Patricia Rice (21 page)

Setting her chin stubbornly, she refused to think about that or she’d turn into a watering pot. No matter what her husband thought of her, she could help him if he’d let her. She could read auras and tell when people were lying or concealing something. If she enlisted Lady Anne and Father Oswald in the task, they might help her interpret what she saw. She might not be able to have a party, but looking at the notes, she enlarged a nugget of an idea. “Perhaps I could establish calling hours.”

“I thought you said your family might arrive? I can’t think they would want to be bothered visiting with the likes of the vicar. He is in his dotage,” Meg objected.

Lady Anne was laughing. Delighted that she could understand Harry’s ancestor so well, Christina held her ground. Once her family heard of the goings-on around here, they’d be here whether she liked it or not. “My family is quite able to entertain themselves.”

“Besides, your family will most likely
be
the entertainment,” said a mocking voice from the doorway.

“Mr. Dougal!” Not entirely displeased at his appearance, since sitting still was tedious and gentle Meg much too easily alarmed, Christina sat up straighter. “You might have sent up a maid to ask if I was respectable.”

“And how is the poor maid to be a judge of that? Besides, they are all in a tizzy over the visit of some female bearing scented lotions or some such.” He nodded a greeting at Meg.

“Mora!” Meg exclaimed. “She sells herbal bath powders and soaps that smell marvelous. Christina, do you have enough paper and ink? I’ll leave you to your replies. Peter is home and can deliver them a little later. Come along, Mr. Dougal. I’ll introduce you to the vicar’s daughter.”

“Call me Aidan, please. We are all family of sorts.” He cast a glance back to Christina. “I’ll send up a maid. Harry was most adamant that you not be left alone.”

“Harry is worse than my father. I can come to no harm when I cannot move from the wretched bed. I only wish I could witness your meeting with Mora. I have a feeling the two of you will devour each other alive.”

“Christina!” Shocked, Meg hesitated in the doorway. “Are you certain you’re feeling well? Mora is the quietest, most timid person I know. She’s completely harmless. And Mr. Dougal has been all that is polite.”

“Forgive her, for she knows not what she speaks,” Christina said to Aidan, who hid a smirk at her sarcasm. So, maybe the big brute wasn’t entirely insensitive to his effect on the world around him. “I’m fine, Meg. Perhaps Mora and I simply started off wrong.”

“I’m certain that is it. She will have brought a tisane to make you feel better. You will see.”

Meg had as little insight into human nature as Harry, Christina reflected while waiting for Aidan to depart. They both thought everyone in the world was as good-natured as they were. Despite the odd flecks of gray in her aura that implied she held back some resentment or other negative emotion, Meg had been all that was sweet and charming. She ought to have a good husband to love her.

She eyed Aidan’s expression and dismissed the match instantly.

“Sounds as if this Mora is as much witch as any Malcolm,” he said before removing his shoulder from the door frame in preparation for departure, although she was certain he wouldn’t be heading for the women in the kitchen.

“We’re not witches,” Christina corrected. “But from what I’ve seen of her, Mora could very well be. If she’s making potions out of herbs, perhaps you ought to go downstairs and guard the house against evil charms.”

He chuckled deep in his throat and cast her an approving glance. “You may have the common sense of a rabbit, but I’ll grant you’re a perceptive witch. Harry will be up to see you directly, so don’t stir from that bed.”

Before she could return the insult or tell him to bring her hairbrush or her maid so she would look presentable for Harry, he was gone.

“Well, I suppose I could take that as a compliment,” she said to Lady Anne. Even in this light, she could still discern her transparent form as well as her aura, and from the flipping pages, she could tell the lady had occupied her time in glancing through the ledger describing past fetes.

At Christina’s comment, the ledger flattened, knocking the pen from its place across it. Two splats of ink fell out, marring the crumbling paper.

“Oh, bother. I didn’t mean to ruin the old book.” Christina leaned over to blot the spill, but the two words accented by the drops caught her attention—
a
wizard
.

A wizard? She read the rest of the line, which merely declared some Henry was a wizard at playing the lute. Innocent enough. Perfectly coincidental. Just because she was talking to a ghost about Aidan at the time the ink spilled didn’t mean a thing.

