Love for Lady Winter: A Secrets of Gissing Hall Novella

by Carlyle, Christy

  * * *

  Win was trapped, with no means of escape.

  After finding her aunts among the crush of wedding guests, they’d set out on a mission to introduce her to every single aristocrat, village acquaintance, and Hambly family member attending the nuptials.

  She’d spent her entire life dreading introductions to strangers, but her aunts had found the cure. By the twelfth introduction, she no longer cared whether they thought her hair odd or her eyes otherworldly. When her aunts settled onto a settee with two old women they’d known as children, Win was relieved to be off her feet. But now hours had passed, and even the cushion under her rear felt as uncomfortable as the stone ledge she’d sat on by the sea.

  Turning her mind from the conversation about people and places she did not know, she cast her thoughts to the waves lapping the shoreline not far from where she sat. She wished to be there again, to be wading into the water, with Septimus behind her, not caring whether his boots were ruined as long as he could be near her.

  Where had he gone? During the endless introductions, she’d scanned each room, hoping to see him towering above the other guests. She hadn’t caught a single glimpse of him all afternoon.

  “He’ll be here, my dear,” Aunt Cornelia whispered to her between introductions. But even when the castle staff and guests began preparing for the ball, Septimus had not appeared.

  His father, the loss of his parents, had hurt him deeply. Win understood that pain. She even understood the anger he bore toward his father. While she could blame her father’s actions on his madness that had consumed him, she couldn’t recall, even from her earliest childhood, a time when he was kind or loving toward her or her siblings. Yet, she’d known from the first that letting resentment toward him fester would only hinder her. Whatever contentment she’d planned to carve out for herself as a spinster, she wouldn’t let it be clouded by anger toward her father.

  Why didn’t Septimus see the freedom in letting go?

  A flash of movement caught Win’s notice and she turned to see a cluster of young women, all garbed in stunning gowns in the height of fashion. One had jeweled hairpins dotted through her coiffure, and they sparkled in the candlelight. Beyond the group, another movement caught her eye. A gauzy shimmer in the shadows. Win scooted to the edge of the deep settee and stood to get a better look.

  Blue. The specter glimmered in the dark corner, glowing with its own ethereal light. But if the ghost was here, where was Septimus?

  “Winifred, where are you going?” Aunt Elinor’s tone held a thread of worry.

  “The lady’s retiring room? Where is it?”

  A regal elderly lady in a chair nearby pointed toward a hallway that split off from the main hall.

  “Shall I accompany you?” Aunt Elinor moved to rise from her chair, but Win forestalled her.

  “Not at all. Enjoy your visit. I promise to return soon.” Win wended her way through the guests, glancing over her shoulder to make sure her aunts weren’t watching before changing course toward the blue apparition.

  As with every encounter, she sensed the spirit had an urgent message. Yet there was no sound. Not even a flood of emotions she could interpret. But slowly, as if the substance of the apparition was being pulled into a funnel, all of its light and energy focused on the handle of a door set back in the shadows. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the blue glow faded.

  Win’s intuition told her it had passed through the door. With one final look across the room to ensure her aunts were deep in conversation, she twisted the latch and slipped inside. On the other side, darkness surrounded her. Then the apparition flickered above her, revealing a stairwell that twisted high up the castle wall. Win climbed the steps, praying she’d find Septimus at the top.

  Halfway up the stone staircase, the specter vanished, like a candle snuffed out. Win ran her hands along the walls to guide her way. Then a sound stopped her heart. A sharp crack, like a blast of gunfire echoed against the stones.

  Win stumbled up the rest of the stairs and burst through the thick wooden door at the top. Frigid air stole her breath. Acrid smoke hung in the air. Below the haze, Septimus lay stretched out on the parapet walk.

  Rushing toward him, Win could see that his shirt was singed, one cuff burned black. Down on her knees, she turned his face toward her and stroked his cheek. “Septimus.” He wasn’t bleeding, and she could find no wounds, despite the state of his clothing. When she stroked a hand up his arm to examine his shirt sleeve, he jolted awake, and clutched at her hand.

  His eyes were wild as he took her in. “Win?” He sat up, bracing a hand against the parapet wall to stand.

  Win gasped when a trickle of blood dropped on his shirt. “You’ve hit your head.” She stripped off a glove. “Where is the wound?”

  He pressed his fingers to the spot on the back of his head and they came away doused in crimson. Win approached, but Septimus wrapped a hand around her arm to keep her away.

  “There’s a kerchief in my pocket. Don’t ruin your gloves.”

  She didn’t care about her blasted gloves. Only him. Only knowing that he was all right.

  “I failed,” he said, wiping the wound with his handkerchief. “The lightning bolt. I couldn’t predict the strike. It was a complete anomaly.” He turned his gaze toward the sky. “Even now, there’s not a cloud in the sky. My adjustments were incomplete and the device backfired.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated his burnt clothing. “I wasn’t prepared.” There was such misery in his tone, a bereft look in his eyes.

  Win strode toward him and put her arms around his waist. He tensed and then melted against her, wrapping her in his embrace, pulling her closer.

  “You’ll ruin your dress,” he said against her hair.

  “I don’t care. I need your arms around me.”

  He chuckled. “And here I thought you wished to comfort a failed man of science.”

  “That too.” She gazed up at him, relieved to see the warmth had returned to his eyes. “And you haven’t failed. As you said, you couldn’t predict the strike. The unexpected comes without warning.” The blue specter appeared as the haze cleared. Win felt its sorrow, its longing. “Your father should have heeded your warning, but how could he have known where the lightning would strike?”

