The cycle’s back wheel slid in the mud as the vehicle leapt forward. Daniel clutched Violet—not a bad handhold—as she swung them through the open gate, held by a grinning stable boy.
The cycle didn’t have much power, but with the engine rumbling beneath him, the wheel churning up earth, and the ground gliding by so close to his feet, Daniel swore they were flying.
Kilmorgan was crisscrossed with tracks and riding paths, kept debris-free so the many Mackenzies could walk, ride, or bicycle without mishap. Violet took advantage of these paths to zoom the cycle across the snow-covered park and out onto the road.
The cycle jounced and bumped, roared and belched. Daniel saw many days of fine-tuning ahead, but he didn’t mind. Violet would be working alongside him, her slender hands affixing a nut or splicing a wire.
Afterward they could hurry to the house to bathe, perhaps sponge each other off in the privacy of their suite . . .
Daniel emerged from this heady fantasy to find Violet turning the cycle to a narrower, winding road that led straight into the hills.
“Not sure the wheels will take it!” he bellowed into her ear.
Violet must not have heard him, because she leaned over the handlebars and urged the vehicle into more speed. The cycle slipped and slid, the road climbing to dizzying heights.
On the one hand, Daniel was elated. A cycle could go where a motorcar or a carriage, or even a bicycle, could not—the freedom was amazing.
On the other, it was downright terrifying. The cycle wove close to the edge of the path, from which tumbled a razor-steep drop. This lane was accessible only by horseback, and farther on, had to be traversed by foot.
The short winter day was ending. Darkness would soon enshroud them, and the cycle was not yet equipped with lamps.
“Darling,” Daniel said into her ear. “Vi, love.”
Violet braked, skidding them sideways before the cycle halted inches from the precipice. She yanked up her goggles.
Instead of answering, Violet pointed to the heights above them. “Whatever is that?”
Daniel sighted along her gloved finger. This path led to a high clifftop, where Daniel’s grandfather had built a picturesque ruin, back in the days when such things were the rage.
A light flickered on the clifftop. The beam moved to and fro, a ghostly signal in the gathering gloom.
“Uncle Mac likes to paint up there,” Daniel said over the rumble of the cycle. “He’s daft like that. Aunt Isabella might have met him for a liaison, away from the crowded household.”
“On a dark December afternoon?” Violet glanced back at him, eyes glinting. “Isabella would never let herself freeze like that.”
“Trespassers, then,” Daniel said. “Perhaps we should offer them shelter.”
“Or our ghost.”
Daniel had already considered that, but he liked more earthly explanations. “Maybe. Shall we find out?”
“I intend to.” Violet set her goggles in place with a determined jerk.
“Wait, love—do ye think the cycle can make the . . . Oop!” Daniel yelped as the cycle bounced forward hard, nearly unseating him.
Daniel clung to his wife as she ascended the path. Violet was a fearless driver, which was why Daniel’s cars won the time trials in France every year. He’d long ago learned to let her take the wheel, and then to close his eyes and hang on.
In the end, the cycle proved it could not make it to the top. Violet halted when a slab of rock rose like a stair step on the far side of a bend. From here, they’d have to continue on foot.
They dismounted and Violet stopped the engine and laid down the cycle. Daniel hoped, as they made their way upward in the dying light, that they’d be able to start it again.
They climbed in silence, both knowing the way from scrambling up and down this hill for the last eight years, in all weathers. As the pillars of the folly came into view, the false ruin eerie in the winter twilight, Daniel stopped and tugged Violet to his side.
“I know you’re courageous, love, but we don’t know who’s here,” he said. “A desperate man, armed? Or a sad, lost traveler? Let me go first.”
Violet hesitated, as though she’d argue, then she nodded and stepped aside so Daniel could lead.
The folly was a square stone building laden with ivy and moss. From its porch, on a clear day, a viewer could see misty hills, sharp mountains, and the sea.
