by A. G. Howard
The instant Enya closed the door against the bright sun, his profile resolved to bold relief against the sapphire wall hangings.
My spine went to jelly. The angle of his clean-shaved jaw, his dark brows and exotic nose—a familiarity so startling it would’ve knocked me to my knees had I been standing.
I clutched the locket beneath my décolleté, fingers molded around the hollow, hard metal until it bit into my flesh. I didn’t notice Uncle rising to his feet, hardly felt the chill of his body’s withdrawal from my side.
It had to be my lack of sleep from all the nights spent reading the journal. How else could my eyes deceive me so?
My uncle stepped between us to shake our guest’s hand. His hair became all that was visible with Uncle blocking him. Burnt chocolate, vivid with variants of ebony and auburn—color come to life. I fondled the lace at my sleeve’s band, aching for a better glimpse.
Enya passed me on her way to the kitchen with Chloe in tow, yet didn’t even give a sidelong glance. Her brow was furrowed in either confusion or suspicion.
My focus snapped back to Uncle as he took a step to the left, at last exposing our guest in full. His gaze swept down to meet mine and I gasped, any residue of logic fading away. Only heaven could have granted a wish of such mortal magnitude.
For standing there in the doorway was Hawk—my ghost—come to life.
Chapter 10
Be not deceived with the first appearance of things, for show is not substance.
English Proverb
I leapt up and pushed Uncle aside, needing to touch our guest, to test if he was real. I stroked his face, felt the solid warmth of his cheek beneath my trembling fingertips.
He widened his eyes and removed my hand, an attempt to honor propriety. I pressed my palm instead to his chest, seeking his pulse. Upon finding it, I grew weak and my knees buckled.
He caught me against him and I clung to his shirt. His chest muscles tensed beneath my fingers. Uncle Owen was behind me, first a tap then an insistent tug, but I would not release my captive. I rested against him so the heartbeat beneath his sternum kicked hard at my jaw. His warmth and scent surrounded me, wrapped me in a moment of taste, smell, and touch so gratifying I dared not question its reality.
Uncle shook me in earnest now. Of course he couldn’t understand. I didn’t understand. I knew this could not be Hawk. But logic didn’t matter, for this was the closest I had ever come to touching him.
Our guest stretched me to arm’s length. His mouth became my focal point, bringing to mind the kiss I’d shared with my ghost just moments earlier—a transcendental exchange so powerful it healed me. My pulse fluttered. What would it be like, to kiss those lips in reality?
Uncle’s face intruded upon my fantasy. He used his handkerchief to wipe my tears. “Please forgive her. As I said, she’s not been herself of late.” His expression shifted from reproach to compassion. “Juliet, allow me to introduce the viscount, Lord Thornton. Here to bring us the interview of your accident in the mines, so you might read it for yourself.”
Movement at the kitchen doorway claimed my attention. Enya’s siblings stood there, giggling. The fog of delusion evaporated and an ice cold rush of reality crashed me back into the present.
I had just thrown myself at a nobleman.
The very nobleman who was bent on claiming my home.
I glared at Uncle. Color crept into his face, either spurred by his shame for my actions, or his shame for deceiving me. He had invited Lord Thornton two days early, encouraged him to impose upon our family gathering, without even warning me.
Feeling woozy, I stumbled backward. The viscount transferred his walking stick to his right side so he could help Uncle guide me to the settee.
Uncle lifted my legs, propped my lower back with a pillow, and draped the woolen throw to cover my ankles and shins. He caught my wrist where I still gripped the viscount’s forearm. I tightened my fingers, unable to relax the muscles. Regardless of the threat he presented, this man was my lifeline to Hawk. The most tangible one I’d ever had.
The viscount nodded to my uncle, handed off his walking stick, then knelt down beside me, peeling my hand free before clasping it in his own.
Up close, I noticed minor differences: miniscule smile lines around his eyes and streaks of sun-bleached auburn tipping his dark hair … exactly how my ghost would look had he aged a few years and spent time outdoors. A breathtaking figure of Hawk mellowed to another level of beauty.
