One Touch of Magic Page 9

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  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.

  If she could only sleep . . .

  It was undeniably the Viking village. The same stream ran alongside it; the same smoky-green hillsides rose abov
e, enclosing it in its snug little valley. But it was not the same as Sarah knew it—not at all.

  Buildings, new and fresh, stood around her, their walls of wood and some sort of plaster surrounding the narrow walkways. Doorways were open in the shops, displaying wares of beautiful soapstone bowls, strings of amber beads, silver-chased brooches, and carved chess sets. The metallic “clang” of the smith’s hammer rang out amid the laughter and talk of people gathered outside in the bright, warm sunlight. Chickens and geese waddled along the muddy street, and a black-spotted dog raced by, chased by a pack of children.

  The street was crowded, humming with life and vitality. Sarah seemed to be right in the midst of it, surrounded by it, yet everyone passed her as if she was not even there. As if she were invisible. But she heard and saw everything they did; she smelled the warm, summery scents of animals and spices and fireplace smoke. The people spoke some strange language, but she understood every word.

  It was her village! Her village, as it had been when it was first built, so very long ago. Even though Sarah knew that this had to be a dream, she felt excited and exhilarated. If only she could remember every, every detail, and write it all down when she woke up.

  She knew, though, that dreams never worked like that. It would all be forgotten in the morning; only hazy, floating little bits still clinging to her mind for a while before they, too, drifted away. All she could do was enjoy it now.

  She turned in a wide circle to take the whole scene in, to absorb all the little images of it. Laughing at the joy of being there, she swung wider and wider—until she stumbled to a halt, brought up short by a vision.

  There was a glimmer of movement in a polished bronze mirror hanging outside the jeweler’s shop. A spinning woman. Herself Sarah, she thought, until she peered closer.

  It was not her. Not really. This woman had dark hair, like hers, but it spilled to her waist in a thick riot, not like Sarah’s own shoulder-length curls. She wore a tight-sleeved white tunic, not unlike the nightdress Sarah had put on before she fell asleep, covered by a dark blue, apronlike overdress. The straps of it were fastened by two beautifully worked silver brooches.

  The same silver brooches that now lay, carefully labeled, in the stable with the other artifacts. But now they were shining and whole.

  Sarah stepped closer to the mirror, reached up to touch one of the brooches. The reflected figure’s hand reached up, too.

  “Who am I supposed to be?” she whispered. “What is happening here?”

  A movement to her left in the mirror caught her attention, and she turned around. A man stood behind her on the street, tall and handsome, clad in leather leggings and a green tunic edged in white embroidery. A wealth of golden hair fell over his shoulders.

  “Miles!” she gasped. That, even more than the whole village, convinced her that this must be a dream. She would never in real life call Lord Ransome by his given name! She hadn’t even known that she knew what it was.

  Yet it was undoubtedly him, despite the long hair and the strange clothes. He stepped toward her, his eyes as blue and intense as the summer sky above them.

  “There you are,” he said, reaching out to clasp her arms in his hands. They felt warm and secure, more solid than any dream she had ever had before. “I have been looking for you.”

  “You have?” she asked, completely bewildered. “But I only saw you a few hours ago. We were playing whist on your terrace.”

  He frowned, a tiny crease appearing between his eyes. “What is this ‘whist’ you speak of?”

  “Miles, you know what whist is! A card game,” Sarah argued. She knew it was futile to try to talk sense to a dream-figure, but she couldn’t help it. It was so strange, so deeply disconcerting to be here with someone who was, yet so obviously wasn’t, Lord Ransome.

  Lord Ransome, of course, would never look at her as this dream-Miles was doing, with affection and a deep sensual understanding.

  “Ah, I see,” he said, with a deep, stirring laugh. “You are playing one of your tricks, Thora.”

  “Thora!” Sarah cried. “I am not Thora. I am Sarah, Miles. Sarah.”

  “You may call yourself whatever name you choose.” Miles drew her closer, so close she could feel his warmth through his tunic, could smell his clean pine scent. His mouth dipped toward hers, closer and closer.

  By heavens, he was going to kiss her! Sarah found herself longing for that dream-kiss more than she ever had for anything before in her life. To feel his lips on hers, the press of them, the heat and sweetness . . .

  “Thora,” he whispered.

  “I am Sarah,” she answered, still aching for that kiss, yet desperate to hear her own name in his voice. Not some Viking witch with a treasure and a curse, but her. “Sarah. Say it, Miles. I am Sarah.”

