The Fate of Mercy Alban (22 page)

Finally, he said, “Well, I don’t—”

But I cut him off, grabbing his hand when I remembered something that hadn’t occurred me to until just then.

“I don’t mean to change the subject here, but there
was
a twin who died as a child! In real life, I mean. This manuscript talks about a twin who died, and—remember? Jane told us about Fate’s twin the other night! Mercy was her name, wasn’t it? I hadn’t heard anything, not one word about her until Jane told us about it. It’s like the family covered it up. And now … Coleville’s story about the twin. Do you think—you don’t think …?”

We sat there a moment looking at each other, and I realized I was holding his hand. Electricity shot through me and I dropped it, as though shocked.

I couldn’t discern what the look on his face meant—did the contact make him uncomfortable? Or was he distressed that I had let go? I didn’t get a chance to find out because Amity breezed back into the room carrying a big tumbler of lemonade, her sunny energy dissipating the cloud that had fallen around us. She settled back onto the couch and put her glass down on the end table. “Are we ready for the next chapter?” she asked, looking from one of us to the other, a wide smile on her face.

“I don’t know, honey,” I said, hoping my own face didn’t look as ashen as it suddenly felt. “This might be too scary for you.”

Her grin got even wider. “Not a chance, Mom. I’ll admit I was a little creeped out at first. But I thought about it and what you guys said made sense to me. Anybody, especially a writer who comes here for the first time, would start thinking about ghosts. Alban House is that kind of place.” She shot Matthew a look. “Help me out here, Reverend Parker.”

Matthew shrugged and held up his hands. “This is your mom’s call, kiddo,” he said. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”

They both turned to me. “I’m not sure—” I started, but my daughter cut me off.

“Mom, I can tell you exactly why I’m not scared by this story,” she told me. “I’ve been coming here in the summer ever since I was little and I’ve never seen a girl in white. And you grew up here! You lived your
whole life
here before you moved to Seattle. Did you ever see a ghost like that?”

Of course, she was right. “No, I didn’t,” I admitted. No girls in white, no dancing around the fire ring, no strange and guttural language borne on the wind. I’d lived a lifetime in this house without seeing anything like that. My brothers never saw anything like that, either—they certainly would’ve taken the opportunity to scare me with it. And what about my mother and Jane? They had lived their whole lives here, too! Despite the admittedly strange dream about my father, the visions I had had of my mother and brothers, and the old legend about the witch in the wood, I knew Amity was right. There were no ghosts here, at least not the malevolent kind.

I exhaled and leaned against the back of my chair, shooting Matthew a glance—chagrin mixed with relief. He winked at me.

“I guess this story got to me,” I said. “What a great writer Coleville was, huh? He had us all worked up about ghosts being here at Alban House when we knew better.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say he had us
all
worked up.” Matthew grinned at me. “Some of us kept our heads. I’m just saying.”

I shot him a mock scowl and stood up to get us a couple glasses of wine as Matthew and Amity shared a laugh at my expense.

“So can we go on?” Amity asked as I handed Matthew his glass and settled back down in my chair.

“Onward we go.” I smiled at her, then opened the manuscript once again.

Chapter Four

I sat at the desk by the window for an hour or so, staring at the page. All I had managed to write was “The girl in white” over and over. I had to admit it to myself: I was preoccupied with the story Flynn had told me.

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind of all its racing thoughts about ghosts and fires and dancing, breathing in and out slowly, calming my pounding heart, feeling my cells begin to vibrate in their own internal rhythm, listening to the soft sound within my own ears. It was a technique I often used to combat writer’s block, a clearing of the external noise that can conspire to stop creativity from flowing. I exhaled and sat for a moment, savoring the exquisite sense of peace this technique always brought with it.

And then I heard … something. A shuffling sound, muted, muffled, but there nonetheless. I listened closer. Scraping? The rhythmic motion of heels on a wooden floor?

Then a paper-thin singsong voice in my ear: “Michael … Michael Connolly …”

My eyes shot open. “Is somebody there?” I said a bit louder than I had intended. I stood up and whirled around, but all I saw was my empty room. My desk, my bed, the dresser, the closet door. The tapestry hanging on one wall. I was alone.

