One Touch of Magic Page 2

  Phoebe came and took the letter from Sarah’s hand to read it herself. “Surely, though, this new lordship will see the importance of what you are doing! He has to let you keep on, as his uncle did.”

  “I pray you are right, Phoebe.”

  “I know I am. Your work is valued by scholars all over the kingdom.”

  Sarah looked up at her dearest friend. They had been friends for so very long that Phoebe was one of the few people Sarah felt she could share her true doubts with. To the rest of the world, she always kept up a careful facade of self-assurance and coolness. It was the only way she could maintain respect in the scholarly world she and John had occupied.

  “Will the opinions of scholars matter to a major in His Majesty’s Army?” she asked. “Or will he see it as a waste of good property?”

  Phoebe put the letter back down on the desk. “I should stay with you until Lord Ransome comes. I will write to Caro, and tell her not to expect me next week.”

  Sarah shook off her moment of vulnerability, her instant of doubt. She was always strong—she had to stay strong now. “Nonsense, Phoebe dear! Your sister needs you, and I know you are eager to see your new baby nephew. And did you not say Harry will join you there?”

  Phoebe blushed, and turned away with a carefully careless little laugh. “My husband will not miss me for a few more days! And baby William will still be there next month.”

  “But he will be so much bigger. No, I cannot be selfish and keep you here. It is not as if I will be all alone. My sister Mary Ann is coming to stay, and Neville Hamilton will return soon from his wedding trip. He has been of invaluable help at the village, and perhaps he could speak to Lord Ransome, if the marquis has no wish to have dealings with a woman. So, you see, Phoebe, you must go to Caroline, or there will be no room here!”

  Phoebe still looked doubtful, but she smiled and went along with the talk of Sarah’s family. “How is dear Mary Ann? Did she not have an infatuation with poor Mr. Hamilton last year?”

  “A schoolgirl infatuation only! I hope she will be over it, now that he is married. She is to make her bow next year, and Mother has great hopes for her.”

  Phoebe sat back down on the settee, watching Sarah closely. Sarah knew what that speculative look meant—her friend was up to some scheme.

  “So Mary Ann is to go to London!” Phoebe said cheerfully. “And what of you, Sally? Have you not considered going to Town? You would be a much better chaperone for Mary Ann than your mother. And you could stay with Caro and me! What fun we would have! And think of all the eligible gentlemen you could meet.”

  Sarah laughed. So it was another plea to go to Town! She should have known. Phoebe had been trying to persuade her of it for months, dropping hints here and there about the delights of the Season. Phoebe, a voracious novel reader and happily married herself, was convinced no woman could truly be happy without romance in her life.

  “I cannot go next Season,” she said. “I have my work here.” And her one Season, where she had met Sir John, had been a crashing bore, so vacuous and such a waste of time. She had no desire to repeat it.

  “This work cannot last forever,” Phoebe said gently. “Surely it will be done before the spring, which is months away!”

  “After the excavation is finished, I will have to write about it. I have no time for London fribbles.”

  “It would not be all balls and routs,” Phoebe argued. “You love the theater, and there are the libraries, the British Museum, antiquarian societies you could join! I know you did not enjoy your Season very much, Sally, but things are different now. You are a widow, and can do as you like. We could have such fun.”

  It did sound tempting, when Phoebe put it like that. She was a member of several antiquarian societies already, but kept up with them only by correspondence. A chance to attend their meetings in person would be most welcome, as would the chance to visit museums and libraries. The society of the nearby village of Upper Hawton was most congenial, but had nothing like that to offer.

  She looked over her cluttered desk, at the drawings and notes that represented her work. The work she owed John. He had been a good husband to her, had given her a good life. The work on the village was far from over; she could not abandon it for the frivolities of Town.

  But she could not bear to disappoint Phoebe, either, not when her friend was only trying to help, and looked at her so hopefully. “Perhaps,” she said. “We will see how things are going here later, after—after Lord Ransome arrives.”

