Oxford Whispers (5 page)

Chapter
9

Oxford
–
April 1644

I DO NOT WANT to become like them. My parents only talk about the war, King Charles and Our Lord. Nothing else.

Hopefully, Mother will not find out that I left the room where my sister and I were supposed to take a nap. Sitting in this meadow, watching the quiet stream glittering in the afternoon sun, is so much more enjoyable.

I am not far from Father here. He spends his days and his nights in the Great Hall of Christ Church, where the king has summoned the commoners, like us. They talk of parliament, but I don’t know what a parliament is for. Nobody will explain such things to a ten-year-old girl. I know it is a place where people love talking, talking, talking.

An elongated shadow appears on the grass between the stream and me. I breathe faster. My mother?

No. My new friend has come, as on every afternoon since we first met more than a week ago. I turn toward the intruder, and my heart fills with warmth and happiness.

Robert.

What a fine-looking boy he is. Today, he is wearing a doublet and breeches trimmed with bows of ribbon, and I feel embarrassed by my dull-colored dress. Father says that dark dye is too expensive for everyday use; therefore I must always wear a sad shade of maroon.

“This is for you.” He holds a red rose in his hand, and I seize its delicate stem, avoiding the thorns. Never before have I been the recipient of such notice.

“Have you been well?” he asks.

“Very well. Although we are leaving soon.”

“I know.”

He is so much wiser than I am, and I want to impress him, show him I am not a child. “My father says he does not want anything to do with the Irish. He says they are Papists. Now we have to go to Westminster. He says this is where we should have gone all along.”

My friend remains silent, and I hope I have not offended him. His own father is one of the Peers supporting King Charles. Our families are on opposite sides. He extends his hand and helps me stand up. His curly, blond hair shines in the glow of the sun.

“Is it true that the commoners in Westminster are called Roundheads because of the short fashion they have adopted for their hair?”

“Apparently so,” he says.

“I wonder if Father will have his hair cut that way once we are in London.” The idea makes me laugh.

While we walk along the stream back toward Christ Church, my friend listens to my stories. Nobody else pays attention to me, to what I think, how I feel. I wish he could come to London with us. Life would be so much more exciting and less lonely.

But my chest tightens when I notice an all too familiar silhouette. My mother has been searching for me, and has found me. I stop moving.

“Is there a problem?” the boy asks, with a frown upon his brow.

I nod at the small woman walking toward us. A lined cap topped by a tall black hat covers her hair. She terrifies me. But then I feel his hand taking hold of mine. I turn to him, and his reassuring smile gives me courage. Courage I never thought I had.

Even this elegant boy cannot do anything to protect me from her anger. She grabs my arm and gives me a shake. In her eyes I have committed almost every possible mortal sin. During the ensuing commotion, the rose slips out of my fingers. My mother steps on it, crushing the delicate petals.

I want to bend forward and save what I can of the boy’s gift, but Mother snatches my arm. We start walking away. I try to turn and bid my friend farewell.

In vain.

She has a strong hold on me. I can only steal one last glance at him. He stands there, waving goodbye.

I do swear my heart is bleeding.

“MADISON?”

Rupert laid his hand on her arm and gave it a soft squeeze. She wanted to pull herself away, but instead barely managed to turn her head toward his eyes. Concern filled them.

Her gaze reverted to the portrait. Now she understood how Sarah could have fallen in love with the Cavalier. He was hot. In a three-hundred-year-old kind of way.

“You can’t find the dead guy cute. He’d be a hell of a sugar daddy.” Rupert stared at the portrait and read aloud the attribution below: “Robert, Second Earl of Huxbury.”

“Who was he?”

Rupert took a step back. “If he’s the second, that means he was Godfrey’s son.”

As Rupert led her back downstairs, she threw a look at the dark corner where Robert’s portrait hung. Questions flooded her mind. But when they stepped into the library, Madison’s attention returned to the here and now.

The oak-wall shelves were bursting with ancient books. Underneath a set of full-length windows overlooking the landscaped gardens stood a Chippendale sofa. Madison longed to slump down on it and recover from her discovery upstairs.

“This is the most amazing room I have ever seen. It’s magical.”

The air itself was different, warmer and fuller than in the rest of the manor.

She could feel Rupert’s eyes studying her. Did he like what he saw?
Shhh, LeBon, stop drooling.

Reverting to the reason for her trip she stated, “I need to have access to the journal.”

Rupert nodded and walked toward a modern-looking glass cupboard at the opposite corner of the room.

“My father has the most valuable items of the collection stored in a special cabinet. It’s built to protect the books from sunlight and damp … and thieves. You need a PIN to open it. The whole thing must cost more than some of the books it holds.”

