One Touch of Magic (11 page)

Miles could not help but feel a bit sorry for Mrs. Hamilton, even if it
was
rather disconcerting when she fluttered her lashes at him, or reached out to touch his sleeve with her lace-gloved hand.

“I
am
very grateful to be here, Mrs. Hamilton,” he answered. “There are many who were not so fortunate.”

Lady Iverson watched him steadily with serious eyes. “You mean—the ones who did not come back at all?”

He looked at her. He had the sudden, irrational urge to tell her of the friends he had lost, the guilt that gripped his heart when he thought of them, left behind in foreign graves. He wanted to tell her of Jack, who had died in his arms on the battlefield, of Will, who had lost his leg, and died in an agony of blood poisoning in a field hospital.

But, of course, he could tell her none of this. They were in a polite social setting, and even if they were not, she was a lady. He could not be such a boor as to tell her of these horrors.

He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. Those were in the past; they were locked up in his memory, and there they would stay.

“The ones who did not return, yes,” he said slowly. “And also those who did return, only to find misfortune. But I hope to be able to help some of them, now that I am so fortunate as to be settled here.”

Lady Iverson nodded faintly; the wariness crept back into her face, closing her expression. It was as if she knew what his words meant.

“That is very good of you, Lord Ransome, to want to use your position to help others!” Mrs. Hamilton cried. She glanced over at her husband. “Some people only care about themselves and their own situations. They do not even care about their own families, let alone strangers.”

Mr. Hamilton appeared not to hear her.

“Indeed,” Lady Iverson said. “I am sure we will be hearing more about your plans later, Lord Ransome.”

There was no escaping that, no matter how much Miles wished there could be. He never wanted to hurt Lady Iverson, not with these new, strange feelings he had toward her, but he knew that his plans were far too important to abandon. He owed it to all his lost friends.

“I hope that I may tell you more about them very soon, Lady Iverson,” he said.

Lady Iverson turned away. “Of course, Lord Ransome. I will be very—interested to hear of any of your plans. Right now, however, I must find Mary Ann. It grows late. If you will excuse me?” Still averting her gaze, she left her cards in a neat pile on the table, and rose in a rustle of fluid black velvet.

Miles and Lord Dunston stood and bowed to her as she left. Only when she had melted into the crowd did Miles sit back down.

As he did so, his gaze caught Mrs. Hamilton’s. For one instant, there was a shrewdness, a watchfulness in those pale blue eyes. Then her lashes swept down, and she gave one of her trilling laughs.

“I suppose I ought to go after her,” she said. “After all, we came in the same carriage. It would not do for me to be left here overnight!”

Sarah saw that Mary Ann was still sitting with Miss Milton, the two of them deep in some earnest conversation. She decided not to pull her away just yet, and instead turned and went down the marble steps of the terrace into the garden.

As she moved farther away from the noisy affability of the party, the cool quiet of the night wrapped around her. Her spinning thoughts stilled, and she breathed deeply of the peace.

Eventually, the only sounds she heard were the crunch of her own shoes on the gravel pathways, the swish of her skirts as they swept over the lavender borders of the flower beds. Once in a while, a particularly merry burst of laughter made its way to her ears, but other than that, she felt all alone in the enchanted night.

All alone—except for Lord Ransome. Even though she had left him behind on the terrace, he still seemed with her. His words were still in her mind.

She stopped at the edge of the manicured gardens, and leaned back against a sheltering old oak to stare up at the moon. She had known that Lord Ransome was not a frivolous man—no one could fight in a war for years and be frivolous. Even so, his words tonight had surprised and moved her. They had been brief, but full of some pain and despair that was usually hidden. She had wanted to know more, to take his hand in hers, to comfort him if she could.

The urge had been so great, that she had to clutch her fork in her fist until the patterned silver pressed into her skin. It had been so strong that it had frightened her.

Sarah had thought, hoped, that Lord Ransome’s visit to the village would show him how important her work there was. Now she knew, from his words tonight, that he still had some other plan for the land. She did not know what that plan could be; no doubt he would tell her “later,” as promised.