She sought Lady Anne’s aura, but she was demurely hovering in a corner, admiring the scenery outside the window.

“I don’t think Aidan Dougal is a wizard at playing the flute,” she informed the apparition, testing to see if the spilled ink might have been deliberate.

Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she heard the faint sound of a woman’s merry laugh.

She wished Lady Anne were alive. She could really use an understanding friend right now, preferably one who could communicate more effectively than with spilled ink.

Christina’s family began arriving two days later.

The first Harry knew of it, he was in his study, polishing the chalice while waiting for Robert to finish the final inspection of the castle floors. He doubted that his engineer could prevent dangerous intruders from hiding over there, but an army might. He was prepared to summon an army the instant Robert said it was safe.

A cold draft blew on the back of his neck as he held up the now gleaming chalice for Aidan to admire. “It is a magnificent artifact. I think the stones are genuine. I’m amazed Cromwell’s men did not melt it down for the gold and sell the gems.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t the Roundheads who hid it in that chamber,” Aidan argued. “It is more likely that a priest or member of the family sealed it up in there to preserve it.”

“And died before uncovering it again?” Harry squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, remembering Christina’s talk of the ghost of Father Oswald. Could the man have died protecting his church?

Harry determinedly turned his mind to more practical matters, like the value of the chalice should he be forced to sell it to pay the mortgage. Before he could even broach the prospect, he heard the rattle of carriages and glanced out the window to see who had arrived.

Aidan was out of his chair and aiming for the door before Harry could identify the crest on the side of the lead carriage. “Her family is here,” Aidan announced as he made his escape. “You might consider an extended vacation to Scotland. They’ll natter you to death before you know it.”

Harry watched in amazement as the carriages spilled silks and laces, children and servants, and a cadre of tall, black-haired young men, the latter of which headed straight for the castle walls.

***

“Perhaps country life has been rough on you, but you’ve been good for Harry.” Ninian, the countess of Ives and Wystan, examined Christina’s injured knee in the relative privacy of the bedchamber. Outside the door, voices carried up and down the old hall while rooms and family and servants were sorted out.

Christina was glad Ninian had accompanied her mother. Ninian had a soul far older than any of the cousins and a healing touch they relied on. Cousin Lucinda had also come along, retreating from some fresh gossip caused by her painting. Together, they would make jolly company.

But the noise in the hall outside warned that the marchioness was in full mother-hen form. Christina assumed that her mother was trailing scarves and ribbons upstairs and down, commanding carpenters and servants into converting the best bedchambers into suitable guest rooms and the unfinished ballroom in the new manor into a nursery for Ninian’s children.

If it made her mother happy and kept her from interfering in more important concerns, Christina wasn’t averse to letting her turn the entire manor upside down.

Trapped in bed by her injured knee, she was determined to help Harry no matter whose help she had to enlist. Right now, Ninian and Lucinda were available and of far more use than noncommunicative ghosts like the general.

She had hoped to speak privately with Harry about her concerns, but he hadn’t come to her bed until after she had fallen asleep these last nights, and he was up before she woke. She supposed he was being considerate of her injuries, but she very much wished to experience his lovemaking again so she knew it hadn’t been a fantasy. And she definitely wished to speak with the wretched man. He was becoming as uncommunicative as the general.

She was terrified that he was proceeding with his plans to tear down the castle now that his engineer had arrived, and she wasn’t able to stop him.

“Harry was quite morose at your wedding,” Ninian continued, “and I feared for your happiness, but I see now that it was only mourning for his father and brother and not the wedding troubling him.”

Like most Malcolms, Ninian was as fair and blue-eyed as Christina, but there the resemblance ended. Her older cousin possessed the pretty curls and the petite, well-rounded figure that Christina never would. Ninian not only more closely resembled Hermione than Christina, but she emanated the marchioness’s maternal benevolence as well.

“He has been saddled with a terrible burden and hasn’t truly had time to grieve,” Christina agreed. “And I am not the most useful of helpmeets.”

Ninian laughed. “Harry is quite responsible enough for the two of you. Your role is to lighten his burden. How does your wrist feel?”

“The swelling has gone down, but Harry fears I will overexert myself.”