Rupert drew on a pair of white cotton gloves then input a number on the side of the cabinet, after which he slid open the left panel. With great care he brought out a fragile-looking, leather-bound book then pulled another pair of gloves from his pocket and handed them to Madison.

“You know how to handle these kinds of documents.” She didn’t hide her appreciation of his expertise.

“I spent a lot of time going through our collections with Grandfather Charles. He taught me everything I know. That’s why I chose to read history.”

While remembering his grandfather, the tone of his voice had changed, losing its usual polish. The difference was subtle, but enough for Madison to understand the man had meant a lot to Rupert.

She sat next to him at a square desk in the middle of the room. Their knees brushed against each other, and a shot of electricity ran through her flesh. She flushed and slid her leg away.

Rupert cleared his throat. “So now you have full access to the secret thoughts of old Great-grandpa Godfrey. Please help yourself.” He stood and headed back toward the library door.

“You’re not staying.” Madison resented the empty seat next to her.

“Nope. I’d like to …” he cast his eyes downward, shuffling his feet, as if the admission had embarrassed him, “but McCain is expecting my dissertation on Monday. If I don’t deliver this time around, I’m screwed. We need to head back to Oxford at four,
sharp
.”

He had used her exact word, when she had set the departure time for their day trip. Rupert kept blowing hot and cold. Or maybe he hadn’t blown hot at all.

“That early?”

“Yes, I have a surprise for you, but we need to leave earlier than planned.”

Rupert Vance had a surprise for her, Madison LeBon. Talking about hot and cold, that felt like a freaking heatwave,
El Nino
-style.

“I’ll ask the butler to bring you some lunch.” He switched the topic of the conversation before she could ask a question about the “surprise.”

“Don’t worry. I brought something with me this morning.” She took a small Tupperware box out of her satchel and showed him.

The corner of his mouth rose. “We have a fantastic chef here. You’re away from home, and I’m pretty sure you’ll appreciate some food cooked in a proper kitchen for once.”

Spending most of the day alone with a seventeenth-century hand-written diary was awesome, but a chef-cooked meal was a cherry on top of the toffee pudding. Well, it should have been, but Madison wanted to share the same space as Rupert for a tiny bit longer.

“All right. If I like the lunch, I might cover up your defection.”

“I’m glad we have an understanding.” His smile was cheeky.

Cheeky and tender. Madison shook herself.
Grow up. You’re not a freaking lovestruck teenager
.

Before he left the room, she asked the question that had burned her lips since they’d left the mezzanine. “Will you help me find some information on Robert Dallembert?”

He frowned. “It depends on what you want to know.”

“Anything. When was he born? When did he die?” She paused. “Whom did he marry?”

“I’ll give a call to our genealogist, but I can’t promise I’ll reach him today. It’s the weekend.”

The Vances kept their own genealogist on call. How handy.

THE HOURS FLEW BY, and Madison worked hard with one eye on the four o’clock deadline. Jasper the butler brought her lunch, and she scoffed down every crumb of the posh B.L.T., with its homemade bread and extra-thick bacon.

With Jackson’s tiny digital camera, she stored photos of the delicate book, like any highly trained CIA agent spying on international secrets. Godfrey Dallembert, the object of Jackson’s interest, had been a busy man.

For her own interest, she looked for references about his son, Robert, but failed to find any. Weird that a father wouldn’t even mention his own son …

Checking around the empty room, she sought out Robert’s soul, or any energy he had left behind, beyond the centuries. Nothing. Where were her powers when she needed them?

She knew the identity of the Cavalier now; however, the puzzle wasn’t closer to being solved. Did Rupert’s ancestry connect him to the painting? Maybe she wasn’t really attracted to him, but just picking up on Sarah’s feelings for the Cavalier.

She allowed herself to close her eyes. A steady burning itched under her eyelids. A knock at the door startled her. Rupert stepped in, and she welcomed the respite.

Waving at his wet hair she asked,

“Has it been raining?”

“I had a quick swim once I finished my paper.” Her eyes widened with disbelief, and he explained. “We have an indoor pool in one of the converted barns. I’m not rowing today, so I have to train one way or the other. No choice unfortunately.”

An indoor pool in the middle of a medieval estate, and in the English wet-to-the-bone climate.
The dude is walking in high cotton
.

“I take you’re finished with Godfrey’s diary.”

She nodded, so he put the journal back in the safe, and soon they were once again in his fancy car.

“Remember the surprise?” he teased her, sparkles in his eyes.

She nodded, sending him a sideways gaze full of questions that he ignored.

While she bade farewell to Rupert’s ancestral home, strands of energy wired her senses. Around her, the echoes of the past whispered into her ear their haunting melody.

She had to come back to Magway. She had to see her Cavalier again.

Chapter
10

THE AFTERNOON LIGHT was fading, and Madison stared blindly through the car window.

