Damn the chit to hell! Damn her for being beautiful, and desirable, and spirited. Damn her for reminding him of what he had lost and how very much he missed it. Most of all, damn her for being so bloody provoking.
Michael smiled grimly at the irony of that last. In this instance the consequences of Emily provoking him had turned out to be bloody to the extreme. Indeed, Timothy Eadon had taken one look at his agitated state when he had come upon him in the park, scowling after Emily’s retreating form, and had promptly declared an immediate need to bleed him of at least twenty ounces. Bleeding was, of course, the prescribed remedy for any emotional or physical state that might be deemed sufficiently stimulating to trigger a spell; a treatment effective in that it left the patient too weak to do or feel anything at all. Besides that, it hurt like hell, a prospect that went far in keeping the patient properly subdued.
Having tightly bound Michael’s upper arm, making the veins in his lower arm bulge bluish-purple against the pale skin of his forearm, Eadon now positioned the wickedly sharp ivory and steel spring lancet over a thick vein just below the inner bend of his elbow. Glancing up at his patient, he inquired, “Ready, your grace?”
Closing his eyes, Michael gave a single curt nod, his breath hissing out from between his gritted teeth as the blade stabbed into his flesh. His arm jerking away in agonized reflex, he muttered, “Ouch, damn it!”
“There now, hold steady, your grace,” his tormentor coaxed, wrestling his patient’s arm back to the table with one strong hand. Bracing it firmly in place, he dug yet deeper to open the vein, adding in a soothing voice, “It will be over soon. Just relax and think of something else.”
Michael opened his eyes just enough to shoot the man a disgruntled look. It was easy for Eadon to tell him to relax, he didn’t have someone slicing up his arm. Still—
He sucked in another quick breath of pain as the man rotated his now throbbing arm to allow the open wound to drain freely into the silver bleeding cup he held below it.
Still, regardless of how miserable Timothy Eadon made his life, he was nonetheless easier to bear than would have been one of the other assorted physicians, quacks, and butchers who had sought the prestigious position as his attendant. Eadon at least treated him with respect, something which most definitely could not be said about the other candidates, all of whom had spoken to Michael as if he were a half-wit and had pompously cited their intention to deal with him as such. And though Michael truly despised and dreaded Eadon’s treatments, he was able to take some comfort in the fact that the man genuinely wished to help him. He was also more than qualified to do so.
Having spent many years observing the seizure-plagued wretches at Guy’s Hospital in London and examining the effects of various therapeutics on their fits, Timothy Eadon had become an acknowledged expert on convulsive conditions about which he had written countless treatises. It was one of those treatises, one published in a volume amid the mountains of medical tomes his grandmother had combed since the onset of his spells, that had led him to be offered the lucrative position of Michael’s caretaker.
Though Eadon had at first been reluctant to accept, having been desirous of continuing his studies at the hospital, Michael’s grandmother had finally offered him a sum of money that no sane man could turn down. Thus, he had now been with Michael for a year and a half, ever since Michael’s release from Bamforth Hall.
As he always did when he thought of Bamforth, Michael winced.
“Your grace, please! You really must hold still,” Eadon chided, his large, square-palmed hand tightening on Michael’s arm. “It will make matters ever so much easier for you if you will just relax and imagine something pleasant.”
Imagine. Michael winced again at the word. After today he would forever associate it with Emily, and thoughts of her most definitely were not what he would call pleasant.
“There, there, your grace. Only ten more ounces to go,” Eadon murmured, clearly mistaking Michael’s wince as one of pain at his ministrations.
Michael ignored him. Once upon a time, before he had become what he now was, he would have found imagining Emily pleasant to the extreme. How could he not? She was exactly the sort of woman he had always fancied. And there lay the problem. The very sight of her, with her lush figure and exotically beautiful face, stirred feelings in him he hadn’t felt in a very long time—torridly sensual ones that aroused urges he was no longer allowed to experience or able to satisfy.
He wanted her … God! How he wanted her! He couldn’t recall ever wanting a woman as badly as he’d wanted Emily as she stood by his side in the chapel, a sultry temptress in virginal white silk and Brussels lace. Indeed, so strong was his desire that it had almost brought him to his knees in devastated need when she had lifted her face to his at the close of the ceremony, chastely offering her lips for the bridal kiss.
Michael groaned softly at the remembrance of those lips, so full and red, prompting another pacifying murmur from Eadon.
Never in his life had he seen such a lusciously ripe mouth; never had he felt one so pliant or tasted one so honeyed. And the way she’d smelled … mmm … sweet, like garden carnations beneath the hot summer sun. It was a pleasant fragrance, one rendered irresistible by the bewitching alchemy of her wondrous skin.
