St. Legers to be right in owning Blackhope, then King Henry VIII had to be right to take it away from Lord Scorhill, don’t you see? It’s only natural and quite common in histories, I’m afraid, especially those written immediately after an event. But, of course, it means that one must take great care in reading it not to put one’s faith in it entirely.”
“Of course,” Stephen said, with a smile for Great-uncle Bellard. “I understand perfectly. I am not offended, I assure you, and I agree that we cannot swallow it whole cloth. But I am very pleased that you found some information.”
Relieved, Great-uncle Bellard smiled happily. “Yes, it was quite good, actually, and after what Olivia had said in her letter, I hated to waste the time writing it all down and posting it. So I decided to pack up my books and bring it straight here.”
“Uncle! That’s wonderful!”
“Yes, thank you,” Stephen added. He glanced around at the group. “Let us do this—I am sure you two would like to have a chance to settle into your rooms. And Lady Olivia and I, as you can see, have been exploring in the attic, and we could use a chance to freshen up, as well. So why don’t I ring for tea for us in my study in a few minutes, and we can talk then about what you’ve found out?”
It turned out that Great-uncle Bellard and Rafe, politely not wishing to burden Lord St. Leger, had left their things at the inn in the village, but Lord St. Leger, of course, would not hear of them staying anywhere but in one of the many guest rooms of Blackhope. So, after some courteous social sparring, it was arranged that the two guests would indeed stay at Blackhope and a groom would be sent to the village to bring their bags back to the house. Stephen rang for the butler to give him instructions regarding the rooms and the baggage.
Olivia, linking her arm through her great-uncle’s, took him off with her upstairs. “I am so happy to see you,” she told him, squeezing his arm.
He smiled. “And I, you, my dear. I quite like your young man.”
Flustered by his words, Olivia was not sure what to say. “You know, Uncle, I came here because of the medium. I wrote you about that.”
“Oh, yes.” He nodded happily. “And all the other events. Most interesting, my dear.”
“So Lord St. Leger is a colleague, actually. Not my ‘young man.”’
“Oh? Pity. He seems to admire you.” He switched the topic suddenly. “Very old house—quite a lot of history to it. Do you suppose Lord St. Leger would mind if I used his library?”
“No, I am sure not. What makes you say he admires me?”
“What? Oh.” Great-uncle Bellard looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure, actually, just an impression I had. He looked at you a certain way is all, rather the way your father looked at your mother. Still does, really. As if he had made an extraordinary find. You know.”
Olivia chuckled. She knew exactly what her great-uncle meant, and it made her heart beat faster to think that Stephen St. Leger might look at her in that way.
Downstairs, Stephen turned to his former partner. “Rafe.” He shook his head, smiling. “I never thought I would see you here.”
Rafe grinned. “I got bored, sitting there in Colorado by myself. Some fancy Eastern outfit kept wanting to buy me out. So I thought…why not? There are a bunch of things I haven’t seen or done yet. There’s no more adventure to be had out of that mine. It’s just business dealings now, and you know me—I’m not all that fond of sitting around talking about money.”
“So you sold it?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Invested in some other things. Went back home for a little while. But it hardly seems like home anymore. Some changes you just can’t get past, you know.”
Stephen nodded.
“So I thought, why not see Europe? And I caught a boat over here. I figured, since I was in the country, I might as well look you up.”
“I’m glad you did.” Stephen nodded toward the stairs. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room, and I’ll get cleaned up. Then we can sit back and discuss old times.”
“Sure. Long as you got something stronger than tea.”
Stephen chuckled. “I do.”
They started up the stairs.
Later, the two of them settled in Stephen’s study, sipping glasses of Scotch that Rafe allowed to be “damn near as good as sour mash,” while they waited for Olivia and her great-uncle to join them.
“I approve,” Rafe said idly.
“Of what?”
Rafe grinned. “Your lady friend.”
“What makes you—” Stephen stopped as Rafe let out a chuckle.
“You think I’m blind?” Rafe asked. “It’s clear there’s something going on between the two of you.”
“I’m not sure exactly what is going on. She’s, well, she’s different.”
“I figured that, to have caught you. You always seemed pretty down on high-toned ladies.”
“Mmm,” Stephen answered noncommittally.
“What’s the matter? Miss Moreland not the right sort for you?”
Stephen smiled to himself. “I don’t know if you can say that Lady Olivia is any ‘sort’ at all. She is rather unique. Her father is a duke.”
“Yeah? She and her uncle don’t seem high-and-mighty.”
“Oh, she’s not. Not at all. Her family is quite egalitarian. They are something of an oddity. Which only adds to her charm.” His face softened unconsciously. “She is witty and independent and intelligent, and when I look at her—”
Stephen stopped and shook his head. “I don’t want to make a mistake. I’m not looking for a wife. I decided long ago that I would not marry. My history in that regard is poor, at best.”
“But this isn’t the same girl that made you gun-shy, is she?”
Stephen grimaced. “God, no. Olivia is nothing like Pamela.”