“I left a voicemail on our genealogist’s mobile. I should hear from him soon,” Rupert volunteered, while his attention remained on the road ahead of them.

Touched he hadn’t forgotten his promise, she thanked him. But her traveling buddy didn’t say another word until a road sign indicated Stratford-upon-Avon. He turned and parked his car in a small side street.

“I thought you were in a hurry to go back to Oxford.” She stared through the car window.

“I promised you a surprise. Shakespeare was born here. You ought to see his birthplace. If you don’t, it’d be like going to New York without visiting the Empire State Building. And I love showing off my culture” Then he added sheepishly, “If you’re nice, you’ll even get a treat at the end.”

Madison had never really set foot in New York, at least not beyond Grand Central Station. But Rupert wanted to do something for her, so she opened the door of the car, her heart beating fast with the thought of spending more time alone with him.

He was soon by her side, playing the tour guide through the cobbled streets. Although she doubted tour guides smoked Marlboro Lights while on duty. Cigarettes had always been a turnoff for her, but watching Rupert’s long, elegant fingers, her mouth went dry. She imagined those same fingers stroking her arms, her legs and pretty much everywhere else.

And his lips caressing the tip of the cigarette.
Good heavenly days...

Shake yourself up, silly girl.

Only she couldn’t. Rupert had taken hold of her hand. He didn’t seem to be aware of it; instead he kept talking. But the contact of his skin and his firm hold on her ignited a pit of delicious frustration in her belly. Her knees went all gooey but she forced herself to match his pace. She wanted for his fingers to intertwine with hers…

They walked past the house on Henley Street where Shakespeare was born, the church where he was christened, and the place where his daughter Susanna had spent her years.

When Madison closed her eyes to listen to his voice, a corset circled her waist, a French hood topped her hair, the embroidered linen of her skirt slid underneath her hand. The cars and the modern world faded away. She knew she’d traveled back in time, not through another of her visions but merely with the sound of his voice. Excitement and fear rushed through her body.

“Now has come the time for a little treat after your hard day of work.” Rupert stared down at her with clear mischief in his eyes.

He had stopped their impromptu tour in front of an old-fashioned-looking coffee shop.

“You want a coffee?” she asked.

The corner of his mouth curled up. “Chocolate! Hot, sweet chocolate with lots and lots of marshmallows.”

Yummy
. “I’d love that.” Madison had to keep her tongue from licking her lips in anticipation.

“I know. You asked for some at the Anchor Inn, remember?” She did, but the realization he had paid attention to her order on that day rendered her all mushy inside. “This place is the best place in England. I vouch for it.”

She failed at refraining a giggle. He opened the door for her and they stepped into heaven… or the nineteenth century. Everything inside was decorated as Madison imagined a drawing room would have been under Queen Victoria’s reign. Sturdy, dark, polished wood everywhere, elegant sofas, flowery wall-paper. The warmth dispensed by the fireplace in the right corner seeped through her. Her muscles relaxed.

Rupert was looking at her expectantly. “Do you like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

He undid the tight knot of her scarf. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m getting the order.” He nodded towards a small couch next to the fireplace.

She dropped her duffel coat and satchel on the floor and settled against the plump cushions. A mouth-watering aroma drifted towards her, a mélange of cinnamon and caramel… and fresh-baked brownies.

When Rupert walked back towards her, he carried a round silver tray. He settled the bowls on the table and sat next to her. Quickly he removed his thick navy jacket and threw it on top of Madison’s coat.

She cupped the porcelain bowl, all dainty and warm, and let its warmth spread through her palms.

“I’ve added a hint of vanilla,” he said, his hands and overall posture mirroring that of Madison’s.

“Good initiative.”

Rupert lifted his bowl and tipped it toward Madison. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

They brought the hot beverage to their mouths. A couple of the mini-marshmallows slid through her lips and she let them melt on her tongue. She closed her eyes. The sensation was divine, its effect heightened by the heat of the flames in the fireplace brushing her face.

Madison let herself drown into the moment, her knee against Rupert’s. She could feel him immobile next to her.

When she opened her eyes again, heat spread through her cheekbones, across her nose. Rupert stared at her, like he
stared
at her, oblivious of anything else around him.

Their gazes locked. She swore she could hear both their hearts beating in sync.

“My mum used to take me here on our drives from London to Magway.” His eyes didn’t leave Madison. “It was a tradition… but I haven’t come back here since my last time with her.”

“You became too cool for chocolate, marshmallows, and spending time with your mama,” Madison teased him, taking another sweet sip.

A shadow passed over his face. “Something like that.”

Madison thought he was about to say more, but he reverted his attention to the chocolate. They remained silent for a few minutes, comfortable in each other’s close proximity.

