Margo Maguire (2 page)

Ravenwell Cottage, Cumbria, England, Midsummer 1886

T
wilight. The time of day when Lilly Tearwater’s illusions worked to greatest effect. While her guests held their collective breaths and watched speechlessly, a filmy human form floated through the air from the garden gate to the upper story of the inn. It gave a plaintive cry as it disappeared into one of the attic windows.

Lilly watched from the garden as the small group of visitors began to chatter among themselves, in awe of the spectacle they’d just seen. And she waited to see what unexpected consequence would come of her actions.

Something
always occurred.

A moment later, a large potted plant fell from the garden wall and shattered on the cobble walk. Lilly took a deep breath and felt herself lucky that no greater disaster had occurred as a result of her hand
iwork. From experience, she knew that anything could happen, and it was no small worry.

Lilly had never known what to make of her strange abilities, and neither had Maude Barnaby, the childless widow who’d years ago brought her to Ravenwell from Saint Anne’s Orphanage in Blackpool. Aunt Maude, as Lilly had come to call her, had forbidden her to use her talent of making things happen with just a determined thought. Maude was certain it could only be the work of the devil, and she would have none of it at Ravenwell.

Yet it did not feel evil to Lilly. It was just…part of her, she supposed, a somewhat embarrassing part, like her distressingly wild, black hair. Or her strange eyes, the color of violets. Lilly guessed she had inherited the talent—like her hair and eyes—from her parents whom she’d never known. Whether they’d been gypsies or itinerant Irish, Lilly would never know.

But Maude had made it quite clear that if anyone ever discovered the power she wielded, Lilly would be ostracized. She’d be shunned and vilified as a sorceress.

“Oh, my heavens!” cried a shrill voice.

Lilly whirled around to see Ada Simpson entering through the gate. The woman carried a small package clutched to her bony chest, and her eyes were locked on the attic window.

“Er…have you never seen Sir Emmett before, Miss Simpson?” Lilly asked, quickly recovering herself. She knew perfectly well that very few of the townspeople had ever seen Sir Emmett and Lady Alice—the two phantoms she’d fabricated from her imagination. Instinct, along with Aunt Maude’s pro
hibition, had caused Lilly to keep the ghostly displays limited. She only used the “apparitions” to ensure that the inn managed to stay in business.

Lilly knew there was a fine balance between over-exposure and the unpredictable consequences of using her strange talent. Yet the ghostly visions of the past two years were the only reason there was money to pay off the debts Maude had accrued to keep them from starving. Ravenwell Cottage was too far from the lake to be really popular, though they’d had their regular guests to keep them in business over the years. But only just.

Now Lilly had succeeded almost too well. There was rarely a vacant room at Ravenwell.

Miss Simpson kept her eyes trained on the upper window where the specter had last been seen. Her face was pale, her lips trembled slightly, and Lilly wondered what she was doing at Ravenwell Cottage at this hour. Night fell quickly in the country, and it would be fully dark by the time the woman took the path back to town. Lilly hoped she hadn’t come all the way to Ravenwell on foot.

“I—I…”

Lilly watched as the spinster gathered her wits and turned. The woman straightened her spine, pursed her lips and looked down her avian nose at Lilly, making her feel like the needy little orphan who had come to Ravenwell Cottage twelve years before. Miss Simpson cleared her throat. “This afternoon, one of your guests—Mr. Henry Dawson—came down to the shop for my brother’s elixir, but we had none.”

“Ah…” That explained the package Miss Simpson held so closely. And why the chemist’s sister
wore her best summer dress on a cool Monday evening. She must have decided to deliver the elixir herself to Mr. Dawson, a decidedly eligible bachelor near Ada’s age. There was no other reason why Ada Simpson would darken Ravenwell’s door. She and Maude had been rivals since girlhood, the last straw being the day Maude had married Edward Barnaby. Even now, Ada maintained that Maude had stolen him from her.

And Miss Simpson had continued her disdain of Ravenwell Cottage
and
Lilly to this day, three years after Maude’s death.

