Bewitched Page 11

  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, try
ing 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?”