“Then what’s the worry? There’s no reason to think that this one will break your heart.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to say that than to believe it.” Stephen sighed. “I want her, more than I ever wanted Pamela. There have been a time or two when I barely remembered to play the gentleman. But I can’t help thinking, what if this is like that other time, with Pamela? What if it is only lust I feel, and it fades as quickly as my lust for Pamela did after I left England?” He looked up at his friend. “I have always said I distrusted ladies. I’m not sure whether it’s simply that or if I distrust myself, as well.”
“Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith,” Rafe suggested. “Love isn’t a matter of logic. It’s feeling.”
“I know. But I find it easier to trust my head than my heart.” He paused, looking down at the glass of amber liquid in his hand, idly swirling its contents. When he raised his head, his eyes were lit with amusement. “By the way, you will have a chance to meet Pamela. She is also here.”
“Here?” Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. “Under the same roof? Well, you do like to live dangerously.”
“I could scarcely toss her out. She is my brother’s widow, after all.”
“Interesting situation.”
Stephen chuckled. “That’s the least of it. Things have happened that are so bizarre I have wondered if I am going mad. Fortunately, Olivia witnessed them, too.”
Stephen told his friend and former partner about the medium and her séances, including the one in which Mr. Babington had fallen into a seizure, and also recounted the ghostly apparition he and Olivia had seen, and their dreams involving the same woman.
Olivia and her great-uncle appeared in the midst of this discussion, and Great-uncle Bellard listened with great interest to what had taken place in Blackhope since Olivia had sent her le
tter to him. Small, bright eyed and balding, with a burst of white hair ringing his head just above his ears, he reminded Olivia of a bird.
He nodded several times and murmured, “Intriguing, most intriguing,” during the course of Stephen’s description. When Stephen fell silent, the older man reached down beside his chair, where he had set two large books that he had carried into the room and picked up one of them. He put it in his lap and tapped it.
“This is a history of the western counties, written by a rather thorough fellow. Eighteenth-century chap.” He sighed a little wistfully. “Too bad. I would have liked to have spoken to him. He raised some very interesting points about the—well, never mind. That’s neither here nor there. Thing is, he’s a trustworthy historian. In here, I found a passage about the Scorhill family and Blackhope.”
He opened the book to where a bookmark held his place. “During the time of Stephen of Blois—if you will remember, he was the king before Henry II, and his was a chaotic reign. He did not have good control over his lords. There had been years of fighting already between him and Mathilde, Henry’s mother. Well, it was all very unsettled, especially in the west, with the threat of the Welsh. Many of the barons seized the opportunity to conduct their own private wars amongst themselves—the strong preying on the weak, increasing lands and power, settling old scores and the like. Anyway, it said in here that during this time, the Norman keep of Blackhope was besieged by an enemy of the Scorhill of the time, one Sir Raymond.”
Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. Uncle Bellard smiled at her.
“Yes, my dear. I think it must be the same one as your Sir Raymond. The castle was attacked, but Sir Raymond was not at home at the time. He had gone to another noble, his liege lord, actually, hoping to enlist his support in Sir Raymond’s ongoing feud with Lord Surton, whose men were even at that moment laying siege to Blackhope. Surton’s men took the castle. There were rumors at the time that there was treachery involved, that someone let them into the castle. Whatever happened, they took the castle and a good deal of it was destroyed, by battering rams and by fire. And Sir Raymond’s wife—it does not say what her name was—was killed in the siege.”
Olivia felt tears prick at her eyelids. She told herself it was foolish, that she did not even know the woman, but she could not help but feel pity and sorrow at her death. “Alys,” she said. “Her name was Lady Alys.”
“Was it?” Great-uncle Bellard asked and patted his niece’s hand. “Well, Sir Raymond upon his return managed to take back the castle, and with the aid of his allies, decisively defeated Lord Surton. So that is how the castle was destroyed. It was, however, rebuilt by Sir Raymond on almost the same spot.”
“Now,” he went on, caught up in his story, “this is where it really gets interesting.” He set the tome back down on the floor and picked up the other book. “This is the history of the Scorhills written by one of the St. Legers. It was written during the reign of Charles I, before the Civil War.”
At Rafe’s confused look, Bellard added kindly, “I mean ours, of course, not yours.”
“Oh. Sure.” Rafe grinned. “I’m with you now. The Cavaliers, right? The fellows with the big hats and plumes?”
“Heathen,” Stephen joked in what was obviously a long-running line of verbal sparring.
“Of course, as I said, this Cecil St. Leger had a vested interest in the Scorhill family appearing as black and unworthy as possible. In that regard, he is rather harsh regarding the Lord Scorhill, who incurred Henry VIII’s displeasure, primarily because of his ‘treason’ and ‘popery.’ However, he also has several juicy tidbits regarding Sir Raymond.”
“Really?” Stephen leaned forward, intrigued. “What?”
“He accuses the man of having dabbled in the black arts,” Great-uncle Bellard said, and sat back, looking pleased at the astonishment on the faces of his listeners.
