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Authors: Brenda Joyce

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BOOK: House of Dreams
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Cass flushed, having never been mistaken for her sister before. “I'm her sister, Cass de Warenne, and this is her daughter, Alyssa,” she said.
“Forgive me my mistake,” Gregory said. He came forward to shake her hand and pat Alyssa's head. Then he looked back at Antonio with concern. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Everything is fine,” Antonio said firmly. “I'm sorry you drove all the way out here when you could have called instead.”
Gregory stared. “What do you mean? Your secretary told me that I must come.”
Antonio also stopped. “I beg your pardon?”
Cass looked from the one to the other, growing uneasy.
“Your secretary told me that I must come, and immediately,” Gregory said, flushing.
Antonio stared and shook his head. “There must be a mistake. She would not say such a thing. I never suggested that you should join me here. I never even thought it.”
“She was very clear,” Gregory said. “The summons was very clear.”
Cass wondered at his odd terminology.
“Well, you are here now, so why don't we plan to enjoy the weekend?” Antonio smiled with a shrug. “It's been a long time since we were here together, eh?”
“That is an understatement,” Gregory said, appearing unhappy. “I still cannot believe that you really decided to take a holiday here, of all places.”
Cass did not move. What did he mean? What was amiss? She
watched the two brothers start down the corridor, Antonio telling him about the research he was doing. Alyssa tugged on her hand. Cass continued to stare.
Gregory's words echoed.
The summons was very clear.
“What is it, Aunt Cass?” Alyssa whispered.
And suddenly Cass felt eyes on her back. She whirled—but no one was there.
Cass could not relax. For in that moment she
knew
she was being watched.
“Oh, God,” she cried, gripping Alyssa's hand so tightly that Alyssa cried out. Was Aunt Catherine right?
Was this house haunted? Were the two families destined to suffer tragedy together?
“Aunt Cass.” Alyssa tugged her hand. “She is summoning us all to this place.”
Startled, certain she had misheard, Cass looked down. She cried out, jerking away. Because she saw not her niece, but glowing eyes set in a face stretched taut with malevolence.
The face smiled and it was frightening. And as Cass stared at the face of an adult woman set on her niece's small body, it returned to normal. Cass blinked, and was met with Alyssa's childish countenance once more.
Cass could not seem to get any air. Had she just seen what she thought she had seen—and had she just heard what she thought she had heard? Or was she going crazy? “What? What did you say?”
Alyssa said, the picture of innocence, “She is summoning all of us together, and soon Auntie Catherine will arrive.”
Cass gasped as Alyssa turned away, following in Antonio and his brother's tracks.
“But Aunt Catherine isn't coming,” Cass whispered.
Alyssa did not seem to hear her.
She fought to think clearly, but it was impossible, especially as she now stood alone in the huge great hall, where the lights were few and dim. Cass remained aware of the barely there whiff of violets now, and she managed to think, sluggishly,
Isabel is here
.
My aunt is right, and she is somehow here, and responsible for everything—either that or I am the one who is a nutcase.
Suddenly Cass did not want to be alone in the hall—or alone anywhere in the house. She rushed down the corridor, after Alyssa and the two brothers. And when she reached the library, she was greeted with
a warm and cozy scene that should have been comforting: Antonio was making drinks, Gregory beside him, the two children were seated on one sofa sharing a book, and a huge fire danced in the fireplace. Cass could not relax.
She realized that Gregory was regarding her a bit too closely. Automatically Cass shot him a smile. He smiled back.
He had seemed unnerved when he had first arrived at the house. Now he seemed cheerful, relaxed.
The summons was clear.
She is summoning all of us.
Was it possible?
Cass sank down on a moss green silk sofa with big, multicolored, tasseled pillows. Her mind felt dazed, but even so, it raced. Every odd occurrence that she had witnessed since her arrival yesterday went round and round in her brain, like a mental carousel. And that expression on Alyssa's face …
“Martinis?” Antonio asked cheerfully.
Cass was wide-eyed. Why was his mood so upbeat? Was it because of his brother's arrival?