Ninian unwrapped the bandage. “Does this hurt?” She squeezed gently and turned the wrist back and forth.

Ninian’s touch exuded soothing heat, and Christina’s whole arm felt stronger at once. “It feels lovely. I wish I had your gift for healing. It is a much more useful gift than my own.”

“Every gift has its price. My gift costs me the ability to tolerate crowds. With too many people around me, I’m overwhelmed. Gifted artists are said to be condemned to poverty. Gifted mathematicians are condemned to obscurity and madness, or worse yet, to teaching schoolboys.” She laughed at Christina’s upraised eyebrow. “Well, I have been listening to my husband and his brothers complain about being under appreciated, so I thought I might include them as well.”

“I do not know how you keep up with all those rough-and-tumble Ives. It is all I can do to concentrate on Harry. I don’t think I was meant for motherhood.” Christina voiced one of her many fears.

“I am more sister than mother to them, and you do sisterhood very well,” Ninian said complacently. “You will be the kind of mother who loves to romp with her children, and they will adore you.”

Gratified that her perceptive cousin thought she wouldn’t be a dreadful mother, Christina tried not to over think the matter. After the experience in the rowan grove, she could very well have conceived Harry’s child already. Malcolms were always fertile. The thought would petrify her had she time to consider it.

They both looked up at a knock on the door. Lucinda stuck her fair head around the edge. “May I come in? I think I have just terrified Mr. Dougal into retreating to the castle.”

Ninian laughed. “It is not you in particular but Malcolms in general who keep Aidan at bay. We hold the fascination of fire for the gentleman, pretty but dangerous.”

Lucinda popped around the door and took a seat in a corner with her sketch pad in hand. “Then I shall just stay out of his sight, shall I? What are you conspiring in here? I don’t need any gift to know you’re up to something.”

“I don’t suppose you can draw ghosts?” Christina asked in interest.

“No, I don’t suppose I can. Do you mean you have ghosts?”

“We do. And I wish to have them help me discover the reason Harry’s tenants aren’t speaking to him. I have notified our neighbors that I will be taking afternoon calls starting tomorrow. Would you be interested in helping?”

Ninian’s eyes widened, and sweeping her skirts back, she took a seat. “Tell me all about it.”

Lucinda merely nodded and listened, her fingers flying over her sketch pad without thought as Christina spoke.

***

The next afternoon, Christina selected a book from the small bookcase of leather-bound volumes beside her while she waited in the parlor for her first visitors. At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, she set the book aside to arrange herself. Propping her injured leg on an ottoman, she spread her skirts out in an elegant blue waterfall.

Although she had no idea whether or not they paid attention, she concentrated hard on calling her familiar ghosts. She had enlisted the aid of Rob Morton in persuading Harry that the drawing room in the old manor was soundly constructed and far easier than carrying her through the entire house to the new wing. The once elegant room had faded with time, but she hoped at least Lady Anne would accompany her down here.

She realized that unless she knew people well, her ability to read their auras was unreliable. She needed aid in interpreting what she saw. If only her ghosts could talk, they might be more perceptive than she.

As it was, she needed real live people to explain what was wrong with Harry’s tenants, and that’s what she meant to do today, if she had to hit her guests over the head to achieve it. She preferred to hope her family’s gifts might help.

Lucinda’s gift of second sight disguised in her art wasn’t much help, since it took far too long to produce a painting, and one very seldom understood the message even when it was done. Ninian’s gift for sensing emotion might be of some use, except Ninian seldom betrayed what she sensed. She had promised to tell Christina if she sensed any danger, though.

To Christina’s relief, Lady Anne materialized with the sound of the first horses riding up the drive.

“Harry said to keep an eye on you,” Ninian said serenely, sweeping into the room shortly after the ghost’s appearance. “There’s a spirit in here now, isn’t there? I can feel the chill and sense her life essence but cannot see her.”

Sometimes, Ninian could be quite impressive, despite her deceptively cherubic appearance, Christina reflected. “Lady Anne,” she explained. “According to the family ledgers, she was a spinster aunt of an earlier Winchester and helped design the gardens in the courtyard of the Tudor manor. She has just curtsied to you, although whether in mockery or respect is up to my interpretation.”

