Win lifted her gaze to the blue specter. Rather than attach itself to Septimus as it had before, the entity remained in the corner. But its emotions spread. Win felt them reaching out like tendrils, the feelings banking in her chest. Sadness, regret, and that desperate clawing need.
“What happened?” Septimus asked her. He laid a hand on the small of her back and the warmth and weight of his touch was a balm.
The specter’s emotions began to wane.
“She can’t be this upset about a spilled teacup.” He flicked his gaze to her aunt, then back at her, waiting for an explanation.
What could she say? The specter still hadn’t made his intentions known.
Win focused on the ghost. She reached down for Septimus’s hand and he clasped hers tightly. What do you want? She pushed the thought out toward the apparition. Closed her eyes and strained to hear any message the spirit might wish to convey. When nothing came, she whispered the words, “What do you want?”
Septimus squeezed her hand. “Win?”
“Forgiveness,” Aunt Elinor rasped. “He wants forgiveness.”
Win let go of Septimus and approached her aunt. She crouched before her chair, all the while keeping one eye on the specter. “Is that what he told you?”
Her aunt’s eyes were sad. Tears welled at the corners. “Can’t you hear him?” She turned toward the man’s apparition.
What did she see? Did the ghost appear the same to both of them? Win couldn’t hear anything but the rush of blood in her ears, but she could still feel. The apparition’s desperation began to build.
“Ladies,” Septimus planted a fist on each hip and looked back and forth between them. “I want to help, but someone needs to explain what’s upset you so.”
Aunt Elinor cupped a palm against Win’s cheek. “Tell him, my dear. His father won’t rest until you do.”
Septimus stepped closer. “What did you say, Miss Renshawe?”
Win closed her eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. She stood tall, shoulders back, and turned to face Septimus. “There is a specter in the room.”
Septimus shook his head, much as Aunt Elinor had when she’d first entered the library.
“I have seen him since the night I met you outside your tower.”
“The night was misty. A play of shadows and moonlight. Nothing more.”
Win glanced at her aunt, who nodded for her to continue. “He’s about your height, slender, white-haired, bearded, and wears spectacles.”
Septimus swept his gaze across the room and pressed a fist to his mouth. He’d begun to vibrate, shifting on his feet, as if he wished to bolt from the room. “There is no one in the room but you and I and your aunt.”
“I see him too, Lord Carwarren,” Aunt Elinor spoke quietly, breathlessly, as if the declaration gave her no pleasure.
“How are your eyes, Miss Renshawe?” Septimus approached as if he might examine her on the spot. “Do they trouble you as Lady Winifred’s trouble her?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Septimus.” Win watched as the blue specter moved toward the center of the room, closer to Septimus. With the unexpected knowledge that sometimes emanated from an apparition, she knew without a doubt that the man was his father. And now his feelings were sharper, clearer. As Aunt Elinor insisted, he longed for his son’s forgiveness. “Your father loved you very much.”
“Don’t.” Septimus swung to face her, a hand held aloft to stop her from saying more. “My father is not a topic I wish to discuss. I’ve already said too much on that subject.” When his hand began to shake, he curled his fingers into a fist and lowered it to his side.
“I can’t explain any of this to you.” Win took one step closer to him, then hesitated. “I don’t fully understand any of it myself. I only know that your father is here and he—“
“No!” Septimus tugged at his cravat as if the knotted fabric was cutting off his air. “I won’t hear this nonsense. Not from you. You’re an intelligent, rational young woman.”
“I didn’t ask to have this ability.” Her throat burned. Hot tears welled up but she willed them not to fall. “I would love nothing more than to be like every other young lady.”
Septimus stepped close enough to touch her. But he didn’t. “I want you just as you are.” His gaze skimmed her hair, her face, before he looked into her eyes. “I meant everything I said last night.”
“But you don’t believe me.”
He flinched and tipped his gaze down to the carpet. The blue haze grew closer, expanding around him.