Antonio was handing her a glass. He was smiling, as if it were a perfect world.
Cass stared up at him. Maybe she was going crazy, because everyone seemed contented, normal, while she was the one in the throes of a growing hysteria. In fact, she almost felt as if she were watching a surrealistic film. “Does this evening feel strange to you?”
He continued to smile. “Only my brother's appearance is odd, and that is because it was so unexpected.”
The fire danced merrily in the fireplace. The children giggled together over something one of them had read. The men were sipping their drinks. Cass glanced warily around. Why was she the only one to be alarmed and uneasy? She set her drink down. Didn't anyone else feel the tension that had fallen over them all like a huge, dark cloak? “But why would your secretary instruct him to come here?”
“Undoubtedly they misunderstood one another.”
The lights in the room suddenly dimmed, before brightening.
Cass stood up, alarmed.
“It is only the wiring,” Antonio told her. “Are you all right, Cassandra?”
She stared at him, wondering what he would say if she told him that Alyssa had changed before her very eyes just moments ago, that she
had spoken about a summoning, that Cass thought that odd fragrance was a dead woman's perfume … . The list was endless. “Maybe it's not wiring,” she said slowly. “My laptop went on the blink earlier, and I can't figure out what happened.”
“It's been a long day,” Antonio said, smiling at her once more.
He was not a smiley kind of guy. Cass felt as if she were looking at a stranger—it was Antonio's face, his body, but not his character.
He turned back to his brother. Cass watched them chatting quietly, and then she looked at the children. And Alyssa seemed oblivious to her previous fears, listening to Eduardo as he read aloud as if it were story time in school. What were they reading? Good God—it was “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
Upstairs, directly above them, something thumped.
Cass almost jumped out of her skin. “Did you hear that?” she cried.
Antonio returned to her. “Why are you so nervous? Old houses make noise. Surely you know that.”
“That was Isabel's room,” Cass said.
Gregory moved to stand beside them. “I heard something as well. Is Alfonso upstairs?” he asked. He seemed less relaxed than his brother.
“Alfonso is in the kitchen,” Antonio returned.
Suddenly Cass wondered where Tracey was.
Gregory had moved back to the beautiful gilded cart that served as a dry bar and was making another shaker of drinks. Cass went to her niece. “Alyssa,” she whispered, so the brothers would not hear. “What did you say to me back there in the great hall?”
Alyssa blinked at her as Eduardo paused in his reading. “I don't remember,” she whispered back. Then, “Why are we whispering, Aunt Cass?”
Before Cass could reply, Antonio turned abruptly away from his brother. “I have good news,” he said to her.
“Really?” Cass asked, wishing Antonio had been with her when Alyssa had appeared transformed into someone else. She wished there had been a witness so she wouldn't be doubting herself. But she was doubting herself. She could not have seen what she thought she had seen. Her imagination was playing tricks on her.
He pulled over a tufted beige ottoman and sat down. “Cassandra, I have found a family tree, clearly made in my father's own hand.” His eyes sparkled. “It was scribbled in pencil, but legible enough.”
Cass had to sit up straighter. All of her worries were forgotten. “What have you learned?”
“I will show you,” he said, smiling slightly now. He stood and went to his desk, and when he returned, he handed her several pages of paper.
Cass's heart was pounding. And her hands were shaking as she took the pages from him and spread them out on the sofa, sliding to the floor on her knees. Antonio knelt beside her.
She was about to go to the first page but had to stop. Cass's eyes widened, because the last entries were “Catherine de Warenne, born 1930, died?, married Sir Robert Belford, born 1912, died?,” followed by an entry for the births and deaths of her own parents.
“My father died in 1966,” Antonio said softly, his breath feathering her ear.
“Two years before I was born,” Cass said as softly. Which explained why her own birth had not been recorded.
Her pulse was pounding so loudly now that everyone must hear it. Cass had to look at Antonio, and their gazes locked.
“Go to the first page,” he whispered, his eyes bright.
She flipped the pages. “Isabel,” she breathed.
