Her Muse, Her Magic

by Jane Charles

  Her Muse, Her Magic

  Copyright © 2015 by Jane Charles

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  Night Shift Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Shannon Orrill ~ Thank you for the use of your books, sharing the magic of Wicca

  and especially your friendship.

  ~Jane

  October 1815 – The Merciful Widow Inn, Newmarket

  Eugene Post, the Marquess of Bradenham, slapped David Thorn on the back in congratulations as he took a spot across from his old friend. “Well done today, Thorn.” After all, the man’s Arabian had clocked in faster than any other horse on the racecourse that day.

  Blake Chetwey laughed. “You make it sound like he ran the lengths himself, Braden.”

  “I did have something to do with the siring of the filly.” Thorn lifted his glass of whisky in a mock toast.

  “One of your byblows is she?” Braden’s younger brother, Lord Quentin, chuckled as he dropped into a chair beside the man.

  A wicked glint sparked in Thorn’s eyes. “If she was one of mine, she’d have run even faster.”

  This earned him an uproarious round of guffaws from the others. Just as the laughter died down, Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverely, said to Braden, “See what you’ll miss if you head off to godforsaken Cumberland?”

  “Cumberland?” Thorn turned up his nose as though he’d smelled something awful. “Why the devil would you want to go there of all places?”

  Braden scoffed. “Want is a strong word. Required is more apt.”

  “You’re required to go to Cumberland?” Sidney Garrick frowned.

  “Haunted castle,” Quent supplied, wiggling his brow dramatically. “He’s inherited a haunted castle.”

  “Aren’t all castles haunted?” Garrick slid forward in his seat as he reached for a cheroot.

  Wolf agreed with a nod of his head. “They are if you pay any attention to local villagers.”

  “But Marisdùn Castle really is haunted,” Chetwey replied. “Everyone in the Lake District has heard stories about it.”

  And hauntings were something Chetwey knew a little something about, or so he said. Still, Braden didn’t put a lot of stock in such nonsense. He was simply traveling north with Quent to look the place over and didn’t imagine they’d encounter any apparitions once they arrived.

  “Well, if everyone in the Lake District has heard about it…” Garrick smirked.

  Chetwey snorted. “Spoken like a fellow who hasn’t ever seen something that can’t be explained. There are many things, my friends, that cannot truly be explained away.”

  “They say our great-grandmother vanished within the walls of Marisdùn, never to be seen from again,” Quent added, warming to the telling of nonsensical tales.

  “More likely she ran off with some seaman,” Braden tossed in. “Can you imagine raising twelve children?” He shuddered at the thought.

  “Our great-grandfather packed up those twelve children and went straight to Shropshire, vowing never to step foot in Marisdùn again,” Quent said.

  Garrick took a puff of his cheroot. “You are rather engaged in the retelling of the story.”

  “I think it’ll be interesting to see the place myself.” Quent shrugged. “A real haunted castle. It’ll be great fun.”

  Braden was rather tempted to sign the place over to Quent and be done with it. He had no interest in haunted castles in Cumberland or anywhere else.

  A bemused smirk settled on Thorn’s face, but he said nothing.

  Wolf, on the other hand, seemed just as enthralled as Quent. “You know what you could do?”

  “Who said we were doing anything?” Braden asked, but he was drowned out when Quent said, “What could we do?”

  “Satterly had a Samhain festival a few years back—” Wolf rubbed his brow as though trying to remember something “—at that place in Devon, old abbey.”

  “Lypston Abbey,” Chetwey added.

  “Yes!” Wolf’s eyes lit up. “Lypston Abbey. Everyone dressed in costume and it was a right good time. Something about the worlds of the living and the dead colliding on that one night. I’ll never forget it.”

  “Some of those girls didn’t wear drawers,” Thorn tossed in. “I’ll never forget that.”

  “Did some colliding, did you?” Garrick asked.

  Wolf grinned widely. “Wouldn’t it be enormously fun to have a Samhain festival at Marisdùn Castle, where the worlds of the living and the dead collide all the time anyway?”

  “Brilliant!” Quent gushed.

  “It’s not brilliant,” Braden protested. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know if the place is standing.”

  “It’s standing,” Chetwey replied. “I’ve seen it myself.”

  “Why not, Braden?” Quent asked. “Everyone dressed in costume, girls without drawers. I’m certainly game for that.”

  “Oh, here, here.” Thorn lifted his glass once more. “Count me in.”

  There was a chorus of voices all in agreement for that. So Braden heaved a sigh and shrugged. Who was he to spoil everyone’s fun? “Marisdùn may be standing, but we’ll want to make certain the structure is sound.”

  “Why don’t you all come with us when we head for Cumberland?” Quent tossed in. “More eyes to look the place over.”

  “I’m game,” Chetwey said.

  “Why not?” Thorn sighed.

  “Sounds like fun,” Wolf added.