“Your father needs your forgiveness,” Win said as softly and quietly as she could manage, needing him to hear her but fearing his reaction. “That’s why he’s here.”
Finally, he lifted his head and cast a long stare at Aunt Elinor before facing Win again. “This is madness. What you’re saying. It’s madness, Win.”
Madness. Win knew what real madness was. She’d watch her father sink deeper, year after year, into an oblivion of irrational behavior and violent outbursts. Still, her mother had insisted he remain at Gissing Park. None of them had ever dreamed he would take his life, and their mother’s, by burning their ancestral home to the ground.
“My father was afflicted with incurable madness,” Win acknowledged. Getting the truth out was easier than she’d imagined. But when Septimus’s face fell, she knew the consequences would be as devastating as she expected. “I am not mad, Septimus, but I do see spirits. And in this room, right now, your father is here, longing to speak to you.”
He pressed two fingers to his temple, rubbing deeply as if his head throbbed at the spot. “Where’s the proof?” He lifted his hands, showing her his empty palms. “Give me proof. Show me some evidence of what you claim. I need something I can see and hear and touch.”
He flicked a hand in the air, swiping through the apparition. “Without proof, you’re asking me to believe in childish fancies. In some ghost story you and your aunt have concocted.”
“My lord, why would we invent such a tale?” Aunt Elinor shot up from her chair, irritation and offense causing her mouth to quiver. “I assure you such sightings are neither pleasant nor desired.” She cast a worried look Win’s way. “My niece and I have never confessed our experiences to each other before today.” With a gesture toward the specter, she asked Septimus, “Won’t you offer your father forgiveness and let him go on his way?”
In the silence that followed, Win hung suspended on tenterhooks.
Septimus’s eyes darkened, the vibrant green turning stormy and bleak. A muscle jumped at the edge of his jaw, and the earnest expression he usually wore gave way to something wild. Miserable. Tormented.
“I care for you, Win.” His gaze bored into hers. “So much. But I can’t listen to this. My father is gone. Gone so many years he’s no doubt turned to dust and bone.” He reached out, his palm open between them. “Give me some proof. Something I can believe.”
“I have nothing to offer but my word. I wish it was enough.”
He said nothing, just started past her, striding from the room. Pain speared through Win’s chest.
On the threshold he stopped, turning back to look at her. “Win—“
A dictionary rose from the desk, its pages flipping open and shuffling in a whooshing sound before the volume slammed back down on the desktop.
Septimus’s eyes gaped wide.
“It happened two days ago too,” Win told him. “He chooses the page for a reason, I think.”
Septimus strode over, waved his hand above the book, and crouched to inspect the underside of the desk. Finally, he looked down at the pages that had fallen open. Win approached to stand beside him.
The fourth entry on the page, To ABSOLVE, stood out as if candlelight lit the words from above. Septimus ran his finger across the words in the definition, where Dr. Johnson had included excerpts from Milton and Shakespeare and Alexander Pope.
“He longs to be absolved, my lord.” Aunt Elinor remained by her chair, but her word
s, gently spoken, seemed to ease the tension in the room.
Win could no longer see the blue apparition and sensed something like peace.
Septimus placed his hand over hers where she leaned against the desk. “Books don’t fly through the air,” he said on a hoarse whisper. “And my father has been dead for twenty-three years.” He lifted his hand from hers, stood up straight, and headed for the door.
No books shot out from the shelf to stop him. Aunt Elinor didn’t call him back, and Win couldn’t find her voice either. Nothing she could say would convince him. The proof of his own eyes hadn’t convinced him. The pain of his father’s death was a wound he wasn’t willing to heal.
Sadness overwhelmed her. Not only for what Septimus would think of her after this night, but for the pain lingering against his father. Whether he ever thought of her with affection again, she wanted peace for Septimus, and for the specter of his father too.
9
Win squirmed in the chair she’d been trapped in for an hour.
