Margo Maguire (6 page)

Miss Tearwater came to the window. “It looks like Lady Alice is making an appearance,” she said.

Sam shot his gaze toward the tall bushes surrounding the garden. When he located nothing suspicious, he scanned the grounds, but his eyes were inexorably drawn back to the filmy figure. After a few minutes of hovering above the heads of the people gathered below, the foggy form suddenly disappeared, and the guests who had stood
rapt
began to chatter among themselves.

Frowning, Sam turned toward Miss Tearwater. She stood entirely too close for comfort, but he’d been so intent upon finding the device that produced the ghost that he hadn’t noticed. He took a step away from the window—and Miss Tearwater—and considered what he’d seen.

It had been the damnedest thing. It had actually been a woman’s form floating in the garden. And it hadn’t been just a vague shape. It had clearly been a woman with long, dark hair, and Sam had been able to discern her distinctly medieval style of gown. It had even had some color.

Sam wondered how Miss Tearwater had done it.

Perhaps Fletcher was responsible. The man had been conveniently absent all day. He must have returned sometime earlier to set up whatever contraption he used to project gaslight through the smoke, to illuminate it.

Sam had to admit it had been an excellent performance.

But he wondered how the window had broken.

“This should be boarded up.” He searched the floor for whatever object must have been thrown
through the window, but didn’t find anything. It was curious, but certainly not supernatural.

“There’s a hammer and nails in the garden shed. And wood planks in the barn, but I don’t expect you to take care of this, Mr. Temple. You’re my guest—”

“I don’t mind.” It would give him a good excuse to get down to the garden and catch Fletcher in the act of putting away his projection apparatus.

As Miss Tearwater began to sweep up the broken glass, Sam went downstairs. He picked up an oil lamp, then went out through one of the back doors. The same people who’d watched Fletcher’s filmy projection were still out there, chattering excitedly among themselves. Sam shook his head in disbelief at their gullibility and started his search before it became entirely dark.

He began behind a tall hedge, the most likely place to conceal whatever equipment Fletcher had used. Bending low, Sam illuminated the ground, but found nothing suspicious along the entire row. He expanded his search to the surrounding area, and to the small garden shed and behind the garden wall.

But nothing turned up.

Sam knew there had to be a device somewhere. It was just going to take him a bit longer to find it. And the job would be made a lot easier once he had Miss Lilly Tearwater in his confidence.

“Mr. Temple, is it?”

The man’s voice startled Sam as he came out of the shed with a hammer in one hand and nails in the other.

“Henry Dawson,” the fellow said, holding out one hand.

Sam managed to avoid it, wondering how Dawson happened to know him. They hadn’t been introduced, although Sam had seen him in and around the inn at various times throughout the day.

“Quite an exhibition,” Dawson said.

“Yes. It was.”

“What do you make of it, Temple?”

Sam turned and closed the door to the shed. “Why do you ask?”

“I understand you’re a man of science. You, if anyone, would have an objective opinion about this haunting.”

“I prefer to have sufficient data before I draw conclusions,” Sam replied, taking an instant dislike to Mr. Dawson. Sam was unsure what it was about the man that bothered him. There was an indolence about him that grated, but Sam had known plenty of sluggish people.

From what he had seen of him, Dawson seemed to have hung about the inn all day, when everyone else had gone out—hiking or boating, visiting Asbury. At supper, he’d sat alone in a far corner of the dining room, watching—no, observing—all the activity around him, with flat, emotionless eyes.

Like some of Sam’s jailers in Sudan.

To Sam’s annoyance, Dawson followed him through the garden and walked with him toward the barn. “Seems odd that every time a ghost appears, there’s a crash of some kind. Or a weird spate of weather.”

“Frisky ghosts,” Sam said. He didn’t like the other man’s insinuations, even though Sam had made
similar ones himself. It was one thing for him to believe Lilly Tearwater guilty of chicanery. But for some inexplicable reason he didn’t care for it much when Henry Dawson made the same assumption.

