Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (10 page)

Taylor knew her jaw was on the floor, but she couldn’t help herself. Memphis had assured her that the house in Scotland was “a cobwebby old thing.” Impossible to heat. That’s what she’d quoted Sam, too, thinking he was telling at least part of the truth. He’d always downplayed his status in the aristocracy, and she’d felt a connection to him because of that—the desire to make it on your own, to alter your past, to force your parents’ aspirations away and lead your own life, free of the encumbrances that came with wealth.

What a lying sack of shit he was. Freaking viscount.

The “house” was a full-fledged castle, right out of her wildest imagination. Complete with towers and turrets and crenellations, and what used to be a moat, now filled with grass and gravel. There was even a portcullis, topped with leering gargoyles. It was almost as if Memphis had a checklist and was mining about in her head, looking for all the things she dreamed about as a girl, then making sure they were incorporated into his home. The exterior was whitewashed stucco instead of stone, with dark brown timbers and a gray slate roof that gave it the look of a Tudor mansion mated with a French château. It was monstrous.

Just how big is this place?

He scuffed his foot in the gravel of the forecourt like a little boy, obviously uncomfortable. She knew the British didn’t approach things like size and luxury the way Americans did.

“Well, you know, Dulsie Castle is no bigger than most country houses of this period. We’ve added on this century, a public tearoom and expanded banquet hall, so it can be used for tours and weddings and such. And the grounds are extensive. There’s a great deal of sport round here, history, that lot. People come caravanning, or stay in the village below.”

Come on. Spill.

He ducked his head, she didn’t know if it was shame or sheer pleasure in surprising her. “It’s not that large, truly. We only have seventeen bedrooms.”

She did some mental calculating based on her own parents’ home, with its six bedrooms and eight baths, and came up with something in the range of about 50,000 square feet. She tried to be nonchalant.

I can see why it would be hard to heat.

He barked out a laugh and she felt absurdly pleased for amusing him.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know. It
is
hard to heat, and the taxes truly are crippling. That’s why we offset with public tours. But they only get into the first two floors, and access to the attics on Samhain for ghost stories, and we close from the fifteenth of November until the Ides of March. The top floors are all private quarters, and the grounds are segmented as well. Plenty of privacy. And plenty of places to lounge about, if you choose. Or, if you’re feeling up to it, you can get your hands dirty. This is a working estate—you saw the chickens. We also have sheep, Highland cattle, gardens and a deer park. Whatever my princess wants, my princess shall have.”

She rolled her eyes, but inside couldn’t help but feel excited. In addition to the crazy-fabulous castle, she was surrounded by natural beauty, and itched to start exploring.

They exited the Range Rover, Jacques holding the door and bestowing another happy smile, and she could smell the unique scents that went along with a mountain farm. Clean, cool air and sparkling water, fallen leaves, manure and hay, the vanilla and chocolate scents of the evergreen trees, the softly aromatic heather. Cinnamon and yeast and garlic, too. Her stomach growled unceremoniously.

Memphis could smell it as well. She watched his nose twitching.

“Cook’s gone and outdone herself now, that smells like venison stew. And there will be apple frushie for pudding.” He looked like an eight-year-old boy who’d just found out he gets to eat with the adults for the first time.

She wondered briefly if he’d brought other women here, to charm and shock with his largesse, but decided against it. Memphis may be a cad, but she couldn’t imagine him dragging just anyone home. She got the distinct impression that this display was uniquely for her benefit.

“Let me show you round, get you settled. You can freshen up and rest before we eat.”

She craned her neck to look up at the tower above the keep, framed in dark storm clouds, the sky coated in amber from the sun setting early this far north, all the while cursing herself. This was Memphis’s plan all along, letting her see just what she might have a chance to be a part of. And like Elizabeth Bennet, upon seeing Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley for the first time and realizing what she passed up, she felt momentarily foolish.

She heard Sam’s disgusted snort in her ear, like she was sitting on the good angel side of things, and nearly laughed aloud. Even from four thousand miles away, her best friend had sway. Taylor could just hear her now:
This isn’t your life. This isn’t your world. This is just an escape. You don’t belong here. You’d do best to remember that
.

