CASTLE OF DARK SHADOWS

Copyright © 2012 Patty G. Henderson and Blanca Rosa Publishing.

Cover Artwork Design and Creation:
Boulevard Photografica/Patty G. Henderson,
www.boulevardphotografica.yolasite.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the author and publisher.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

This novel is completely a work of fiction and the names, characters and events contained herein are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to living or dead or actual events are entirely unintentional and accidental.

For Terry and for Tarra

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

The darkness made it impossible to read. All I could do was hold the tattered volume of Edgar Allan Poe close to my breast and repeated from memory one of my favorite passages:

“During the whole of a dull, dark and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country.”

Though not exactly on horseback, for most of a cold October day, I traveled alone through countryside which could hardly be less gray and dreary. It surrounded me, beyond the nearly deserted, grimy railway station and the sleeping village of Seffenwich. Indeed, the whole place seemed etched in a spooky pallor beneath a cold, pale moon rising.

I huddled next to the stove, thankfully devoid of others in search of warmth, struggling to convince myself that in most every other detail, my situation had not a thing to resemble The Fall of the House of Usher. For starters, I was a girl of nineteen. I traveled by rail not horseback and most important, my mission was not to rush to aid of an ailing friend in the grip of total madness, but only to set a disordered library straight.

The clatter of hooves and rattle of a coach shattered my dark imaginings. Wondering if that might be my travel arrangement, I ran to the door of the station. A huge, solid black carriage, hitched to four midnight steeds stood across the platform. The driver sat as a dark silhouette against the inky sky.

“Are you Miss Olivia Hampton?” His voice was a deep, dark baritone.

“Indeed, I am,” I answered hesitantly. “Are you from Miss Dunraven?”

“I am. Jack Griffen, Miss.”

He jumped down with ease from his driver’s perch. He towered over me, dressed in black with a wide brimmed hat, a long coat with triple cape and black, shiny boots.

As I watched him grab my trunk and small bag and swing them easily to the rack atop the coach, I caught the long, sharp nose and angular, pale face. His full, black moustache drooped over a thin-lipped mouth.

As he opened the coach door for me, I entered quickly, giving him a slight smile. He did not respond, only closed the door behind me and without further word, sprang back to the driver’s perch and the coach lurched forward.

We continued down the cobblestone road of the dark village. I couldn’t suppress a shiver of doubt. Was this man really from Dunraven Castle? Was I on the right coach? Of course, there was the fact that he had known my name. But that was little comfort to me at the moment. I was completely in his hands. But tonight was one of those nights when my fantasies were running amok. Phantoms were abroad tonight. This dark, mustachioed man and his dark coach could have materialized from the realm of haunts.

It was then that I noticed a letter lying upon the seat facing me. I scooped it up and held it near one of the flickering lamps. It was addressed to Miss Olivia Hampton. I broke the red wax seal and read it hurriedly.

Dear Miss Hampton,

I sincerely hope your journey has been without mishap and that our Mister Griffen arrived in a timely manner to meet you. I should warn you that the passage from the village to Dunraven is a tiresome one. Please be assured that Jack Griffen is an experienced driver and excellent protector.

With regards,

Marion Dunraven

I sat back and let out the breath I’d been holding in. I appreciated Miss Dunraven assuring me that I had boarded the correct coach and at least I was secure in knowing Jack Griffen was no apparition but I was questioning him as “protector.” What was there to need protection from?

I tried to laugh my trepidation away. My overactive imaginings were inspired, I’m afraid, by my love and complete obsession of my beloved Poe, Sheridan LeFanu, the sisters Bronte, Hawthorne and others who wrote of ghosts and phantoms and romance. No matter how aware I was of the moods Poe’s tales instilled in me, I loved to dwell and put myself in his dark worlds. They could cause me nightmares in plain day or even in a crowd. I could not resist the dark fantasies now as I sat in the chilled, dark coach, working my way through the night and toward an unfamiliar destination and hopefully, a new life.

We continued on barren hilltops, fled past lonely, dark farms, crossed over the black, gurgling waters of streams and finally found ourselves in a deep, crowded forest. The road grew increasingly narrow, trees with grasping branches pressed against the outer walls of the coach, making sounds that puckered my flesh the length of me.

Jack Griffen drove like a madman yet he showed great skill guiding the horses. Obviously the carriage was well built. The heavy wheels roared over ruts and stones and rough roads yet I wasn’t bouncing around. In a cheap trap, I might have suffered injuries.

But suddenly, we rocked to a sudden stop. I was flung across to the opposite seat. I felt the coach rear high up into the air! We were going to tip over for sure. The horses screamed with almost human voices. I grabbed hold of the side of the coach and tried to hang on to anything.

After what seemed like an eternity suspended in the air, we fell back to earth with a jarring thud. I was tossed once again, landing this time on hands and knees on the floor between the seats. Before I even had time to catch my breath and call out, Mr. Griffen opened the door.

“Are you all right, Miss Hampton?”

I managed a weak nod.

“My apologies for the sudden stop, but I heard the sound just in time. Another second and it could have been worse. We would have had to stop either way.”

“What a dreadful situation.” I was trying to remain calm and push back the fear pounding through my heart.

“Don’t worry, Miss, I’ll have a look and see what can be done.”

He disappeared, leaving me alone and quite alarmed. I stepped outside. Jack Griffen knelt beside the right front wheel. He stared at me, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight.

“It’s as I thought. The pin is gone. I’ll see if I have a spare.”

I said a silent prayer. Surely, he had to have a spare. He was an experienced driver. A good driver was always prepared. Right? He took a medium sized box from under the driver’s seat and rummaged inside it. He slammed the lid shut.

“Blast it. No pin.”

My heart sank. It was as if a big, giant hand were squeezing it. I struggled to catch my breath.

“What can we do now?”

He smiled then, his teeth large and white in the moonlight.

“Oh, Miss, don’t worry. Luckily I know this country like the back of my hand. There is a farm not two miles east. I will take one of the horses and ride for a pin. Old farmer Mick Kibbins will have one for certain.”

“But…but,” I stuttered. I never stuttered. I felt like such a child. I must have been in shock. I couldn’t even complete thoughts or sentences. Griffen seemed to understand somehow.

“I could take you along, Miss Hampton, but I have no saddle. Would you ride bareback?”

“We couldn’t walk?” I finally blurted out. I was certainly not going to ride bareback in the middle of nowhere, in the darkness, with a man I did not know or fully trust.

“Aye, we could walk, Miss, but it would be nearly dawn before we got you to Dunraven. Miss Marion would never forgive me.” He grinned again. “Here Miss, you aren’t afraid to be alone, are you? I assure you, you have nothing to fear. No one uses this road. The last Indian was shot long before you were born and there are no wolves.” He paused and looked me over in a way that made my skin crawl. “And an educated young lady like yourself wouldn’t be afraid of ghosts and goblins, would she?” His gaze was intrusive.

I squared my shoulders and looked at him boldly with all the courage I could muster.

“Of course I am not afraid, least of all of ghosts. I will be quite all right, but please do hurry, won’t you. It is growing so cold.” I hugged my shoulders for warmth.

“Indeed, Miss Hampton, cold as a dead man’s heart.” He turned and began unhitching one of the horses. “I’ll take old Peg and be off, then.”

***

I tried to ignore thinking of the time passing, but I was certain that nearly an hour at least had gone by.

The remaining three horses grew restless, stamping their feet in agitation. I wished that I could overcome my fears and leave the coach to at least comfort the beasts and share of their warmth instead of hiding inside the cold, empty coach. But there were sounds outside other than the horses and those were the sounds that kept me huddled inside, curled up in a corner, feet lifted and tucked inside my skirts.

I kept my eyes shut tight as I listened. I wanted to cover my ears as well, but the silence was even more dreadful and I felt more defenseless and afraid. It was only the wind, I told myself, branches rubbing together and stirring the fallen leaves. That is what it was. That had to be it. But oh, it sounded like so many other things in my mind, all of them impossible yet terrifying.

Then came a new, louder sound, a steady, measured tread upon leaves. Mr. Griffen must be back at last! But no—it was not the sound of four hooves, but something that walked on two legs. I sat up and froze, my heart racing faster than our coach at full gallop. I opened my eyes. At least the gloomy interior of the coach assured me I was still alive.