“Almost finished, my dear.” Aunt Elinor patted her shoulder before continuing to fuss with the sapphire blue ribbon she’d threaded through Win’s coiffure. “There we are. See for yourself.”
Win turned to get a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Her aunt was an artist, taming waves into corkscrew curls, weaving in a few braids. The ribbon made her white blonde hair look pretty. “It’s the most elaborate coiffure I’ve ever worn.”
“Well, that’s just as it should be.” Her aunt smiled at her in the mirror. “I’ll wager the Banfield nuptials and Yule ball at Castle Keyvnor will be the most elaborate events either of us have ever attended.”
The prospect of both made Win queasy. Her heart ached with a searing, stabbing pain that refused to ease. How would she stem her emotions at the double wedding? And she’d never enjoyed a ball in her life. Every experience from her Season had taught her to loathe them, but this one would be the worst.
Two days after the apparition’s appearance in the library, Septimus still hadn’t spoken to her. The first day, he’d made himself scarce at Penwithyn, spending hours in his observatory. Then yesterday he’d announced his departure for Edgemont, the Carwarren estate several miles away, promising Aunt Cornelia he would return in time for the Banfield weddings mid-morning.
Win didn’t care if he sat next to her at the wedding or asked her to stand up with him at the ball. Few men ever had, and she wasn’t very good at any of the popular dances anyway.
But would he ever speak to her again?
Even if she and Aunt Elinor remained at Penwithyn until the new year and she never saw Septimus again after they departed, Win couldn’t bear to part from him on a sour note. Whatever he thought of her now, he’d been kind to her and given her the sweetest kiss of her life. Perhaps the only she’d ever receive from a gentleman.
“Shall we join Cornelia in the drawing room to await the carriage?”
“Does Aunt Cornelia have a carriage?” They’d walked to The Mermaid’s Kiss and Win had only noticed one horse housed in the stable next to Penwithyn.
Aunt Elinor fluffed the lace on her cuffs, not meeting Win’s gaze. “Septimus has arranged a carriage. Apparently, he’s bringing one from his estate.”
No doubt a lavishly appointed one, fit for an earl and his countess. Fit for a life Win would never have.
Inside the drawing room, Aunt Cornelia stood gazing fretfully out the window. “If the carriage doesn’t arrive soon, we’ll miss the ceremony.”
“He seems like a young man who takes care with being punctual,” Aunt Elinor said in defense of Septimus.
She was right. From all Win knew of him, he seemed a man who relished order and timeliness.
“He’s changed in the last week or so.” Cornelia glanced at Win over her shoulder, offering her a soft grin. “I have my theories to explain why.”
Win’s cheeks began to heat, but before her aunt could say more, the clatter of traces and horses’ hooves sounded through the window.
“There, you see.” Aunt Elinor approached to help Win put on her pelisse without mussing her hair or blue silk gown. “We shall all arrive on time.”
Cornelia left the drawing room to answer a rap on the front door, then returned with her arms piled with Win and Aunt Elinor’s gloves and hats. Win’s heart thumped in her chest, and she tried not to pull the seams on her gloves or tear the ribbon on her hat in her haste to join Septimus in the carriage. She craved a moment alone with him, though she had no real notion what she’d say.
Striding ahead of her aunts, she was the first out the door. A footman stood next to the carriage and assisted her to step up and take a seat on the plush bench.
An empty bench.
“Where is Lord Carwarren?” she asked the young footman.
The young man looked surprised to be addressed and glanced up at the coachman before answering. “Asked to be deposited at the tower, miss.” He gestured with this thumb to toward the heath and Septimus’s observatory.
A moment later, her aunts climbed up into the carriage, taking care not to crush each other’s gowns and covering their laps with the blankets that had been left folded neatly on the bench.
“Would you like one, my dear?” Aunt Elinor offered her a red and green blanket.
Win shook her head. “I have to go.”
Cornelia chuckled. “Don’t worry, Winifred. Septimus will join us later. He’s promised not to miss the Yule ball.”
