by Lisa Kleypas
The portraits looked different in natural light, even more alive somehow. Parker and his Linette seemed to gaze longingly at each other across the hall, their eyes locked. And Mercy seemed less haunted and sad, more at peace, than she had in the dark watches of the night.
Antonia stood gazing at the paintings. For the first time in her life, she was aware of her own connection to the past. The roots of a family went deep, she realized, bonding each person to those who had come before—and to those who would follow.
Perhaps that was why Mercy had appeared to Antonia, she thought. Family responsibility. Perhaps she had somehow sensed her descendant’s unhappiness, and had sought a means of helping her. She might have believed that the story of her own parents’ tragedy would help Antonia to avert one of her own.
“But it isn’t complete, Mercy,” Antonia murmured as she gazed at that gentle face. “I still don’t know why.“
“Toni?”
She half-turned, a bit startled, but smiled as Richard reached her. “Hello.”
His slight tension disappeared, and he drew her into his arms for a long kiss. Antonia responded instantly; she had burned her bridges, and there was no resistance left in her.
“Hello,” he said, smiling down at her. “What are you doing here all alone?”
“Looking at them.”
He kept one arm around Antonia’s waist as he turned to study the representations of the two ghosts he had seen.
“What are they doing in this hall if their rooms were ours?” he murmured.
“I don’t know. I suppose Mercy might have moved them here because her room was in this hall.”
“Mercy?”
Antonia pointed. “There. She was their daughter. The other night, Mercy led me here, and to the book of family history in the library.”
“Why, do you suppose?”
“I was wondering about that just now. She was…different, Richard. She saw me, and even managed to communicate without saying anything. She was so sad. I think perhaps she knew I was unhappy, and wanted to help me. She…uh…wanted me to go into your room.”
He lifted an eyebrow at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But you, of course, stubbornly refused.”
“Well, yes. So she led me here, and pointed to the paintings. Then she led me downstairs to the library, and showed me the book. After that, she vanished.”
Still holding her close to his side, he studied the painting of Mercy again. “She looks like her father more than her mother,” he remarked. “So they did marry after all.”
Antonia hesitated again. “Actually, they didn’t.”
He looked at her, then back at the portrait. “Mercy Wingate,” he read.
”She married a third cousin who was a Wingate, and who eventually inherited the title. I am a direct descendant.” Antonia sighed. “Her maiden name was officially Wingate; Parker’s father persuaded the local vicar—somehow—to swear there had been a deathbed marriage between Parker and Linette, so it was officially recorded in the parish records. But a ceremony never took place.”
Reaching a logical conclusion, Richard said slowly, “Because Parker died? How?”
Antonia hesitated. “How makes no sense, because the why is missing. But if they are reenacting what happened then, we may discover the why tonight. It happened on Christmas Eve.”
He was silent for a moment. “Then we will wait until tonight. Will we see a mystery solved?”
“The author of the history didn’t know what happened, and I don’t believe the family did either. Linette’s journal had no entry for Christmas Eve—or any date after that. According to other family members, she never spoke of what happened. She died when her daughter was only a few months old.”
“How did she die?”
“The doctor called it a decline.” Antonia kept her voice steady with effort. “Parker’s mother was convinced that Linette survived him only long enough to bear their child—and then just made herself die.”
“What do you think?”
Antonia looked up at him. “I think so too.”
“Love is…a very demanding master,” Richard said softly.
She rested her cheek against his chest. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”
Various members of the castle staff may have been bowled over by Richard’s announcement over breakfast of his and Antonia’s forthcoming marriage, and Lady Sophia was certainly so astonished she nearly swooned, but the Countess of Ware merely offered a satisfied smile.
“You planned this to happen,” Antonia accused her.
“Only fate arranges the affairs of mortals,” her grandmother replied. “I merely presented the two of you with an opportunity to reconcile and left the matter up to you. I am, however, pleased that you both had the good sense to mend your differences. You obviously belong together.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Richard said politely, while Antonia could only stare at her grandmother in surprise.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Sophia murmured, her expression still shocked. “I never imagined—that is—Of course, I am delighted for you, darling, if it is truly your wish to marry His Grace.” She gave Richard such a doubtful look that he grinned at her.
“I will send word to the vicar,” Lady Ware announced. “He has expressed himself perfectly willing to perform the ceremony at whatever day I should care to choose.”
Antonia regarded her wryly. “Only fate arranges the affairs of mortals? Am I not to be allowed to set my own wedding day?”
There was a hint of genuine amusement in the countess’s normally frosty eyes. “Certainly, Antonia.”
Antonia and her betrothed had discussed the subject on their way downstairs, but she saw no need to explain that the duke had gotten his own way. He had stated that he would marry her before the new year, and he would settle for nothing else. So she merely said, “December 31st then.”
Lady Sophia was flustered all over again. “Here? Do you mean this year? But darling, an announcement! And the banns—”
“I have a special license, ma’am,” Richard told her. “We won’t need to call the banns.”
After an obviously stunned moment, she said sternly, “You were very sure of yourself!”
Richard grinned again. “No, ma’am—merely very hopeful.”