I marveled at his eye color … not a winter-sky gray, but a dusky liquid gray, like shadows atop the surface of a pond—mysterious and hypnotic. A distinction in shade so minute, it might have been rendered by the periwinkle sheen of his mismatched shirt.
“It is all right, Miss Emerline,” his full lips shaped the unexpected pardon. “I understand you’ve been battling a demon.”
“Hawk …?” The name slipped out in spite of my screaming rationale.
Shock strained his face. “On my life. You knew my brother?”
I clamped my inner cheek between my teeth. Brothers. Of course. Twins, judging by the flesh and bone facsimile kneeling beside me. So the rumors of the viscount being an only child were mistaken.
The olive tone in his complexion was evident in the light of reality. He was a half-caste. The sole way a gypsy could come by nobility was through a father of noble English blood. But how did that pair with Hawk’s journal, and their monster of a father who tortured him in a gypsy camp each day?
The viscount’s mouth fluttered again, and I concentrated on the movement.
“Did you know him … my brother?”
I had no answer. Considering that the viscount was twenty-seven, my ghostly companion had died years ago. I would have been a youth when he passed this life. Uncle knew each and every acquaintance I’d ever made, and would’ve taken grave notice of a boy eight years my senior, sitting on the fence of my innocence.
In a desperate bid to save myself, I feigned a hacking cough that I hoped sounded enough like “Hawk” to convince our grand guest that the name had been a tickle in my throat.
My tactic proved so persuasive, Enya came rushing in with a cup of water, held up my chin, and spilled the liquid down my throat until my strangles became quite real. Fortunately, upon my recovery, the subject shifted to an invitation to our guest to break his fast with us.
From that point on, the viscount proved gracious to a fault, having the same enchanting effect on everyone as he’d earlier had on the dog. Aria fluttered up to the cage bars and pecked his finger affectionately as he fussed over her beauty. Enya’s brothers and sisters flocked around him as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin and they his orphaned rats.
The man even encouraged Enya’s family to sit with us at the table, a most unheard of gesture for one of his status. He obviously had a cunning perception, and intuited they were more than domestic servants in our home. The youngest children sat at the game table, while the rest of us gathered around the dining table.
Enya’s cider cakes were one of my uncle’s favorite dishes, and mine as well. No one else could coax the tiny loaves of flour, sugar, butter, cider, and pearlash to such golden perfection. Each bite, each crumb, melted in the mouth like warm, buttered brandy. Still, even with the tantalizing steam curling around my chin, I couldn’t get past the lump of embarrassment in my throat to taste anything.
I’d caressed a complete stranger’s face, a viscount’s no less. Even worse, I had nuzzled his chest. I was a disgrace, confirmed by Uncle’s effort not to meet my gaze as he sipped coffee and nodded at the viscount’s words—words I couldn’t bring myself to try to read. I couldn’t look at our guest at all. I could hardly stay seated in my chair.
I wanted to be with Hawk, sharing my discovery. If I had managed to snag a petal earlier, he would be bearing witness to this momentous occasion.
I nudged my spoon into a dish of custard to scrape nutmeg freckles off the surface. From beneath my lashes, I chanced a glance and found our guest laughing with
Uncle. The men were hitting it off as if they were old acquaintances.
The viscount caught me gawking and offered a charming, confident smile. My wrist jerked and the custard plopped from my spoon into my coffee. Enya frowned, mopping coffee driblets from her forehead.
Biting my lip, I dipped a chunk of cake into the small, black puddle swirling in my saucer. I wished Hawk were here, filling me in on everyone’s conversations.
I missed him. I missed his chuckle. The way he clicked his teeth together when he pondered something deeply. The way I always felt at ease and accepted around him. I missed his teasing touches along my blankets and skirt hems. But most of all, I missed his songs.
A sharp jab in my ribs jolted me back to the present. I glared at Enya and her bony elbow. Grimacing, she gestured toward my uncle.
“Are you finished, Juliet?” he asked. The color in his cheeks indicated he had been trying to get my attention for some minutes.
