With another happy sigh she plopped down onto the tufted piano bench and lifted the lid. The black and white keys stared back at her and she could almost hear them begging her to play. And so, she did. She played and played and played. Bach, Mozart, even Beethoven, for the Moonlight Sonata seemed just the thing for her morose mood.
Eventually, she tired of the grandiose pieces and moved to simple ditties she could sing along to. Lullabies and such. She smiled as she remembered when her youngest sibling Julia was born. Her mother used to set Julia by the piano and Beth, at eleven-years-old, would play lullabies for her baby sister. Bye, Baby Bunting was her favorite, and so she set her fingers to it now.
“Bye, baby bunting...Father's gone a-hunting...Mother's gone—”
Slam!
Beth winced as the hard wood of the cover banged down onto her fingers, and a cacophony of notes filled the air as they were mashed into the keys. She breathed deeply as she extricated the first throbbing hand out from underneath and lifted the cover to its rightful place again.
“Ow,” she muttered as she shook her hands of the pain, trying to figure out what might have caused the sudden fall.
Perhaps she'd been playing too forcefully earlier. She did tend to get excited when she played Bach. Odd, though, that it would come down during a quiet, calm lullaby. And with such force! Almost as if...
No! She shook her head. She would not even think such a thing!
Once the throbbing ceased, she poised her fingers above the keys again and began to play. Not three notes had been pressed when the cover came crashing down again. Only this time Beth snapped her fingers back just in time to avoid being crushed again.
She held perfectly still, barely breathing, and stared at the piano. Her heart beat faster the longer she sat there. Her eyes darted about the room, but of course, there was no one there. Just her. Alone.
Mustering her courage, Beth finally slid the bench back and walked slowly to the door, trying to keep her tears at bay. But as soon as she was in the hall, she ran, allowing the tears to spill onto her cheeks, until she burst through the back doors of the manor, into the garden.
***
Michael stayed in the garden for quite some time after he'd seen his wife spying on him. He thought about going after her, then thought better of it. She had been the one to say hurtful and horrible things. If she wanted to make amends, she would have to come to him. Michael was tired of being the peacemaker all the time. He'd done is very best since they'd been here. Hell, he'd married the woman to save her from what could have been a very scandalous situation.
Patience was a virtue he'd always had—unlike his twin who had no patience for anything or anyone—but at long last, his patience had worn thin.
And so in the garden he remained, inspecting the dying rose bushes and browning topiaries. Yes, the garden would need to be replotted and replanted come spring.
His mind wandered to his childhood summers there, when the gardens were glorious, resplendent with a rainbow of colors. They used to run and play, he and his siblings, through the hedgerows, mostly trying to outrun Katherine so they could have a bit of peace and quiet and do boy things without her looking down her nose at them.
He supposed there were times like that in London and Kent as well, but perhaps not as many, and not nearly so carefree. In England, they were all too aware of the social strictures hanging over their heads as the children of the Marquess and Marchioness of Eastleigh.
But here...
He looked back toward the house to the spot where Katherine had appeared earlier. He'd immediately stepped out of sight when he realized she was there. He didn't think she'd come out to find him, but one never knew, and he really didn't care for company just then.
She was gone now, of course, and before he could stop the thought, he wondered where she'd gone. Would she hole herself up in her room all day?
Michael shook his head. Not likely. That was one thing to admire in his wife. She was a restless spirit—he chuckled at the irony—and always liked to be doing something.
And then it dawned on him that she'd probably gone to play her new piano. His conscience niggled at him as he thought of their afternoon together the day before. They had laughed and talked like an old married couple, and it had been heavenly. One of the more delightful afternoons of his existence, he realized with a smile.
Suddenly, he wanted to go to her. To be with her and have what they'd had the day before.
But could he swallow his pride enough to go to her?
He looked at the house again, then back at the dying shrubs before him. It wasn't as if he was getting any real work done; the garden couldn't be replanted until spring.
Making up his mind, Michael tromped through the garden and into the house. He didn't stop until he reached the door to the music room, where he heard her singing a familiar lullaby.
Odd choice, seeing as she was a consummate singer and pianist, but it was lovely just the same. It made him smile with the thought of her singing to their children someday. Someday soon, he hoped.
He was just about to step through the door when she slammed her hands to the piano, creating an angry cacophony of notes that seemed to reverberate inside the walls. What the devil?
A moment went by before he heard her begin to play again, but she didn't even get three notes out before she banged the cover shut. And Michael's heart deflated.
What he'd hoped had been just a silly argument was not nearly as such. She was clearly infuriated if she could not even bring herself to play the piano without banging ferociously on the keys. Perhaps this was not the time to try and make amends. A little more time...
Michael was unable to finish his thought because Beth, in all her fury, flung wide the door and ran down the hall, back towards the main part of the house. She didn't see him there, on the other side of the threshold. Or, if she did, she didn't acknowledge him.
Well, if she could be angry, so could he. The memory of her hurtful words came back to him, of her banishment from her room, and he renewed his resolve. She would have to come to him.