The footsteps suddenly stopped. And in disbelief, all the other sounds of the forest became quiet as well. My breath became raspy like I’d been stricken with sudden consumption. Even the limp, flickering light of the lamp shook like a hurricane. The footsteps resumed again, crushing brittle leaves on the ground, advancing toward the coach. Coming toward me! They grew louder and louder, in perfect rhythm with the beating of my heart.

Suddenly, they stopped again, just outside; just beyond my thin barrier of wood and metal, polished silver hooks and handles and trim. I wanted to scream but found I could not. Upon the door came a loud knock. I uttered a hopeless cry that no one could hear and pushed up further against the carriage wall.

What I really wanted was to close my eyes tight again and come what may, but a force greater than my fear kept them open, fixed on the door. The handle turned and opened slowly. I thought my heart stopped for a few seconds. I thought surely I would faint. I stared at the door, ready to meet my death or attack, but saw nothing, just the blackness of the night. But then the door was flung violently open and I saw the thing standing there.

It was a giant, black monstrosity with no face, clad in black, cloak and hat. But no face, only a misshapen form where a face should have been! I opened my mouth to scream but couldn’t.

“Miss Hampton, are you all right?”

I blinked when I heard the familiar voice, but the form was still standing in the door, reaching toward me. And then I saw the face as it came into view of the weak lamps. It was the long-nosed, mustachioed Jack Griffen.

“Are you all right, Miss?” He repeated. “Were you asleep? I’m afraid I scared you.”

I wiped the trickle of tears of fear from my eyes and moistened my dry lips.

“No, I’m fine. Just a bit nervous. And I believe I did doze off.” I lied. “Did you find the part you needed?”

He grinned that crooked grin. “Yes, Miss. Kibbins had a spare pin that will fit” He tipped his hat. “I’ll secure the wheel and we’ll be on our way again.”

It didn’t take him long to have the wheel repaired and we rushed through the forest without further delays. We finally crested the top of a high hill. The moon was peeking through a rip of clouds and beamed down upon the sloping ground. Further below flowed a glittering ribbon of water. It threaded its way through the land and beyond.

There appeared to be a small island in the center of the waterway and sitting in the center of the darkened land, stood a building. It was not distinct from this distance, but its silhouette reminded me more of a castle than a typical Victorian structure. The few lights twinkled, setting it apart from the darkness surrounding it.

I knew it had to be Castle Dunraven. My destination.

Griffen flicked the whip and the coach continued down the hillside at a brisk pace. I grew braver as we neared my new home and poked my head out the window. But another small hill obstructed my view of Dunraven. I could no longer see the house and I didn’t want to lean too far out for fear of falling out.

Soon, we were on more level land and then clattered across a stone bridge. I smoothed out my clothes and gathered my wits, anticipating our arrival at Dunraven. Had they given up on me arriving tonight and gone to bed? We were quite delayed because of the broken wheel pin.

The carriage came to a stop and Mr. Griffen opened the door. I placed one gloved hand on his and placed my foot on the step. I then froze in mid motion, staring in astonishment at the structure that rose before me.

It wasn’t a house, at least not anything I’ve ever come across in my nineteen years. Dunraven was more castle than house, but unlike any castle I’ve seen in books and cards. It was as if the builder had just piled unrelated stone buildings carelessly, one atop the other, creating an ominous, giant square tower.

There was no known architectural style to Dunraven. It was as if the soil had retched up and formed itself into Dunraven. And it was a deep, dark grey. The forbidding color of the native soil. And yet all the bays and turrets and gallery had been framed in weathered wood. The whole place was disconcerting, to say the least.

Mr. Griffen tugged at my arm. “Will you be stepping down and staying, Miss Hampton?”

Still held captive by the oddity and sheer size of Dunraven Castle, I followed him, spellbound, through a paved walk, up a flight of stairs, across the terrace and into the huge mouth of a patio of gargoyles. He lifted an iron knocker in the shape of a hound. The clang reverberated on the oak door. The double doors parted open and both Griffen, carrying my trunk and bag, and I entered the monstrosity that was Dunraven.

Several large candelabras flickered upon a large table in the center of a long and cavernous hall. Though each candelabrum held twelve candles, they hardly penetrated the immensity of the darkest reaches of the castle. Mazes of carved stairs and balustrades stood in shadow.

From those shadows appeared a smallish woman, her clothing as drab as the castle, her gray hair tucked under a white bonnet. She offered a warm smile.

“Miss Hampton. I’m Mrs. Milbanks, the housekeeper. Miss Dunraven is awaiting you in the drawing room. Won’t you follow me?”

“My dear Miss Hampton! How glad I am to see you again. We were dreadfully afraid you’d met with mishap, decided against accepting my invitation or missed Mr. Griffen at the station.”

Marion Dunraven’s voice was as warm and melodious as the first time we’d met, but filled with worry. She took my hand and held it between hers. I felt tingly and safe. I was happy beyond description to see her again. I had not been able to forget Marion Dunraven.

Should I tell her what had happened to me on that lonely road in that cold carriage? I hesitated. Would she think me a foolish young woman? Worse, would she think me slightly mad and fire me before I even got started at my job? Besides, I began to doubt whether my experience had been reality as my crazed nerves insisted, or a dream or illusion as common sense dictated.

Miss Dunraven’s drawing room was spacious but warmed by an oversized, blazing hearth. The furnishing was rich with welcoming colors. In this room, my trip through the dark forest dimmed and I decided I’d say nothing. The re-assuring form of Miss Dunraven and the housekeeper, Mrs. Milbanks, seemed to re-inforce my decision. Faceless phantoms in the night could not be part of civilized Maine in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Eighty Three.

“Well, there was a mishap,” I finally blurted to Marion Dunraven. “A wheel came loose on the way through the forest. Fortunately, your Mr. Griffen was able to fix it with a part he had to find in the nearest village. I am so sorry I worried you.”

“Oh, nonsense, my dear, thank heavens it was something so simple.” Miss Dunraven replied with a shy yet intense smile. She squeezed my hand again, sending another warm glow inside me. She released me and looked at Mrs. Milbanks. “You must allow Mrs. Milbanks to take your things and sit down for a moment. I’m certain you are exhausted and chilled to the bone.” She set her gaze back to me. “Would you care to share a cup of hot tea—or perhaps something stronger before we show you your apartment?”

“Yes, tea would be perfect, thank you,” I replied, quite willing to remain a bit longer in the presence of Marion Dunraven.

Mrs. Milbanks took my cloak and reticule after which Miss Dunraven led me to the fireplace and pointed to a beautiful red velvet loveseat. She proceeded to sit next me; close enough where her voluminous skirt spilled onto my own. She was curious to hear of my journey and as I engaged her in conversation, I could not help myself from studying her face closely. She was stunning. So utterly lovely. I could not pull my gaze from her.

She must have been at least thirty or so, but exceedingly well-preserved. Her almost oval face was framed by jet black hair parted in the center and drawn softly back to a simple knot behind her. And the color of her eyes was like magnetic onyx stones. There was not a touch of brown in the color, but almost blue-black like water beneath the moonlight. As black and shimmering as her hair. They glistened like dark liquid in the firelight. I tried to restrain the sigh that almost escaped my lips. But I would not hold back my imagination. I allowed it to picture her lustrous black hair flowing down and spread over her shoulders. Was I infatuated with Miss Dunraven? I continued to watch her animated conversation, her cheeks growing flush as she spoke. Yes, Marion Dunraven was a fetching woman.

We conversed even after I gratefully took my tea. She finally observed that I must truly be quite tired. I was. She asked Mrs. Milbanks to show me to my rooms and emphasized, with an eager smile, that I was to join her for breakfast at ten.

Before I could excuse myself, another woman literally ran into the room. She wore a dark skirt with a light green blouse and black riding jacket. A black riding hat sat askew atop her head of brown hair. She stopped abruptly when she noticed I was in the room. Her blue-eyed gaze was not warm. How completely opposite she was from Marion Dunraven, in looks and character.

“And why wasn’t I told we had a visitor?” She flicked the riding whip against her full skirt. She didn’t allow anyone to respond. “Why, Marion?” Her gaze bore into Miss Dunraven.

Marion Dunraven lowered her gaze briefly and put her hand on my back. I could feel the discomfort.

“We did not know for certain that Miss Hampton would actually accept the position.” Marion smiled without humor. “Miss Hampton, please meet my sister, Cora Dunraven. Cora, Miss Olivia Hampton will be staying with us while she attends to father’s library.”