I nodded, though made sure he felt the heat of my anger. He had sprung the viscount on me, and was as much to blame for the earlier fiasco as me.
He offered an apologetic smile. “All right. Let us retire to the parlor to read the interview.”
My empty stomach flipped at the thought of facing the childhood memory I’d suppressed for so long. Yet another uncomfortable challenge to face on this day of farcical fate.
Uncle wiped his mouth and stood. The viscount did the same, bragging over the quality of Enya’s meal until her face deepened to the shade of a radish.
After Uncle offered his elbow to me, the viscount followed us back to the sitting room.
Uncle seated me at the settee. Our guest took a winged chair across the room and regarded Hawk’s flower on the table next to him. My heart bounced into my throat. He must know by now I was the woman spying upon him at the grave, and that I’d stolen the flower.
How could he not, as unusual as it was?
He looked away, reposed elegance with his cane propped between his knees, then said something to Uncle who nodded and retreated to the kitchen once more.
Casting a fleeting glance my direction, the viscount drew out a graphite stick wrapped in a handkerchief from his jacket’s flap, along with a rectangle of parchment. Deep in thought, he scribbled for an interminable span of minutes. Being an architect, I assumed inspiration hit him at inopportune moments so he kept writing tools on hand.
Upon folding the paper, he tucked it and the graphite into his jacket then draped his fingers over the cane’s knob. Sun filtered from the window behind the table and the brass handle winked as if forged of flame. I squinted to focus on his mouth.
“Your uncle mentioned you read lips.”
A flash of heat surged through my neck. I nodded, too embarrassed to answer aloud. I wanted to look at my shoes, the polished floor, anything but this dashing, cryptic man who mirrored my ghost. But there would be more humiliation in missing his words and having him repeat them, so I met his gaze head on.
“You do quite well. I would never have known you were deaf.”
Of course you wouldn’t, had Uncle not told you. I scowled.
Our guest resituated his cane’s handle. “Feel no discomfort on my behalf. I can relate.” The cane’s tip gestured toward his right foot, twisted on an unnatural slant. “I’ve been burdened with this since birth.”
I ventured a small smile, surprised by his kindness. Surely it was all an act to get in my good graces so I’d hand over the deed to the estate.
“In fact,” he continued, “you don’t seem limited in the least. I’m astounded by your many talents.”
My brow arched. What other talents had he seen?
“That was a stunning performance earlier.” He straightened the tie-pin in his celery green cravat, then tapped his finger against his sternum, as if remembering my cheek pressed against him there.
My spine withered, just to imagine us sharing the same thoughts. “Performance?” I ventured the word to save face, though worried how my voice must sound to him. It was the first time I’d been brave enough to speak in his presence. But since he already knew of my deafness, what did I have to hide … other than his brother’s ghost?
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a cough come upon anyone with such vicious spontaneity,” he answered. “Do such fits run through your bloodline, or is it exclusive to you?”
“Oh.” I forced out another “Hawk” induced cough for good measure, then gripped the lace at my collarbones with my left hand. “I fear the burden is mine to bear alone.”
His attention settled on my naked ring finger. “Ah. A shame. That flair for theatrics would be a fine trait to pass along to any future offspring you might have.” He’d seen right through my act. His white-toothed roguish grin favored Hawk’s so much my pulse broke into a gallop.
Chloe tottered in with Uncle behind her. He tipped his chin to the viscount and handed off a cup of tea with rosemary-scented clouds swirling at the brim. Taking the cup and setting it next to Hawk’s flower, the viscount held an envelope out to Uncle, pulled from the pocket opposite of the paper he earlier scrawled upon.
Uncle sat next to me and nudged the envelope my direction. I took it and frowned at him, an unspoken reproach for telling our guest of my infirmity. In all my years, he’d always left it up to me to tell people on my own terms, once I deemed them worthy of trust.
Uncle glanced down at his hands like a reprimanded child.