L
illy held the lamp high to give Mr. Temple enough light to hammer the large plank across the attic window. She didn’t know why she was allowing him to do this work—he was a Ravenwell guest. This was something Davy Becker should have handled.

Besides, she sensed that he was observing her closely. He wanted to discover the secret to the haunting, and figured she was the key. Samuel Temple wasn’t the first to try.

Lilly would never let anyone know what she was capable of. Mr. Temple would never learn her secret, and he would certainly never guess it.

“Have you been anywhere else, Mr. Temple? Besides Egypt and Sudan?” She asked these questions in order to divert him from his own queries, but also because those places fascinated her.

Mr. Temple finished with one nail and moved to the next. “You name it,” he replied. “I’ve been there.”

“Athens?”

“Um-hmm.” He had nails in his mouth, so his answer was inarticulate.

Lilly waited until the hammering stopped. “Rome?”

“Plenty of times. And Florence. Venice. Everywhere in Italy.”

“Did your work take you there—studying bees?”

“No. My family spent several years in Italy when I was a boy. My father’s work kept us there.”

That surprised Lilly. “What does he do?”

“He’s an archaeologist. Studies ancient civilizations, which makes Italy a choice place for him.”

“And you traveled with him?”

His head bobbed once. “All of us—my mother, my brothers and sisters. We made quite a crowd, wherever we went.”

Lilly could hardly imagine such a family. She and Charlotte had only had each other—and Maude, of course. But Maude had never been a mother to them. She’d fed and clothed them, and given them directions for work, for school.

Maude had kept them mostly at Ravenwell. She didn’t like exposing Charlotte to other children, who mocked her attempts at speech and her misunderstandings. And Maude had worried constantly that Lilly would do something to bring the wrath of the town upon them.

After all those years of being wary and careful, Lilly wasn’t going to let down her guard now.

“Tell me about Rome.”

“What do you want to know?” He hammered in another nail, giving her a chance to think of the photographs she’d seen in her books and journals, and all the places she’d read about.

“I want to know about the Forum, Palantine Hill, the Pantheon, and Michaelangelo’s Sistine Chapel.”

“You don’t want much, do you?”

“Since I’m not in a position to travel, Mr. Temple,” she said, “I’d like to learn all I can about these places.”

“Why not take some time off and go?”

Lilly shrugged. “It’s just not possible.” She’d had one opportunity to leave Ravenwell. But that had been years ago, before Maude’s death. Lilly had barely opened the letter from the wealthy Mrs. Blakely, offering her a post as her traveling companion, when Maude had taken ill. Going away had become impossible.

They walked down the stairs together and into the main reception room, where Mr. Payton and the others stood in the center of the room, just as they had the night before.

“It was so close!” Payton exclaimed.

That had been the point of tonight’s orchestrated visitation. Lilly had initiated it when she was occupied at the front desk with Mr. Temple, to allay his suspicions that she was the cause of the apparition. And to make sure none of her guests went home with even the slightest shred of doubt. Lilly suspected she would receive a slew of letters requesting rooms in the near future. The price of a new pane of glass was worth the future business she had just attracted.

“You could see the color of her gown—”

“I saw the color of her
eyes!
”

Excited voices continued, but Lilly walked past the group and went to the desk where she’d left her books. Mr. Temple was already there, apparently unimpressed by Lady Alice and uninterested in the group’s excitement.

Absently, his long fingers flipped through the
pages of the Sanderson book. “The Ravenwell ghost causes quite a stir.”

Lilly shrugged. “I’m accustomed to it by now.”

“Does it speak?” he asked. “The ghost, I mean.”

“There are two ghosts,” Lilly said. His nonchalance irritated her. What would have to happen for Mr. Temple to be impressed? The sight of both ghosts? Maybe five of them? And perhaps they should ruffle his hair or…snap his suspenders.