Because it was the first of December, a string of Christmas classics had already played out since they had stepped into that sweet paradise. Tom Jones’ baritone voice was currently warning them it was cold outside. Madison knew that, and, really, she had no intention to ever step a foot outside that place.

The weight of Rupert’s gaze had reverted on her. His half-smile was topped by a grin in his eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“You have some white foam at the corner of your mouth.” His index finger waved lightly. “May I?”

Her mouth dried in anticipation. Because words failed her, she answered with a tight nod. Rupert leaned toward her, took a small napkin from the silver tray and wiped it gently over where the cream must have been.

“There, all clean now.”

His thumb stayed at the corner of her mouth, shifted an inch to brush her lower lip.

His eyes were moving back and forth between her own eyes and her mouth, settling there.

Was he going to kiss her?

He was going to kiss her.

Please, God, have him kiss me.

But Rupert’s cell rang, returning them to the present. Without hiding his irritation, he took the call. Madison swallowed her disappointment. Hard.

She couldn’t guess the content of Rupert’s conversation with an “Archie” as he limited his answers to “yes,” “great,” and a final “thank you.”

She bit her tongue and didn’t ask who Archie was.

“It was Archie Blake, our genealogist, returning my call. He’ll have a look at our second earl for us.”

Madison’s throat tightened. “It sounds as if he told you a little bit about him in the meantime.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he did. Robert’s death created the first hiccup in my family history. His death nearly ended our line.”

“He died …”

Rupert looked at her askance. “The guy lived in the
seventeenth
century
.
” Turning his attention back to the cell still in his hand, he added, “He died in 1651, not even a year after his father, Godfrey, and left behind a struggle for the title.”

“How did he die?”

“I didn’t ask. Sorry. But his wife followed him to the grave quickly afterwards.”

Madison pinched the skin of her right palm. What she’d heard already dashed any hope of Robert and Sarah living a long, happy life together. One year at best. She didn’t want to know more. But she had to.

“He didn’t mention the name of the wife?”

“She was a Lady Elizabeth something, from a Royalist family up north.”

Madison brought her hand to her mouth to cover the gasp this revelation caused.

The Cavalier never married Sarah. They were indeed the Romeo and Juliet of their time. Social and political divides had crushed any hope for their love.

Unless Sarah died before she could marry Robert.

BACK IN OXFORD, opposite Christ Church College, Peter paced along a hidden corner of St. Aldate’s. How long had he gone back and forth on the same stretch of pavement? He didn’t care. With all his muscles tensed, he kept his neck lowered, his head tucked down and his hands clenched into fists. The frozen gesture held his emotions in check. Always had, always would.

His mumbling stopped when he turned his body toward the entrance gate of the college. When would Sarah be back from Magway? Since her return to Oxford he’d kept her on a tight leash. He had managed to scare her yesterday, when he made her fall from her bicycle. Today, however, she had evaded him. He could not prevent her from going on this journey with the nobleman.

Peter stood straight, the cold wrapping his body in its November grasp. He pulled his jacket tighter around him as a barrier to the wind.

The reality of this modern world interfered with the flow of his consciousness. The cars thundered by and the electric lamps shined an intrusive light on his face. But at its core, nothing had changed. He loved Sarah and he hated her. His emotions confused him, tore him apart.

At last. They were here. The nobleman stopped his extravagant carriage, and Peter took a few steps away. He didn’t want them to recognize him.

The fingers on his right hand dug into the palm of his left. What were they doing? Probably already “making out,” as they said nowadays. Peter did not expect better from sinners like them.

Sarah stepped out of the car, as did Dallembert. He took her satchel from the trunk of his automobile and handed it to her. If only Peter could hear what they were saying … He leaned forward and his eyes focused on his prey.

It was happening all over again. The arrogance of the nobleman melted when he looked down at Sarah. She comported herself well, feigning modesty, but lust radiated from their unconscious courtship. When Peter had proposed to her, Sarah had sworn to him her love for the Cavalier was real, overwhelming. She had no choice, she’d explained when he confronted her.

Now, Sarah had found the Cavalier again. For the first time, they were reunited. Peter’s wandering spirit would not let that happen. Oxford would be the theater of their love once again, as it had been so many centuries before.

Shutting his eyes, he winced at the burning fire of his jealousy. He had tried hard to forget, to seize the opportunities the capricious roll of fate had provided him.

His attempts had all been in vain. He had always known that, one day, Sarah and Robert would find each other again. That one day he would again be wronged by their love. His fate was sealed a long time ago, on that dreadful afternoon in the clearing.

No. He would fight this. He had won once. He could win again. Shaking himself from the powerful clutch of his memories, he saw a range of new possibilities. He would spy, he would befriend, he would lie, and he would kill. That prospect made him rejoice, brought him comfort. His fate was to demand and execute justice.