Now oblivious to Eadon’s ministrations, Michael’s thoughts lingered longingly on Emily’s skin. It was porcelain perfection blushed with the most provocative shade of red he had ever seen. Strawberries and cream. Mmm, yes. It reminded him of strawberries and cream. And it just so happened that he adored strawberries dipped in sugared cream. No doubt he would adore the taste of her skin beneath his kisses even more.
No doubt at all, he thought ruefully, brutally forced back to his wretched reality by yet another shock of pain as Eadon prodded his arm wound, encouraging it to continue bleeding. Too bad he would never have the pleasure of finding out exactly how scrumptious she tasted.
Gritting his teeth as Eadon continued his relentless poking, Michael grimly considered the cruel paradox that was his life. He’d married the most desirable woman in the world, which meant that she was his for the taking. And damn it! He wanted to take her, more than anything else in the world. But he couldn’t, not now. Humiliating experience had taught him that. And it was that memory, coupled with the bitter frustration born of the knowledge that he was unable to satisfy his urgent masculine need, that had made him treat Emily so abominably in the park.
Oh, yes. He knew that he had been wrong in behaving as he had, that he had been unjust in blaming and punishing her for his futile desires. He had known even as he’d lashed out at her that she had done nothing to provoke his lust.
Nothing but be beautiful, he amended with a grimace, and beauty was quite enough to arouse him these days. Indeed, when one considered the fact that he, who had once been known for his voracious sexual appetite and amorous escapades, hadn’t had a woman in over two years, was it really any wonder that the sight of Emily would affect him so? He shook his head, groaning in despairing response.
“Easy now, your grace. I know it hurts,” Eadon murmured, referring, of course, to his torturous manipulations.
Michael spared him a wan smile. Compared to the anguish of his mind, the pain in his arm was negligible. Now too mired in that anguish to escape, he slipped helplessly back into his thoughts of Emily.
No, he meditated, taking up where he had left off. Emily wasn’t to be blamed for his lust, any more than she was to be blamed for their marriage. Like himself, she’d been nothing but a pawn in his grandmother’s insidious little scheme to ensure the duchy. That she’d entered the marriage with a plan of her own, well, what did it matter? He should simply be grateful that she’d saved him from Bamforth, and let it go at that.
Unfortunately, what he should feel and how he felt were two entirely different matters. And he couldn’t say that he was particularly proud of how he felt at that moment.
Had his arm not been otherwise engaged, he would have raked his fingers through his hair in his chagrin. Damn it. Why couldn’t Emily have been someone he could ignore, some plain, spinsterish creature with thin lips and a flat bosom? When he’d grudgingly agreed to this marriage, he’d never—ever!—suspected that his bride would be an enchantress. Not that he’d given the matter a great deal of thought. In truth, he’d been so wrapped up in his own woes that he hadn’t really cared what she would be like. Not that it would have mattered if he had. It wasn’t as if he’d had the power to veto his grandmother’s choice.
And if he had been given the option, would he have said nay to Emily Merriman?
Michael didn’t have to think twice to find the answer. There was no way in hell he would have wed her, not when the very sight of her brought him such grief. Then again, if his wife were true to her word, he would be seeing precious little of her in the future, which should settle the problem neatly enough. If only—
“Ow!” he spat abruptly, pulled from his musings by a sudden, intense burning in his arm. Jerking his abused limb from Eadon’s grip, he barked, “What the hell are you doing? That stings!”
Eadon smiled indulgently and reclaimed his patient’s arm. Pressing a thick, clean linen pad against the viciously throbbing incision, he replied, “I treated your wound with Dr. Antell’s latest tincture. Not only is it supposed to prevent infection, it is said to reduce healing time by half.”
“Wonderful,” Michael muttered as the man deftly bandaged his arm. “That means you can cut it back open again twice as often.”
Eadon chuckled. “Bleeding you once a week should continue to be quite sufficient, your grace, unless, of course, you work yourself into another state. There.” He gave the knot he’d tied in the bandage a final tug.
Michael grunted. “You can rest assured that I shall take the utmost pains to avoid anything,” or anyone, he added silently, “the least bit stimulating in the future.” And he would. He’d do his damnedest to make certain that his and Emily’s paths crossed as seldom as possible.
Eadon dipped his head in acknowledgment to his vow. “Very good, your grace. Do you wish to rest now?”
Michael nodded and started to stand, only to fall back into his chair again as his knees gave out. As always, Eadon was there to aid him, his strong hands bracing beneath Michael’s arms to help him rise. Now shivering uncontrollably, Michael gratefully allowed the man to half carry him to the enormous, domed tester bed a short distance away. Worse even than the pain of the bleeding was the debilitating weakness it left in its wake. His teeth were chattering now. That, and the unnatural coldness.