“Who are they?” He didn’t look up from the Egypt book, but kept paging through, stopping to look at one photograph after another.

“Who?” She could play his game.

He looked up at her then. And smiled.

Lilly felt her heart drop to her toes. Perhaps she
wasn’t
equipped to play his game. “T-the ghosts?” she stammered.

He waited.

“It was Lady Alice who appeared tonight,” she said, once she was in control again. “As the story goes, she was a visitor at Ravenwell. Her husband killed her when he found her with her lover.”

“How do you know this?”

“It’s just what I’ve heard over the years. My aunt Maude… Well, she knew the history of the house.” Which was the truth. She’d known everything about Ravenwell Cottage, though none of it had included stories about ghosts.

“Where’s Fletcher?”

“Tom? At home, I imagine. He takes care of his elderly mother. Or perhaps he hasn’t yet returned from Crag’s farm.”

“Very convenient.”

“Are you insinuating that Tom is…that he…”
She slammed her book shut just as he yanked his fingers out of it. She gathered the Egypt book and
Athens of Antiquity
into her arms and turned to him. “You’ll forgive me, Mr. Temple, I have work to do.”

She left in a huff, angry that she had let his insinuations get the better of her. Mr. Temple’s doubt was no different from the few other guests who’d been reluctant to believe in her ghosts. Disbelief was easy to deal with.

It was his cocky attitude that rankled.

Closing herself into the office behind the desk, Lilly hugged her books and took a moment to settle down before going through the door that led to the private apartment she shared with Charlotte. Her friend always sensed disquiet around her, and it upset her.

When Lilly felt reasonably calm, she walked into the sitting room where Charlotte sat beside a window, sewing. Lilly recognized Tom’s shirt on her lap, and saw that Charlotte was repairing a tear in the sleeve. She was unaware of Lilly’s presence, and Lilly did not want to startle her.

She set down her books and picked up a lamp, causing a change in lighting that made her friend look up. Smiling brilliantly, Charlotte told Lilly about Duncan’s kittens, then about the fun she’d had in the kitchen, helping Mr. Clive make pudding.

Lilly was glad Charlotte had had such a grand day. But she wished her friend were capable of understanding the problems she herself faced every day. Ordering supplies, keeping the day maids on task, making the payroll, balancing their income against their debts…

Creating ghosts for the amusement of the guests.

Lilly’s keen loneliness struck her hard. She was usually able to keep it contained, but her need to communicate fully with another soul, to speak of her wishes and aspirations, to share her troubles, was nearly overpowering. It welled up inside her and threatened to spill out in a shower of miserable tears.

Charlotte’s hands stilled. She tilted her head and looked quizzically at Lilly.

They had never devised any signals for feelings beyond “happy” or “sad.” It didn’t matter. Lilly doubted that she could actually verbalize the torrent of emotions that rushed through her now. She gave a shrug of her shoulders, smiled wanly and left Charlotte. She set her books on the table in her room, then picked up a shawl and went through the back hall that led to the inn’s kitchen.

It was dark, and all was quiet. What Lilly needed was some time away from the inn—just a few minutes to forget about the responsibilities that bound her. She tossed the shawl around her shoulders and slipped out the back door.

Sam blew out a harsh breath and acknowledged that he hadn’t handled that encounter very well. It was going to take some time before Lilly Tearwater would be willing to talk to him again, especially about the ghosts.

He supposed it was fortunate he hadn’t mentioned Miss Charlotte as a possible trickster, or else the fire in Lilly’s violet eyes would certainly have singed him.

There had to be a way to disprove this haunting nonsense. Sam shoved his hands in his pants pockets
and left the lobby, passing the group of gullible guests, who were still talking about what they’d seen in the garden.