Lady Sophia, much ruffled, turned to her amused daughter. “Still, darling—so quickly!”
Glancing at her betrothed, Antonia said dryly, “Mama, I would really prefer not to attempt to word an announcement to the effect that the engagement of Lady Antonia Wingate and the Duke of Lyonshall has been resumed.”
“Oh, dear! No, I suppose people would think that very odd, indeed. But a spring wedding, darling—”
This time, Antonia very carefully avoided looking at her intended. Considering that they were lovers, a delay even of weeks could prove to be unwise. “We would prefer not to wait so long, Mama. Recall, if you please, that we actually became engaged more than two years ago. Even the most censorious of our acquaintance must surely forgive our impatience now.”
“But you haven’t even a gown!” Lady Sophia wailed.
“Yes, she has.” The countess looked steadily across the table at her granddaughter. “My wedding gown has been perfectly preserved, Antonia, and would fit you quite well, I believe. If you wish…”
Antonia smiled. “I do wish, Grandmother. Thank you.”
From that point on, Antonia found the day to be a full one. With the wedding set for just days away there were arrangements to be made which required lengthy discussions. Lady Sophia had to be gently soothed by Antonia and charmed by the duke into accepting the hasty wedding. Antonia’s efforts met with little success, but when Richard stated that he firmly intended Antonia’s mother to live with them at Lyonshall, she was so pleased and moved by his obviously sincere desire that much of her awe of him deserted her.
Since he had found a moment alone with Antonia to make the suggestion to her earlier, she was in perfect accord with this scheme. She an
d her mother had always gotten along well, and Antonia had no fears about the arrangement.
With the wedding details more or less agreed upon, attention turned to the last remaining preparations for Christmas day. The castle tradition was to celebrate the holiday with a large midday meal and the exchange of gifts—the latter being something of a problem for Antonia. She had gifts for her grandmother and mother, naturally, but she had not expected Richard to be here.
So, while the remaining decorations were put into place and the appetizing scents from the kitchen reminded everyone of the meal to come on the following day, Antonia grappled with her problem. She found it unusually difficult to concentrate, partly because Richard had developed the knack of catching her in doorways underneath the mistletoe, where he took shameless advantage of that particular Christmas tradition.
She discovered early on that his composure was unshakable no matter who happened to observe a kiss or embrace, and that he apparently didn’t mind that he so clearly wore his heart on his sleeve. She also discovered that her certainty of Richard’s earlier betrayal was growing less and less sure. He was the man she had fallen in love with in the beginning, and she could not reconcile this man with the one who had hurt her so deeply. They might have been two entirely different men—or one man wrongly accused.
She continued to worry over the matter at odd moments, but had reached no certain conclusions by the time they retired to their rooms that night. Obviously mindful of Plimpton’s presence in the room, Richard left her at her door with a brief kiss. Antonia nearly told him he needn’t have bothered to be so circumspect, but in the end kept her maid’s knowledge of their night spent together to herself.
“Did you collect your five pounds?” she asked dryly.
“Yes, milady.”
Smiling, Antonia sat at her dressing table while Plimpton brushed her long hair and braided it for the night as usual. Almost idly, she opened her jewelry case and looked over the contents. She had been unable to think of a gift for Richard. He would, no doubt, say that her agreement to marry him was all the gift he wanted—but she knew very well he had a gift for her, because she had seen it under the tree, beautifully wrapped.
Snowbound in a castle in Wales, she could hardly drive to the nearest shop to find something appropriate. Therefore, she had to make do with what was available.
She thought of Linette’s locket, a gift from the heart. Antonia had no locket she could give to Richard, but she did have a lovely old ruby stickpin that had belonged to her maternal grandfather, who had worn it in his cravat. Richard often wore a jewel in the same manner when in evening dress, and she knew he favored rubies.
Antonia used a small, carved wooden box in which she usually stored her earrings apart from the rest of her jewelry to hold the stickpin, and a colorful silk scarf with which to wrap the box.
By eleven, Antonia was alone in her room and dressed for bed as usual. Her gift for Richard lay on her dressing table, to be taken downstairs in the morning and placed under the tree. With that problem solved, she found her thoughts wholly occupied with what would happen to the lovers tonight.
It had been in the back of her mind all day, producing a small, cold anxiety. There was nothing she could do, her rational mind insisted. Whatever would happen—already had. Still, she could not help worrying about it.
Outside the castle, the day’s cold wind and overcast sky had finally given way to another bleak winter storm, and Antonia shivered as she stood by the fireplace and listened to the wind wail in the night. She was not expecting anything to happen until nearer to midnight, but at a quarter past eleven it began.
She was standing by the fireplace when she caught a glimpse of movement near the door, and when she turned her head a chill went down her spine. It was the dark woman with the curiously fixed expression who had shown herself only once before. She had come into Parker’s room.
She stood just inside the door, gazing toward the bed. When Antonia looked in that direction, she felt a faint shock to discover that Parker’s bed of a century before was exactly where Antonia’s present-day bed was—perhaps it was even the same bed. She couldn’t help feeling peculiar at the thought that he might have returned from Linette’s room each dawn and crawled into bed with herself.