Practical Sam. Who’d been in love with the same man since she was fifteen.

Memphis was standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her. She mentally shoved Sam off her shoulder, tossed him a smile, blushing slightly because she knew he’d been watching the awed thoughts scroll across her face. It took a lot to surprise her, and she was quite surprised.

The inside of the castle was as opulent and impressive as she could expect, all done up for Christmas: fresh wreaths and trees and garlands everywhere, with centuries-old furniture, weapons, decor, impossibly thick stone walls and wide stairwells lined with elegant polished wood balustrades. Chandeliers and antlers and rugs and priceless oils; oversize family portraits showed the ancestral facial structure that was clearly stamped on Memphis’s features, an echo of his past. He belonged here. It was actually the first time she’d ever seen him so very much at home.

An older woman met them in the open hallway. Memphis introduced her to Taylor. “This is Trixie. She’s been with the family longer than I have. She’s mistress of this domain, make no doubt.”

Her name was ridiculously incongruous with her being. The woman didn’t smile, just turned the corners of her mouth up like she was used to Memphis’s teasing and found it very boring indeed. Her hair was iron-gray and pulled back into a severe bun, her eyes a weak blue. She wore a thick wool skirt and a plain wool sweater, and, oddly, men’s laced brogues on her feet. Taylor assumed she was in her sixties at least. Her carriage was remarkable for a woman her age: her back was straight, neck long and elegant.

She nodded to Taylor and spoke, her voice higher and softer than Taylor expected. “It’s nice to meet you, mum. I’m head housekeeper for the castle. If you’re needin’ anything, you ring the bell.” She pointed out a small doorbell on the wall near the banister. Next to it was a silver bell attached to a pulley. “You’ll find ’em throughout the house.” Her accent was patently Scots;
house
came out
hoose
.

Memphis saw her looking at the two systems, one new, one antiquated. “We left behind the old pull bells some time ago. The electronic system works wonderfully. Every room is wired to its own ringer on the board downstairs. Yes, Trixie can handle anything you might need when I leave. She’s good company, aren’t you, old girl?”

Trixie finally gave in to Memphis’s charm and gave him a dimply smile. Taylor saw why she didn’t do it much. Her teeth were brown and visibly decayed.

“I’d be happy to show the lady to her room,” she said.

Memphis shook his head. “No, that’s fine. Jacques has her bag. I’m going to give her a quick tour.”

“I’ll leave you, then,” Trixie said. Taylor watched her walk away, wondered if perhaps she’d had scoliosis as a child and been forced to wear a brace. It was rare to see such good posture. Her glance went down the length of the woman’s body, and then she saw the reason. The left shoe’s sole was four times thicker than the right. Her left leg was dramatically short. To make up for it, Trixie had developed the carriage of a queen. Taylor could only imagine the pain she’d experienced growing up.

As if she knew Taylor was watching her, Trixie looked back over her shoulder for a moment, casting a dark glance at the new interloper standing in her entrance hall. Taylor was a bit taken aback. While not overtly friendly, Trixie hadn’t seemed hostile until that moment. Taylor made a note to be wary around her.

Memphis watched Taylor, and he’d obviously seen Trixie’s angry glance. He sought to reassure her, spoke quietly.

“Trixie’s a good woman. She has been with the family forever, since well before I was born. She was our governess when we were growing up, frightened us all into submission. She has no one, no family, nothing. So when we were grown, Mother took her as her personal maid. She took over running the whole place from the housekeeper several years ago. She’s very protective of the family, just doesn’t take to strangers. She’ll come round. I’m not here very much, but it looks like she has things well in hand. Let’s see the rest of the place.”

He gave her a brief tour of the downstairs—the dining room, the armory, the public viewing rooms with the history of the castle carefully imprinted on each, then they walked to the back of the castle, down a long hallway lined with deer skulls and antlers. Taylor wasn’t against hunting, per se, just wasn’t an aficionado herself.