There was no point in searching the garden again tonight. Sam hadn’t been able to find anything in the twilight, and it was fully dark now. But he had no doubt that come morning, he would find what he was looking for. There would be something…maybe even the tracks of something Fletcher had dragged across the lawn.

Where was the mechanism stored? There had to be a device hidden somewhere, and Sam would lay odds that Tom Fletcher was its operator. He seemed to know the place, as well as anyone, so it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to arrange the display and make a quick exit afterward.

Stopping in the doorway that led to the garden, Sam leaned against the doorjamb and gazed out at the scene before him. A picturesque stone courtyard was not far from the kitchen, with several tables and chairs tucked into the farthest corner and arranged for eating out-of-doors.

A garden wall, a hedge, flower beds, a bird bath…

And someone sneaking away into the dark.

Even with the moonlight, it was too dark to tell who it was, but Sam wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass. If it was Fletcher, he was going to confront him tonight.

The lawn muffled his footsteps when he stepped outside. He made his way carefully to the path that led beyond the garden, branching left and right.

Sam wasn’t familiar with the terrain. He’d never considered the possibility that he’d be trying to navigate it in the dark, and had to be attentive at every
step. It wasn’t easy to avoid all the roots and underbrush that tried to trip him up.

Fletcher obviously knew where he was going. Sam hoped he was carrying his “apparatus,” for lack of a more precise word to describe whatever he used to make the “ghost” appear. If Sam could catch him in the act of hiding the thing, that would be all the proof he needed.

His hundred pounds would be in the bag.

Pleased to have resolved the mystery without having to waste too much time, he continued to follow the shadowy form through the woods, toward the meadow and down to the lake beyond. He moved slowly, which allowed Fletcher to get quite a distance ahead, but even at his unhurried pace, Sam tripped. Somehow, he managed not to fall, but landed hard on one foot, jarring his healing ribs. Cursing silently, he held the injured foot and hopped on the other until the painful throbbing stopped.

Then he stood still and gave himself a moment to catch his breath.

Glancing down the path, he saw that the head and shoulders he followed were much farther away now, and he could barely see the figure against the slightly lighter background of the sky. Aware that hurrying would very likely cause another mishap, Sam picked his way carefully toward the lake.

When he was only a few yards from the sandy beach, he stood beside a tree and tried to locate Fletcher. The sound of a long, loud sigh caught his attention, and he saw his quarry sitting on a rock near the water. But it wasn’t Fletcher.

It was a woman. Clearly delineated in the moonlight was Lilly Tearwater.

She raised her arms and loosened her hair, letting the inky mass cascade down her back and shoulders. Sam held his breath when she bent down toward the sand. A moment later, she held something away from her body and he wasn’t quite sure what—
Her leg!

She held one sleek limb fully extended, with her toes gracefully pointed, while she peeled down a stocking. Her movements were slow and seductive, enticing, though she had no reason to suspect she was not alone. She lowered her leg, then raised the other, while Sam gaped at her.

Any thoughts of her chicanery fled as wild imaginings streaked through his mind. He pictured himself approaching her, sliding his hands up those smooth legs, standing between them.

He clamped his lips together to keep from groaning aloud.

Her pale skin glowed in the silvery light and her loosened hair curled wildly down her back. When she stood, she hiked up her skirts, exposing her bare legs from the knees down.

Sam gripped the tree and watched her wade into the water, chagrined that the only way he could enjoy a woman was from a distance. She took a few graceful steps, then kicked one foot, splashing water out in front of her. The action was controlled, with a subdued turbulence.

Excitement prickled at Sam’s spine. How would she be if she lost her restraint?

His hands clenched tightly. Who was he fooling? Just because his masculine instincts had returned did not mean that he could follow through. Miss Tearwater was a lady.

And there was no room in Sam’s life for her.

Had he encountered Lilly Tearwater before the Sudan, he would have joined her in the water, surprised her with his kiss, his caress. He would have sampled the wildness that lay barely concealed in her fiery eyes.