Ninian raised her rounded blond eyebrows in surprise. “My, you have made splendid progress. Marriage suits you. Grandmother once told me that some of us don’t come into our full gifts until we marry, although she did not explain if it was the act of joining with our husbands or the results that might influence us.”

“The results?” Christina attempted to translate her cousin’s occasionally obscure observations. Then realizing what the inevitable result of lovemaking might be, she blushed. “Oh. Well, that’s possible. It was a rowan grove where Harry and I… well, the first time I actually
saw
the general… it was the day Harry and…”

Ninian waved away her explanation. “If you made love in a rowan grove, it is very likely that the spirit of one of our ancestors is already growing within you. In that case, pregnancy could quite certainly aid your abilities. My gift grew much stronger while I was carrying, especially when I carried a boy. A rowan grove, Christina?” She shook her head in astonishment.

Christina tried to put two and two together. She had been taught rowan groves were sacred and that faeries resided there, although, since they weren’t very distinct, she seldom noticed them. She’d made love with Harry beneath the rowans. She’d felt… And then she’d seen the general in the mirror…

Ninian was saying she became pregnant the first time they made love, and that the child she carried increased the power of her gift, and that’s why she’d actually seen and heard the general. Was Ninian saying she carried a boy? Christina’s heart caught and fluttered at the possibility, and her hand strayed to her lower abdomen. Could it be?

The probability was much too difficult to puzzle out, and she refused to raise anyone’s hopes. She’d rather experiment with her new abilities and see what happened. Time would tell about the rest. Lucinda’s arrival, sketch pad in hand, and carriages drawing up outside, put an end to all speculation.

The sound of men huffing and puffing outside the salon warned the rest of her experiment was on its way. With Ninian and Lucinda to oversee, she wasn’t indulging in anything overtly dangerous, she hoped. She watched as two footmen carried in the mirror from the vanity in the late duchess’s bedroom. She had no idea if this would work, but she wanted as many aspects of this day in her favor as she could contrive.

“Turn it where I can see it, please,” she asked as the men arranged the mirror on a long mahogany table beneath the windows. “Now pull the drapery closed so the sun doesn’t shine so strongly in here.”

“You could be playing with fire,” Ninian murmured as the footman drew the draperies and the room darkened. “Perhaps I should fetch the duke.”

“No,” Christina whispered. “Harry would have an apoplexy if he knew I was about to summon ghosts in front of his guests. They’re not dangerous, I promise.” Not physically dangerous, anyway. What they might do to her reputation remained to be seen. The gossip about a mad duchess who thought she saw ghosts would carry straight to London.

The mirror gleamed dully even with the sunlight banished, but no magical image appeared. Nervously, Christina ordered candles lit. She could hear the occupants of the carriage speaking among themselves outside the window.

She had stationed a footman at the door, but she knew Harry would have seen the arrival of their guests from his study. She hoped he was too busy to join them. While Robert was cordoning off the unsafe sections of the castle, Harry and Aidan had been poring over the estate books from the last decade. Talks of turnips and bank loans made their dinner conversations exceedingly boring. It seemed Mr. Dougal was far more of a practical, logical Ives than she’d first thought.

Moments later, male voices greeted each other in the foyer. To Christina’s delight and dismay, Harry’s voice welcomed them. She longed to have Harry by her side for this visitation, but he was bound to interfere with any experiment she might try. Harry as her husband was far more protective than Harry as her betrothed.

He entered with three gentlemen she did not recognize. He glanced at the drawn draperies and mirror with puzzlement but did not remark upon them.

“Christina, Lady Ives, Lady Lucinda, let me introduce our neighbors, Squire Chumley and his son, Basil.” Harry indicated a stout older man in clubbed wig and a younger gentleman of about Harry’s age wearing a sour expression.

The squire seemed genuinely happy to meet her, and Christina greeted him as graciously as she’d been taught. “Squire Chumley, I had heard that you were in London. It’s so good to meet you at last.” She watched the older man’s aura glow brighter with pleasure. Nothing dark there, nothing hidden or filled with guilt that she could see.

The squire stepped aside so his son might make his bow. In a brown velvet coat that had seen better days, Basil Chumley swept his hat over his chest and bent his knee to make a formal leg.