Having already disrobed his patient to the waist for the bleeding, Eadon sat Michael on the edge of the bed and efficiently stripped his lower body. After garbing him in a warm flannel nightshirt, he tucked him beneath the covers.
Utterly drained now, Michael rolled onto his side, gingerly cradling his sore arm in his uninjured one as he curled into a tight ball, desperately trying to get warm.
“Would you care for a hot brick, your grace?” the ever solicitous Eadon inquired, draping a thick blanket atop the heavy velvet counterpane cocooning Michael’s violently shaking body.
“Several, please. I’m freezing,” Michael somehow managed to force out from behind his chattering teeth. With that he curled yet tighter and closed his eyes. Unbidden, a vision of Emily sprang out of the darkness, smiling at him in a way that made fire jolt through his loins. Groaning at the resulting ache, he cracked open his eyes. “Eadon?” he called hoarsely to the man, who now stood at the fireplace warming bricks.
Eadon glanced over his broad shoulder, one thick, tawny eyebrow raised in query. “Your grace?”
“I would like one of your sleeping draughts as well. The strong one.”
“But that one leaves you senseless for days,” his attendant protested, frowning at the peculiarity of his patient’s request. So violently did Michael object to being drugged, that he consented to take the potion in question only after he had passed several sleepless nights and everything else had failed to bring him rest.
“Exactly,” Michael muttered. Several days of senselessness was exactly what he needed to erase Emily from his mind.
In a region as contrary in climate as it is in its appearance, the sunny Dartmoor afternoon dwindled into an unseasonably cold and rainy night, sending its inhabitants scurrying to seek the warmth of their hearths. The hearth Euphemia sought was the magnificent carved wood and brick Tudor one in her bosom-bow’s bedchamber, before which they now sat cozily ensconced in a pair of century-old easy chairs, toasting their stockinged feet and nursing their rheumatism with the aid of the decanter of gin they had filched from the library sideboard.
Thoroughly pleased by her day’s work, Euphemia settled contentedly back in her chair, declaring, “The wedding was a rather agreeable affair, I think, considering the circumstances of the marriage.”
“Indeed it was,” Adeline concurred, pausing in donning the shabby red knit cap she always wore on cold nights to nod. “I was particularly pleased by the pains the staff took to make everything so festive. As you know, neither Michael nor I bid them to decorate the chapel, and the gala following the ceremony was entirely their doing.” Nodding again, she began tying the frayed ribbon straps beneath her chin, her age-gnarled fingers flexing awkwardly in their arthritic stiffness. “I knew the servants were fond of our boy, but I had no notion they adored him so very much.”
“The servants have always doted on Michael, ever since he was an infant,” Euphemia reminded her, lifting her glass to her nose to savor the crisp, juniper berry-nuanced scent of the gin. “And why should they not? He has always been the best of masters, unfailingly fair and considerate … exactly as we taught him to be.”
“Mmmm, yes. We did do rather well by him in that regard,” her friend acknowledged, lifting her own glass from the graceful Chippendale tea table they had had the footman set between their chairs. Tippling a lusty swallow, she added in a liquor-choked voice, “Under Michael’s tutelage, Emily should make an admirable duchess. She most certainly looked the part today.”
Euphemia smiled faintly, a wave of fierce, familial pride sweeping through her at the well-deserved praise of her granddaughter’s beauty. “Yes, she did. Indeed, was she not quite the most stunning bride you ever saw?”
“Apart from you, who was and shall forever remain the loveliest bride England has ever seen, yes,” Adeline replied, always the loyalest of friends. “Everything about her was sheer perfection, even that gown, which I must admit to having had reservations about when you first showed it to me.” Shaking her head, she took another quaff of gin. “With that barbaric coloring of hers, who would have guessed that the chit would look so very well in white?”
“Oh, I rather suspected she would, though, of course, I cannot take credit for selecting the color. White has become quite the rage for wedding gowns, you know, and according to the dressmaker, no other color would do.”
Adeline shrugged. “Nonetheless the gown was a masterful stroke on your part. Decking Emily out in proper wedding attire added a certain … er … seemliness to the affair, making it appear as if the bride had actually anticipated and rejoiced in her upcoming nuptials. What I do not understand is how you managed to have a gown so obviously meant for the altar made up right under her nose. Surely she suspected that something was afoot when she saw the design?”
Euphemia shrugged back. “She never suspected because she saw nothing of the gown until I presented it to her this morning.”
“Oh?”