  Phoebe smiled. “I will be content with that—for now. But we must find some merry things to do this week, some assemblies or card parties before I must leave, and you must face the new marquis.”

  Sarah laughed. “Indeed! But perhaps, if I am fortunate, I will never have to meet Lord Ransome after all.”

  “How so, Sally?”

  “Perhaps the curse of Thora’s Treasure will smite him down before then!”

  The breeze was soft and warm against her cheek, the sun hot where it beat down on her head. Sarah leaned back on her elbows in the sweet-scented grass, closing her eyes to let the summer day wash over her.

  She knew it was just a dream; it had the blurry edges of unreality, the perfection a real day would lack. She also wore something that looked suspiciously like a nightdress, loose and white and soft, with tight sleeves, bound at the waist with a thin silver chain. Her hair spilled over her shoulders onto the ground.

  Never in real life would she have gone about so disheveled! She intended to enjoy this dream while it lasted, though. It would vanish, as so many others before.

  She lay flat on the grass, and opened her eyes to stare up at the spreading branches of the ancient tree above her. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting shadows around her.

  Suddenly, a face appeared between her and the sky, a figure leaned over her. A man, a beautiful, godlike man, with golden hair that fell to his shoulders, and eyes a color to rival the sky. And he was smiling at her, her, a smile full of secrets and a hot sweetness.

  He smiled as if he knew her—intimately.

  “So here you are,” he said, his voice rough and rich. It sent a shiver along her skin to hear it. “I have been looking for you. You are always running from me.”

  “I am not running now,” Sarah murmured. As if compelled by some overwhelming force beyond her control, she slid her hand behind his neck, drawing him down to her, closer and closer. His hair was satin soft to her touch, his skin hot.

  Sarah’s eyes drifted shut. Never had she felt like this before, never! A terrible longing seized her in her very heart. She wanted his lips on hers, needed them. . . .

  A sudden chill touched Sarah’s flesh, driving away the heat of a summer’s day’s passion. She tried desperately to hold on to the dream, reached out for it with a cry, but it slipped away. As all dreams do.

  She sat up to find herself in her own chamber in the hunting box. She had kicked aside the bedclothes, and the breeze from the half-open window was cold on her legs.

  She rubbed at her face, her head aching with unfulfilled longing and the remnants of sleep. “It was just a dream,” she whispered. “Just a foolish dream. Like all those others I have had.”

  Just a dream. But who was that dream man?

  Chapter Two

  Miles Rutledge, the new Marquis of Ransome, sat on top of a tree-shaded hill, surveying his uncle’s land, spread out before him in a patchwork of green meadows and speckled farmland.

  Or rather, it was his land. He could not get used to that idea. He did not feel in the least like a landowner, or a marquis. He was just plain Major Rutledge, and all the bows and uncertain expressions on the faces of the tenants as he passed were most unsettling. It left him with the strange sense of being in some unreal dreamworld, one he would awaken from to find he was back in the dust of Spain, sleeping on the sun-baked ground.

  But the dirt beneath his horse’s hooves now felt very solid, as Zeus pawed at the ground, eager to be off on a
gallop. The Ransome estate, spreading as far as the eye could see, was real. What he had seen of it today was prosperous and tidy, yet strangely underused. Fields that could be under cultivation, providing jobs and food, lay fallow. His uncle had been a scholar, wrapped up in his studies of ancient Britain, and obviously not much interested in the mundanities of the modern world.

  Miles thought of all the men who had returned from brave service in the war to find no jobs, no way to take care of their families. It made him feel so helpless—and angry.

  Mr. Benson, the bailiff of the estate, rode up to Miles’s side, breaking into his thoughts. “So, we’ve seen most of the estate today, my lord—the most important sections, anyway,” he said.

  “You’ve obviously been a fine caretaker since my uncle died, Mr. Benson,” Miles answered. “And perhaps even before that?”

  Mr. Benson laughed ruefully. “Aye. His old lordship wasn’t much concerned with the farm, that’s true. But he was a good man, and took care of his tenants and workers.”