Cora Dunraven leisurely walked a circle around me as if observing an inanimate object. Where Marion was brilliant, Cora was dull. Her hair was plain brown and her eyes a dull blue. I detected a flicker of danger in them.

“Do you ride, Miss Hampton?” she asked me.

I was taken by surprise by her question. “I’m afraid I’ve never been on a horse, Miss Dunraven, but I have a deep love for all creatures.”

Marion pressed me forward.

“Miss Hampton will be joining us for breakfast tomorrow morning, Cora. Perhaps you can talk then. She is very tired from her trip and will be going up to her apartment now.”

Mrs. Milbanks gave me a signal with her nod and I brushed past Cora Dunraven and followed the housekeeper to the door.

“I can teach you to ride, Miss Hampton,” Cora said out loud behind me.

Marion walked with us, very close by my side, to the second floor.

“Please don’t mind Cora. She can be blunt and sometimes lacks some of the etiquette a proper young lady should have…” She paused, briefly gazing away from me. “You see, she is…well, she is not right of mind. We try to humor her.”

I didn’t understand. What was wrong with her sister? Marion must have noticed my confusion because she smiled a tight smile.

“Forgive me, but this is somewhat awkward. You see, we don’t really have horses for Cora to ride. Cora has never been on a horse in her life.”

I was a bit shocked. What of the magnificent, black horses that Mr. Griffen had used to drive me here?

“I know you’re wondering about our Mr. Griffen’s beasts,” Marion said, “but they are not available to Cora. The horses and carriage are kept a distance from here where Mr. Griffen keeps house. Most likely, she would take a fall and kill herself on her first outing…” She paused, her gaze downcast. Her hand reached out and held mine. The warmth sent little shivers through me. Her eyes were dark, deep, with a wounded look. “Cora is not allowed outside of Dunraven, Miss Hampton. She would not be safe.”

I felt a great sadness overcome me. How horrible to be a prisoner in your own home. What happened to poor Cora Dunraven to drive her sister to lock the door and keep the key?

Marion became quiet and said nothing until we reached the landing to another flight of stairs. There, she bade me goodnight with the sweetest smile and slight brush of her hand on my shoulder. She then retired to her rooms. As exhausted as I was, I think I could have followed her just to hear her voice.

Instead, I followed Mrs. Milbanks up the flight of stairs and down a series of corridors that seemed to twist round and round like a maze, through gargoyle-carved arches and around dark corners. The only light came from the lamp that Mrs. Milbanks carried. Each hallway seemed to be swallowed by total darkness behind us.

Owing to my fatigue, or perhaps because my nerves were still rattled after the ghastly nightmare experience in the forest, I found myself unable to fully concentrate and lost all sense of direction.

I was grateful when Mrs. Milbanks finally stopped in front of a stunningly carved wooden door. She remarked that she’d come up and wake me at nine o’clock. I suspected that I would be up long before then. How could I possibly sleep in such an alien and new place? But I feared I would need a guide to get back downstairs or I should never find my way back to the center of the castle.

I wondered, with some concern, why on earth had they lodged me in such a remote part of Dunraven? We passed many rooms below floors that would have been preferable. They couldn’t have been occupied. I was led to believe that only the Dunravens, Marion, her sister and their father, Julian Dunraven and their staff dwelled at the castle.

My apartment, however, proved to be simply charming and well appointed. The bedroom, sitting room and dressing room were not large, but the high ceiling gave it the feel of spaciousness. They were far more elegant than any place I had ever lived in. The ornate furniture was large and beyond anything in my plain New England experience.

Surprisingly, my trunk and other bags had already been placed in my apartment. Once Mrs. Milbanks left, and despite increasing yawns, I was undecided over unpacking and undressing or staying up longer to savor my new life and new, fancy surroundings.

I really had no idea how long my stay at Castle Dunraven would be. It would depend, I supposed, on the extent of the work to be done with Julian Dunraven’s library, which I was eager to begin the next morning.

I was still in delighted disbelief at being offered the position here. My qualifications were not of the highest available. Those who were my superiors at the library of Cambridge University were far more expert and able than I—not to mention any in Harvard, Amherst and other colleges in the area.

I suspected that I had been selected chiefly because Marion Dunraven had taken a fancy to me on first meeting. She had come to Cambridge to receive books which had been ordered for her father. I was assigned to aid her. We struck up an immediate attraction and she invited me to have tea with her in the village.

When her letter arrived a few weeks later asking me to come to Dunraven to straighten out her father’s sizable but neglected library, I thought back to our one meeting and outing. What could I have said or claimed that had induced her to make such a grand job offer?

It troubled me that I might have exaggerated, bragged or somehow manipulated my knowledge to Miss Dunraven. But I recalled clearly saying little or nothing about library work. I had, instead, merely listened to her stories of Dunraven and spoken mainly of my uneventful life.

Alas, my history would offer precious little of interest to any writer of fantasy or romance. I was orphaned. My parents died when I was just a mere infant and I do not have a single recollection of them. I grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, raised by my mother’s sister, a widow named Lucille Hampton, whose surname I still bear.

For reasons I have never understood to this day, Aunt Lucille refused to speak of my parents. When I was old enough to question her about her silence and that the insistence to not speak of my parents was only inspiring dark suspicions in my mind, she merely admonished me for being impudent and still declined to lift the mystery.

Only once did I gather the courage to unveil the mystery, if indeed, it was a mystery for anyone but my romantically obsessed self. In a hidden recess in my aunt’s attic, I discovered a bundle of old letters addressed to her and mailed from Ireland.

Unfortunately, Aunt Lucille was too alert and caught me in my spying mission. She kept me from opening any of the letters, but I had no problem remembering the sender’s name which had been handwritten on the outside of one of the envelopes. It had a delicious, unusual and foreign postmark.

The name was Colin Kavanagh.

Perhaps because of my aunt’s refusal to discuss the matter and her decision to lock the attic after my discovery, I could not help but believe that those letters and Colin Kavanagh could have connections to me.

Once, I was foolish and inscribed “Olivia Kavanagh” on a piece of nice paper which had come into my aunt’s possession. She was so furious, I feared for my safety. Her rage was so violent and contrary to her normally positive, meek and tender nature that I never took such a silly risk again.

The only exciting fact of my life, other than the mystery of who my parents really were, was the extent of my education. Aunt Lucille went beyond what most families provide to any female, particularly to one of our station. I was taught to read at an early age. She borrowed books from the library to supplement her own modest collection.

When I learned all that was possible to learn at Miss Smythe’s grammar school, I was encouraged to join the young ladies of greater wealth and social position than mine at the local, premiere ladies seminary. I was able to earn my tuition by working in the library. I thus gained my fondness for books and I believe enabled me to later obtain the position inventorying books at Cambridge University library. My work kept me busy and I never saw young men in my free time, mostly because I had no calling to seek out their attentions or flirtations. I preferred the company of my female companions and enjoyed hours discussing romantic and gothic literature.

Moreover, I had always felt a strong sense of destiny. I knew something great and meaningful waited for me somewhere, in the mists of my fantasy imaginings if only I remained true to my nature and brave enough to grasp it. Wherever that destiny led me, I knew that I would never find it at Cambridge.

Perhaps at Castle Dunraven? I could not say.

***

I held up my volume of Poe’s tales, sitting with my other paltry possessions on the marble top of the large and exquisite dressing table. I had to ponder, with some amusement, how I could not have come to a more fitting fulfillment and destiny as I looked closer at my surroundings. Poe himself could not have written a better setting where his tales would have greater plausibility.

The windows were draped with deep, garnet curtains, diaphanous folds rippling down to the floor, producing a “silken, sad, uncertain rustle.” It was easy for me, with the words of Poe whispering in my head, to imagine a raven flying through the window and perching not on a bust, but on my volume in which its tale was told.

I went to the window, pushed aside the heavy curtains and discovered it open just a crack. It explained the billowing and dancing folds. And I thought it had all been for my benefit and welcome! I decided to leave it as it was. It was a warm evening for October; the breeze would make the room comfortable.

Looking out across the land spread beyond the window, I noticed a gale had risen. Wispy, pale clouds flitted by like writhing wraiths on a mad dash to another place. Below me, the black water of the river reflected the swollen moon and continued into the distance, where I could barely discern a tall lighthouse. Barren fields stretched to the one side of the river and the dark, brooding forest on the other bank. Low mountains hunched against the horizon.