Another shrug. “Since her American wardrobe was a provincial abomination, she naturally required a new one. Thus, I had the gown made up with the rest of her garments. Of course, I did have to explain to Madame LeCroix that it was to be a surprise and asked that it not be brought forth during fittings. In view of the fact that it was never adjusted to her form, I think that it fit rather admirably.”
“Indeed it did. It made her figure appear quite spectacular.”
“Her figure is spectacular,” Euphemia corrected with a sniff. “Do not forget that she is my granddaughter.”
“She is at that, every lovely, impertinent inch of her,” her friend agreed amiably, draining her glass.
Mollified, Euphemia followed suit, after which she tossed in, “If you ask me, Michael is lucky to have her.”
“Very lucky … not that he is particularly appreciative of his good fortune.” Adeline emitted one of her signature snorts, the loud, forceful one she reserved for excessively exasperating situations. “The way he looked at her during the wedding, you would have thought that Emily was a hangman about to string him up.”
Euphemia shrugged, unconcerned. “It is only natural that he look so. After all, we did force him into this match. I have no doubt whatsoever that he will appreciate her in time, after his resentment has had time to cool.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But—damn it!” Adeline slammed her empty glass violently onto the tea table. “I expected him to be at least somewhat appeased by the gel’s beauty. If you will recall, nothing used to lift his spirits like the sight of a pretty face.” Her expression grim, she picked up the decanter and sloshed another ration of gin into her glass. Shaking her head, she muttered, “I must confess that I am beginning to fear that Michael’s illness affected him even worse than we suspected. Did I tell you that he admitted to the truth of that dollymop’s rumors?”
“You did,” Euphemia confirmed, presenting her own glass to be replenished.
“Did I also mention how very pained he remains over the episode?”
Pained was he? Hmmm. Euphemia’s eyes narrowed. A hunch slowly dawning, she inquired, “What exactly did he say?”
“Oh, it wasn’t so much what he said. In truth, he said very little about the episode,” her friend replied, pouring the refill. “It was the hostility with which he spoke—well, you know how he’s been since his illness. How he masks his pain with anger?”
Indeed she did. After several beats of contemplation, she picked up her glass, murmuring, “It makes perfect sense, really, all of it.”
“What makes sense?”
“Michael’s behavior toward Emily. As you, yourself, pointed out, he hides his pain behind anger.”
Adeline frowned. “I—I am not entirely certain what you mean.”
“Think, Addy, think! And consider everything … that unfortunate episode with the molly-mop, those Bamforth doctors’ warnings against libidinous excitement. Then remember the Michael of old, how he used to conduct himself around women and how unfailingly charming he was to them, regardless of his mood.” Nodding sagely, Euphemia lifted her glass to her lips and sampled her gin. “It is entirely possible that Michael fancies his pockets to be empty and is simply refusing to window-shop.”
Her friend considered her words, the furrows in her brow deepening as she lifted her own glass to her lips. After taking several meditative sips, she mumbled, “You could be right.”
Euphemia sniffed. “Of course I am. I am always right. It is as plain as the nose on your face that Michael is refusing to admire what he thinks he can never have. Speaking of what he can and cannot have”—she shot her friend a querying look—“I believe you were going to discuss this very matter with Mr. Eadon?”
“I did and I have. I spoke to him three days ago.” Adeline shook her head, chuckling drily. “Poor man. He was beyond shocked that I would broach such a subject, and it took ever so much prodding on my part to make him speak with candor.”
“And?” Euphemia quizzed, indulging in some prodding of her own.
“And unlike the doctors at Bamforth, he sees no reason whatsoever why Michael cannot sire an heir. In fact, he believes that a moderate romp in the marriage bed might actually benefit his health. He said that like the blood, bowels, and digestive tract, a man’s male parts, too, accumulate bad humors, which is why male patients often spill their seed during spells. Since such humors cannot be bled away, or cleansed through clysters and purgatives, the only answer is to allow the patient sexual release.”
The theory made sense, still … “If what Mr. Eadon says is indeed true, how did he explain what happened with the dollymop?” She glanced quickly at her friend, frowning. “You did tell him about the episode, did you not?”
Adeline snorted and took what could only be inelegantly described as a swig from her glass. “Of course I did. Have you ever known me to mince words?”
Euphemia waved aside the question, not about to be drawn into that particular discussion. “So?”
“So, he believes that the episode was due to Michael attempting relations too soon after his illness. If you will recall, the boy had no sooner left his sickbed than he went to the jade.”
