One Touch of Magic (24 page)

“Sarah,” he said quietly. “We must have a serious conversation.”

She closed her eyes. A “serious conversation” was the very last thing she wanted at that moment. Such times of sweetness were rare, and she wanted to hold it against all the storms—real and feared—that waited outside.

But she knew that she could not do that. Miles was right; they did have many things to talk about.

She drew back to look up at him. “You are correct. But not now. Later. Later, we can converse on as many serious topics as you like.”

He smiled at her, and bent his head to kiss her lightly on the nose. “Of course. Your sister will be looking for you, and we have stayed here too long as it is. I will remind you of your promise to talk with me later, though.”

“I hope that you will.” Sarah clung to his hand for just an instant longer before turning to the stable door. “For I have much I want to say to you, Miles.”

The wind was brisk as Mary Ann and Mr. O’Riley followed the pathway back to the hunting box. It pulled at Mary Ann’s cloak and skirt hem with chill fingers, but she scarcely noticed it. She was laughing too much at a tale Mr. O’Riley was telling her, a wild yarn of a princess and a wily leprechaun.

“Oh, no, it cannot be!” she said, gasping through her giggles. “You are making that story up as you go along.”

“I certainly am not!” His tone was stern, but his grin decidedly was not. “It is a very ancient tale, one that my aunt used to tell my cousins and me every night. Though, when I was in Spain, a woman there told me an old
Spanish
story very like it. Of course, in that story the trickster’s name was not Sean but Juan, and the princess was a dark-eyed infanta.”

“Well, here in England I have never heard anything like it. But I did have a nanny once, a Welsh woman, who had a terribly hair-raising tale of a water spirit she would frighten me with at night.” At the bend in the path, where it turned into sight of the house, she stilled her steps. She did not want to go in there just yet, even though a few cool sprinkles of rain were beginning to land on her cheek. She wanted to laugh some more with Mr. O’Riley, to hear more of his outrageous Irish tales, to feel free for just a few more minutes.

“I have enjoyed our conversation today,” she said.

Mr. O’Riley slowed his steps to match hers, yet they still moved inexorably to the turn. “As have I, Miss Bellweather. I find the work you and Lady Iverson are doing fascinating.”

“Oh, yes!” Mary Ann smiled at him in delight; his interest in the work here raised him even higher in her estimation. “I am sure you can assist us here any time you like, and I can tell you of what I have been reading—” She broke off suddenly, as she remembered the truth—that she and Sarah might not be working here for very much longer. Not if Lord Ransome carried out his original plans.

Lord Ransome seemed to admire her sister greatly now, and it only stood to reason that he would not take the village away from the woman he cared about. But Mary Ann had learned from her short life of traveling about with her mother that often the world did not conform to reason, and sometimes people did not behave as they ought.

Mr. O’Riley gave her a curious glance. “What you have been reading, Miss Bellweather?” he prompted.

“Yes.” Mary Ann looked up at him, and realized she had not finished her sentence. She knew that her family would think her even rasher than they already did if she told her doubts to someone she had only just met. Somehow, though, she felt perfectly at ease with Mr. O’Riley. His green eyes radiated wisdom and understanding quite beyond his young years.

“I have been reading a great deal about the Vikings,” she went on. “And I have many ideas for the village. Yet I know that Lord Ransome has other plans for this property.”

“I know what his plans have been, and why he made them,” he said. “But I do not think he will toss Lady Iverson off of the village site like some evil villain in a cheap play.”

Mary Ann felt a small flutter of hope. “I thought so, too. He seems a kind man, yet I can see that he is determined to do what he thinks is right.”

“I am sure there must be some other plan. One that can accommodate both you and your sister, and Lord Ransome.” He winked at her. “We shall just have to put our heads together and devise something, won’t we, Miss Bellweather?”

Mary Ann laughed. Her laughter died, though, when they came into sight of the hunting box and saw the carriage waiting outside the front door.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“What is it, Miss Bellweather?”

“It seems the Hamiltons have come to call.”

His face froze, its merry smile slipping into a complete blank. “The Hamiltons.”

“Yes. I had hoped that when they did not appear at the village this morning that we would not see them today. Sarah said that Mrs. Hamilton did not look well yesterday. But I suppose they have just been waiting here the whole time.”