A lantern lay on its side at the foot of the lowest step. The candle still flickered inside as Daniel set it upright.
“Someone has been living here,” Violet said.
She stood in the doorway that led into the folly. The interior consisted of one wide room, where Mac came to paint, or Eleanor and Hart sometimes fled to for privacy.
But Aunt Eleanor, though raised in brutal Scottish winters, drew the line at frolicking with Uncle Hart outside in the dead of December. Daniel also doubted Eleanor would leave behind a pile of blankets and the remains of a loaf of bread and bottle of wine.
Daniel lifted the bottle, examining it by the lantern’s light. “From Uncle Hart’s cellar.”
Violet gazed about in excitement. “So she was in the house. Probably went to steal more food or blankets when Mac nearly caught her.”
“You think the lady in white and whoever is staying here are one and the same?” Daniel swept his light over the blankets, food basket, and a camp chair that reposed in the corner.
“I do, indeed,” Violet said. “No male vagrant would be this neat—not that I believe she is a vagrant. No tattered belongings, no odor of unwashed body. She took what she needed from us and nothing more.”
“Including a bottle of Hart’s very expensive French wine.” Daniel hefted it, noting that half the contents were still present.
“What else could she drink to keep herself warm?” Violet asked. “She is using a glass.” She pointed to a crystal goblet that had been placed neatly on a square of cloth next to the bread. “And partaking of it slowly.”
“Hmm.” Daniel set the bottle down. “We must have frightened her off with the cycle. I will have to make the engine quieter.”
Violet turned to him, her smile wide with triumph. “I do believe we’ve found our ghost.”
“And lost her again.” Daniel gestured at the empty folly.
“Not necessarily. I can guess where she’s gone. I believe we need to ask Eleanor to present the newly hired housemaid to Mac, and then find out why she’s been wiling her way into Kilmorgan.”
Daniel agreed. Violet continued to smile at him, her face so beautiful, her adventurous yet warm nature shining out, that he could not help taking her into his arms and kissing her.
Chapter 8
That evening, Eleanor asked the housekeeper to send the new housemaid to her sitting room.
“Do not alarm her,” Eleanor told the housekeeper. “Simply state that I wish to ask her a question—I have no complaint with her work.”
The maid arrived at seven o’clock as instructed. Mac was there with Isabella, ostensibly having tea, with Jamie, who’d returned not an hour ago with Ian, stuffing himself with scones.
The maid was a pleasant-looking young woman with red hair and a freckled face, her smile ready but not insolent. Her family had recently moved into a cottage in the village, the maid taking employment here to help her mother and father.
She curtsied as she entered. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”
“Yes, indeed. Lachina, isn’t it?”
The maid curtsied again. “Yes, Your Grace.” She looked grateful Eleanor hadn’t made her take a generic name like Mary or Jane as many employers did.
Mac and Jamie stared at the young woman, but neither clutched their hair or shouted, That’s her! They looked, if anything, puzzled.
Eleanor kept her voice kind. “I only wanted to tell you that I am pleased with your work. A
fter the holidays, I will speak with you about keeping you on permanently. That is, if you’d like.”
Another curtsy, the young lady flushing. “Yes, Your Grace. I would like that very much.”
“Good, good. Well, run along. Mrs. Mayhew will no doubt be put out with me for interrupting your schedule.”
Lachina dimpled with good-natured acquiescence. “Yes, Your Grace. Good evening.” She spun on her heel and breezed away, pinafore strings flying.
Eleanor shut the door once Lachina had gone. “Well?”
Jamie was already shaking his head, and Mac joined him. “Not her,” Mac said. “Similar coloring, but not the lady I saw in the attic. Or in the hall the other morning.”
“Agreed,” Jamie said. “The maid we saw was different. More . . .”
“Ethereal,” Mac said.
“I suppose,” Jamie supplied, sounding disappointed.
Isabella sipped tea serenely. “Maybe it really was a ghost. That would be far more interesting, wouldn’t it?”