And that would be the end of her work here. She could find another project, of course; she could write her book with what knowledge she had already gained. But it would not be the same.

“I wanted to finish this for you, John,” she whispered aloud. “I wanted to finish it for myself.” It had been the first thing in the world that felt like it was
hers.

Well, who says you cannot finish it?
a contrary voice at the back of her mind whispered.
You just have to work harder at persuading Lord Ransome.

Sarah laughed at herself. How could she ever persuade him of the importance of her work, when her thoughts grew all jumbled and silly when she was around him? She had never been very good at persuasive arguments at the best of times, and feminine wiles only felt ridiculous.

But the voice was right—she did have to at least try to make him see the importance of her position. She had never given up on anything she cared about, not without a fight. She had refused to give in to her mother, when she tried to stop Sarah from marrying John. She had not given the village over to Neville Hamilton, when everyone expected her to. And now this village was too important to just surrender.

Sarah pushed away from the tree, and turned her steps back toward the house. It was time for her to find Mary Ann, and summon their carriage to go home. She had to plan out carefully what she would say to Lord Ransome.

Mary Ann stood at the top of the terrace steps, peering down into the dark garden. She knew she had seen Sarah go this way quite a while ago, and she was beginning to be a bit worried. It was not like her sister to go wandering away, and besides, it was growing late. Miss Milton and her grandfather had gone home, and Mary Ann was tired.

Her head ached from the effort of laughing and chatting all evening, while she watched Mr. Hamilton and his giggling bride.

Mary Ann glanced back over her shoulder. Many of the guests had departed, and those who were left drifted back through the French doors into the drawing room. Mr. Hamilton was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Hamilton was hanging on to Lord Ransome’s arm, laughing up at him. In return, he gave her a rather strained smile.

Mary Ann sniffed. Really, some women were terribly shameless! Mrs. Hamilton already had one husband, and now she was flirting with Lord Ransome, just because he was a marquis. And it was quite obvious that
he
preferred her sister, as any sane man would.

Perhaps that was why Mr. Hamilton had looked so morose and angry ever since he had come back from his wedding trip, she thought. The man she had known before, the one she imagined to be a gallant knight in a story, had been serious to be sure. But he had also told her thrilling tales of ancient Vikings, and taught her how to make charts and sketches of where objects were found at sites.

Now, he could not even seem to care about the work. And he almost never spoke to her.

Thinking about it all made her headache worse. Mary Ann went down the steps into the garden, determined to find her sister. Sarah could not have gone far.

Past the Chinese lantern light of the terrace, it was dark and quiet. Mary Ann moved cautiously down the walkway, past marble fountains and benches. Once, she thought she bumped into someone, and gave a little screech. Then she realized it was just a statue, some stone classical figure, poised to toss a spear.

She laughed nervously, and pressed her hand to her pounding heart. “Silly!” she gasped. “Sarah was right—I
have
been reading too many novels.”

It did feel rather like a night in a novel, cool and scented with breezes, lit by the silver glow of the moon. She could only too easily imagine specters gliding about in the garden.

Mary Ann shivered. Spirits and elves suddenly did not seem as romantic as they usually did. She hurried away, now doubly intent on finding her sister.

There was a slight rustle in some bushes behind her, and she spun about. “S-Sarah?” she called, half hopeful, half terrified.

A figure stepped out into the pathway, a man. “I fear it is only me, Miss Bellweather,” Mr. Hamilton said.

Mary Ann fell back a step in surprise at his sudden appearance. He held a cigar in one hand, and its faint red glow lit his face, showing her that it was indeed him, and not some ghost.

Yet somehow that did not comfort her a great deal. He looked even less like her old friend, the object of her romantic dreams, than ever. He watched her, unsmiling, intent.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she managed to say. “I was just . . .”

“Looking for Lady Iverson?”

“Yes. I saw her come this way earlier. I did not mean to intrude.”

“Not at all.” He cast away the cigar, leaving them in only the meager light of the moon. “I never had the chance earlier to tell you how pretty you look this evening.”