With a slight shudder, I changed my mind about keeping the window open. I closed it tight and locked it. Unable to keep my eyes open, I undressed, extinguished my lamp and scurried into bed. But as much as I craved it, sleep would not heed my call. The wind outside increased and the sound of it caressing the walls of Castle Dunraven unnerved me.

The casement rattled. Did I close the window tight enough? Would it pop open in the middle of the night giving me a fright? I looked and saw that the drapes shifted and billowed slightly. By the bright glow of the full moon shining behind them, the dark garnet of the curtains had transformed a warm and burning ruby.

I shut my eyes and tried to force all active thought from my mind. Exhaustion finally overtook me and I was soon asleep. But it wasn’t the end of my active imagination. I was tormented by a nightmare.

I found myself back inside the coach that had brought me to Castle Dunraven, but it wasn’t a coach at all—it had turned into a hearse! I lay stiff, unable to move, staring at a round moon that was as red as blood. I just knew something horrible was coming, approaching, yet I remained helpless to defend myself against it.

The blood began to drain from the leering moon. It started to shift and change and it became an enormous head with no features save shadowy, shapeless patches of mottled gray. Then that surface began to melt where sections of human flesh showed through.

It was Jack Griffen, his big nose like the beak of a vulture, moustache twisting and writhing like poisonous snakes, thin mouth yawning, sharp teeth honed like daggers.

The gaping mouth finally opened so wide above me that I was swallowed within its foul depths. I suddenly sat upright. The sides of the hearse became the overhanging canopy of my bed. Was I awake and really safe in my room? No. I must have been dreaming still, because against the moonlit window loomed the dense shadow of an angular shape—broad shoulders, wide-brimmed hat and topping it off, a faceless head!

I wanted to cry out but the sound only strangled in my throat and only a squeak escaped. An icy air swept over my dazed face. And still the black apparition stood against the window.

Had it grown larger? Did it float towards me as I watched in shock? I finally let out a scream, closed my eyes and crossed my wrists before me like protection against Satan himself.

But when there was only silence, I lowered my hands and opened my eyes. The monstrous shape was gone. The drapes gently floated against the cool moonlight.

To prove to myself that I was indeed finally and fully awake, I lowered my feet and walked to the table where the lamp stood. I struck fire and lit the wick. The light that sprang in the room was bright and warm, shadows fleeing like spiders scuttling into dark corners.

Quickly, before I lost the courage, I surveyed all four corners of the bedroom. With relief, I found nothing but a bit of dust and cobwebs. Feeling the adrenalin of safety, I decided to check the rest of the apartment. I was alone.

I sat back upon the bed, weak and nerves still a bit rattled and my heart a single palpitation. But as the warm light of the lamp washed over me and the dream faded, I afforded myself a nervous giggle. I had behaved like a frightened fool, allowing only a nightmare to unnerve me like a little school girl.

Perhaps from this night forward, I should read more wholesome works of history or biographies before bedtime. I might be less prone to such spasms of dark imaginings in my dreams if instead I enjoyed my beloved Poe during daylight walks or at morning breakfast. Both soothed and chastened by those reflections, I succumbed to sleep almost immediately.

I awoke to a low but persistent knock on my door. I bolted from the bed, fearful that I had dreadfully overslept. Throwing on my robe, I opened the door. Mrs. Milbanks stood before me, fragrant steam wafted from the tea cup on her tray.

“Good morning, Miss Hampton,” she said in her friendly but professional manner. “It is nine o’clock.”

“Thank you and how thoughtful of you to bring tea.”

“Well, now, the morning can get a bit chilled. Did you sleep well, Miss?”

“I did, thank you,” I replied. It really wasn’t a lie. The nightmare had only been a small part of the night. I felt rested after sleeping un-interrupted after I finally got back to bed.

Mrs. Milbanks went to the window and flung back the curtain. Warm, bright sunshine poured into the room, igniting the muted colors of the oriental carpet and making them stand out in a glorious palette of red, topaz and rose.

“The weather has improved,” the housekeeper said. “This kind of pleasantness should be enjoyed to the fullest. Winter comes early and is brutal in these parts.”

I stood behind her, admiring the near picture perfect scene outside. “It really is a lovely landscape.” Even though an early October sun added a certain life to the land, it would take more than that to restore vibrancy to those withered fields and groves. But at least the daylight offered more color as opposed to the dead monotone of moonlight.

I confessed to Mrs. Milbanks that I needed her as a guide in getting back to the center of the castle. It was a bit embarrassing admitting such lack of direction but I was lost in this part of Castle Dunraven.

She smiled. “I’m certain you will get used to the place after a bit. I don’t know why they’ve chosen such an inconvenient apartment for you but Miss Marion thought you might be better suited to this one. More private. Miss Cora agreed wholeheartedly.”

“Oh, I have no complaint,” I said, though silently I wondered what input Cora Dunraven might have. I had never met her until yesterday. “I’m certain I will learn my way in no time.”

Mrs. Milbanks waited patiently in the sitting room while I finished my toilet. I had brought gowns that fit my station and my work. I didn’t have much choice with the little money I had. However, I had brought one touch of elegance with my accessories—My Aunt Lucille’s silver clasp.

As I walked to the dressing table for my jewelry case, I stopped in my tracks. I was sure that I had left my volume of Poe tales closed and sitting beside my gloves on the table. But the book lay open and one of the gloves had been moved. It lay like a limp hand of doom, one black finger pointing to the line from “The Sleeper:”

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Marion Dunraven’s exquisite gown of cinnamon velvet contrasted the display of silver, crystal and china on the breakfast table before her.

“Good morning, my dear,” she said with an arresting smile. “Please come and sit here beside me.” She pointed to the empty chair at the front of the table next to her. “I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, very well, thank you for asking.”

Her gaze was intent as I sat quietly beside her.

“Do you feel you will be comfortable here at Dunraven?”

It was not a question I was expecting. “Oh, I most certainly will be. Dunraven is like a dream come true. It is almost hard to believe it is real and I am actually here, walking the halls and sharing breakfast with the Lady Dunraven.”

She smiled in a most coy manner and resumed her gazing of me. I was beginning to feel the heat rise to my cheeks and was thankful when Mrs. Milbanks came with a tray laden with serving plates. I watched mesmerized as she uncovered delicious fruit, sausages, eggs and buttered biscuits. It was far too much food but who was I to complain? Unless more guests were expected for breakfast, we could never consume it all.

“Castle Dunraven is quite a unique place,” Miss Dunraven said. “In its grand time, many of these rooms were filled and the staff at least double. Now, I’m afraid it is just the few of us.”

“If you will forgive my curiosity,” I said, “I marvel at the existence of such a place of opulence hidden away in such a remote corner of New England.”

“Alas, very few indeed are aware that Dunraven does exist.” Miss Dunraven sighed. “There was a time when Dunraven was the center of hospitality and distinguished company.” She paused to take a few bites from her biscuit. Gratefully, I finally felt at ease to begin work on my berry preserves.

“You know,” she went on, “that Dunraven is not really such an old house as houses go in New England. It was built fifty-five years ago by my father and still master of the house, Julian Dunraven.”

I was surprised. “But it does seem so much older—I mean, the style is almost medieval—”

“Medieval!” Marion Dunraven exclaimed with a delightful laugh. “I daresay, my dear, you are only too ashamed to mean decrepit. The years have not been kind to Dunraven. The roof leaks, the drafts chill to the bone and parts of the walls are crumbling. In my opinion, greater care should have been observed in the building of Castle Dunraven.”

Before I could think of a proper retort, she continued.

“Castle Dunraven was never really designed as you would think most houses are. Within the years, a modest mansion grew instead helter skelter, with no thought or sense, into the architectural oddity you see around you.”

“You mentioned your father built it?” I avoided the word “designed” since she had so negatively referred to it as an oddity.

“Yes, you can say he built it, but more like just paid for it. In truth, he merely passed on the wishes of my mother to the builders. The house is my mother’s final whim.”

I could think of nothing delicate to add, so we both ate in silence, although Miss Dunraven merely toyed with her food. I wondered how much of it would go to waste in the kitchen. My Aunt Lucille would have been grateful for the leftovers from this table.