“Indeed I do,” she replied, satisfied by the explanation. “I suppose you asked Mr. Eadon to relay his theory to Michael?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Adeline snorted again and drained her glass, an act which provoked a most undignified belch. Ignoring her peccadillo, she responded, “Stubborn whelp! He refused to listen. He is certain that the episode will repeat itself should he attempt to make love again, and he balks at putting himself in the position to suffer more such humiliation.” Clearly at her wit’s end now, she dramatically clutched her empty glass with both hands and moaned, “Oh, Effie! Whatever is to be done? We shall never get our heir at this rate.”
Not believing the situation to be so very desperate, Euphemia gave her bosom-bow’s arm a pacifying pat. “There, there now, Addy, dear. All is not lost. Many a man’s firmest resolution has been broken by the temptation of a woman’s charms. And Michael can hardly avoid being tempted by Emily’s when they will be constantly under his nose.”
Adeline shook her head, unconvinced. “I am not so certain. You know how stubborn Michael is.”
“Yes, but I also know of his weakness for beautiful women. My guess is that if we leave them alone, nature will take its course and that weakness will eventually triumph over his stubbornness.” Nodding her confidence in what she said, she picked up the decanter and poured what little gin was left into her friend’s glass. Indicating that Adeline was to drink, she reiterated, “The way I see it, the question isn’t whether or not Michael will succumb to Emily’s charms, but how long he will be able to withstand them.”
Her friend remained silent for several moments, somberly contemplating the contents of her glass. Finally she sighed and murmured, “I can only pray that you are right.”
“Of course I’m right. I am always right, remember?” Euphemia playfully reminded her, trying to tease the despair from her face.
To her satisfaction, a faint smile lit Adeline’s face. “So you have been telling me for over half a century now.” As quickly as the smile appeared, it faded, and she sighed again. “Oh, Effie. I do so want Michael to be happy … Emily too, of course. In truth, I want it above all else. If they find happiness together, I shall strive not to be too terribly disappointed if they fail to produce an heir.”
“If they find happiness, they cannot help but to produce a dozen heirs,” Euphemia retorted with a chuckle. “And mark my words, Adeline Vane, they shall be very happy indeed. Ecstatically so. How can they not be? They are our grandchildren, which makes them a perfect match. If you ask me— Adzooks!” she expelled abruptly, startled by an unearthly moaning that seemed to resonate from the house itself. “What the devil is that ghastly noise?”
Adeline shrugged, unperturbed. “Just wind in the chimneys. There are close to a hundred chimneys here at the abbey, so it makes quite a noise on stormy nights like this.”
Euphemia remained silent for a moment, listening, her blood chilled by the eerie keening. Outside the storm raged across the seemingly endless blackness of the moors, screaming as it worked itself into a fury that threatened to shatter the windows as it hurled rain against the ancient glass panes.
Shivering, Euphemia snugged her paisley wool shawl tighter about her shoulders, forcing herself to ignore the hellish bluster as she resumed their conversation. “As I was about to say,” she half-shouted over the wind, “the best thing we can do to promote the match is to simply leave them alone. If we aren’t about, they shall undoubtedly feel freer to go about their business.”
Adeline eyed her thoughtfully. “You could be right at that.”
“Of course—”
“You are right. You are always right,” her friend finished for her.
Euphemia chuckled. “Exactly.”
“Well, then. In that instance we must take ourselves off on the morrow. Since I told Michael that we would be staying for at least a fortnight, we shall require a plausible excuse for leaving.”
“Indeed we shall. Hmmm.” Euphemia drummed her fingers against her now-empty glass as she pondered. “Let me see now. Well, there is always that series of dye lectures being presented in Leeds next week. Remember?” She glanced at Adeline. “We received a notice for it last month.”
Her friend nodded. “Mmm, yes. Fascinating stuff. I had rather hoped to attend.”
“Then we shall. We will say … hmmm … yes. We will announce that since matters are so well in hand here, that we feel free to attend the lectures. Considering the piece of work we have done here, I doubt if either Emily or Michael will object too strenuously to us going.” At that moment a particularly bone-chilling moan slithered down the chimneys. Shuddering, she added, “I, for one, shall be glad to be shot of this place. How ever does Michael bear this ungodly noise?”
It sounded like a lost soul, wandering down the halls, wailing its woe.
No, not wandering. Ghosts don’t wander like live people, they float about in the air—and drift through walls, and doors, and such, like—like evil mist, Emily fearfully revised, slanting a nervous glance at her closed bedchamber door. As she peered, half-expecting to see an eerie white haze seeping through the door panels, another ghastly cry rent the air, this one terminating in a hideous moan seemingly right outside of where she stared.