“What?” Olivia gaped. “You mean witchcraft?”
“He said the man was a witch?” Rafe asked. “I mean, whatever a male witch is.”
“Warlock,” the historian supplied and nodded. “That is exactly what I mean. He said that Sir Raymond was reputed to be a powerful sorcerer, a wicked and cruel man. Of course, it all sounds like rumors and gossip. There is no way to know the truth of any of it. He does lay out several instances of the man’s deceit and wickedness, many of them concerning his dealing with the aforementioned Lord Surton. But chief among them is the claim that it was he who really arranged the ‘betrayal’ of his own castle. The author puts forth that Sir Raymond not only knew they would attack the castle, but that he actually lured Surton into it, that he paid someone to open the gates to the man’s forces, and that he then returned with a much larger force and defeated the invaders, killing his enemy in the process and getting rid of a wife who had not provided him with any heirs.”
“How awful!” Olivia exclaimed. “What a wicked man!”
Her uncle nodded. “He certainly was, if these reports have any truth to them. According to this book, he was reputed to be in league with the devil. Supposedly he summoned his dark master and cavorted with him, holding orgies and such and communing with witches. He was feared by all around him, it says, and his death was met with much rejoicing. He was generally held to be cursed by God, as he married twice more and still never produced an heir. The other two wives were also said to have died mysteriously. Since he had no heirs, Blackhope went to a distant cousin, who, this book admits, did his best to restore the house to a proper godly state.”
Great-uncle Bellard closed the book and sat back in his chair, watching them expectantly. Olivia did not know what to say. She glanced at Stephen, who seemed to have the same problem. It was Rafe who finally spoke up.
“Well, I have to say, I’d be glad, if I were you, St. Leger, that this fellow wasn’t an ancestor.”
“I am. The problem is, we know more about him, perhaps, but we still don’t know what’s going on.”
“It looks pretty clear to me,” Rafe replied. “This Sir Raymond fellow was one mean son of—excuse me, ma’am—one mean person, and he sold out his own men and gave his castle up to his enemy in order to trap the man and get rid of his wife and her lover. I’m thinking he had more reason to hate his wife than just her not bearing an heir. And since his wife and this knight were killed like that, their spirits remain here, haunting the place. That’s who you’ve been seeing, right? There’s your reason. Violent deaths—that’s always what sets the ghosts walking in the Tidewater.”
“The Tidewater?” Olivia asked, confused.
“In Virginia, ma’am. That’s where I come from. The houses may not be as old as those around here, but there are plenty of spirits flitting around them—lonely wives who pace the riverbank, watching for the boat carrying their husband that never came in, people wrongly hanged who still slip in and out among the oak trees where they met their end, girls in white who glide down the staircase at the stroke of midnight…that sort of thing.”
“But those are stories,” Olivia protested.
“Yes, ma’am, and good ones, too,” Rafe replied, giving her a lazy grin.
“Rafe always used to keep everyone entertained with his tales,” Stephen explained. “But we are talking about reality here, Rafe.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Olivia stated flatly.
“I don’t guess it really matters whether you believe in them or not. The problem is, you’ve seen them,” Rafe said.
“He has a point, my dear,” Great-uncle Bellard put in quietly. “You know, Livvy, one needs to keep an open mind, even about such things. You have seen the evidence with your own eyes. I have not, but I know that you are not a hysterical girl, nor one inclined to jump to conclusions. When you tell me the kind of things you have witnessed, I have to consider the possibility that they are real.”
“I don’t want to consider it,” Olivia replied honestly. “It’s too—”
“Horrifying?” Stephen suggested.
“Yes,” Olivia agreed
. “I have spent the last few years proving that all the spirits I’ve witnessed were fakes.”
“But this does not make your previous work wrong,” Bellard pointed out. “Those were still frauds, just as your Madame Valenskaya is a fraud. But your lady and her knight—I think they are an entirely different matter.”
“Then you believe Sir Raymond was a warlock? That he summoned the devil and all that?”
Her great-uncle shrugged. “Well, as to that, I’m not sure. As I said, the source is suspect. It may have been nothing but rumors. Still, I imagine there probably were people who engaged in the black arts, calling up the devil and all.” His dark eyes twinkled merrily as he added, “That is not to say that the devil came when they called, of course.”
“It seems as though people in the past were terribly quick to label anyone who was different a witch,” Olivia argued. “Whenever they didn’t understand something, they decided it was sorcery.” She paused, remembering the feeling of evil that had hit her like a wall as she stepped into the secret room.
Stephen, as if knowing what she was thinking, said, “Remember when you touched the casket, how you saw Sir Raymond and sensed such a great evil that it made you faint?”
Olivia nodded. “Yes. And in the secret room, as well.” She looked up at the others with a perplexed expression. “But that is scarcely objective proof of anything.”
“Sometimes you have to rely on your instincts,” Rafe said. “You don’t have to think to breathe. You don’t stand there and debate it if a big ol’ bear comes out of the woods at you. You just light out of there. Sometimes you know something without thinking.”