“I believe you’ll find Mr. Dawson…umm…” Lilly eyed the group of guests who were still marveling over the apparition, but frowned when she did not see the man in question. “He must be in the sitting room,” she said, keeping her tone civil, if not friendly. She had a great deal more to worry about than a budding romance between Miss Simpson and Mr. Dawson. Lilly was behind schedule.

Her neighbor, Tom Fletcher, was doing her the favor of collecting Ravenwell’s newest guest from the railroad station in Asbury and driving him up to the inn. And Lilly’s longtime friend whom she regarded as a sister, Charlotte Gray, had only now been free to prepare the man’s bedroom.

Miss Simpson hurried off to find her prey as Lilly headed for the shed where the garden tools were kept. It would have been much easier to clean up the mess with a blink of her eye, and to make the guest room ready with a mere thought. But the consequences might be severe. Lilly did not want to risk using her magic again.

She swept up the broken pottery, then returned to
the inn, entering through the back. The guests were still milling about the garden, and Lilly did not wish to become caught in any discussion of the ghost. At least, not now. Perhaps she would join them later, once her chores were completed and the new gentleman was settled.

Lilly walked through the kitchen, which was in good order, thanks to Ravenwell’s efficient chef and the kitchen maids. She took a lamp and climbed the back staircase in search of Charlotte, who’d come to Ravenwell with her from the orphanage.

Charlotte and Lilly were like sisters in every way but blood. To Lilly’s way of thinking, Charlotte was as beautiful as an angel, with hair so blond it was nearly white, her skin as pure as fresh cream. Charlotte’s deep green eyes were probably her most striking feature, though all her physical traits in combination were utterly amazing.

Her only shortcoming was her deafness. As far as Lilly knew, Charlotte could hear nothing at all. Not the chirping of the birds, nor the roar of the train when it pulled into the station. At the orphanage, Lilly had taken it upon herself to take care of little Charlotte, who was three years younger. The two had become inseparable, and had even developed a language of their own, using gestures and hand signals.

Lilly’s ties to Charlotte had been so strong that she’d refused to leave Saint Anne’s Orphanage with Maude Barnaby unless her friend was allowed to come, too.

Reluctantly, Maude had agreed, and to Lilly’s knowledge, she had never regretted it. Charlotte had been a sweet-tempered child and a good worker. As
long as she was given careful directions, she could accomplish any task.

Many were the times when Lilly had wanted to turn her strange talent to Charlotte’s deafness, and mend whatever was wrong with her ears. But Maude had strictly forbidden it. Besides interfering with God’s creation, there were always consequences to Lilly’s interventions. And to alter Charlotte so drastically…well, Maude would have none of it, and her admonishments still kept Lilly from acting.

A loud crash startled her from her thoughts, and she hurried toward the guest room at the far end of the hall. She discovered Charlotte standing amid shards of broken crockery. The carpet and wood floor were soaked with water.

Charlotte shook her head and made a shrugging motion, indicating that she didn’t know how the pitcher had fallen.

Lilly did not have time for this latest disaster, but she could never be harsh with her friend. Whatever had happened had been inadvertent.

“Is the bath done?” Lilly asked. She spoke aloud and gestured toward the room at the end of the hall.

Charlotte shook her head.

Lilly gave Charlotte a signal to go. She didn’t want her to watch as she restored the guest room to order in half a second’s time. “Finish up in there,” she said, “and I’ll take care of this mess.”

A sudden, sharp wind whipped Sam Temple’s hat from his head, and a deafening crack of thunder split the air. He could see no sign of a storm in the vicinity, or even in the distance.

Tom Fletcher stopped the buggy and jumped
down to retrieve the hat, even as the wind continued its fierce attack. “Sorry,” the man shouted over the gale, eyeing the sky. “I don’t know where that could have come from, although there’ve been a few strange happenings ever since the ghosts started visiting at Ravenwell.”

Sam managed to refrain from making a derisive sound, and waited for Tom to climb back into the buggy and continue on their way. He wished he’d ridden his own horse to Cumbria. In the months since his release from the Mahdiyah prison, he was not a man to sit idly, waiting for departure times.