Oh, heavens! It was coming to get her! Emitting an involuntary cry of her own, she ducked her head beneath the bedcovers. Not that she actually believed that she could hide from the ghost, or that the elegant damask coverlet could shield her from it should it choose to murder her. No, she hid because—because—
Well, she didn’t know why. Hiding beneath the covers was just something people did when they were frightened. And now that she thought about it, it seemed a rather silly and futile thing to do. Still, lying all snug and warm like this at least made her feel more secure. Besides, if a ghost did fly through the wall, she would rather not see it coming.
For a long while she lay shivering beneath the covers, envisioning a wraith—a headless one—melting through the wall—drip!—drip!—dripping droplets of spectral blood as it came to steal her soul. Incorporeal in body, but corporal in deadly purpose, it swooped through the air like a—a—well, there was no describing its horribleness as it flew nearer and nearer—drip!—drip!—drip!—wailing the language of hell.
Ar-o-o-o! E-e-e! It seeped beneath the blankets, its vaporous being swirling and coiling about her in a frigid embrace, engulfing her in phantom ice as it slowly leeched her soul from her terror-paralyzed body—
No, no, no! Stop! she commanded her runaway imagination. Stop your nonsense this very instant! There are no such things as ghosts. Papa used to say so … so did Daniel… and—and everyone else. It’s just the wind … yes, just the wind tangling among the chimneys and blustering beneath the eaves. Just the wind … just the wind … no such thing as ghosts … just the wind …
Chanting that mantra to herself, Emily lowered the covers an inch and peeked about the room. It appeared free of unearthly beings. She heaved a gusty sigh of relief and pulled the covers below her chin. Assuming an air of casual bravado, she folded her arms behind her head, struggling to erase her lingering disquiet as she warily surveyed her surroundings.
Decorated in pale purple, white, and celadon green, and trimmed with what must have been all of the gold fringe in England, it was a very grand chamber indeed, too grand in Emily’s estimation, though she did rather like the fireplace. It was an enormous white marble affair, one that quite dominated the purple silk-paneled wall opposite the bed, its chimney piece a sculpted wonder of mythological figures, scrolls, fruit, and foliage, all surrounding an oblong medallion portraying the Three Graces. Whoever decorated the room had had an inordinate fondness for mythology, for it was a recurring theme throughout, though nowhere did it occur more gaudily than in the design of the bed upon which she lay.
Like the chimney piece, the scrolling gold and white rococo headboard, too, was carved with mythical flora and fauna, all framing a colorfully painted scene of Cupid shooting a sleeping Psyche with his magical arrow. Suspended from the ceiling above was a tentlike pavilion of gold-fringed purple and green silk, intricately draped in a series of puffs and crescents to form a billowing canopy and side curtains, the latter of which were held back by a pair of lascivious-looking brass cherubs.
Matching drapery, which had been drawn against the storm for the night, hung at the row of windows to her left, before which sat an elegant writing desk, flanked by a dainty pair of needlework-upholstered sofas. It was to one of those sofas that her gaze was now drawn, her eyes widening in panic at the sight of the diaphanous white figure draped across it. Oh, heavens! It was—it was—
Her wedding gown. Left exactly where she had tossed it. Her terror-tensed body went instantly limp with relief. Goodness, what a ninny she was! She really must learn to bridle her imagination, before she scared herself into an early grave and became a ghost herself. Then again—
She grinned with sudden, wicked amusement. Then again it might be rather enjoyable to be a ghost if she could haunt the duke of Sherrington. Hateful man! After the beastly way he’d scoffed at her curse, it would serve him perfectly right to suffer supernatural torment.
Her fear of ghosts now replaced by the droll fancy of actually being one, she indulged in a particularly satisfying fantasy where she mercilessly plagued her ill-tempered husband, driving him to the brink of despair with her otherworldly mischief. Hah! She could just picture his comical chagrin as his narrow little mind grappled to explain the uncanny happenings it could not and would not accept. The more she imagined, the deeper she sank into her thoughts, at last slipping into the dark domain of sleep.
And she dreamed of Michael—desperate, impossible dreams of longing; of frantically seeking and at last finding him, only to discover that the man she had found wasn’t Michael at all, but a stranger who promptly turned to wind that carried her wails of disappointment across the storm-torn moors. It was one of those queer dreams where she knew she was dreaming and tried to wake up, only to find herself trapped in yet another fruitless chase of a tall, shadowy figure she desperately yearned to be Michael.
On she chased, only to be thwarted in her quest time after frustrating time, growing wearier and more heartsick as she went. Just when she was certain that she would die from exhaustion—
Crash! Clang! She was rescued from her slumbers by a sudden, loud metallic bang. “W-w-what!” she ejected, bolting upright in bed, blinking rapidly in groggy disorientation.