“My mother was Irish, you see,” Marion Dunraven continued. “Sarah MacKinney. My father, of course, was Scottish. Black Scots they called our family. We were born dark of hair and eyes. Their romance and courtship was sensationalized in its day. Castle Dunraven is the tarnished product of that union. Their personalities united more harmoniously than the final architecture would lead you to think.”

“And you and your sister were the only children?”

“No, there was a third.”

The finality of her tone put an end to any further curious questions I could brave. If she had issues with the absence of a third sibling, I wasn’t going to push it. I was actually more curious about her father, Julian Dunraven. It was, after all, his library that I was here for. I inquired when I could meet him.

“I’m afraid it may be some time before you can meet father. He has been very ill these past years and mostly keeps to his room.” She paused and leaned in close toward me. I could smell the lavender perfume and wanted to inhale deeply but kept my control.

“I believe Cora disturbs him and he only wants his peace away from her.”

“I am so sorry.” It was all I could say. I was still heady from her nearness and her scent.

“He is eighty-four,” she continued, “and has lived a grand, long life.” She leaned back into her chair.

“But did he leave some instructions for me at least?”

“About the library?” Miss Dunraven shook her head. “I’m afraid that you will need to rely on your own experience for the moment. I’m certain you are up to the challenge.” She shot me another alluring smile. “After all, I did choose you because I felt you could handle the job. There is so much to do, my dear, and I’m afraid the library is in dreadful shape. Father is obsessed with buying books. He keeps them in his room until he is no longer interested and then discards them to the library. There they pile up, sitting wherever the servants place them.”

“Is there some plan you wish me to arrange them by?”

She nodded. “Yes, I think that would be important, but even more important, Miss Hampton, I wish you to make a list of every book we have. I suspect that there might be works of considerable value among other worthless tomes.”

She stopped and laughed, obviously at my bewildered look. “Miss Hampton, strange as it may seem to someone of your bookish inclination, I am no bibliophile. I honestly have no idea what is in father’s library. He always took care of everything regarding his books. He traveled extensively around the world in search of rare books and such. After his stroke a half dozen years ago, others had to do his book fetching.”

“I see.”

“For a time, it was David Cutter, a young man in whom my father once had interest in. But several years ago, father sent him away because he got involved with Cora and he had a terrible influence on her. He had not been what he appeared.”

“Did he harm your sister?” The story Marion told was almost better than any my beloved Poe had penned—almost.

Marion Dunraven lowered her gaze. “Not in any physical sense, no. But I don’t believe he is a healthy influence on her or father.”

“He still calls for Cora here?” I was surprised he would still be welcomed at Castle Dunraven.

She sighed. “Cora insists on his visits. I no longer welcome him but if his presence pleases my sister, I must indulge her that much. Father grudgingly agrees to periodic visits if I consent to be present at all times. But you see, in regard to the library, my ignorance is what has kept me from expressing an interest in arranging it. I’m glad you accepted the job.”

She had shifted the conversation from Mr. Cutter and Cora skillfully. She set her liquid, black onyx gaze on me and smiled. My heart took several violent flips and I felt a bit rattled under the intense gaze.

“Dear me,” I fumbled, “I hope I have made it clear that I am and never was an expert, Miss Dunraven.”

“Do not be concerned about that. You are more expert than anyone else in this house—Father included—and I am certain you will do very nicely, Olivia.”

Her utterance of my proper name sent a warm and exciting thrill through my insides. I had never experienced anything quite like it. She reached across the table and lightly ran her hand on my arm.

“I must confess, that when it came to selecting someone for the task, I much preferred a lively, beautiful young lady like yourself over some dusty old professor or hooligan like David Cutter. They would not be so agreeable to taking long walks in the garden with me.”

She continued to stare deep into my eyes. I was completely mesmerized but heard the word “garden” very clearly.

“Garden? You have a garden here?”

“Indeed. It is the one thing I demand we upkeep religiously.” She laughed lightly. “My walks in the garden are what keep me sane in this dreary land and house.”

“But where is the garden?” I asked. “I have seen much of the property from my window and seen no garden.”

“I like to call it my secret garden. It is a bit of a walk to the northwest of Castle Dunraven. There is a little cleared trail that leads to the hidden paradise.” She paused and smiled. “I’m afraid I am a bit selfish when it comes to my garden. I like it hidden from prying eyes. I only invite very special people there. I like to make believe it is my very own world.”

As I watched her speak so lovingly of her garden, I wondered what it would be like to be invited and to take long walks with her there in her garden, taking long breaks and sitting on the grass or on a bench and reading to her from my favorite books. I fantasized how she would hold her head up to the warm sunshine as my words ran along the smooth, white skin of her neck. What would it be like to kiss Marion Dunraven in her private garden? I prayed that I could meet all her expectations and gain her confidence. I had to. Whatever pleasure this beautiful, charming and cultured woman could feel in my company must be slight beside what I felt in hers.

When we were done with breakfast, Miss Dunraven—could I address her or even imagine her as Marion, since she had take the liberty of calling me Olivia? Dare I attempt it?—Miss Dunraven took me directly to the library, but as we left the room, I couldn’t help but ask after her sister.

Again, her gaze cast away from me. “Cora is very unpredictable, you should understand. She hinted to see you at breakfast and take you out riding…” She paused, her hands up in question. “You see, she did not show up. More than likely, she is somewhere in the house, imagining a glorious ride across the countryside. In her mind, that is where she feels free.”

I was saddened into silence. What a horrid way to live. It was almost as bad as the fate some of the heroines in my novels suffered.

We crossed the cavernous main hall and went into a vaulted passage, emerging in still another lofty chamber. This chamber made me take a deep breath. The two long walls were filled with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The highest shelves could be reached from tall ladders spaced along the cases. The high ceiling was carved but I couldn’t make out the designs. Stained glass windows glowed with bright colors on one end of the wall, bathing shards of light onto the many thousands of books in the library.

Without doubt, it was a splendid room, but I hardly had time to admire its beauty. The disorder which greeted me was appalling. Never had I seen such a sight. The floor was cluttered with smaller bookcases, some ten or twelve feet high. And there were boxes and crates scattered about, overflowing with books and near toppling stacks of books sitting on the actual floor.

Marion…Miss Dunraven, studied my face, a slight smile on her lips. “I’ve estimated the number of books at approximately twenty thousand,” she said. “There are, however, many others scattered around the house where my father leaves them.”

Partly in shock, I turned to her is dismay. I was thinking seriously of resigning before even beginning.

“I did warn you,” she said with eyebrow raised and a slight smile. “It is not as hopeless as it seems. If you wish, I can supply a pair of strong arms if you should need assistance.”

Did she allude to the aforementioned Mr. Cutter? Or worse yet, Mr. Griffen? I think that I would prefer to lift each volume on my own rather than suffer the aid of either of those two gentlemen.

But having made such a firm resolution, I had to wonder what prompted so hostile a feeling toward Mr. Griffen? He had been nothing if not proper towards me. I didn’t want to believe it could be that absurd dream of mine where a dreadful, faceless apparition assumed his features. What exactly could that mean? There could not be a more foolish or flimsy grounds for suspecting a man’s motives than a silly dream!

I couldn’t help but recall the heroine in Jane Austen, who mired in so much influence of the Gothic, turned everything she encountered at Northanger Abbey into mystery and intrigue. I could not let myself fall into that trap. The surest way to that insanity was to attach and suspect Mr. Griffen of something dark and threatening, for instance, the open volume of Poe with the glove.

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Even with little imagination—and I had an overabundance—I could see that line as a threat, and worse, a warning. Some well-meaning person in the house, perhaps knowing of some danger facing me, had found that clever means of hinting that I should flee before it was too late.

That is what any well-read aficionado of Gothic literature would have made of it.

Miss Dunraven was gazing at me intently. I flushed, as I always foolishly did when she set her dark gaze upon me, and attempted a weak smile. She took my hand.

“Truly, my dear Olivia, you needn’t look so alarmed. I assure you that you are absolutely suited for the task and I have complete faith in your abilities. Come, I will show you that Father has actually already begun the list of books. Your job is that much easier.”

She had done it again. She had used my proper name. Olivia. It sounded more beautiful and worthwhile coming from her rosy lips than from any other man or woman who’d spoken it. Her hand was warm and the tiny sparks of fire that her touch sent through me were like nothing I had ever experienced. I would have followed her anywhere she chose to lead me.