“Daniel and Violet were most positive a true human being was sleeping in the folly,” Eleanor pointed out.
“Perhaps,” Isabella said. “But that does not necessarily mean the ghost Mac and Jamie saw and the visitor to the folly are the same person.”
“True,” Eleanor had to concede. She sat down and poured herself a fresh cup of tea. “Well, we shall just have to find out who is using the folly. I can rig up a camera there—if we can all keep our mischievous sons from it.”
Jamie grunted. “Daniel and Vi probably scared away whoever it was. We’ll never solve this.”
He’d been downcast since they’d returned from Nottinghamshire. Eleanor had not pried about the errand—everyone needed secrets at Yuletide—but the journey seemed to have been an unsuccessful one.
“Nonsense, Jamie. You help me with the camera, and I guarantee, we’ll have our ghost by Christmas. Whoever it is can join us for Hogmanay and help us welcome in the first-footer.”
Eleanor lifted her cup, hoping to salve the disappointment, but Jamie remained morose, Mac frowning in deep thought.
* * *
“He’s here,” David Fleming said as he abruptly entered Ian’s Ming room two days after the solstice. “You can cease sending me blasted telegrams.”
Ian and Megan had been going over Ian’s collection, deciding which bowls would be taken to their own house when they traveled there after Hogmanay. Ian liked to switch out a half dozen to admire at home, a different six every time.
Ian quickly closed the case he’d opened, and Megan slammed the logbook, leaping to her feet.
Once an avowed bachelor and the man Hart had recruited to do his dirtiest deeds, David now had a beautiful wife and a four-year-old son who was perpetually determined to climb him like a tree. Wife and son were not with him at the moment, but neither was an archaeologist lurking behind him.
Ian had sent David the first message from the station in Nottingham, not a quarter of an hour after they’d left Pemberton’s, and subsequent ones all the way to Scotland. Once he’d reached home, he’d spent a memorable night in Beth’s arms—their traditional celebration of the solstice—and resumed telegraphing the next morning.
David had soon replied that he’d heard of Magill, who was a colleague of Dr. Gaspar, a man who’d worked on Pierson’s dig. Magill wasn’t thought much of in archaeologists’ circles, David warned.
No matter. Ian had telegraphed back: Bring him to Kilmorgan.
Now, Ian swept past David and strode from the room, Megan following. David, with a noise of exasperation, came behind.
The man who must be Mr. Magill waited in the lower hall. He gazed in fascination at the soaring walls and the immense staircase covered with footmen hanging garlands and ribbons.
Beth was there, welcoming Magill to Kilmorgan.
No. Ian raced down the stairs and halted next to her. “My Beth,” he said. “David will see to him.”
Beth gave him a little sideways look, then went back to her conversation with Magill. “An archaeologist, you say, Mr. Magill? That is quite fascinating. I look forward to speaking with you about it. Our housekeeper will show you to your chamber, where you can refresh yourself.”
“How kind.” Magill bowed to Beth, a somewhat fatuous smile on his face. He was a portly man with a white beard and puffy side whiskers, dressed in a thick coat as though prepared to face a winter storm. “I admit, I did not know what to expect from Highlanders.”
Beth kept her smile fixed. “If you need anything, you must only ring.”
Ian regarded the man stonily. He could not demand that Magill hand over the necklace while Beth stood next to him, and he worried that the man would start blurting out questions about it.
“Come with me to my Ming room,” Ian said to him abruptly. “I will show you my collection.”
Beth gave Ian a gentle look. “Poor Mr. Magill has traveled all the way from London, he has told me. Let him at least sit down for a moment.”
Ian preferred to shake Magill upside down until the necklace fell from his pockets. “When you are rested, come to the Ming room. Ask a footman the way.”
Beth sent Magill a hapless smile, but at least Mrs. Mayhew took him in hand and led him away before Beth could ask him more questions.