  “Well—” Garrick shrugged “—if everyone else is going…”

  Blake Chetwey pulled his greatcoat close around him and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling together. With each bump in the road, his body protested in pain. Bloody hell! Now was not the time for another episode. Not that there was ever a good time, but he had been looking forward to the coming weeks and the party his hosts were planning. What healthy gentleman did not look forward to a celebration where young ladies might not wear undergarments?

  He groaned. He was far from healthy at the moment and could only pray that this episode was of a short duration. Malaria! That is what the doctor in Barbados had called it, and warned him that he would most likely have recurrent attacks, without warning and for no apparent reason, in the coming years before the disease had purged itself from his body.

  Blake turned his head to look out the window at the passing scenery. He should have had the driver take the road to Tolbright a few miles back. Beyond the small town was Torrington Abbey, his home for a good portion of his life, and the estate he would one day inherit from his uncle, the Earl of Torrington.

  He preferred to suffer through this episode in his own bed instead of the haunted Marisdùn Castle. Not that the abbey wasn’t haunted. Well, at least it was for a short time, but Blake never saw evidence of the rumored ghost to be roaming the halls either. And could he really consider the last haunting to be an actual haunting?

  “Do you really believe Marisdùn Castle to be haunted?” David Thorn asked from across the carriage.

  Had the man been reading his mind? Blake assumed Thorn was thinking about ladies without drawers. It was a favorite pastime of his. Bla
ke simply shrugged. Who was he to decide if a place was haunted or not? A year ago he would have scoffed at the idea. Not any longer.

  “And, is it true that Patrick Delaney once haunted Torrington Abbey?” Thorn continued. “Or did you invent the entire story?”

  Blake groaned and glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye. He should never have told Thorn or the others about what Delaney and his sister, Laura believed. If he hadn’t been in his cups following the races, he would never have breathed a word of their story. He didn’t understand it all, he doubted that he ever would. He certainly didn’t trust Brighid’s version of the events – that Patrick left his body and hovered near life and death.

  He snorted and returned his gaze out the window. Brighid Glace is a charming yet odd young woman. If Patrick had haunted Torrington for a bit, then Brighid truly was a witch, as he always accused her of being. It was well and good he didn’t truly believe in ghosts or witches. There was a reasonable explanation for all the oddities. He simply hadn’t discovered them yet.

  “Well, did you?”

  Oh yes, he had forgotten to answer Thorn. Why was he having such a difficult time concentrating? Could it be because he was so cold or maybe it was the headache he could no longer ignore? “You’ll have to ask Delaney.”

  “I’ll make sure Braden sends an invitation so I can find out for myself.” Thorn glanced out the window as the carriage began to slow. “I believe we are here.”

  Blake didn’t rise to see for himself. He knew what Marisdùn Castle looked like. As long as it had a warm room and soft bed he didn’t care if it was haunted by two dozen ghosts. They just needed to leave him alone so he could rest until this episode passed.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and a moment later the driver opened the door. Blake jerked away from the bright light that flooded the interior of the carriage.

  “You don’t look so well,” Thorn observed.

  Blake waved him away. “I just need rest.” He pushed himself to the end of the seat and tried to stand. His legs protested and his body screamed in pain.

  “Are you having an episode?” Thorn’s brow was marred with concern.

  He could only give a slow nod before letting his head rest against the squabs.

  Brighid Glace tied the strings of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I shan’t be long, grandmother.”

  “Where are you off to?” the older woman asked from her chair beside the fire.

  “I told you.” She offered the woman a loving smile. “I am to go into Ravenglass.”

  “I don’t know why you can’t go into Tolbright,” grandmother grumbled. She never liked Ravenglass and Brighid never understood why, except grandmother always claimed the people had strange ideas and superstitions.

  Brighid grinned. “We can’t get Daphne Alcott’s rum butter in Tolbright and I promised to bring Spikenard, Monk’s-Hood and Horehound to Mrs. Small at Marisdùn Castle. They have none of their own left.” She paused in thought. “I should really see about harvesting the remaining herbs before winter sets in.”

  The older woman frowned deeply. “I don’t see why they can’t gather their own herbs. Besides, Ravenglass boasts a fine doctor.”

  “They don’t have the time to tend the garden, nor anyone who has learned the use and preparation of medicinals since the Widow Wythe passed.” Brighid chastised. “Besides, they don’t wish to send for Dr. Alcott each time one of them has a slight cough or minor injury, and our family were the healers at Marisdùn Castle long ago. It is only right we continue to help when asked.”

  “Maybe you should teach someone so you aren’t running off there so often.”

  Brighid bent to pick up her basket full of herbs. “That is exactly what I intend to do, if someone will agree.” Since the Widow Wythe passed on, Brighid had seen to the care of the medicinal garden nestled behind the kitchens and herbarium. It wasn’t part of the vast, carefully manicured and well-tended gardens on the rest of the grounds, but a purposeful array of plants with no thought to color. They served to heal, not to be viewed for their beauty. That isn’t to say it wasn’t a pretty garden. She loved sitting in the middle of it, on the flat, dark, round stone. There were a few benches at the edge, but she rarely sat there. For the oddest reason, the stone always warmed her, even on the coolest days.