  “What workers he had,” Miles murmured. Louder, he said, “The buildings are all in excellent repair, and it looks to be a good harvest this year. I fear I do not know much more about farming than my uncle did—I have been in the Army since I was eighteen, and that was seventeen years ago. Perhaps you could assist me, Mr. Benson?”

  “I would be happy to help you in any way I can, my lord.”

  “Excellent. Then tomorrow morning, we can ride over the rest of the estate, and in the afternoon take a look at the accounts.”

  “There’s not much more of the estate left to see,” Mr. Benson said. “Just the northwest section, but Lady Iverson is there.”

  Miles frowned as he pictured in his mind the map of the estate. “The northwest section? Is that not where the river cuts into the estate?”

  “Aye, but it’s more a stream than a river. That’s where it is deepest.”

  Miles might not be much of a farmer yet, but he did know that river—or stream—valleys often yielded the richest land, ripe for cultivation. That was a large tract of land there, enough for two farms of a middling size at least. “Lady Iverson? She does not sound like a tenant.”

  Mr. Benson laughed. “Oh, no, indeed, my lord! Lady Iverson and her husband, Sir John, have been digging up an old Viking village there. Sir John passed away last year, but she still works on it. They were friends of your uncle, and he let them stay there. I believe the attorney spoke of talking to you about the situation soon.”

  It sounded like a whopping waste of good land to Miles, some spoiled Society lady digging about in the dirt where crops could be growing. “A Viking village?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. My brother sometimes works there, hauling away rubbish and the like.”

  “I see,” Miles said slowly. “Do many people work there?”

  “A few, though not as many as used to.” Mr. Benson glanced around a bit nervously. “They say there’s a curse on the place.”

  Miles almost laughed aloud. He had the sense that the tale of Lady Iverson and her Viking village was going to prove quite amusing. Perhaps that was why his uncle had let her stay on the land—for the sheer diversion of it. “A curse?”

  “There’s said to be treasure there, but if anyone touches it they will die horribly. They say the treasure was cursed by a Viking witch named Thora, and she doesn’t want anyone messing about with it. Things have happened there—a cave-in, some objects smashed. People don’t much want to work there, for fear they’ll accidentally disturb the treasure.”

  “What about you, Mr. Benson? Do you go to the village?”

  Mr. Benson shrugged. “My job is to look after the estate. The village is Lady Iverson’s business.”

  “I see.” Miles decided he would just have to have a thorough look through his uncle’s papers, and see if this lady and her husband had some sort of contract on that land. “And what does she intend to do with the village once it is dug up?”

  “My brother says she is writing a book.”

  “Is that so? I should like to meet Lady Iverson soon.”

  “You may get to meet her sooner than you would think, my lord. That’s her now.”

  Mr. Benson pointed with his riding crop down to the road below them. It was not much of a road, more of a pathway really, that wound around the edge of the estate until it joined the main road into the village of Upper Hawton. In the distance, stirring up a small dust cloud, was a bright yellow phaeton drawn by a pair of matched grays.

  As it came closer, Miles saw that it was indeed a lady driving it, going at a rather improvident speed that sent the elegant equipage jolting over the ruts in the road. She wore a purple carriage dress, and a tall-crowned black hat trimmed with jaunty purple plumes. Glossy dark brown curls peeked from under that hat, and Miles had a glimpse of a pale oval of a face as she drove past. She raised one black-gloved hand to wave at Mr. Benson as she went by, then she was gone, her carriage jolting on its way down the road. A snatch of some song she was singing floated back to them on the breeze.

  She was far more dashing than Miles would have expected a lady scholar to be. He found himself very curious to meet her.

  But he could hardly just gallop up to a lady, and stop her carriage without an introduction. She might think he was some sort of highwayman! She appeared to be heading into Upper Hawton, though. Surely there was some errand he needed to accomplish in the village? Some purchase to be made?