Thirty-Four
The evening of the séance arrived with a palpable amount of tension. Neither Michael nor Beth touched their meals at dinner, and the servants seemed to have all gone mute. The normal chatter that could be heard walking through the house was gone, the only sounds coming from the fierce winds and rain outside.
It was nearing the end of October; the days were getting shorter and far colder than only a month earlier. Michael insisted a fire blaze in every main room from now until spring and even put in an order for extra blankets to be delivered from a local shop in Inverness. He didn't want his servants freezing to death in their sleep.
As for his wife, well, her heart was cold as ice, so he didn't think the winter months would affect her much.
He looked to the door that connected their rooms and scowled. They still hadn't spoken—not a single word—since yesterday morning. She was quite the most stubborn creature he'd ever known, and he had no doubt that if she wanted to, she could keep her silence for the rest of her life. But why?
Michael had never seen the point in that kind of behavior. She was surely miserable, perhaps even as miserable as he. So, what was the point in staying angry? Would it really accomplish anything?
Michael scoffed. If she thought this behavior would convince him to go out and hire a bloody witch, she was sorely mistaken. Aside from thinking this was all a great deal of nonsense, she'd gone about trying to get her way in the completely wrong manner.
He did not respond well to manipulation.
A scratch came at the door and Michael bid John to enter. The young man stepped into the room, looking tall and self-assured and somehow more like a man than he'd looked a few weeks earlier.
“Madam Rosa is here, my lord.” He gave a little bow and started to back out of the room, but stopped.
Michael watched, waiting for his brother-in-law to muster the courage to say whatever it wa
s he intended to say. Clearly, something was on the boy's mind.
“Might I speak plainly...as your brother-in-law, and not as your valet?”
Well, this would be interesting. “Why not?” Michael said, not bothering to mask the weariness in his tone. He had a feeling he knew what John was going to say, but he held his tongue and waited.
“I know how difficult my sister can be,” he began, lowering his voice so he couldn't be heard in the next room, in case Beth was listening. “She's got a temper like the devil, and it only takes one wrong word to set her off.”
No news there. “Go on,” Michael prodded.
“And, well, the thing is, she never really means what she says.”
“Then why does she speak at all?” This came out unexpectedly and through gritted teeth before Michael had a chance to stop it.
John didn't even flinch at his tone. “Nobody knows, Michael. It's just how she is. But, perhaps...well, you're so nice to her, she thinks she can get away with such behavior. If you've ever seen Julia and our mother interact, you would know what I meant. If mother had a bit of backbone—”
“Are you calling me spineless, John?”
John gulped. “No, of course not, I just...”
Michael gave a little chuckle at his brother-in-law's discomfort. It was quite fun to toy with the young pup. “It's all right, John. I am spineless. I either give in to her every whim or I hold my tongue and say nothing, hoping the problem will solve itself.”
“But you love her.”
Michael's head snapped up at this. What did that have to do with anything? “And?”
“And if you love her, you should talk to her. It's not giving in, it's just discovering common ground in your marriage. You can't go on like this for the next fifty years.”
“Where the devil did you learn all this?” Michael wondered. He was only nineteen...and a man. Men didn't think of life and relationships in such terms, at least not at his age. And most of them not even at Michael's age.
A sheepish grin spread out on John's lips and Michael knew immediately that these were not his own words. He laughed heartily and said, “Tell Bonnie thank you for the advice.”
John backed out of the room with a smile on his face, and Michael thought how nice it was to not be at odds with him. It did seem, however, that he was always at odds with someone from the Crawley family. Would his relationship with John go back to one of a strenuous nature once he'd patched things up with his wife?
Michael sighed and downed the last of the scotch in his glass. He didn't have much time to ponder such things; they had a séance to conduct.
He found Madam Rosa and his wife in the drawing room enjoying a cup of tea. It seemed a rather civilized thing to do on such a torrent night. At eleven thirty. Before a séance.
Good Lord, what would his brother say if he knew what he was doing this evening? Surely, he'd laugh in his face and tell him he'd been bested by his wife for allowing her to talk him in to such a thing. Not that he had much room to talk. He'd become so smitten with Chloe, he'd followed her to Essex and...
Michael shook his head of the memories. It had been a long summer of deception and betrayal, and he didn't much want to dwell on that now. Or ever again, really. It was all behind them and he simply wanted to live happily ever after.
If such a thing were even possible.
He took in the sight of his bride. She had changed since dinner, into a simpler gown that seemed to be made of much sturdier material than the flimsy silk one she'd worn earlier. Somehow, she was more appealing to him this way. The way the thick fabric hugged her curves, like a warm blanket, made him long to be in bed with her. To feel her warmth up against him. To hear her murmuring and moaning in his ear...
Damn. He had to get a hold of himself. They had a séance to do, and currently, his wife wasn't even willing to give him the time of day; she wasn't about to warm his bed, of that much he was certain.
Neither she nor Madam Rosa was aware of his presence yet, which he found rather odd since Madam Rosa was supposed to be clairvoyant. If she couldn't even detect the living people in the room, how would she detect the dead? It wasn't until Michael cleared his throat that they both turned in his direction.