“I’m sorry,” Win said, her hand braced on the far side carriage door. “I must speak to him.” Ignoring her aunts’ looks of confusion, Win pushed the carriage door open, scooped up the hem of her gown, and jumped down.
She heard the footman’s grunt on the opposite side of the carriage, heard the horses shuffle in their traces, and then heard only the wind rushing past her ears as she raced toward Septimus’s observatory. No one chased her. She didn’t need to run, except for a desperation to speak to him that had been brewing for two days.
Morning sun had dried the dew on the grass, so she didn’t stumble as she drew closer to the stone tower, but her heart stumbled in her chest. Beating wildly and then thudding awkwardly, it felt as if it had missed a few beats. She planted a hand on the cool stones near the observatory’s entrance to catch her breath. Tipping her head back, she looked up to see if she could get a glimpse of him, but there was no sign of anyone above.
“Winifred!”
Win spun at the sound of her name. Aunt Elinor stood near the carriage, waving frantically.
“Go on without me,” she called back. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she tried more loudly, “I shall join you very soon.” Though, in truth, she had no idea how long it might take to walk to the castle.
After a few minutes of looking forlorn, her aunt climbed back into the carriage, peeking her head out one last time as the carriage rolled away slowly.
“You should have gone with them.” Septimus stood on the bottom steps of the observatory, arms crossed, his brow creased in irritation. He wore no coat or cravat, only trousers and a snow-white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Are you not attending the wedding ceremony?” The words came out in a jumble, but she was grateful she could find her tongue at all.
The sight of Septimus was such a relief, her pulse buzzed. She felt dizzy. Never had she imagined a person could look so wonderful and miserable at the same time. Her first thought was that she yearned to hold him. To smooth away those fearsome lines in his forehead with her fingertip. To kiss him until they were both breathless.
“May I come up?” she asked, when he merely stared at her silently.
He glanced up into his tower, assessing the space as if he’d never seen it before. “There’s not much room.”
Win approached until the toes of her boots brushed the edge of the bottom step. “We can stand close together.”
He tightened his crossed arms and bounced on the heels of his boots. She sensed his frustration, as if it
rippled toward her through the air. A bit like the sensations she received from specters when they appeared.
Then he shocked her by reaching for her hand. “The stairs are uneven.” He looked at her directly for the first time. “You’ll have to let me hold onto you.”
Without waiting for her to reply, he turned his back on her and started up the stairs. After every step, he glanced back. Each time, all she ached to say tangled in her throat.
Strange smells wafted down as they ascended the tower. Win’s nose twitched at the aroma of metal and sulfur and something burning. When she coughed, Septimus cast a concerned look her way.
“One of my experiments went awry this morning. The smell will dissipate soon,” he told her over his shoulder.
The final step up was high. Septimus turned to her, braced his hands on her waist, and lifted her onto the roughhewn wooden floor of his observatory. Rather than release her, he held her close, taking in her fancy coiffure and the special gown she’d never worn before.
“Lovely,” he said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself.
She squeezed his upper arm where she held onto him, and his muscles hardened and flexed under her fingers. He released her from his hold and, with a slow sweep around the circular room, pointed out his mechanical devices.
“Some are mundane,” he told her. “A thermometer, barometer, a device to measure the direction of the wind, but that is a new design for an electrical cell that will harness the power of a lightning strike.” He kept he gaze trained on her as he spoke of his devices. When he finished, a palpable tension charged the air between them.
Just when Win took a breath to speak from her heart, he broke the silence.
“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. Then he cleared his throat, took a step closer, and tried again. “I’m sorry, Win.” He stared at the wall above her head a moment and then into her eyes. “I’ve missed you the last two days.”
“It felt much longer.” She’d forced herself not to count the hours and tried desperately to use the time to tame her feelings for him. Now that they stood inches apart, she knew how spectacularly she’d failed. That silly hope flared again. Dreams of a future she could not have with him.
Love for Lady Winter (Secrets of Gissing Hall Book 1) Page 8