Normally, such a compliment would fill her with a giddy pleasure. Now, though, it was strangely disquieting. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“You are quite grown up now, Miss Bellweather. Almost a lady.” He took a step toward her.

Mary Ann wanted to step back, away, but she seemed frozen. She shivered, and wished she had her shawl. These feelings were frightening and unwelcome; she had never encountered them before in her books or dreams. Mr. Hamilton was an utter stranger now.

“Mary Ann!” a blessedly familiar voice called. Even though it was full of a tightly controlled anger, Mary Ann turned to it in profound relief.

Sarah came up the walkway, her black gown blending into the night, throwing her face into pale, sharp relief. Mary Ann could see the flush of her sister’s cheeks, her pinched-together lips. She came to Mary Ann, and took her arm in a secure clasp.

Mary Ann could not stop herself; she threw her arms around Sarah’s neck, and held close to her safe warmth.

Sarah put her own arm around Mary Ann’s waist. “What is going on here?”

“I was looking for you!” Mary Ann said.

“With Mr. Hamilton? Alone, in the garden? Mary Ann, you know better than this.”

“Miss Bellweather was walking alone,” Mr. Hamilton said quietly. “She merely came upon me here. We were only alone for a moment.”

“Indeed?” Sarah’s voice was low and heavy. Mary Ann peeked up at her, and saw that her face seemed to be as set in stone as those of the statues around them. She stared unwaveringly, coolly, at Mr. Hamilton.

He shrugged, and gave Sarah an odd little smile. “It is what happened, Lady Iverson.”

“I am sure that is so.” Sarah’s arm tightened on Mary Ann’s waist, and drew her away from Mr. Hamilton, back toward the house. “Come, Mary Ann, we should be making our farewells to our host and hostess. Mr. Hamilton, I am certain your wife must be looking for you.”

“No doubt she is,” Mr. Hamilton answered, his tone suddenly cold.

Mary Ann knew that she was in for a blazing lecture later, and felt that really it was quite unfair, since she was innocent of any mischief—this time. But somehow she did not even care. She would endure any lecture at all, she was so relieved at being taken back to the lights and reality—and safety—of the house.

Her old infatuation for Mr. Hamilton melted away, as if it had never been.

Sarah collapsed into a heap on her bed, not even caring that she crushed the fine velvet of her gown. She was too tired to even reach for the bellpull and ring for her maid.

After the silent carriage ride home with the Hamiltons, and then an hour spent lecturing a tearful Mary Ann on propriety and safety, all she wanted was peace and quiet. Chaperoning was such a terrible chore at times, especially on top of the worries she already had about the Viking village and Lord Ransome. She loved Mary Ann so much—she never, ever wanted to see her hurt.

And she did not like that look on Neville Hamilton’s face when she came upon him with Mary Ann in the garden. She had never seen him look that way before, so—so predatory. It was as if his marriage had unhinged him.

“Just as this is all going to unhinge
me,
” she muttered.

She had been so sad when her marriage proved to be childless, but perhaps it had been for the best after all, she thought. Especially if her daughter had grown up as fanciful and flighty as Mary Ann could be. How did parents ever keep from going mad, when so many pitfalls awaited their precious children in the world?

But, oh, she really would have liked to have had a child. A sturdy little boy, or a girl with dark curls, to toddle behind her and dig with their miniature trowels. Even if they grew up to be ten times as flighty as Mary Ann, she would have loved them with all her heart.

With a sigh, Sarah abandoned her old, impossible visions and rolled off the bed. She reached up behind her, stretching to unfasten her gown. It was not a simple thing to do on her own, and it took some time, but she finally managed to wriggle loose of it. The beautiful velvet gown was tossed into a chair. She shook her hair free of its pins, pulled on her nightdress, and climbed gratefully between the bedclothes.

“Surely all I need is sleep,” she whispered into her pillow. “In the morning, all of this will be much clearer. It must be.”

In the morning, she would know how to help Mary Ann. She would know how to persuade Lord Ransome to let her keep her village. She would be free of her troublesome attraction to him.