“Lord Michael,” said Madam Rosa with a slight incline of her head. “I was just telling your wife how lovely the manor looks. It's been years, but I think this is the best I've ever seen it.”
He gave her a slight bow, his eyes shifting from her to his wife and back again. “Thank you. We are very proud of the work that's been done. Now, if we could just set to work on the west wing...”
“I'll go find the others,” Beth said, rising quickly from her seat.
She brushed past him, her shoulder making the barest of contact with his arm, with nary a glance. But Michael didn't want it to seem that anything was out of the ordinary, so he said in his most jovial tone, “Oh, yes, thank you, my dear. I shall entertain Madam Rosa until your return.”
Beth didn't respond, not verbally anyhow, but her lips gave a little twitch at the corners and he could almost hear her eyes roll in her head. Good humor would always work in his advantage when dealing with his wife. It seemed to be the only thing to break down her barriers.
But perhaps that wasn't the tactic he should really be taking. Perhaps he should heed Bonnie's advice and stop trying to smooth things over with humor and kindness. It might only encourage her in the end.
“Lord Michael.” Madam Rosa's voice brought him from his thoughts and he was almost annoyed with her. He had to puzzle out this bloody mess with Beth, but he couldn't do it with all the interruptions.
However, the fact of the matter was that the woman had traveled here on this wretched night to perform a service for them. A service for which Michael had paid dearly. They needed to get on with it.
“My apologies, Madam Rosa,” he said, turning to her. “My thoughts are elsewhere this evening.”
There was a pause as she studied him, nodding her head, a small smile in her pale face. “Your thoughts, Lord Michael, are exactly where they should be.”
Thirty-Five
Once Beth had found all the participants, the seven of them convened in the foyer at the bottom of the grand staircase. Lightning cracked and thunder roared just outside the front door, and everyone seemed to jump a little at every instance.
But the storm outside paled in comparison to the tumultuous feeling in Beth's stomach. It had been a long couple of days. She'd hardly had any sleep. Not necessarily because of the ghost, but because of her own blasted imagination. Now she'd seen the ghost so many times, her image was burned in her mind. It had come to the point that Beth wasn't sure if she was conjuring the woman in her head or actually seeing her in person.
Surely her husband would send her off to Bedlam if he knew this.
She glanced at Michael, who climbed the stairs beside her, silent and stoic. She was rather surprised he'd held his silence for so long. They'd never gone this much time without resolving their differences. Well, at least not since they'd come to common ground. Beth didn't think the two weeks in the carriage on their way to Dunbocan counted.
But by this time he would have come to her. He would have tried to make amends somehow, if for no other reason, to get into her bed. Then why hadn't he?
This thought made Beth nervous and was yet another cause of her sleepless nights. She pondered going to him, giving in, apologizing and admitting to her irrational behavior. She wasn't sure why she hadn't done it yet, other than her stupid, foolish pride.
She sighed, and it must have been louder than she'd thought, for Michael turned his head to her and raised his brows. Embarrassed, Beth quickly looked down and pretended to focus on her footsteps as they made their way down the west wing corridor.
Everyone walked in a close huddle, moving as one large group toward the room at the other end of the hallway. When they reached the door, a chill raced down Beth's spine, but she ignored it and turned the knob.
Jo
hn and Bonnie had set up a table and seven chairs earlier in the day, which sat in the middle of the vast room. It was round, at the request of the medium, though Beth wasn't sure of the significance. The curtains were open to let in the bright light of the full moon, but that was the only source of light.
However, Madam Rosa wasted very little time in setting up and lighting her candles. The woman had brought a carpetbag full of accoutrements, including six candles, a stick of incense and a loaf of freshly baked bread. Beth couldn't understand the meaning or necessity of any of these things—the spirit spoke with her on a daily basis without any of it. But she accepted that it must be part of the ritual for good reason and held her tongue.
They all took their places around the table: Beth and Bonnie on either side of the madam, Michael and John on either side of them, respectively, and Mr. and Mrs. Kerr at the head, opposite Madam Rosa.
“Take the hand of the person next to you,” Madam Rosa said, her voice quiet and haunting in the large room.
Beth hesitated in taking Michael's hand. It was odd. They were husband and wife, and had shared many intimacies in the last few weeks, but something as simple as taking his hand gave her pause. However, it didn't really matter if she hesitated, because he reached out and grabbed her hand before she had even a moment to think about it.
He was a bit forceful, and he held her hand more firmly than was necessary. Was he scared? Or just peeved that he had to be here?
Probably the latter, she decided, just as Madam Rosa began to chant.
Only she wasn't chanting in English, she was chanting in Spanish, blast her. Beth couldn't understand a word, and she cursed herself for never having picked up the language. Fluent French was useless to her now.
“She's invoking the spirit,” came Michael's whisper beside her.
Beth snapped her head sideways to look at him. “You speak Spanish?” she whispered back.
“Hush!” Both Michael and Beth turned to see Madam Rosa glaring at them. “Silence is imperative.”
Bedeviled Bride (Regency Historical Romance) Page 20