  Septimus stilled, then skimmed his gaze down his ruined shirt, over at his damaged device, and then at Win. “My father had the benefit of my warning. I begged him not to go.”

  “He couldn’t have known what would happen that night. You didn’t anticipate the lightning. I never dreamed I’d fall in love, or that anyone could love me.”

  He smiled at that, and she spotted a dimple in his cheek she’d never noticed before. She looked forward to learning every inch of him once they were married.

  Goodness, what a thought. What a lovely, perfect prospect.

  One nagging worry plagued her. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  He looked into her eyes and let out a long sigh. “I will always struggle to believe what I cannot see. A decade of study has taught me to test and doubt until I can prove a hypothesis. Until I can measure a result.” He squeezed her arm, then slid a hand up to cup her cheek against his palm. “I pray my logical mind won’t drive you to distraction.”

  “Can you see my feelings for you?” Win felt him tense the minute the question was out. “My heartbeat quickens when you’re near. Can you see that?”

  He swept a finger down her cheek. “I observe the rush of blood beneath your skin.”

  “And love? How does love appear? What are its physical manifestations?”

  “Believe me, I intend to show you.” A wash of color dusted the high cut of Septimus’s cheeks.

  Win cleared her throat. “Your father is here. He led me up to the parapet walk to find you. He appears as a haze, a mist. Usually blue.”

  Septimus narrowed his gaze. “Blue was his favorite color. Are they all blue?”

  “No.” A pang of excitement made Win’s heart
clench. He asked her about ghosts as if he believed her. As if she’d witnessed an unusual event or observed a wild animal in the forest, and he truly wished to hear her report of the phenomena. “There’s very little about them that is consistent. Other than pain.”

  “Pain?” He tightened his grip where he’d laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do they cause you discomfort?”

  “Not my pain. Theirs. They share their emotions with me. Sometimes I do feel their misery or unhappiness, but it’s momentary. Just enough for me to understand.”

  Septimus closed his eyes a moment. “Is my father in pain?”

  “He yearns to be at peace, but he needs you to let him go.” When he started to retort, Win pressed two fingers to his lips and added, “To forgive him so that he may move on.”

  Septimus kissed her fingers before clasping her hand, chafing it against his own.

  The breeze had picked up, though the churning air did nothing to dispel the specter over their heads.

  “Why can’t I see him?” Septimus asked.

  “Why do I feel as I do about you when no other man has ever captured my interest? Why did the lightning strike tonight without warning? Why do you look at me the way you do, when everyone else turns away or gapes in curiosity or horror?” Win shrugged. “I’ve learned that we cannot always find an answer. There is wonder and uncertainty in the world, and I’m not sure I wish for life to be any other way.”

  “I prefer certainty.” Tipping his head back, he gazed up into the darkening sky. “But you’re right. We can’t always know what’s coming.”

  Quietly, she told him, “Your father didn’t know the lightning bolt was coming.”

  “He made a foolish choice.” The snap of defensiveness was always there when Septimus spoke of his father. “But he couldn’t have known it would be his last.”

  “Then you can forgive him?” Win gripped the placket of Septimus’s shirt. Breathless, eager, to hear him say the words. To let this burden go. To let his father rest.

  “My father never had an ounce of malice in his heart for anyone.” He looked up, seeming to sense the ethereal shape above him. “I have no room for anger in my heart either. I forgive you, Father.”

  The specter flared a vibrant blue, enveloping Septimus, before the light and color faded into the dusk.

  Win felt no more longing, no more urgency. Just enormous relief. A calming peace.

  Septimus drew in a sharp breath, perhaps sensing something too, and grinned at her. “My heart is rather full these days. No room for anything but you.” He wrapped both arms around her waist. “I couldn’t predict that either.”

  “And I didn’t come to Cornwall expecting to lose my heart.”

  “You haven’t lost anything, love. Your heart is in good keeping.” Septimus patted a hand over his chest, then reached up to stroke her face. His fingers were warm against her chilled skin. “And you shall always have mine.”

  He kissed her softly, and Win shivered in his arms, as much from unbridled joy as the chill in the air.

  “Let’s get you inside, love.” He tucked her hand against his arm. “You will promise me the first dance at the ball, won’t you?”

  Win hesitated. “I’m not very good at dancing.”

  One brow winged up, as if he found her claim dubious.

  “None of my balls went well, Septimus. I was a pale, awkward wallflower clinging to the edge of the room. Half-hoping to be noticed, half-relieved that no one paid me any attention.” Goodness, what a sad debutante she’d been.

  “What did I tell you outside the pub? People can be foolish.” He tugged her an inch closer. “Though I must say I don’t mind that every man in London wasn’t clamoring for your attention.”

  “Hardly. They thought me cold, unfeeling. They called me Lady Winter when they thought I couldn’t hear.”

  “Well, now you’re my Lady Winter.” Septimus smiled, an easy, mischievous expression Win hoped to see often. “Unless you hate the name and never wish me to speak it again.”

  Win snuggled closer to him, absorbing his heat, relishing his nearness. Reveling in the fact that she’d found the place where she belonged. “How about once a year? On Christmas Eve, when we’re warm and happy and wrapped in each other’s arms.”

  He pursed his mouth as if considering her offer. ”On second thought, when next Christmas comes,” he said, bending to whisper in her ear, “all I’ll wish to call you is my wife.”

  11

  About the Author

  Christy Carlyle writes sensual and sometimes downright steamy historical romance, usually set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines that are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there is nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with her die-hard belief in happy endings.

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