And everything they had wanted to know was right there, legibly printed in Eduardo's handwriting. Isabel de Warenne had been born in 1535 and she had died in 1555—no surprises there. She had married Alvarado de la Barca a year before her death. If they had had a child, which was unlikely, it was not recorded. Cass used her finger and scrolled up and immediately understood what had happened.
“She was the earl's daughter,” she breathed. “But he died in 1543 and his brother inherited the title.”
“Yes,” Antonio said.
His tone was strange. But Cass did not look at him this time, because the extent of a terrible tragedy was right there in front of her eyes on the written page. “Oh my God,” Cass whispered. “They all died. Her father, her mother, her brother—they all died in 1543.”
“Yes,” Antonio said. “They all died.”
Even in her skirts, she could run faster than her brother, Tom, who was only two years older than she. Laughing, Isabel outdistanced her ten-year-old brother, ignoring the cries of Lady Caroline. The surf broke at her feet. The Sussex coastline was green, idyllic, and beautiful, the hard-packed beach covered with gleaming crushed shells, rushing the rolling dunes and the fertile, flowering Sussex hills. But Isabel had grown up in East Sussex, and although not immune to the beauty around her, she ignored it, the way she ignored her nurse, who continued to call for her and her brother. Reaching the big dilapidated ball, straw poking from its broken hide, she seized it, the effort causing her to fly across the sand and land hard on her face, the ball clutched tightly in her arms.
A mouthful of sand did not disturb Isabel, who merely spit hard to rid herself of grit and grain. A moment later her brother was on top of her, landing there with an indignant
whoop!,
and they were shouting and laughing and screaming as they wrestled for the ball.
The breaking waves finally washed up over them, and they both shrieked in unison, because even in the summer, the sea was so terribly cold. Overhead, gulls circled and cawed in bright, sunny summer skies, looking for their dinner.
“Isabel! Thomas! The two of you, ill-bred urchins, heed me this moment!” Their furious cousin was shouting, her cries louder now.
There was something in her tone that caused Isabel to stop laughing, and as she sat up, covered in sand, her brother did the same. She saw
from his suddenly puzzled expression that he had heard the note of alarm and panic in Lady Caroline's voice as well. Isabel met his gaze. They were both vividly blue eyed, but otherwise, there was little resemblance between them, as Tom took after their father, the earl of Sussex, a big, dark man, and Isabel their mother, the countess, who was slender, fair, and red haired. She took his hand, her heart lurching. “She is a popinjay,” she whispered. “Always so afraid, and taking to wing without ever a thought twice.”
Thomas stood and pulled her to her feet. His swarthy face was sober now. “She is undoubtedly distraught because we are late.” He shared another, significant glance with her.
And Isabel's heart lurched unpleasantly. Their parents had gone to court for the king's wedding to Catherine Parr, his sixth wife, and were expected back that day. Just before her father the earl had left for court, he had lashed her for her mischief and her wild, boyish ways. Isabel had promised to behave in the most exemplary manner befitting a Christian lady, and wrestling in the sand with her brother would not help her cause. She was afraid of another whipping.
Fortunately, the earl hated the lash as much as his children did, and the punishment never lasted for very long.
“Do not worry,” Thomas advised, slipping his arm around her thin shoulders. “'Tis my fault this time, and I will advise his lordship of it.”
“No, do not,” Isabel said, aware of unshed tears suddenly filling her tone. “I do not want you to suffer the lash, too.”
“I do not mind,” Thomas said kindly. “'Tis easier for me because I am a man.”
Isabel had to give him a look. “Not yet, Sir Fool. You do not even have your spurs, so how can you be a grown man!”
They started down the beach, toward Lady Caroline, who was waving frantically at them. Isabel was certain now that their parents had returned to Romney Castle, and her steps slowed. “Father told me, as I am the heir, I am a man, no matter my age.” Thomas was firm. “And I must never forget that one day I will be earl, one of the most important peers in the realm, thus I must always act according to my station in this world.” He sighed then, heavily.
Isabel understood, and she squeezed his hand. “Do not ever regret your blessing, Tom. You could be no more than a baker's brat. Instead, you are one of the most highborn.”
