Meet Me At the Castle (2 page)

Anne made a disgusted sound. “There isn’t much time left before she will be completely on the shelf.”

Clive realized his daughter’s age put her past the prime for marriage. At sixteen she had turned down a proposal from a much older gentleman. Yet Basil Fench, a viscount with money and title, had not impressed her. Esteem and a chance for more riches than her father could ever have given her had not swayed her adamant refusal to marry.

Clive imagined that with the right incentive another man might be willing to marry her. She was not plain. In fact, her beauty was much remarked upon, her wavy hair a deep brown with attractive red highlights, her features even and finely molded. Men had commented on her fine, striking blue eyes. Tall for a woman, she had a good figure.

“There is time.” Clive another took a swig of his brandy. “But it is running away quickly.”

Anne put down her needlework and pinned her husband with a long-suffering look. “I think we should send her to your sister’s in London. Perhaps there she will meet with someone willing to marry her. An older man who will appreciate her dowry. Or perhaps a poor man of good breeding who would see marrying her as a social improvement.”

His interest heightened. “There is great promise in that.”

“You may have to entice her to go.” Anne flicked him a calculating smile.

He looked out the window, gazing past the fields and toward the castle known as Cromar. In the morning sun the gray walls impressed him, their massive size recalling a feudal age. Their lines looked stark and bleak. He would never admit it, but the sight always gave him an inexplicable shudder of dread.

“I may have an idea, my dear.” He turned to gaze upon his wife’s imperial expression. “Something must be done about her obsession with that ruin.”

“I agree. It is not healthy.”

He took another swallow of the mellow brandy to see if it would obliterate the guilt he felt at what he planned to do. “It will be harsh. But it must be done.”

* * * *

Elizabeth sat in the field on her stool, her easel in front of her, her paints alongside. Bright sun warmed the earth, high clouds scuttling in the sky as a cool breeze threatened to overturn her easel.

In the distance the castle rose on the hill like a sentinel above the fenlands, the only commanding position among miles of flat farmland.

Today the object of her portrait was inevitable. The castle.

Cromar.

The word was solid. Dependable.

And it never disappeared. For that she was eternally grateful.

As she brought her brush up to the canvas to make her first stroke, something stopped her.

When would she paint something else?

The words rang in her head, startling her into putting the brush down.

For years she had painted and drawn the castle, and yet somehow she had not captured everything about it. She knew she must continue to paint Cromar until she had given every angle, each nuance an opportunity to be shown. Until she painted the right portrait, the one that explained Cromar in totality, its secrets would languish. Like a person, it would dry up from misuse, neglect, apathy.

Sometimes she felt she
was
the castle.

A weary, ancient structure with no heart left.

Yet when she looked at the castle, especially during the full moon, she often experienced a renewal. A spurt of meaning that came at no other time or event in her days and nights. Cromar, despite its facade of ruin, felt more alive than anything she had ever known.

It was this life that brought her back to Cromar again and again. She had explored Cromar usually at night, but sometimes during the day she wandered among the ruins and listened for the voice of inspiration. With her paints or pencil she would sit down the next day and create what she saw and heard the day or evening before. Many years ago, as a little girl, she had walked to Cromar but had never gone inside. While other children had been frightened by the place and claimed it to be haunted, she had always revered the castle.

Throughout the trials of her life the castle had remained as a steadfast friend. When Elizabeth was five her mother died, and shortly thereafter her father had married Anne. A year later George had been born. When Elizabeth turned fifteen, her favorite aunt, her mother’s sister Victoria, had died, bequeathing money to her niece. Elizabeth’s father had been delighted. It would be a bonus to the amount he had assembled for her dowry.

Even that dreadful viscount had not been able to take her away from here. She also knew if she married, her painting career, for want of a better word, would likely have to end. What husband would understand, and accept, her need to come here, day after day?

She could not bear the thought of leaving Cromar behind.

For a few days after she encountered the mysterious Damian, she found it impossible to paint or draw. It was very unusual indeed. No matter that she wished to paint Cromar every day of her life. Things about the man invaded her every waking moment for a week.

His eyes.

His nose.

Heavens.
His inky black hair that had flowed unfashionably long about his broad shoulders.

His incredible mouth.

No.

It would not do to think of him. What man in his right mind would wander aimlessly in castle ruins in the middle of the night?

She smiled.

Someone, perhaps, like her?

She lifted her brush to the canvas and made the first stroke.

“Elizabeth!”

She turned to see her tall, thin brother walking across the field toward her. When he reached her he grinned.

“George, I thought you were with Mr. Givens finishing your lessons?” Elizabeth squinted in the bright sun as she looked up at him.

“I was.”

“Did you leave when he was not looking…again?”

He laughed. “I didn’t have to worry this time. The old man fell asleep in the middle of my Shakespearean soliloquy.”

It was her turn to laugh, and the sensation filled her with joy. She had taken him into her confidence about her trips to the ruin. She admired how his blond hair lay smoothly combed, and how his blue eyes sparkled. He would one day be a very handsome man, but now he had the gangly appearance of just what he was—a young man not quite matured. He looked like Anne, but his personality strayed so far from hers Elizabeth had difficulty believing the woman had birthed him. She could only hope Anne and her father would not force him to marry some silly young woman who did not deserve him.

He leaned over to look more closely at her canvas. “What are you painting today?”

“Nothing as yet. I thought perhaps to paint Cromar today as it might have been many years ago.”

“Delightful. I long to see you try another landscape. Perhaps Penham Manor?” He looked at her steadily, and she turned away at the scrutiny. He had not questioned her motives for what she painted until today.

“Penham Manor is ugly.”

“That is not true, dear sister, and you know it. It is rather lovely, and everyone in the area envies us.”