We threaded our way to the center of the library. It was an odd area. Tall bookcases were grouped together in a circle, like a miniature Stonehenge. Sitting within this strange grouping of book shelves, like an altar, stood a table or more like a long desk. In startling contrast to the chaos of the rest of the room, its surface was bare and free of dust. Upon it rested writing tools, a lamp and a neat stack of writing paper.

“This is where Father worked until he got too ill to continue,” Miss Dunraven explained. “I am not certain how far he’s gotten, but you will find the list in the top drawer of the desk. Without further words, Marion Dunraven wished me success and left me to myself. Alone.

No, come back. I wanted to scream out loud. When she left me, all the warmth and joy in the room was sucked away. It was as if a giant vacuum of air had rushed in and taken everything from me. I had to control the foolish thoughts I was indulging in about Marion Dunraven. She was the mistress of Castle Dunraven, merely my employer and above my station.

For a time, I did not know the length; I only sat and stared at the massive confusion surrounding my little island of order. Then I decided to open the drawer Marion had pointed out. I found a thick bundle of small sheets of paper tied together by a black ribbon.

Untying the ribbon, I found that each sheet listed the author, title and a cryptic remark pertaining to the book. The sheets were numbered and totaled one hundred in all. Inside the drawer were a total of twenty eight bundles, meaning that Julian Dunraven had counted two thousand eight hundred volumes out of the more than forty thousand books or more! I sighed out loud and sank back into the seat. At least it was a start.

I put all the bundles back into the drawer and stood up. I had to get to work or Miss Dunraven would not be happy with my work and quickly dismiss me. I did not want to leave.

I thought that I should survey the whole library before beginning the cataloging; after all, perhaps things were not quite as bad as they seemed. To my delight, I was right. Entire shelves were arranged according to subjects and even alphabetized by author name. And I was amazed at Mr. Dunraven’s tastes. Some volumes appeared to be quite valuable, I guessed.

There were history books, natural history and essays, poetry, fiction, drama and a host of other categories impossible to classify. There were books in languages I could not read or identify. I found several versions of the King James Bibles as well as treatises written in Arabic which I did not read. In the same section I also found a slender volume with the name “Dunraven” painted on the spine in elaborate hand. Naturally, I presumed that the author was an ancestor of Julian Dunraven.

I was fascinated with the book, pulled it down and found it to be a diary of sorts, dealing with the Knights Templar. It was filled with diagrams and drawings, with colored heraldic images. The passages were difficult to read because the handwriting was so florid and pages upon pages had been soiled at some point and the ink faded. The author was one Sir Richard Dunraven and written in 1599. I had no idea what it could be and found it intriguing enough to ask Miss Dunraven about it. I tossed aside the leftover lunch of cold beef, limp salad and tea that Mrs. Milbanks had brought at the urging of Miss Dunraven.

***

I was on the third day of my virtual residence in the library. I confess that I requested my lunch brought to me less as a convenience than as an indulgence. I found that it allowed me to give in to the temptation of reading past the title pages.

I had decided to adopt Mr. Dunraven’s system of notation, except that as a result of my thoroughness, I found myself adding further notes to some of the book entries.

I also followed Miss Dunraven’s suggestion and made special note of books which appeared to have exceptional value. After writing down some notes on the old volume by Sir Richard Dunraven, I placed it on a shelf I had cleaned on the lofty bookcase nearest my desk. The bookcase had no backing and at a quick glance, I thought I saw a flash of motion and color beyond the shelf, on the far side. I could not see clearly and no one appeared or made a sound. I dismissed my apprehension as the product of my overactive imagination.

Not a moment later, however, I happened to look upward toward the top of the bookcase and was terrified to see the entire structure moving! At first, I was unable to react. I could only watch in utter horror as the entire bookcase teetered backwards, came back forward, balanced itself for a second, and then came crashing down toward me. Several volumes slid out and plummeted to the ground.

I managed to spring forward from my chair and leap aside. And I acted not a moment too soon, for the whole set of shelves pitched forward. Books flew to the carpet, landing in a pile of dust and scattered pages. The bookcase struck one side of the desk and splintered with a loud crack of dry, old wood. My chair was covered in debris and books.

I stood numb, mouth open in shock at the wreckage. I could not move, even when I heard approaching movement and voices. Marion Dunraven appeared with Mrs. Milbanks and behind them, Cora Dunraven. While the housekeeper rushed forward and began picking up the ruined books, Marion Dunraven came to my side and seized my shoulders.

“Miss Hampton, are you hurt?”

“No. It’s all right.”

Then Cora sprang to life.

“You are such a fool!” she shrieked, her face alive with blotches of red. “What have you done?”

I was both outraged and shattered by her rude outburst. I had not caused this.

“Please, Miss Dunraven. It was an accident. I didn’t touch the bookcase at all. It fell on its own. It is a miracle that I am not underneath, crushed by the mass of wood and paper.”

“Well, it might be better if you were!” she screamed. Her ruddy complexion and the wild glimmer in her eyes made her appear feverish, or should I even think it, mad. I could swear there were flecks of foam dotting the corners of her mouth.

I looked to Marion for aid. She pressed strong but gentle fingers against my shoulders. I suspect she did so as much to calm me as to restrain me. But she said nothing in my defense. With her standing beside me, I took a deep breath and spoke as mildly and calmly as I could.

“Miss Dunraven, I assure you again that it was an accident.” I suddenly recalled my impression of motion behind the bookcase just before it tumbled, but I could prove nothing. “Please,” I said again, “can we not discuss it another time? I should begin helping Mrs. Milbanks with the cleanup.”

As if to make my desperate situation worse, a wayward book within the depths of the wreck saw fit to slip and fall forward, producing a loud thump. This only served to enrage Cora Dunraven further.

“No!” she said loudly. “You shall not touch anything. You’ve done enough damage for one day.” Her voice was near hysterical. “You’re clumsy and a wretch. You will never learn to ride a horse, either. Get out!”

My anger dissolved and turned to self-pity. I turned to Marion again and wondered why she had not spoken. Why was she not standing for my defense? My innocence? She stood staring at the housekeeper who was methodically picking up books, one by one.

I freed myself from Marion’s gentle grasp and stumbled to the door, further angering Cora, to be sure, as I blindly collided with stacked volumes and sent them scattering across the floor.

Now unable to control my sobbing, I ran through the hall and up the stairs. Thankfully, I had finally learned my way to my apartment, but in my overwrought state, my mind befuddled and my eyes blinded by salty tears, I missed a hallway along the way and found myself in an unfamiliar part of the house. I came to the end of a corridor and lost, leaned against the wall in frustration. I screamed in anger at both myself and Cora Dunraven.

When my rage subsided and I had spent myself, I quickly found my way back to my apartment. All I craved was to shut myself away until I could regain my composure.

As I flung the door open, my growing calm was shattered. Somebody was in my room.

Her surprise had to have been equal to mine, for we just stood there staring at each other.

She was a tiny woman with a large hump at her back. I would say she was not quite like a circus midget but not much bigger. She wore a faded red and blue clownish outfit, a tattered yellow oversized collar rising near over her head of black, curly hair.

Regaining her composure quickly, she curtsied with an awkward grin. I noticed the dingy white satin slippers with tarnished gold rosettes. She straightened up again, smiling. I found her not as alarming as at first glance. How could I fear such a caricature of a woman, no matter how uncomfortable I felt at finding her in my rooms.

Then I saw there was someone else in the room. An older man with a mop of gray and unruly hair. His clothes were somber and ordinary. He stood at my window, a hammer and chisel in his hands.

“I must beg your pardon, Miss,” he said in a pleasant baritone. “I hope Victorina did not give you a fright. I should have left the door open.”

“Victorina?”

“My friend, the little lady here,” he said, pointing with the hammer. “That’s her name. She’s deaf and dumb but reads lips better than we can speak. She’s pleasant enough and I know she didn’t mean to fright you.”

Victorina, as if understanding everything being spoken, executed a silly little dance, her slippers tapping on the floor. The old man tousled her dark locks and Victorina stopped dancing, stepping aside as I entered my room.

“And pardon me,” the old man said, wiping his right hand on his pants, “for not properly introducing myself. They call me Andrews—Pervis Andrews. I’m the all purpose handy man here at Dunraven. I came up to check on your window. Mrs. Milbanks told me you had a strong draft coming through. I’m trying to tighten the sash and see if that will fix it up for you.”