“Well, then.” He did not move away, but Mary Ann had the distinct sense that he was withdrawing. Their laughter and fun turned as chill as the rain on her skin. “You should have no more need of my escort, Miss Bellweather. You will be quite safe here in their company.”

Mary Ann wanted to reach out, to grab his hand and hold him there. She tangled her hands in the folds of her cloak to keep them still. “Do you mean to say that you will not come inside for some tea?”
That you will leave me?

He relented a bit, and gave her a smile. “I have suddenly recalled an errand I must perform. But I am sure we will meet again very soon. Your friends will look after you now.”

He handed her the basket, and, with a quick kiss on the back of her hand, set off in the direction of Ransome Hall. She wondered what errand he could have
there
.

Men were such cowards sometimes, Mary Ann thought crossly, as she watched him until he disappeared. She hoisted up the basket, straightened her shoulders resolutely, and went into the hunting box.

Only Mrs. Hamilton waited in the drawing room, with an untouched tea tray and no Mr. Hamilton. Mary Ann almost dropped her basket in surprise at the sight of her. Sarah had been quite right when she said Mrs. Hamilton did not seem well. Mary Ann had rarely seen anyone so changed in just a few days as Mrs. Hamilton was. She was properly dressed in one of her overly stylish gowns, a carriage dress of pink wool trimmed with gold braid and a gold-and-red Indian shawl, crowned by a gold-feathered pink hat. Her hair, though, fell in lank curls from beneath that hat, and her face was chalk pale, except for two hectic spots of red over her cheekbones.

Mary Ann glanced behind her. No one had been there to open the front door for her, and she could hear no voices. Sarah had said that Mrs. Taylor, the cook, was gone to do the marketing, but surely Rose at least ought to have been there. It seemed the household was uninhabited today, except for the kittens, two of them sleeping in their basket and one perched on the fireplace mantel.

Mary Ann slowly put her basket down on the floor just inside the doorway, and pasted what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face.

“Mrs. Hamilton! What a lovely surprise to see you here.”

“My dear Miss Bellweather,” answered Mrs. Hamilton, her voice full of a strange, tense cheer. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time.”

“Not at all.” Mary Ann came farther into the room, and perched on a chair across from the other woman’s. “Though I fear my sister has not yet finished the day’s work at the village. She should be here very soon.” At least she hoped Sarah would be. The rain seemed to be beginning in earnest now, tapping at the window, and Mary Ann was not at all sure what she should converse about. Mrs. Hamilton really only seemed to enjoy talking about Bath and gowns, two subjects Mary Ann knew little about.

“Oh, that is quite all right,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “I was actually hoping to have some time to talk with
you,
Miss Bellweather.”

Mary Ann wondered what about. “Indeed, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Indeed.” But, rather than going on to talk, Mrs. Hamilton fell silent, pleating her skirt with nervous fingers.

Mary Ann tried to remember all the polite-hostess manners she had been taught. “I do hope Rose has been looking after you,” she said, gesturing to the tea tray that appeared untouched.

“Oh, yes, but she said you have no cream cakes about. So I sent her into the village to fetch some. I do so adore cream cakes with my tea.”

So
that
was why it was so silent in the house. Mary Ann felt a small chill of disquiet. She glanced to the window, but there was no sign of her sister and Lord Ransome. How she wished Mr. O’Riley had come inside with her!

“What was it you wished to speak to me about, Mrs. Hamilton?” she asked.

Mrs. Hamilton leaned forward, her eyes strangely bright as she looked at Mary Ann. “My husband thinks so highly of you, Miss Bellweather, you and your sister. He often asks why I cannot be more like you.”

Mary Ann was nonplussed. Whatever she might have expected to hear, it was not that. “Well—we think highly of him, as well. He is a very respected antiquarian.”

Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. More carelessly pinned curls spilled down onto her shoulders. “No! I mean to say, he respects your opinions—unlike mine. He thinks I am just a silly, uneducated chit.”