He was lying there now, wearing his dressing gown as if he had meant to rest for just a few minutes. But he seemed to be asleep. He didn’t stir as the dark woman moved slowly to the bed and stood gazing down at him. She was dressed—or partly dressed—in a nightgown so sheer that her body was clearly visible beneath it. She glanced toward the table by the bed, and an odd smile curved her thin lips.
Antonia looked as well, and saw the hazy shape of a mug on the table. She returned her gaze to the woman, puzzled and uneasy. What was the significance of the mug? And why was this woman in Parker’s room?
As she watched, the woman bent over the sleeping man and seemed to be searching for something. A moment later, she straightened, a heart-shaped golden locket dangling from her fingers.
“No,” Antonia murmured, shocked. “Linette gave that to him. You have no right!”
Like the lovers, the woman showed no awareness of a flesh and blood intruder. She put the chain around her own neck and looked at the locket, then very deliberately opened it and removed the curl of Linette’s fiery hair, dropping it to the floor with a scornful expression and then moving as if to grind the token underneath her slipper. She looked back at Parker for a moment, a frown drawing her brows together as he moved his head restlessly.
“Wake up,” Antonia murmured, hardly aware she had spoken aloud. She felt a cold, awful foreboding. “Please wake up and stop her.”
He continued to move in a sluggish way, his eyes still closed, and Antonia was suddenly sure that the mug had contained something to make him sleep. She was feeling colder by the minute as she watched the woman’s nimble fingers untie the string of the sheer nightgown and draw the edges of the material apart to bare full breasts almost to the nipples.
With her dark eyes fixed on the sleeping Parker, the woman moved slowly. She released her hair from its braid and combed it with her fingers, deliberately disarranging it. Her upper body seemed to sway, the gold locket shifting between her pale breasts, and she braced her legs a little apart. Her hands left her hair to slide slowly down her face and throat to her body.
Antonia felt sickened as she watched, feeling the woman’s unbalanced hunger so acutely it was as if it were a living thing loose in the room. If the lovers’ emotions had been tender and passionate, this woman’s need was a dark and twisted thing. And it shocked Antonia on some deep level, so that she had to look away.
She didn’t want to look back, but after several long minutes her gaze was pulled entirely against her will. And she felt a little sick, still deeply shocked. The woman was languidly stroking her body now, and even as hazy as she was, it was clear she wore the sleepy-eyed, sated look of a woman who had just experienced the utter pleasure of a physical release. Smiling, still caressing herself, she turned away from the bed.
Antonia glanced at Parker once, seeing him move even more restlessly and open his eyes, but she didn’t wait to see if he would get up. Instead, she followed the woman.
It was eleven-thirty.
The woman made a movement as if to open the door, then passed through it. Antonia quickly opened it in reality, but stopped before she could do more than cross the threshold. The woman was directly in front of her, half-turned to face Linette’s room across the hall.
Her sheer nightgown gaped open, revealing most of one breast and all of the other, the locket dangling between them. Her hair was tumbled, her heavy-lidded eyes and puffy lips glistening. Her smile was filled with a purely female satisfaction.
To a seventeen-year-old girl who had experienced passion herself, there was no doubt this smiling, sated woman had just come from the arms of a lover. And there was no way Linette could have known that the dark woman had been her own lover. She was standing
in the open doorway of Parker’s room, from which she had just stepped, and the conclusion was a tragically obvious one.
“No,” Antonia whispered. “Oh, no, don’t believe it.”
But Linette did. Her lovely face was dazed with shock and agony. Her hands lifted in a strange, lost way, and her mouth opened in a silent cry of anguish. Then she stumbled into an unsteady run, heading, not toward the stairs, but toward the other end of the wide corridor.
Antonia spared one glance behind her and saw that Parker was struggling up from the bed. Then she raced after Linette, as unaware of her own cry as she was of the fact that she had passed through the hazy form of the dark woman.
If she had been thinking clearly, Antonia would have realized the uselessness of her action. What she had watched happen had occurred a century before, and no mortal hand could change the outcome. But she was completely caught up in the tragic drama, the players as real to her as they had once been in actuality, and it was sheer instinct that drove her to try to stop what was going to happen.
She thought she heard Richard call out her name as she ran, but her eyes were fixed on Linette’s form ahead of her. The distraught young woman might have been running blindly, but Antonia knew she was not. She was running toward the widow’s walk.
It was a remnant of the original castle or a fancy of some distant Wingate—Antonia didn’t know which. The crumbling stone wall around the small balcony might once have been a parapet designed to protect soldiers standing guard, or it might simply have been a rather plain, low balustrade built to prevent a casual stroller from pitching over and falling to the flagstone courtyard far below. In any case, it had begun to deteriorate more than a century before, and though the wing had been renovated, that exterior balcony had been left to crumble.
A solid wooden door, locked once but now merely barred, gave access to the balcony from the corridor. Linette paused for only a moment, seemingly struggling to open the heavy portal, then passed through. Antonia paused barely as long, desperation lending her the strength to lift the stout wooden bar and open the door.