  Then she felt herself slipping back to consciousness, felt the pull of the real world on her senses. “No!” she cried. “Not yet!” She tried to cling to Miles, but her hands grasped only air. The village shifted and vanished around her, and she fell back and back. . . .

  “Sarah! Sarah, wake up. Oh, please, wake up.”

  Sarah jerked awake with a start, and slowly opened her eyes. She was in her own bedchamber at the hunting box, in her own bed. The blankets were twisted around her, and she felt uncomfortably hot.

  Mary Ann knelt beside the bed, her expression worried as she looked down at Sarah. Her one candle cast a faint circle of light on her, making her look like a concerned and very young Madonna.

  Sarah pushed herself up against the pillows, trying to take deep breaths and slow her racing heart. “What is it, Mary Ann?”

  “You were calling out in your sleep, and I heard you from my room. I was so worried; I didn’t know what could be wrong! I came in here, and you were saying, ‘I am Sarah,’ over and over.”

  Sarah took her sister’s hand, glad of her solid presence beside her. “I was just having a very odd dream, dear. That is all. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “I could not sleep anyway.” Mary Ann sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for talking to Mr. Hamilton in the garden. I do know better, and I should never have stopped there.”

  Sarah tried to shake off the remnants of her dream. She slid higher against the pillows, and rubbed at her eyes. “No, Mary Ann, it was not your fault. It was mine for leaving you alone. I was feeling tired, and in some desperate need of fresh air, and it made me careless of my duty.”

  “No. I am not a child anymore; I can be left alone at a crowded party for a few minutes. Or at least, I usually can. It won’t happen again, Sarah, I promise.”

  “I hope not. I was just thinking, before I went to sleep, that perhaps it would be better for you to go home.”

  Mary Ann looked utterly horrified. “Oh, Sarah, please, no! I like it here so much more than at home. Mother keeps bothering me about my Season; about how I have to make up for your ‘disappointing match’ and marry a viscount at least. And Kitty is still such a baby, I cannot talk to her at all. I want to stay here and learn more about your work.”

  Sarah weakened under her sister’s pleading. She had never been truly serious about sending Mary Ann home, anyway. “Of course, I do not want you to go away. It is very lonely here without you, and I can certainly use your help. But you must promise me you will be careful from now on.”

  “I will. I promise.” Mary Ann laid her head down on the pillow next to Sarah’s, and said wistfully, “Mr. Hamilton is not as I imagined him, is he?”

  “Mr. Hamilton is a very intelligent and learned man,” Sarah answered carefully. “He and John were good friends. I think perhaps his marriage is not—not all he hoped for, but I am sure he will be his old self very soon. Tomorrow, I will talk with him.”

  “Not about me?” Mary Ann said, her tone aghast. “How awful to be talked about. It’s like something Mother would do.”

  Sarah laughed. “I must, dear. It is my duty as your older sister. But I also want to see if he will t
ell me what has been amiss with him.”

  “Well, if you must, you must,” Mary Ann said with a sigh. Then she gave Sarah a mischievous little smile. “Lord Ransome seems like a very nice man.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, keeping her tone neutral. “He does seem a nice man.” She was not sure that “nice” was exactly the correct word, especially after the dream she had just had, but it would do.

  “And Ransome Hall is a pretty house. I can see a person being very comfortable in its rooms. And since Mrs. Browning prefers Bath to the country, a lady would never have to worry about her mother-in-law interfering there.” Mary Ann’s voice was determined, but growing sleepy. She yawned through her next words. “Very comfortable—and happy.” Her head drooped on the pillow.

  Sarah slid back down onto her pillow, and closed her eyes. Sleep would not come back, though, and she lay there for a long time, listening to Mary Ann’s soft breath and thinking. Always thinking.

  Ransome Hall was a pretty place, and she could envision herself happy there. Happy with Lord Ransome, maybe. She could see herself sitting at the foot of the table at supper parties, and looking down to see him at the head, smiling at her. She could see herself dancing with him in the ballroom there, walking with him along the garden paths, working on her writing in the library while he went over estate business.

  She liked Lord Ransome—far too much. She was attracted to his golden looks, his smile, and laugh. She missed the companionship of being married. She especially missed it on long, dark nights like this. If she were sensible, she would chase after the attractive Lord Ransome and secure him as soon as she could, as no doubt her mother would have advised her to do.

  Yet, deep in her heart, even in lonely moments, Sarah knew she could never again be completely happy without her work. It fulfilled a deep yearning within her to learn, to know, as nothing else, not even love, could ever do. And Lord Ransome did not seem the sort of man who would understand that, or be able to share in it.