“No, I do not harbor regret,” he said promptly.
But Isabel knew him as well as she did herself, they were so very
close. She knew he loved playing ball more than fencing with his master, that he preferred hawking to Latin and Greek and mathematics, and that he dearly despised the teachings of the likes of Plato, Plutarch, Cicero, and Seneca, which he claimed he could not fathom in the least. And Tom simply had no use for subjects that had become popular because of King Henry's penchant for them—alchemy, astronomy, astrology. He did not know how lucky he was, Isabel thought wistfully. While he spoke three tongues, albeit not fluently, she was adept at pricking her thumbs while straining over her needlepoint. He rode astride while hawking; she falconed in the ladylike position of sidesaddle. What she would not give for a tutor who would enable her to study four or five languages, add and subtract numbers with ease, decipher the treatises of philosophers from Ancient Greece and Rome—instead of learning by heart passages from the Bible and
On the Instruction of a Christian Woman
. The earl had been swift to state, many times, that a woman need only obey God and marry well, and Isabel's education was based on that premise. She wondered what her father would say—and do—if he knew she frequently eavesdropped on her brother's lessons and that she could work her way through a passage from Socrates.
“Lady Caroline appears more distraught than usual,” Tom said suddenly, wiping sweat from his brow. “What can be amiss?”
Isabel was wondering the very same thing, when suddenly she realized he was heavily flushed—and still sweating profusely, which was strange. And a few odd little spots that looked like blood pricks had broken out on his round cheeks. But before she could respond, Lady Caroline was swooping down upon them.
She was a plump widow of nineteen, huffing and puffing for breath. “The Lord have mercy on us all,” she wept.
Isabel faltered, realizing that whatever was happening, it was hardly so simple as her being caught by her powerful father in shared mischief with Tom. “Cousin Caroline, what transpires?” she managed, a whisper of dread.
“The earl has returned from court. Dear God, may He have mercy on us all!”
“Lady Caroline,” Tom snapped, “what has passed?”
Her gaze was wild and tear filled. “Your mother is taken with the sweating sickness!” Caroline cried, her round face ashen.
Isabel stared.
And she pictured her beautiful, redheaded mother, Lady Margaret,
as she had last seen her, just weeks ago, in purple brocade and flashing sapphires, a gold headdress hiding most of her flamboyant hair, a warm, beautiful smile on her lips, and her newborn babe, Isabel's infant sister, Catherine, named after the new queen, in her arms. She pictured her proud father beside them, beaming in spite of his desire for another son. And then other images flashed into her mind, of the houses in the village where the sickness had worked its journey of death. Of the shuttered windows and doors barred shut, of the required sign—wisps of straw and a white slash—marking every household where the sickness had struck.
“No,” Isabel said, suddenly reeling with dizziness and fear. “No, 'tis a mistake!”
But it was not a mistake.
The sweating sickness had come at last to Romney.
 
 
By the time they reached the castle, set high on the hill, overlooking the bay below where Isabel and Tom so frequently played, Tom was beginning to cough.
As they dashed through the courtyard, Isabel realized how oddly silent and still the bailey was. Usually it was a hive of activity, filled with dairymaids and stableboys, knights and pages, men at arms and watchmen, as well as local merchants eager to sell their produce and wares. Horses, donkeys, and oxen mingled with cows, dogs, and the occasional sheep. But now only two men were hurrying about their business, rushing past Isabel, Tom, and their cousin as they crossed the bailey. Tom coughed again.
Isabel turned to look at him as they raced into the great hall. His face was flushed the shade of beets. She froze.
“I am fine,” he whispered hoarsely.
Isabel knew too much about the sweating sickness, and fear seized her. The first signs were often a cough, the fever, and head pains, and within hours—before even being able to return home to loved ones, sometimes—the victim was dead. “Tom,” she cried, seizing his arm.
But he jerked away. “Do not touch me!” he cried. And then he grabbed his head, moaning.
In sheer horror, Isabel watched her beloved brother grapple with his head pain.
From behind, Caroline gripped Isabel, dragging her away.