“Oh, yer grace! I beg yer pardon! I dinna mean to wake ye. The coal shovel just slipped from my hands. I swear it did!” a voice apologized in a rush. It was a young, female voice, possessing the same soft intonation that Emily had noticed marked the majority of the servants’ speech.
Stretching, she replied on the tail of a yawn, “It’s quite all right.” She yawned again, then squinted at the bracket clock that sat on a bombe-shaped commode a short distance away. Unable to see the dial through the shadows, she murmured, “Mmm—what time is it, anyway?”
“Just past noon, yer grace.”
Emily broke off amid her third yawn. “Noon!” she gasped, shocked from her drowsiness by the lateness of the hour. “Why wasn’t I awakened earlier?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer grace, but no ’un instructed us to wake ye.” Though the woman’s features were obscured by the darkness of the room, Emily could see her shadowy form rise from where she kneeled before the hearth. “Would ye like me to open the drapes then?”
“Yes, please,” Emily replied, frowning. Not a morning had passed since she’d arrived in England that her grandmother hadn’t sent her haughty French maid, Mademoiselle Gremond, to awaken Emily at precisely seven, after which the old tyrant would sweep into her room and commence in her scolding instruction. Of course, now that she was married, she was no longer subject to her grandmother’s dictates. Still—
Mystified that the woman hadn’t at least inquired after her, considering the hour, she asked, “You haven’t, by chance, seen my gran—uh—Lady Bunbury this morning?”
“Oh no, yer grace. She ’n’ Lady Sherrington were off ’fore sunrise—to Leeds, I believe,” the young woman replied, dragging open the heavy drapery. The wind had swept away all traces of the storm, leaving behind a sky blinding in its sun-drenched brilliance.
Emily squinted against the glare. Leeds? Rather than feeling liberated by the departure of her grandmother, she felt … abandoned. Struck by sudden anxiety, she clutched at the damask coverlet. Oh, dear. Whatever was she to do now? She knew nothing about being a duchess. And after what had passed between her and the hateful duke, well, she had counted on the bosom-bows for guidance. Feeling as lost as the proverbial lamb, she forlornly inquired, “Did they, by chance, say when they would return?”
The woman shook her mob cap-topped head. “Nay, yer grace. But they might’ve left a message fer ye with Grimshaw. Would ye like me to ask him?”
“No. I shall ask him myself—uh—” Her eyes now adjusted to the light, she stared at the servant hard, trying to recall her name. Though she vaguely remembered the woman’s broad, freckled face from the wedding feast, the name that went with it escaped her. Shamed by her lack of talent for remembering names, she finished lamely, “I’m sorry, I cannot seem to recollect your name.”
The woman smiled, a wide, good-natured sort of grin, and bobbed a quick curtsy. “Mercy Mildon, yer grace. Mrs. McInnis, the housekeeper, instructed me to see to yer needs.”
“Did she?” Emily replied, for lack of a better response.
Mercy nodded. “Aye. ’Tis ’cause I’ve a bit of experience as a lady’s maid. I worked fer Lady Pearcy o’er at Hookway manor, ye see, ’fore she died a year ’n’ a half ago.” There was a note of pride in her voice as she made the declaration, one that dampened in the next instance as she added, “Of course, I’ve been workin’ as a chambermaid at the abbey since then, there not bein’ much call fer lady’s maids on the moor. Bein’ a duchess ’n’ all, ye’ll probably be wantin’ to send to London fer one of those fancy Frenchy maids.”
Emily suppressed her urge to grimace. After her dealings with the disdainful Mademoiselle Gremond, the last thing she wanted was a French maid. That prejudice firmly in place, she swept Mercy’s stocky form with her gaze, considering her for the position.
Hmmm. She appeared to be a decent sort of woman. And clean. Emily eyed the servant’s neat blue dimity gown and spotless white apron with approval. Cleanliness was an attribute of the utmost importance in selecting a personal maid. To her credit, Mercy also seemed of a pleasant disposition, and Emily liked her copper penny red hair. Her best friend, Judith, had hair that exact same color.
Pausing now on Mercy’s plain face, which was visibly downcast, no doubt in expectation of being displaced from a position she badly wished to keep, she slowly replied, “Being from America, I had rather hoped to hire someone local … someone who can tell me about Dartmoor and help me learn Dartmoor ways. Are you such a person, Miss Mildon?”
It took a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in. When they did, Mercy’s glum face brightened and she again smiled, this time revealing a set of white, albeit slightly crooked teeth. Clasping her hands together in her excitement, she exclaimed, “Oh, aye, yer grace. Aye! I was born ’n’ raised near Newleycombe, so I know everything there is to know ’bout Dartmoor. I also went to the village dame’s school, so I can read ’n’ write a bit.”
