by Sandra Heath
Rosalind shivered with more than just the cold as they passed the restaurant and souvenir shop, both closed and shuttered like the ticket hut. The Waterloo cannon still stood on the gravel by the drawbridge and gatehouse, and the steps to the terraced gardens afforded the same view over the River March meadows toward the woods. She stood on the steps, gazing toward the trees where Thomas Denham had met his death.
“Come on, honey, there’s life here after all,” Richard called, and she turned to see he’d managed to bring someone to the little postern door set into the main gate.
Turning her collar up against the wind, Rosalind hurried to join him, and with a shock recognized the woman who’d answered Richard’s knock. It was the guide the real Kathryn had had coffee with. “Haven’t we met before?” Rosalind asked.
The woman’s brows drew together thoughtfully. “I don’t think so ...”
“Yes, we have. About four years ago. I had coffee with you in the restaurant and you told me about handsome Sir Dane Marchwood.”
The woman’s eyes cleared. “Yes, of course! I remember you well!”
“We were wondering if we could take a look around. I know you’re closed and all that, but we’ve come a long way, and we just want a quick peek.”
The woman hesitated. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in until Easter.”
Richard’s dry humor came to the fore. “We’ll be frozen to death by then.”
The woman smiled. “We can’t have that. All right, come on in, but I’m afraid nothing’s aired now, all the rooms are very cold, especially the great hall.”
Rosalind stepped through into the courtyard. “I don’t care how cold it is,” she murmured, gazing around at the remembered scene.
Alice wasn’t interested in castles. She was tired and hungry, and sleep was long overdue, which meant she was fractious too, especially when Richard lifted her down from his shoulders so she could walk. She began to cry, holding her arms up to be carried again.
The woman was no novice with children, and smiled at Rosalind. “Will you trust me with her? I have the very thing to amuse her.”
“If you’re sure ... ?”
“Quite sure.” The woman crouched before Alice. “That’s a lovely doll you have there. Would you like to see my dolls?”
“You’ve got dolls?” Alice stopped crying and looked at her in astonishment. “But you’re too old for dolls!”
“Alice!” Richard gave her a disapproving look.
“Well, she is,” Alice replied with devastating logic.
The woman smiled again. “Yes, I am, but these are very special dolls. I collect them, you see, and they all have beautiful dresses. They’re in my rooms just through that door there, and it’s warm inside. I’ve just baked, too. Do you like cookies?”
“Oh, yes, I love cookies.” Alice’s eyes brightened. Dolls, cookies and warmth? That beat castles any day!
The woman straightened and held out her hand. “Shall we leave Mummy and Daddy to look around in the cold, while you and I get warm and cozy?”
Alice hesitated, glancing at Rosalind, but on receiving a nod of permission, she gladly accepted the woman’s hand, and trotted away at her side.
As they vanished through the doorway, Richard looked at Rosalind. “Well, you’ve been dying to get here, so we’d better get on with looking around. Which way?”
“That door in the far corner. It leads to the great hall.”
“Okay.” He put a loving arm around her shoulder, and they walked across the windswept courtyard.
The iron ring handle was like ice to the touch, and it took Richard both hands to turn it, but at last the door swung open, its hinges creaking loudly in the silence beyond. Rosalind walked swiftly toward the hall, and paused expectantly at the entrance to gaze toward the half-landing, and Dane’s portrait.
It was like looking at him in the flesh. At any moment he might step down from the canvas and claim her back. Her heartbeats quickened, but then she smiled. He wouldn’t want her, not when he had Kathryn!
Richard saw where she was looking. “Who is that guy?”
“Sir Dane Marchwood.”
“You mentioned him just now. You seem to find him mighty interesting.”
“I do. He’s very handsome, don’t you think?” she replied, giving him a teasing glance.
“Too damned handsome,” Richard muttered.
She smiled and began to walk toward the portrait, but Richard noticed some interesting architectural detail on the arch of the entrance, and didn’t go with her. She ascended slowly to the half-landing, and then gazed at the canvas.
“Hello, Dane,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the painted face. “Did you forgive me? Did you take Kathryn to your heart like you should? I hope so. God, I hope so ...”
She stood for a long time looking at the portrait, and remembering her past life.
“Hey, look at this,” Richard said from somewhere behind her. The hall took up his voice, making it echo.
She turned. “What is it?”
He was standing by the fireplace. “That guy Sir Dane. Seems he was quite a hothead. He fought four duels, and won them all.”
“Yes, he did. How do you know about the duels?” she asked then, going back down the stairs and crossing to join him.
“It says here. There’s a document that was found in the fireplace about four years back. Must have been not long after you were here. This Dane feller’s wife, Rosalind, wanted to clear her husband’s name after he was wrongly accused of some jiggery-pokery with the other guy’s pistol at the fourth duel. Not cricket, eh?” Richard chuckled, putting on a mock-British accent.
“Not cricket at all,” Rosalind murmured, looking at the framed sheet of ancient, rather soot-stained vellum.
Richard had already read it. “This Rosalind was quite some woman, and certainly loved her husband. It comes over loud and clear in every line.”
Rosalind smiled. “Yes, she did love him.”
“And she sure points the finger at the real villains, guys called Jeremiah Pendle and Thaddeus Talbot. God, they sound right out of Dickens.”
Rosalind stared at the paper and smiled. Oh, clever Kathryn to have defied history after all!
Richard shrugged. “Why the hell didn’t Rosalind speak out at the time? If she knew the truth, why didn’t she do something right away?”
“I’m sure there were reasons,” Rosalind murmured. Oh, yes, there were reasons all right...
Richard looked curiously at her, and then gave a slight start. “God, that was the damnedest thing!”
“What?”
“I thought... No, it couldn’t be.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, for a moment there I could have sworn your eyes were green.” He laughed. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
She smiled. “Guess so.”
Copyright © 1995 by Sandra Heath
Originally published by Signet (0451182618) as Magic at Midnight
Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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