I’d forgotten all about the draft and that I’d ever mentioned it to Mrs. Milbanks. I was, of course, quite happy to have the draft eliminated. I’d slept soundly these past few nights, most likely exhausted by my work in the library. And thank the Lord that I had not been cursed with further nightmares. I still locked my door each night out of precaution.

“My name is Olivia Hampton,” I said with a curtsey. “I’m here to arrange Mr. Dunraven’s library.” Or perhaps not, I thought, after that horrific scene with Cora.

“Oh, I know who you are, Miss Hampton,” the old man said, a friendly twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “It was my intention to introduce myself early on but work has kept us both tied up, you see.” He took a step toward me. “But pray tell, Miss, why would a pretty young lass like yourself be crying? Mind you, you can tell me to mind my business.” He eyed my tear-stained face. “We all know Miss Cora can be a hell-cat. Has she been abusing you?”

I pulled out my handkerchief as another round of tears burst from my eyes. Mr. Andrews grabbed a chair from the dressing table and urged me to have a seat. I sat down as I wiped my eyes anew.

Without hesitation and probably against my better judgment, I felt comfortable enough to recount the entire incident with Cora Dunraven in the library, complete with my suspicion that the accident may not have been an accident at all. Mr. Andrews stood listening intently while Victorina perched at the end of my bed, her tiny legs dangling, face expressive with sympathy.

“Oh, there there, Miss Olivia,” the old man said gently, “I’m sure that old rickety bookcase certainly fell on its own. But I can understand you thinking poorly of Miss Cora, especially after she threw such a fit.” He poked a finger at his temple and shook his head. “She takes after her mother, but worse. Miss Marion has a bit of it too. One minute her smile can make flowers grow and the next, she’s like a thunderstorm. But she holds on to her wits most of the time. Miss Cora doesn’t know how and the madness has eaten her mind up. The girls aren’t like the old man at all. He’s steady as a grand ship in a smooth ocean.”

I was shocked and startled to hear him speak of madness and Marion. She was always the visage of calm and rational thought in all my meetings with her. What kind of fire lay beneath her cool exterior? Was she dangerous? No, I could not believe that. Would not believe it.

“I’ve not met Mr. Dunraven yet,” I said. “They tell me he never leaves his apartment.”

“True, at least not when Miss Cora is out and about. You’ll know him when you see him. He’s an imposing man. Tall with white hair and a beard to match.”

I didn’t understand. “But she is his daughter. Is there ill feeling or animosity between them?”

His gaze was pensive. “Some of us think he fears her ways, but he doesn’t want much to do with Miss Marion either.”

Again, this perplexed me. “But Marion has been so kind to me in offering this job and speaks lovingly of her father.” I was desperate to believe her a saint not a sinner.

“Oh, Miss Marion couldn’t be nicer and more caring. That’s what prickles the old man, I believe.”

I could not fathom his meaning, but before I could question him further, he asked if I would care to come down to the kitchen and have a cup of tea. Without hesitation, I accepted. I didn’t care if it was proper etiquette to socialize with the hired help or not.

We went down the corridor to a back staircase. Little Victorina—I had no idea how old she was—hobbled along beside me. She seemed to consider me safe. We descended two flights of very narrow and darkened steps and finally emerged into the vast kitchen.

The walls were whitewashed. Rows of different sized pots hung above the great stone hearth. Mrs. Milbanks stood at a long, rectangle table in the center of the room, rolling dough. When she noticed us, she eyed me with an odd mix of compassion and annoyance. Strands of gray hair hung outside her cap. Wiping her hands on her big apron, she came toward us.

“My dear Miss Hampton, I hope you are doing better. I did hope to chase after you, but I was afraid Miss Cora might put a stop to it. After she got done with me, I could tell there was still enough left in her to go looking for you.”

I immediately felt a pang of guilt for causing such a scene between her and her mistress. It was not my intent.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to cause such a stress for you,” I apologized.

She put out a hand to stop me. “Oh, think nothing of it, child. It is so commonplace that I take no notice of it anymore. I do feel for you, catching the fury of Miss Cora’s madness like that for an accident. I truly am sorry.”

Mrs. Milbanks motioned me to sit down while she busied herself making tea. Soon, we were all sitting about an old, smaller table near the burning hearth. Victorina sat like a little gargoyle upon a high chair. Mrs. Milbanks had brought out freshly baked biscuits, softened butter and jam.

After the horrid treatment I’d received from Cora, I almost felt justified in indulging in gossip and digging into the Dunraven closet of skeletons and ghosts. I wanted to satisfy some of the curiosity I harbored since first meeting with Marion.

Mrs. Milbanks barely paused before launching into her narrative.

“The Dunravens are a queer lot, they are,” she began. “I’ve been in their service since this home was built. What there is to know, I know most of it.”

She embellished what Marion had already relayed of the courtship of Julian and Sarah. They had met in Ireland and after marriage, moved to the Dunraven estate in Scotland. Sarah’s dream was to live in America. Julian bought this land and had the house built totally at Sarah Dunraven’s whims. Many in his homeland felt betrayed. They talked that he’d passed up many a fine Scottish lass for a foreigner, an Irish one at that. Many disliked her air of superiority.”

Mrs. Milbanks paused, eyed Mr. Andrews, then looked back at me with a smile.

“Mrs. Dunraven, Sarah, was a driven and ambitious woman. Castle Dunraven didn’t start out as a stately home. There was a big, moderate home here when Julian bought the surrounding lands, but Sarah grew depressed. Although devoted to Julian, she became unhappy with her life in this remote location. In her eyes, this house was like the last outpost of civilization. She wanted bigger things. She wanted a castle as a home. She wanted to be the center of attention. They literally tore apart the old, plain house and began to add new rooms, new walls, stone turrets, wine cellars, more bedrooms than they could ever use. Mrs. Dunraven came up with all the ideas for Castle Dunraven as you see it.”

“But it seems to ramble to no reasonable end,” I interrupted.

Mrs. Milbanks exchanged quick glances with Mr. Andrews and leaned in closer toward me.

“They say she had the madness even then.”

Did she mean to imply that Cora and Marion’s mother was also afflicted with the horrible curse?

“Did Miss Cora Dunraven inherit her mother’s affliction?” I asked.

Mrs. Milbanks raised one eyebrow. “Who can say? Julian refuses to talk about her since the day of her passing?”

“Well, all I know is that this place is falling to ruin,” Mr. Andrews observed. “Judging by the dust in the third floor, those rooms haven’t been cared for in twenty years. The dust is thick as snow.”

“And it’s no wonder,” Mrs. Milbanks fired back, eyes flashing, “with the little help I get around here. You don’t lift a finger.”

“I wasn’t hired to do the dusting,” he said mildly.

“I know you got your hands full,” the housekeeper said. “Don’t mind me. The place is falling to ruin, true. They won’t hire the proper staff to keep it up.”

“But why do they insist on staying here, then?” I asked. “The house is more than what they need.”

“Only the Good Lord knows,” Mrs. Milbanks said. “There is no making sense of the Dunravens.”

“Oh, come now, Bess,” Mr. Andrews admonished. “We all know that Mr. Julian would die if he left Dunraven. This place is his whole life and soul, what there is left. His memories are part of it. I suppose it will crumble to nothing once he’s gone. And where would Miss Marion and Cora go?

I suddenly remembered something unusual that Mr. Andrews had said upstairs.

“Mr. Andrews, upstairs in my room, you intimated that Marion prickled her father by being nice to him. What did you mean, exactly?”

***

They told a terrifying tale. Sarah Dunraven gave birth to three daughters. Marion was the oldest, followed by Cora three years later and a third child, Helen, two years after. Marion favored the dark looks of her father while both Cora and Helen bore the light hair and fair complexion of their mother, Sarah. As they grew, a fierce rivalry developed between Cora and Helen. Cora, being the middle child, never got the attention she thought she deserved and craved.

While Cora showed all the signs of anguish and resentment, Helen seemed to win hearts and goodwill. Physically, they were both beautiful girls. Miss Marion was the less demanding of the three in disposition and demeanor, always hiding behind her mother’s skirts, quiet and solemn.

“Solemn? Marion Dunraven?” I asked in surprise. Again, the woman that lit up any room she entered was not the woman being described to me.

“Aye, Miss,” Andrews nodded in agreement. “Miss Marion did not shine in the bright, glaring light of Cora and Helen, but her mind was quick and she kept to herself and the gardens, mostly, in her younger days.”