“All the better,” Emily replied, deciding that Mercy Mildon would do very well indeed. “It appears that you are exactly the sort of maid I had hoped to hire. How very lucky for the both of us that you are already at the abbey.”
“Do ye mean it, yer grace? Truly?” Mercy expelled breathlessly, looking as if she hardly dared to believe her own good fortune. “Do ye really want me fer yer maid?”
Emily rotated her shoulders, which were impossibly stiff, grimacing at the resulting pain. “I shouldn’t wish anyone else.”
Apparently Mercy also possessed the qualification of having excellent eyes, because she exclaimed, “Is somethin’ amiss, yer grace? Are ye feelin’ ill?”
Emily smiled at the genuine concern in the servant’s voice. It appeared that she had indeed chosen wisely. Reaching up to rub the aching muscles, she replied, “No, not ill. Just”—another grimace as she kneaded a particularly sore spot—“stiff. I am afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Mercy made a clucking noise behind her teeth. “Well, ’tis hardly a wonder, what with the wutherin’ ’n’ all.”
“Wutherin’?” Emily paused in her massaging, frowning at the unfamiliar term. “What is wutherin’?”
“’Tis what the wind does when it blows o’er the moors,” the servant informed her, returning to the coal-blackened hearth to finish her sweeping. “There’s more wutherin’ that goes on here in Dartmoor than anywhere else in England, ’n’ it wuthers worst of all at the abbey. ’Tis why it’s called Windgate Abbey.” She glanced up then, her blue eyes wide. “Surely ye’ve heard the legend?”
“Legend?” she prompted, though she wasn’t so very certain she wished to hear the tale. If it was anything like the other English legends she had heard, it was bound to be macabre.
Nodding, Mercy dumped a shovel full of soot into her empty coal scuttle. “’Tis said that the sort of wind ye heard last night, the wutherin’ kind, isna wind a’tall, but the souls of sinful people condemned to blow ’bout the moors. ’Tis their penitence, ye see, to wuther. Come Judgment Day, they’ll be pardoned fer their wickedness ’n’ let into heaven. ’Til then, they have to wuther.”
“How awful,” Emily murmured, shivering at the notion of evil spirits howling at her windows.
Mercy nodded, her expression grave. “Oh, aye. ’Tis a dreadful torment, bein’ the wind, ’specially since wind-souls aren’t allowed to rest except once every hundred years. That’s why they howl so, they’re terrible fagged. They howl worse in Dartmoor than anywhere else, ’cause they haven’a rested fer o’er five hundred years. They canna. They can only rest in a secret place deep beneath the moors, but they canna get to it anymore. The monks that built the abbey built it o’er the gate to the place.”
“Hence the name ‘Windgate Abbey,’” Emily mused, speaking more to herself than to Mercy.
“Aye. The winds rage ’round the abbey like they do, ’cause they’re tryin’ to tear it down. They’re desperate to go through the gate ’n’ rest.” Mercy stood then, shaking her head. “’Tis said that the wind’s fury was so bad when the abbey was first built that its howlin’ drove the monks mad. Some of ’em were so crazed by it that they hanged themselves to escape the wutherin’.”
“What!” Emily ejected in shock.
Mercy nodded. “They hanged themselves from the oak tree that used to stand in the courtyard of the cloisters. The cloisters are the ruins at the west edge of the grounds, in that forest of trees. Ye can still see the tree stump there.”
“Oh, my!”
“Aye.” Another nod from Mercy. “The tree’s been gone fer centuries now—it was cut down after the monks hanged themselves—still, on nights when the moon is full ’n’ the wind is wutherin’, the tree is sometimes seen standin’ there again, with the ghostly monks hangin’ from its branches, their corpses swayin’ in the wind. Everyone avoids passin’ that place on such nights, ’cause seein’ the monks means that you’ll die ’fore the year is out.”
“What a terrible tale!” Emily exclaimed, shivering again as she envisioned the tree in question. You could bet she wouldn’t venture anywhere near that place at night, full moon or no.
“Aye. Terrible,” Mercy somberly agreed. “But then, there are all sorts of strange tales told here on the moors. Why, just ’bout every village ’n’ house has a ghost, or a witch, or a demon, or a pixie, or some other sort of uncanny bein’. ’Tis why many people call Dartmoor the most haunted place on earth.” Nodding, she picked up her hearth-cleaning tools. “Now then, yer grace. I suppose you’ll be wantin’ yer breakfast?”
Emily merely stared at her. The most haunted place on earth? Heaven help her! She was even more cursed than she’d suspected.