I rushed to the door and flung it open, believing I’d see one of the maids in the hallway. But no, looking both ways I saw only a long, empty expanse. So it wasn’t a maid. Who had said my name?

I closed my eyes and listened again, but heard nothing. After the story Flynn had just told me, my imagination was likely working in overdrive. That had to be it. Nobody had said my name. Of course not. And the footsteps … Perhaps it was an animal, a mouse scuttling through the walls? A wayward squirrel that had made a nest in the attic, which was, after all, just above my room?

I picked up my pencil once again, bent my head over my journal, and began to write, not full sentences, but concepts, words.
The girl in white. A death in the family. A mother’s grief. A twin’s heartbreak. A brother’s concern
. It might not have been the stuff of a novel, not yet, but it was getting there. Maybe I had found my germ of an idea after all, in just one morning at Whitehall Manor. I smiled, staring toward the window and tapping the end of my pencil on the page, wondering what kinds of fancy a whole summer here would produce.

I turned my gaze back to my work when I felt a shiver run all the way down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt, and then saw, goose bumps form on my forearms. Someone was watching me. I could feel eyes boring into my back. Was someone standing right behind me?

I stood up, whirling around once again and knocking my chair to the floor as I did. “Who’s there?” I said again, more forcefully this time. I wondered—was Prudence hiding in the closet? Would the girl really be so bold?

I strode across the room and flung open the closet door. “I found you!” I exclaimed … to an empty closet. Apart from my clothes and an extra blanket and pillow, it held nothing. I turned around and surveyed my room, at a loss. Nobody was there, nothing was amiss.

I was obviously gripped in a state of wild imagination, spurred on by my unfortunate experience of last night coupled by Flynn’s disturbing news of today.

I shook my head and looked at my reflection in the mirror. “Get ahold of yourself, old boy,” I said aloud.

Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was nearly noon already. Time had flown. I needed to get downstairs to meet Flynn and the girls for lunch. I closed my journal and slipped it into the desk drawer. Then I took one long look around my room before shutting the door behind me and making my way downstairs.

In the dining room, I found Lily standing alone by the wall of windows overlooking the garden. Beyond her, I could see the garden’s lush plants and flowers, and as she stood there, wearing a delicate floral dress, she seemed part of the garden herself.

“Hello,” I said, startling her.

“Oh!” She smiled, shaking her head. “It’s you. I didn’t hear you come in.”

I crossed the room to join her at the window. “And what had you so rapt?” I smiled back at her.

She gestured toward the garden. “I love it this time of year,” she said. “The plants so newly green and vibrant, the tulips in full bloom.”

Her eyes shone as she spoke and I found myself lost in them for a moment before gathering myself to respond.

“You’re an artist, I’m told,” I said. “Do you find your inspiration in nature?”

Her face reddened slightly. “I wouldn’t call myself an artist,” she said. “But I enjoy sketching and painting. I spend much of my time in these gardens. They’re so beautiful.”

I was about to say they weren’t nearly as beautiful as she, when Prudence and Flynn bounded into the room, breathless, as though they had been chasing each other like two puppies. Flynn pushed his sister and she collapsed onto one of the chairs, laughing.

“You will never beat me,” Flynn said to her, picking up a glass of water from the sideboard and drinking it down in a gulp. “You should just admit it now and get on with your life.”

“Never!” she replied, waving an arm.

I furrowed my brow at them and shot a glance toward Lily.

“These two have been racing from the lakeshore to the house ever since they learned how to walk,” she told me, taking her place next to Prudence at the table. “Everything’s a competition with them. Watch out when we play croquet.”

“She tries every trick in the book.” Flynn laughed. “Today she tripped me, and I still beat her.”

“Anything to give me an advantage, brother,” Prudence said, lifting her water glass to her lips and taking a long sip.

As I looked at Prudence’s expression—amusement with more than a touch of defiance—I wondered about that statement. It wasn’t hard to believe this girl would indeed do anything to give her an advantage, and not just against her brother in their childhood games.

Just then, Mrs. McBride entered the room carrying a large tray. One of the younger maids followed behind, carrying an enormous soup tureen.