  And surely there was someone there who could properly introduce him to Lady Iverson.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah sang a merry little tune as she drove along, basking in the sunshine. It was truly a lovely day, with a cloudless blue sky and the hint of autumn in the air. She felt better than she had since Phoebe left last week. The work on the village was progressing most satisfactorily; she even had two new workers, a brother and sister from one of the tenant’s families, who seemed to have no fear of any curses. And she was on her way to meet her sister Mary Ann. Not even her odd dreams could disturb her this day.

  Best of all, she had not heard from the new Lord Ransome, or his attorney. She knew he was in residence at Ransome Hall, had heard of him from all her friends and workers. They said he was very handsome, if a bit weather-beaten from his years on the Peninsula, and quite charming. She confessed herself curious to catch a glimpse of him—but not curious enough to face his questions about her residency on his land. Not yet, anyway, not when the work was going so well.

  She knew she would have to face him sooner or later, and persuade him to let her stay. She just hoped it was later, perhaps even so late that the work was complete and she could leave.

  As she turned a bend in the road, she saw that Mr. Benson, the bailiff, sat atop a hill with another man. Ordinarily, she would have stopped the phaeton and had a little chat with Mr. Benson, for he was a most pleasant man, and she wanted to ask how his wife was doing after the birth of their new baby. But she had a suspicion that the other man was Lord Ransome, so she just drove past.

  She turned her head, trying to get a glimpse of him as she drove. All she had was an impression of thick blond hair, uncovered and ruffled by the breeze, of a military posture in the saddle. His head also turned to watch her progress, and she had to resist the urge to stop and try to get a better look at him.

  But stopping would mean speaking, and she was already late meeting her sister in Upper Hawton. Her mother’s friend, Lady Hammond, who was dropping Mary Ann off on her journey to London, would not wait in the village for very long, and it would never do to leave Mary Ann alone there. She drove down the road, until the men were left far behind her.

  Unfortunately, fate seemed to be against her. Attempting to cross a shallow stream, something she had done dozens of times before, she felt a great jolt, and her phaeton tilted and would go no farther. Her horses tossed their pretty heads, as if indignant that their jolly run had been so rudely interrupted, and tried to move forward. The carriage was quite thoroughly stuck.

>   Sarah twisted about to look down at the offending wheel. It was obviously caught in some muddy rut of the streambed, and she would have to walk to the nearest farm for help. She glanced down at the water, frowning.

  She had dressed so carefully today to meet her sister, leaving behind the stout boots she used for digging in favor of dainty new kid half-boots. She certainly did not want to ruin them! Perhaps she could climb over the front of the phaeton onto one of the horses’ backs? But then how would she release the horse from the carriage without getting muddy?

  She sat there for a moment, absorbed in this conundrum, until she heard the rustle of hooves on the road behind her. She turned, full of relief, to call out for rescue—only to find that it was the man who was perhaps Lord Ransome approaching.

  A half-smile curved his lips as he reined in his horse next to her carriage. He was handsome, Sarah thought, just as everyone said, and not the least weather-beaten. He was rather sun browned, to be sure, the darkness of his skin in contrast with his guinea-gold hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue, surrounded by only the faintest of lines that deepened when he smiled at her fully.

  They sparkled in the sunlight, blue as the sky, making him seem very friendly and easy. Not at all the stiff-backed prig she imagined an Army man would be. And he seemed very—familiar.

  She smiled back, caught by his handomeness, his smile. She didn’t think she could speak even if she tried, she was so breathless. And he hadn’t even said anything to her yet! He had just smiled at her, and she was staring like a silly schoolgirl.

  Stop it right now, she told herself sternly. You are not some young miss; you are a respectable widow, and he is the one who holds your work in his hand.

  If he thought she was a simpering lackwit, he would never let her stay at the village.

  She twined the reins around her fist, and sat up straight on the carriage seat. “Good day, sir,” she said, deeply grateful that her voice emerged in a normal fashion, and not as a high-pitched squeak.