“Oh, no, I am sure that is not true—”

“Of course, it is true!” Mrs. Hamilton interrupted, her voice so sharply pitched it made the kitten on the mantel cease washing its paw and peer at her. “He thinks I know nothing, and he will not listen to me. But he would listen to you, and to Lady Iverson.” She reached out and caught Mary Ann’s wrist with her hand, her grip surprisingly strong for such dainty fingers.

For the first time in her life, Mary Ann tasted the faint metallic tang of fear in her mouth. Not even being pushed down by the kitten-drowning farmer had scared her as much as the glow in Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes.

She resisted the urge to pull away, to scream out in the empty house. She knew it would only make Mrs. Hamilton more desperate, so she took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “What is it you would want to tell him?”

“That he
must
take me home to Bath!” Mrs. Hamilton cried. “I miss it so. I miss the people, the balls and routs. Here there is nothing but dusty artifacts and country bumpkins.” She closed her eyes, and whispered, “There is nothing.”

Mary Ann remembered how excited Mrs. Hamilton had been to be invited to Ransome Hall, and said, “You have been to supper twice at Ransome Hall, the home of a
marquis
.”

Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “Yes, and now he is just as obsessed with digging in the dirt as the rest of you! It is an illness here, and it has infected all of you. But it has not infected me! I will escape.”

In the blink of an eye, so quickly that Mary Ann had not time to discern what she was about or stop her, Mrs. Hamilton shot to her feet, pulling Mary Ann with her. Mrs. Hamilton’s other hand snatched up a sandwich knife from the tea tray, and she drew Mary Ann close against her. The knife pressed to her neck. Even though it was a small thing, it stung when it made a tiny cut to her skin.

Mary Ann almost fainted from the shock; dark spots danced before her eyes. Small, fluffy Mrs. Hamilton was going to stab her right in her own drawing room? It was absurd!

But unfortunately all too real. Mary Ann was not much shorter than Mrs. Hamilton, but the woman had the fierce strength of some bizarre, inhuman anger behind her. Mary Ann could not pull away.

“Well, he will listen to me now,” Mrs. Hamilton said, her voice suddenly as calm as if she was discussing the weather. “He will have to, if I have his precious Miss Bellweather.”

She pulled Mary Ann toward the drawing room door, and Mary Ann panicked. She cried out, and felt a sharp stick, and the drop of some warm liquid on her flesh.

Suddenly, there was a loud hiss and growl, and a scream from Mrs. Hamilton, who released Mary Ann and fell back a step, clutching at her arm. Mary Ann stumbled and fell at being so hastily freed, and she looked up to see that the kitten on the mantel had launched itself through the air and caught Mrs. Hamilton’s arm with its tiny, razor-sharp claws. Her sleeve was torn away to reveal two long, deep scratches, ruby with spots of blood.

Mrs. Hamilton kicked the kitten away, and it mewled piteously once before lying still. She fell against the white-painted wall with a sob, leaving a crimson smear there.

Mary Ann scrambled to try to grab one of the Viking blades laid out in their box, but Mrs. Hamilton was too quick for her. She lunged forward and caught Mary Ann by the hair, pulling her to her feet. She drew her once again to the door, inexorably, and Mary Ann could have cried with the helplessness and the fear of it all. It was Mrs. Hamilton all along, Mrs. Hamilton who had ruined the artifacts, and probably even killed that man. Mrs. Hamilton—who was obviously insane.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mrs. Hamilton said, as she hid her knife behind the folds of her shawl and forced Mary Ann up into her carriage, slamming the door behind them, before her dozing coachman could see them. “He will listen to me now.”

“The door is open.” Sarah paused at the first sight of the hunting box. She had been laughing at something Miles said to her, and had opened her mouth to reply, but was brought up short by the sight of the front door standing open. Surely Mary Ann and the servants would not be so careless as to leave the door open, not at such a time as this, when there was a murderer roaming about.

It was true that they had been longer at the village than she had thought they would be, but it had not been
very
long. Surely not long enough for some ill to befall Mary Ann in their own house.

Surely not?

She pushed the hood of her cloak back so she could see more clearly. Aside from the open door, the hunting box looked quiet and peaceful. Too quiet, perhaps.

Sarah remembered how she had so blithely allowed Mary Ann to walk off with Mr. O’Riley. Had that been a mistake? Had she put too much trust in that young man?