I opened the envelope and, spreading the document on my lap, read the words silently—an itinerary of the dreaded day’s events from the ochre mine’s previous owner, Lord Larson. There was nothing more than my age, the date, the time, and the location: ochre mine #34. The lack of details left me an anonymous bystander to my own tragedy.
I glanced up at the viscount and saw compassion in his eyes.
“Please, Miss Emerline. I would like to have a more thorough account of the incident for my own files. Is there anything else you can offer?”
I focused on Uncle, my annoyance softening. Was it possible he hadn’t betrayed me after all? Perhaps Uncle thought that if Lord Thornton knew of my tragedy, of my deafness, he might feel sympathy for me and stop pressing for my estate.
“I remember only bits of that day.” Setting the opened parchment aside, I twisted my hands on my lap. “Nothing fits together or makes sense. Can you help me with the pieces, Uncle? I’d been climbing a tree. It had … it had a witch’s face.”
Uncle crossed his ankles, catching my hem with the movement. For years, he’d stifled my efforts to remember. It was to protect me; but it was also to protect him.
Sighing, he nodded. “Yes. The bark formed something of a face. A hideous image. In fact, for months thereafter, you had nightmares about old women.” He kept his head turned to me, but addressed the viscount. “Her father, Anston, and I were visiting the ochre mines that day, to ascertain if they’d be a profitable investment for our cloth dying business. Juliet’s mother had been ill all morning so we took the child with us, to give Emilia some rest.” His mouth quirked to a grin. “Juliet was quite adventuresome as a six-year-old.”
I suppressed a smile, thinking upon stories I’d been told.
“Lord Larson offered a tour of the place. We became preoccupied,” Uncle continued. “We failed to notice Juliet had slipped away. The moment I looked down and saw her gone …” His eyes pinched.
My hand grasped his.
He laced our fingers and the story became an apology. “We looked everywhere for you. For hours. Your father was desperate to tears. Finally, just when dark came, one of Larson’s men stumbled upon an abandoned shaft where the scaffolding had buckled. Up above was the tree with several broken branches. The worker surmised what had happened and called us over.” Uncle’s lips tightened to cords of white. “We feared the worst.”
He’d always blamed himself. Even when he and Papa returned me to Mama with nothing more than a few scratches. Even when she assured them it was no one’s fault. Uncle still couldn’
t make peace with it. From that day forward, he became my staunchest protector.
Uncle’s gaze shifted from me and I realized our guest had said something. My attention centered on Lord Thornton.
“How did you find your way out of the wreckage after you fell?” he asked. “As the victim, you can offer insights no one else can.”
I turned to Uncle, seeking his assistance.
“She did mention a boy helping her,” Uncle said. “A boy made of dirt.”
I felt a whimper escape my throat. I had forgotten that detail.
The viscount’s face paled and he leaned forward, knees on elbows, as if Uncle’s words had tugged him down. “There was someone else there with you? In the mines?”
Although his question was directed at me, I turned to Uncle, waiting for him to explain. My voice stayed trapped within.
Uncle ruffled his white hair. “We were never sure. It was all she would talk of for weeks thereafter. How a mud prince had saved her. Her fantasy champion.” He looked fully at me. “We decided it was someone your mind had conjured.”
“I imagined him?” I asked, because a part of me was starting to see it as truth. Because now that I’d allowed details to surface, I could envision the boy’s youthful features—masked in mud and sculpted of pain—with such precision, he must have been real.
“A dream perhaps,” Uncle answered. “Your father and I wished to explore the collapsed mine to be sure, but Lord Larson said it was too dangerous for a layman. He had a staff of gypsies that mined for him … said they would better know the tunnels. He sent us home, promising to have his men search. We later received news that they found no one else. Just red dust, broken rocks, and splintered scaffolding that blocked any other tunnels in sight.”
Something began to tap at that fragile, unreachable moment within me, causing hairline fissures in the shell surrounding it. All this time, a vague sense of foreboding had shaded its birth, like a raven’s wing spread possessively over her nest. Now, I tried to lift away the black feathery shadow, determined to remember it all.