He had always thought himself a patient man, a tolerant man. But those months in filthy confinement had changed him. The hours of pain, of slipping outside his body in order to survive the tortures inflicted upon him and his colleagues… Sam was no longer the same young scientist who’d set off to study African honeybees near the banks of the Nile River.

Sam needed that job in London. He needed the calm and staid position that would provide him a livelihood without putting him at risk. He would find a quiet little flat near the university and spend his days in the controlled conditions of a laboratory, and never venture away from civilization again.

But in order to be assured of the post at the Royal College, he had to prove his newly postulated theory about a peculiar bee behavior. Sam’s academic credentials were good, and he’d studied with the best— Professor Robert Kelton. But the data he’d gathered in Sudan might not be enough. One final summer in the country should do it, then he could publish his studies and present the paper to the board of the Royal College at year’s end.

The hundred pounds he would win from Jack would tide him over until then.

“Not much farther to go,” Tom said, appearing unnerved by the strange wind that was still blowing dust and debris into their faces and rattling the trees around them. He was about Sam’s age, and just as tall, but more heavily built, with burnished red hair and freckles. “The cottage is just down this lane, past the bend.”

Sam’s jacket flapped around him, and his hair whipped his neck and face. The dust made him sneeze suddenly, sending a sharp jab of pain through his newly healed ribs.

A moment later, they rounded a curve and Ravenwell Cottage came into view.

“Cottage” was a misnomer. The place looked like a country manor house, with a large front entrance and broad, sweeping wings on each side. As Sam took in the sight, a shard of lightning pierced the night, crashing down from the heavens straight through the roof of the inn.

Fletcher pulled back on the horse’s reins and rose to his feet, just as everything became quiet again. The wind stopped as suddenly as it had arisen.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

Sam felt the same. He was a man who studied nature and all its manifestations, yet he had never seen or heard of such odd weather. Perhaps it was a regional aberration. “This sort of thing happen often?”

Fletcher remained standing for a moment, shaking his head slightly, frowning. “Midsummer is our best season. We’ll have the occasional rain, but I’ve…” He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never
seen anything like this. I hope Charlotte—I hope everyone is all right.” He sat down again and drove the buggy quickly across the fine gravel of the drive.

“It doesn’t appear to have done much damage,” Sam said, his gaze taking in all his surroundings. Other than a few branches scattered on the grounds, there did not seem to be anything amiss.

The man did not reply, but continued to the front entrance, where he jumped down and hurried into the inn, leaving Sam to deal with his own luggage.

Sam didn’t mind. He had his camera and plates, his microscopes and bottles. He wanted them handled carefully—certainly not in haste. He went around to the back of the buggy and shuffled his things in order to reach the crate with the most delicate instruments. Lifting it gently from the buggy, he turned and carried it through the front door.

The large reception area reminded Sam of a medieval castle’s great hall. Here, though, there were wall sconces with gaslights, comfortable sofas and fresh cut flowers in vases. A crowd of people stood together in the center on a large, patterned rug. They were all speaking at once, carrying on in a distinctly atypical manner for the Brits Sam had come to know.

They were puzzled and frightened, yet they seemed…invigorated.

Sam looked for Fletcher, but didn’t spot him. Then he glanced around to see if there was anyone on hand to check him in and show him to his room. A large desk, illuminated by two gaslights, stood along the far wall. Sam made his way toward it and set his crate on the floor while the crowd continued to clamor.

No doubt the sudden wind had everyone specu
lating about the weather, and what would happen next.

Sam was curious, too, but he wanted to get his belongings out of that buggy and into his room before the storm broke. No telling what kind of weather a wind like that would bring. He was just about to ring the small bell on the desk when someone called his name.

“Mr. Temple?” A feminine voice, low and sweet, spoke to him from behind. At the same time, Sam felt her touch, felt her hands sliding over his shoulders as clearly as the wind that had blown off his hat only a few minutes before.

His knees went weak, and he felt his breath whoosh out of him as if he’d been punched. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and the palms of his hands.

No one touched him.
Not after all that had happened in Sudan.

“Mr. Temple?” she repeated. “I’m Miss Tearwater.”