Did you shoot all of these?

“Oh no. See the plaques?”

Taylor looked closer. To the right of each skull was a hand written note. She traced the line up the hall–Meek age 3, Meek age 4, Meek age 5.

A pet?

“Of sorts. The deer drop their antlers every year. It’s always been tradition to gather them up and place them on the wall, attached to the skulls of deer that have passed or been shot. You see how big he got—Meek sired half the herd.”

Meek had grown to a fine twelve-point buck before his death at the ripe old age of fifteen.

“Some people collect plates,” he said with a shrug.

My mother collects Limoges teacups. She started when she was a girl. The display cases are ridiculous.

She paused and looked back up at the remnants of Meek.

I think I like the antlers better. More character.

He smiled and led her to a set of stone stairs. This took them up a flight to a quiet wooden door with a coded lock. He gave her the code; this would be her path into and out of the castle.

The family rooms were no less opulent, but much more modern and comfortable than the public rooms of the castle. While still traditional, with wooden panels on the walls and elegant plasterwork on the ceilings, there was leather and glass and dark wood, with more contemporary paintings and cornice-work, with tiny feminine touches that set the private rooms apart.

The whole aspect was decidedly uncobwebby. She had to laugh. Her parents’ huge house in Nashville, long empty but still theirs, just waiting for Taylor to come to her senses and accept her fortune, would fit twice into the private rooms of Dulsie Castle.

“What’s so funny?” Memphis asked.

With a smile, she wrote
Humility
.

“Humility? I thought you liked the place.” He pretended to be hurt.

It’s lovely, Memphis. A bit grander than I’m used to, but lovely. Where do I sleep?

“Ah, I’ve been saving the best for last. Come and see.”

He held out a hand, which she accepted, and he pulled her along down a hallway, up another flight of stairs to another long hallway. The ancient oak, wide planked floors, glossy with a patina befitting their age, were covered by a thick gorgeous yellow-and-red wool and silk runner that she wanted to lie down on.

“Your chamber, my lady,” Memphis said, stopping in front of a large wooden door. It was arched, the handle wrought iron, with a square wooden peephole traversed by a tiny iron fence. She’d seen less grand front entrances on some of the stately Belle Meade mansions at home.

Memphis pushed the door open, and Taylor was, quite simply, blown away. She’d grown up with the trappings of wealth, but this was far beyond what she’d ever been privy to. It was everything a castle room should be.

On closer inspection, they were actually in a suite of rooms, all gorgeously, sumptuously decorated. The ceilings were twenty feet high, paneled, covered in elegantly detailed roundels. The plasterwork was ornate and intricate, bordering on rococo, with draped silk and paintings of cherubs on clouds, a mini Sistine Chapel. The walls were soft golden oak, also in panels that were interspersed with silk tapestries. She could get lost in the stories they portrayed.

The front area held a sitting room. A couch faced a television, but she barely glanced at it after the rest of the room caught her eye. Warm butter-colored leather chairs with a small table and reading lamp faced a virtual library of books surrounding a large stone fireplace, a fire already crackling and putting out warmth. There was a ladder to reach the uppermost shelves.

She went to the tomes immediately, running her fingers over the spines. All of her favorites were there, all the books she and Memphis had discussed over the past several months.

She had a flash of emotion, both affection and sympathy, for all his trouble. This was seduction at its highest—the simple act of memory. When someone remembers what you’ve said, has actually taken the time to listen and stow away the information for recall later, well, that was beyond flattery. That’s what a real relationship was about.

She saw that there was a small theater section as well, with all of her favorite movies on DVD. To her right, there was a large casement window, the sheer curtain drawn. She walked to it and spread the drape back, her breath catching in her throat. The view was stunning—if warped a bit by the glazed glass. She had a complete panorama of the mountains, the valley, the river, the deer park, the sheep, the incoming storm. If she looked far to her right she could see the estate’s grass tennis courts. She shivered and pulled her sweater closer around her. If she could have designed a view to be perfect, this would fit the bill.