“No!” Isabel screamed, struggling to break free. “No! Let me go to my brother, please!”
“You cannot,” Caroline gasped, both of her stout arms locked around Isabel. “He's got the sickness, too, dear God!” She inhaled. “Master Tom! Upstairs to your room and be hasty about it. To bed with you, do you hear me?”
Tom nodded, unable to stand upright, doubled over with pain.
“He needs me, let me help him!” Isabel screamed.
Caroline slapped her hard across the face. “Do not think to be a brat now! Our lives depend on it!”
Isabel hated her. In that instant she hated her, when she had only loved her up until then. “I want my father,” she demanded furiously. “I want his lordship. Where is he? He will set you in your place, he will!”
“He be pacing outside the countess's chambers,” Caroline retorted.
“Then that is where I am going. Release me now, Lady Catherine,” Isabel commanded, still struggling to wrest herself free.
Thomas fell to the floor at their feet.
Both Caroline and Isabel were stunned, for an instant unable to do more than stare. And then Isabel realized Caroline had ceased her vigilance. She squirmed free of her captor, rushing to her brother, bending over him. But before she could even turn him onto his back, Caroline had seized her by her hair and was dragging her back again. Isabel shrieked with pain.
“Leave him be!” her nurse ordered frantically.
“Let me go,” Isabel shouted, as frantic. Then, to her surprise, Caroline did just that.
Her ears were ringing from the pain of having her hair nearly ripped out of her scalp. She dashed back to her brother, kneeling over him, aware now of the tears starting a ceaseless slide down her face. She turned him over, and saw more blood spots broken out on his face. “Oh, Tom,” she said, sobbing now. “Do not die, you cannot! Tom!”
His lashes fluttered, but he did not respond. And he was burning like fire to her touch.
“Where is everyone?” Isabel shouted, glancing around wildly. “I need a servant to put him abed!”
“There is no one here who will do it,” Caroline cried, standing a dozen feet distant, “for fear of contagion.”
Isabel was suddenly frantic. She did not fear contagion—if Tom
died, she wanted to die, too. She would care for him, but she needed to get him into his bed. Her father! No one would dare disobey the earl!
Isabel raced through the hall and upstairs, expecting to find her father outside her mother's apartments. Instead, she saw two of her mother's ladies, huddled together, sobbing. Isabel ran to them. “Cecelia,” she cried, wrenching on her arm. “Where is the earl? How is my mother? Where
is
everyone?”
Lady Cecelia Farqhuier blinked at her through red, swollen eyes. “Your mother is burning with fever and oozing with sores.” She wept anew. “The earl has taken to his own bed. Lady Mary and Lady Jane are dead. They died this morning within minutes of one another.”
Isabel stared, in shock now. Two of her mother's ladies in waiting, dead. Her father, in his bed? “Father?” She could hardly get the word out.
“The sickness has taken, him, too.”
Isabel backed away, disbelieving. “No. 'Tis impossible.”
Lady Anne looked at her through her tears with profound sorrow. “Go see for yourself, then.”
Isabel continued to back up, shaking her head in negation. Her father the earl was the most powerful man she knew. When he spoke, men listened; when he walked, the ground did tremble. He held the king's ear, was a ranking member of the council, and was, like his liege lord, both feared and revered. Although in his late forties, he remained a big, boisterous man, who still enjoyed and won jousts, who still relished hunting, and who still turned many ladies' eyes. Isabel had always feared her father as much as she respected him. She could never recall a time when he had been wrong.
He could not be ill. Not her powerful, handsome, brilliant father. Not with the sweating sickness, which showed no mercy to its victims. For no one survived.
Suddenly a priest walked out of her mother's rooms.
Isabel's eyes widened. Privately Lady Margaret held to the old faith, but very privately and very secretively, and the earl chose to look the other way. Isabel's heart turned over again and again with dread. What was Father Joseph doing in her mother's apartments at this time of day, dear God? For anyone to see? If word of this got back to court, her mother could be tried for heresy and treason. “Father?” she tried, deep inside herself already knowing the answer.
BOOK: House of Dreams
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