  “Just like your mother, off and about, nursing the sick when you should be tending your family,” her grandmother grumbled.

  Brighid pursed her lips together to keep from responding. Her mother had been a healer. With only one doctor in the area, sometimes she had been needed to treat the ill and act as a midwife until the physician could arrive. It was just a shame that the one person her mother had been unable to help was her own husband. Her mother had not been the same after she could not cure the illness that caused father’s death, and soon followed him to the grave. Brighid suspected it was more from a broken heart than anything else.

  Besides, her grandmother did not need tending. The woman may be getting on in years, but she was strong, healthy, active, and possessed all her faculties, even if she could be unpleasant at times. It was she who did the cooking and most of the cleaning in their house. Her brother, Cavan, was home only long enough to eat and sleep. If he wasn’t working the land and dairy, he was in Torrington with his friends.

  “Just don’t be long,” her grandmother insisted.

  Brighid paused at the door and stared down into her basket. She should take Wormwood. Had Mrs. Small requested this medicinal herb as well? She couldn’t recall, but knew she needed to take it anyway. Brighid no longer questioned these odd sensations or thoughts. Her mother termed them a gift and she listened to them every time.

  “A doctor will be here soon,” Thorn assured Blake.

  He didn’t need a doctor. There was nothing they could do. Well, there was the bark, but it didn’t grow in Cumberland, so he would have to suffer through.

  He pulled the blankets up to his chin. Why was he so cold? It was hot as Hades in here. At least he assumed it was hot, from the sweat on Thorn’s brow.

  Thorn poured a glass of water and pushed it into his hand. “This should help.”

  A moment later the housekeeper entered. “Right his way, Miss Alcott.” She stood back so a young woman of no more than twenty, carrying a dark bag of sorts, could enter the room. She had kind blue eyes and a round face with a bit of plumpness to her. Her hair was tucked under a handkerchief about her head, but a few sandy brown wisps escaped near her ears. At least she was a familiar face, even if Blake hadn’t seen her in several years. As soon as Thorn noticed the young woman he would forget Blake was even ill.

  “This is the doctor?” Thorn asked doubtfully.

  “No,” the young woman answered. “I am Miss Daphne Alcott. The doctor is my brother, but he’s unavailable at the moment.”

  “This is an emergency. We need him now!”

  Blake blinked, wondering at his friend’s urgent behavior.

  She held her ground and stared up at Thorn.

  Blake admired her immediately.

  “He is at a birthing. I left him a note to come here on his return.” She pushed past Thorn and came to the side of Blake’s bed.

  “You should return home and send for him,” Thorn ground out. “We need a real doctor. Not a miss playing at being one.”

  Blake shifted his eyes from the young woman to Thorn. It wasn’t like his friend to behave in such a rude manner toward a pretty woman. Usually the charm oozed from him, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. Could Thorn be that worried about him?

  Miss Alcott stiffened at Thorn’s words but then she smiled down at Blake and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You are overly warm.”

  He didn’t feel overly warm. He was freezing.

  “I’ll be fine,” Blake insisted, though it took more energy than he anticipated.

  She let out a sigh. “I wish I knew more about this malaria.”

  Blake tried to smile at her, to assure her he
did not mind her lack of knowledge, but failed. At least she wanted to help.

  “I’ve brought Dover’s Powder. It is what my brother gives patients with fevers.” She withdrew a jar from the black bag. “And aches and pains.” She tilted her head and studied him. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes,” Blake groaned and burrowed further beneath the covers.

  Miss Alcott brightened. “Then this should be just the thing.”

  Blake doubted it, but if it brought any relief, he would gladly take the whole of it.

  “Please bring me a glass of water so I can mix it with the powder,” she instructed Thorn.

  His friend retrieved the glass from the table beside the bed before striding across the room to refill it. When he returned, Miss Alcott tapped some powder into the glass and stirred it about. “We need to get you sitting up so you can drink.”

  Thorn was at his side without hesitation. Blake groaned as his body protested against the movement. Once he was elevated enough, Miss Alcott brought the glass to his lips. Blake braced himself for the bitter taste. If he didn’t have hope it would bring some relief, he would have refused. Instead, he forced himself to drink. When the contents were drained he was allowed to lie back against the pillows once again.

  “You should rest now. With any luck, my brother will be here soon.”

  “I’ll escort you out, Miss Alcott.”

  Blake let his eyes close and willed the pain away at the click of the door closing behind them. At least Thorn was finally being solicitous. What had gotten into his friend?

  A cool hand rested upon his brow. It brought relief to the fever. Had Miss Alcott returned? He hadn’t heard the door. Had he fallen asleep?

  Blake cracked his eyes open at the unfamiliar touch.

  Above him was a woman in a white nightshift. Where had she come from? She was young, barely out of the schoolroom, with blonde, flowing hair. She was so delicate and pale with a look of concern in her green eyes.