“Your parents are lunching in town,” Mrs. McBride informed Flynn, setting the tray on the sideboard. “Soup and salad, that’s lunch for you today.”

She ladled the steaming soup into waiting bowls and the younger maid hurriedly set them in front of us, along with crisp salads and warm bread.

“So,” Flynn said, tearing off a bit of his bread and popping it into his mouth, “croquet after lunch?” He looked at each of us in turn, his blond hair falling onto his forehead, before his gaze fell upon Lily. He smiled at her warmly, so warmly that it made me a bit uncomfortable.

“I want Michael on my team,” Prudence announced.

“Perfect!” Flynn piped up, still smiling across the table at Lily. “The losing couple has to serve the winners when we go out for a sail. I’ve had Mrs. McBride bring a basket containing plenty of adult beverages down to the dock, and I’m sure Flaherty has already stowed it.”

“But how are you going to serve drinks to us when you’ve got to be the one sailing the boat, brother?” Prudence asked, shooting me a sly glance.

Flynn grinned. “Exactly. Which is why we’re not losing. Right, Lily?”

“I’ll do my best, Flynn.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not promising anything. You remember what happened during the tournament at the last solstice party.”

“Dead last,” he said to me in a stage whisper, laughing. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, Lily-belle, because you’re all but useless on the croquet lawn.”

Laughter all around, then, but I was getting a knot in my stomach as I sat there watching the interplay between Lily and Flynn. It seemed to me that my best friend was a little more than fond of the girl, and it was beginning to trouble me, considering my growing feelings for her. I decided to ask him about it at our earliest convenience. I’d bow out if he confessed to having feelings for her—he was my best friend, after all. I wasn’t about to let a girl, even this extraordinary girl, come between us.

That’s what I told myself, but as I gazed across the table at the way Lily’s auburn hair was falling so delicately around her face, I knew I was already far gone, and I found myself wondering if I’d be able to bow out and remain here at Whitehall.

I set the manuscript in my lap and looked up at my daughter, whose eyes were shining.

“Now here comes the romance!” She smiled. “Mom, do you think that’s how it really happened?”

“I’m not sure, honey.” I smiled back at her. “They definitely fell in love here that summer, but we’ll never be sure exactly how it happened. I think we have to take everything we read in this book with a grain of salt—the stuff about ghosts and the love story, too.”

I sat up a bit straighter in my chair and stretched before reaching for my water glass. I had been reading aloud for a long time, longer than I had in many years, since Amity was small and we’d huddle together reading book after book at bedtime.

I glanced at the clock—it was already nearly six. “How about we take a break until after dinner?” Then, looking at Matthew: “Can you stay? I’m sure Jane has cooked enough for a state dinner.”

“I’d love to,” he said.

Amity shrugged. “I’d like to hear more, but I guess that’s fine with me, too,” she said, unfolding herself from her spot on the couch. “I’m supposed to text Heather, anyway. Is it okay if she sleeps over?”

I blinked a few times. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Mom!” Amity protested, crossing her arms and jutting out one hip.

“Honey, it’s just that with all that’s happened here lately, the break-ins and Aunt Fate being upstairs and everything, I’m a little uneasy about somebody else coming into the house,” I explained. “It could be dangerous and I don’t want to be responsible—”

“With half of the town’s police force here at any given moment?” she argued, gesturing wildly toward the window. She looked at Matthew, and for the second time that day, she enlisted his aid. “Come on, Reverend Parker, help me out here!”

He folded his arms across his chest and smiled broadly at her, shaking his head. “Nice try, kiddo, but this is your mom’s decision.” He grinned at me. “But, if I were to be asked, I’d say I didn’t see the harm in it.”

Amity’s eyes brightened, and she ran with it. “See? He thinks it’s okay! Mom, we’ll hang around outside for a while after dinner, and then we’ll stay in the media room on the second floor and watch movies, I swear. You can assign a police detail to us if you want.”

I was torn. I loved that my daughter was making a friend here. It would certainly ease the transition if I decided to relocate to Alban House permanently, which was becoming more and more attractive to me with every passing day. But on the other hand, considering the recent break-ins, I didn’t like the idea of being responsible for someone else’s child as well as my own.