Beth then turned to Ian, as though to begin an interrogation, but Ian quickly ran back up the stairs.
“Mama’s going to guess,” Megan whispered as she hurried after him.
“We must keep her away,” he said. “Can you do that?”
Megan flashed him a grin. “I will do my best.” She threw her arms around her father in an impulsive hug.
For a moment, as Ian drew Megan into his embrace, he forgot all about Magill and the necklace, the long journey to visit the sneering Pemberton, and his worries that Beth would discover the secret.
He only knew the love of his daughter, and astonishment that he’d been given such a gift.
Ian’s eyes were wet when Megan drew away. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then ran off, unaware of how much she touched her father’s heart.
* * *
Because David tried to persuade her not to, Beth decided to accompany Mr. Magill to the Ming room a half hour later. Mr. Magill was eager to see the antiquities, not minding at all that he’d barely taken time to remove his coat and wash the train’s soot from his face.
David met them on the first-floor landing and did his best to suggest that Beth show his wife, Sophie, around Hart’s great house.
Sophie had already seen Hart’s great house, when she’d first married David. Beth watched David narrowly—Mr. Magill was an unlikely friend for him, and there was little reason he’d insisted on bringing the man to Kilmorgan. David Fleming was up to something, and usually that meant no good.
David finally gave up dissuading her and simply led the way across the house.
“We’re not alone,” David said to Ian as they entered.
Ian stood impatiently in the center of the carpet, his annoyance when he saw Beth plain.
David and Ian had brought Mr. Magill to Kilmorgan for a covert purpose, Beth surmised, and that purpose was not benign, at least not for Mr. Magill. The two regarded him exactly as hunters might a bear they’d lured into a trap.
“Ian,” Beth said. “Please tell me why Mr. Magill is here.”
Ian only looked at her, and Beth knew she would learn nothing from him. Ian had difficulty with lies, which he got around by saying nothing at all.
David took on his smooth look, the exact one he assumed when trying to butter up one of Hart’s political opponents.
“Do not try your charms on me, David,” she said severely. “I believe I will remain for your conference, whatever it is about.”
“Dear lady.” Mr. Magill turned an excited face to her. “I was summoned to speak about Rom
an antiquities, on which I am an expert.”
“Are you?” Beth looked him up and down. Mr. Magill was the soft sort of Englishman who looked as though he had much fondness for port and ale and summoned others to do anything difficult for him. “We do not have Roman antiquities at Kilmorgan.”
This did not seem to bother Mr. Magill. “I am honored to have been asked to share my knowledge with such a man as Lord Ian Mackenzie. He is highly regarded as the foremost expert in Ming pottery.”
“He is indeed.” Beth folded her arms. “Why, I wonder, do my husband and Mr. Fleming wish to ask you about antiquities?”
David broke in. “For his expertise, of course.” He softened his voice, a sure sign he was changing tactics. “Do you know, little Lucas talked of nothing the entire journey but seeing his Auntie Beth again. He is up in the nursery, probably already getting into mischief.”
“Surrounded by Mackenzie children who are already smitten with him,” Beth returned. “Do not try to shunt me aside, David. I am not leaving.”
David gave her a resigned look. “Ah, the stubbornness of the female of the species.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Magill said. “But why should she not remain if she is Lord Ian’s confidante? What pieces did you wish me to assess, my lord?” He turned to Ian in anticipation.
Ian took a paper from his coat, stepped between Beth and Mr. Magill, and unfolded the page. As Ian’s body was in the way, Beth could not see what was on it, but Mr. Magill’s eyes widened.
The archaeologist’s pink face drained of color, and panic entered his eyes. He stared at the paper for a moment, lips parting, and then he tried to run.
Chapter 9
David tackled him. Mr. Magill yelped as he went down and struggled to free himself, but David was far too strong.
Ian reached down and yanked Magill to his feet.
A Mackenzie Yuletide Page 7