I cannot.
She could not feel any great love for the coldness of the manor, the impersonal way her stepmother redecorated at every whim of fashion so that nothing seemed permanent, or dear, or real. There were always guests at the manor, so the large estate bustled at all times. Sometimes, however, she wished it very quiet, with not a soul about but for her. She loved the silence, the solitude, and the quiet reflection of Cromar for just that reason. But her brother was an optimist, and she hated to disillusion him.

“I know, George.”

“Or maybe while you are in London you will find some interesting subjects to paint.”

She looked up at him sharply, a tremor of fear spiking in her stomach. “London?”

He frowned and crossed his arms. “I suppose I shouldn’t say anything.”

“But you will.”

He sighed. “I don’t think it is right what they’re planning for you, Elizabeth. Father and Mother wish to send you to Aunt Ophelia in London so you may attend parties and balls to find a husband. I overheard them speaking of it when they didn’t know I was near.”

It did not surprise her, but the lump rising in her throat felt large enough to choke her, and she had to swallow hard before replying. “I see.”

“Is that all you can say? Who is in London but old men and fortune seekers? I would rather see my incomparable sister with a young man of fortune who would take care of you.”

She smiled weakly and shook her head. “You are astute for one so young. Are you sure there isn’t an adult man inside you?” She looked at ground. “There are no such men for me, George.”

“There must be. Only last year Arabella Pellerton was married, and she was at least two and thirty.”

“She has a great deal of money.”

“Nonetheless, it did occur.”

“She probably didn’t love her husband.”

“What does love have to do with it?”

She pulled her gaze from the dark earth and made an exasperated noise. She shifted on her stool and pinned him with a fierce look. “Now you sound like everyone else. If there is anything you learn from me, it must be that you should love who you marry.”

He uncrossed his arms and clasped his hands behind him. It made him look like their father. “That may be well and good for those of lower circumstances than us.”

She could not expect him to understand. He was too young, and someday he’d marry for position, status, and money. He may love a mistress, if not his wife.

“You will do what you will, George. But such a life isn’t for me. I’ve always known it.”

After a moment’s wavering silence he asked, “How? How did you always know?”

She could not smile, though she wanted to. Some things could never be explained. She did not claim extraordinary knowledge, because to express what she felt would bring her in line for ridicule. “I explained to you about Cromar and why it means so much to me.”

“You’ve been drawn to it since you were a little girl. That tells me nothing.”

“You should be a scientist, George. You want to know the meaning of everything. I can’t explain the castle’s draw. But it is refuge for me. I must be here. I must paint it. I must feel the life left in it.”

He nodded, though his eyes showed he did not comprehend.

Affection washed into her. His combination of sagacity and innocence disarmed her. “Thank you for telling me about London. Did you hear when they plan to send me?”

“By next week.”

She sighed. “I shall have to visit Cromar tonight. It will be my last opportunity for some weeks.”

* * * *

As night deepened to onyx, Cromar lay silent.

A great rush of air blew through the castle, twisting and turning, rushing into every corner. With the tempest came a life force so strong it refused to be denied.

Just as suddenly Damian stood at the entrance. He felt his heart expand with anticipation, and he knew without a doubt what this meant.

She was coming back to him tonight.

* * * *

The lantern was heavy, but Elizabeth carried it with determination. She held her skirts so that she would not trip over the rocks that made the path to Cromar difficult. Even the unusual chill in the summer night did not disturb her as much as her emotions.

She was unhappy. She had not been able to paint Cromar as it once was. In fact, she had found herself unable to paint it in any form today. The pain of her failure had grown so large she had quickly packed up her easel and paints and hurried back to the manor.

She looked for a place to set down her lantern so she might gaze once more on Cromar, but decided to go inside instead. She went to the great hall and put the lantern on the stone floor.

Tonight was the first time she had been here without the full moon as her companion. But she wanted to drink her fill of the place every night until London. She took a deep breath so she might remember how the night smelled here.

Of damp, and earth, and times long past. Of a flower so delicate and sweet. Roses? Of something more powerful and deep than time itself. How was she going to live without coming here? How?

She turned and there in the lantern glow stood the man.

Damian.

He stood just within the circle of the lantern light.

“You,” she said breathlessly, completely taken off guard, her heart jumping in her breast and fluttering like a frightened bird.

Now she could see him well, and was astounded by what the moonlight had concealed of him the first time they met. She had thought him handsome, but now his beauty sent a sharp, strange tug deep into her stomach. An urging. A need she had never experienced before now.

He appeared like a fantasy in the most forbidden part of her mind. His dark hair blended into the night, his solid jaw more handsome than any she could have imagined. Most of the men she knew were weaklings compared to this man. His stance, his expression, his body spoke of character and an everlasting quality she could not define. He advanced a step and bowed deeply at the waist. “Once again I have startled you. My apologies.”

Uncertain what to say, she curtsied.

“You are well?” he asked.

“Tolerably so.” She could not lie with a hurt blossoming inside her. The longer she stood there the larger it grew.

Tilting his head as if he questioned her words, he came closer until he could touch her. Her heart pounded, making her slightly dizzy. Afraid he might see her distress, she took a stabilizing breath.

“What brings you here without the moon, Elizabeth?” Her name on his lips was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard. His voice sounded husky…tender and rough all at once.

“I chose to come. I don’t need the moon.”

“For what do you seek solace?”

She had to look away or remain speechless, so she fixated on the dimness beyond her lamplight. “Do you come here every night, sir?”

“I come here when you do.”

She turned from him and walked away until she stood on the opposite end of the lantern’s circle of light. “You speak in riddles.”

“I speak only the truth.”

Her confusion rose along with a sense of fear. Not fear that he would hurt her, but an unnamed apprehension, a totally engulfing feeling. “Do you follow me, then?”