Mrs. Milbanks waited for Mr. Andrews to finish before continuing the story of the Dunraven women. Castle Dunraven, she said, was the center of lavish parties and dinners. Notable local and international figures and families graced these walls. They sometimes stayed for months at a time. It was on one of those occasions that a very close political ally of Julian came to stay with the Dunravens. He brought his family with him. They had a beautiful boy, Luis, of twelve years who caught the fancy and eye of Cora….and Helen. As much as Cora tried to steal his attentions and time, he found her overbearing and wild. Like a bee to honey, he spent most of his time with Helen, taking long walks and playing in the playroom. Cora fumed. But she did more than fume. Some think she schemed.

On a night plagued with sinister thunderstorms which streaked the sky with lightning, she demanded her sister come play with her upstairs in the ballroom. Marion, who wanted to join her sisters, was forbidden to come along. Cora said she required time alone with Helen because Luis had taken so much of her.

No one knows what really happened that night except Cora Dunraven. Some say it was the night her madness took hold of her. You see, before the stroke of midnight struck, Helen Dunraven, all of eleven years old, had fallen to her death from one of the ballroom ledges.

I inhaled in shock. What a horrible way to die for anyone. And what was Mrs. Milbanks implying?

“Was Cora questioned?” I asked, refusing to let the malignant thoughts of murder take hold in my mind.

Mrs. Milbanks and Mr. Andrews exchanged dark looks.

“Yes,” she said, “Julian and Sarah were hysterical. Cora did nothing but sit and stare. She refused to utter one word about the incident. She neither acknowledges nor speaks of her sister Helen. It is as if she completely removed her from her life.”

“How horrid and sad,” I exclaimed. As I studied both Mrs. Milbanks’s and Mr. Andrews’s eyes, I could see that they believed Cora could very well have pushed her sister out that window. It was there in their eyes.

“What of Marion? How did her sister Helen’s death affect her?” I asked.

“It was Mr. Andrews who answered. “She immediately took control of the household. Sarah Dunraven became unresponsive to any of the daily activities. She withdrew from her children and her husband. The parties and the constant visitations to Castle Dunraven ceased. To all intent and purposes, Castle Dunraven died with Helen Dunraven.”

I tried to piece in my thoughts how it must have been with such a devastating loss. No parent should bury their children. Mrs. Milbanks smiled weakly.

“Julian never recovered and merely watched as his family fell apart. He said nothing when his eldest daughter took over Dunraven. He remained stone cold when Sarah perished of a broken heart. We believe he has grown resentful of Marion because she reminds him of his losses.”

“But how is that so?” I asked in disbelief. “It sounds as if Marion saved the family from complete disaster after her sister’s death. If anything, it is Cora who should be to blame and held accountable.” I knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute it left my foolish lips. This was not my family. I was not there the night Helen Dunraven plunged from the upper floors to her death. However, I could not remain quiet and allow Marion to take the blame.

“Don’t be too hard on Miss Cora, Miss Hampton,” the housekeeper said gently. “She has suffered with all the demons in her head. Justice is never blind for long.”

I realized what Mrs. Milbanks had just admitted. Yes, she believed Cora had something to do with the death of her sister.

“Not only that,” Mr. Andrews added, “her old man was nearly brutal on Miss Cora. And Miss Marion, to this day, still attempts to win back the heart of her father.”

I had yet to meet Julian Dunraven, but I was having difficulty understanding him.

“I cannot fathom why he has had such a time reconciling with Marion. She is kind and loves him considering the conversations she has had with me.”

Mr. Andrews sat back in his chair. “He’s a stern old man. Her attempts to appease him are misguided. He detests being fussed over.”

We were interrupted when a young woman, maybe a bit younger than myself, whom I hadn’t seen before, nearly ran into the room. She stopped abruptly when she spotted me.

“There’s company, Aunt Bess,” she said to Mrs. Milbanks. “Miss Cora wants tea right away. They’re in the music room.”

“Company?” Mrs. Milbanks asked. “Whoever is it?”

“Mr. Cutter. He’s come from his trip to Europe. Miss Marion is with them as well.”

The housekeeper got up swiftly. “Well, child, get the tea cups and things together, then.” She turned to me. “Miss Hampton, this is my niece, Beatrice.”

I rose to meet her. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” I continued to stare because the girl was very pretty, with a glowing complexion and honey colored hair.

Beatrice smiled shyly and curtsied. “My pleasure, Miss Hampton.”

“Beatrice spends most of her time in Seffenwich looking after my sister,” the housekeeper explained, “but now and then she sees fit to come and help me out here.”

I could see by the affection in her voice that she and Beatrice were close and loved each other deeply.

“I should get out of your way,” I said, “and continue clean-up of that mess in the library.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Pervis Andrews said as he got up. “Why don’t I help you out with that? I imagine you could use a man's help lifting that bookshelf.”

I accepted his offer, of course. That book case was solid wood and quite beyond my strength to lift.

***

It didn’t take us long to restore order to the library. I found that once we righted the bookcase, the books themselves had suffered little to no damage to speak of. I had just picked up the remaining volumes when Cora rushed into the room. I jumped up, bracing for another tongue lashing. To my surprise and amazement, her mood had changed completely.

“Here you are, Miss Hampton,” she exclaimed, taking hold of my hand and literally pulling me away. “Come, leave this dreary work and come with me. We have a visitor I want you to meet.”

Apparently, she had completely forgotten the accident and her furious reaction to it. She drew me through the central hall and to a room which I had not visited before. It was obviously the music room because a pair of spinets faced each other at opposite ends and Marion sat behind one and a young man at the other.

When I entered, he immediately rose and walked toward us. Clean shaven but with longish brown hair, he wore a blue coat and pants with white shirt and green vest. The dark blue cravat matched the color of his eyes. Marion remained silent, casting a slight smile at me.

Cora introduced us. David Cutter bowed deeply and kissed my hand. He eyed me openly with a crooked grin. I didn’t care for his gaze at all.

The four of us sat at a circular table near a sun-filled bay window. While we waited for our tea, I became uncomfortable at the constant gaze of Mr. Cutter. He answered all of Cora’s questions about his trip, but all the while his eyes remained mostly on me. I only wanted to grab Marion’s hand and run away…together to her garden or somewhere where we could be alone.

I was so grateful for Mrs. Milbanks’s entrance with the tray of tea and cups. As Marion poured the tea, Mr. Cutter turned to me.

“I understand that you are now putting Julian’s library in order. It is a heroic act, I must admit, my dear, and I admire you greatly.”

“Miss Hampton is extremely well equipped to handle the task,” Marion said, lifting her gaze to mine. “I personally chose her and I am confident she will do a wonderful job of it.”

I was slightly embarrassed. She knew I’d barely made a dent.

“I’m afraid Miss Dunraven is too kind in her praise,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

“David,” Cora murmured, placing a hand upon his sleeve, “Miss Hampton is being paid to do the work and we hope she will have it done quickly.”

He turned once again to me. “Well, I will be more than happy to offer my services, Miss Hampton.” His lecherous grin made my skin crawl.

I noticed the darkness gathering in Cora’s eyes. She stood up abruptly, staring at me. “I know you are anxious to get back to your work, Miss Hampton. We shall be most obliged to excuse you, then.”

Speechless, I rose, not even looking at Marion and backed toward the door. As I walked out, I heard Cora’s light voice.

“Come now, David, let’s finish that wonderful waltz you were playing.”

I heard the first notes of one piano before I closed the door behind me. My consternation was twofold. I was, of course, horrified at the behavior of Cora Dunraven. But I also had to admit befuddlement at Marion. Why did she indulge this kind of behavior from her sister? And why encourage the presence of Mr. Cutter in Castle Dunraven? Was there danger here and should I fear for my life? Was the glove placed at the cryptic passage in my Poe volume indeed a warning instead of a threat? Did I dare stay longer at Castle Dunraven?

For the next several days, I was able to work in the library without interruption. I was now taking my meals with the staff and quite happily so. From the conversation at dinner, I learned that Mr. Cutter’s visits continued and that Marion was none too pleased. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. I knew how negative she felt toward him. The fact that she gave in to the whims of her sister to placate her and ease her mental torments only reinforced my admiration and belief in her nobility of heart.

I was not at all prepared when on the afternoon of the fourth day after our brief initial meeting; Mr. David Cutter suddenly appeared in the library. Needless to say, I was startled and nearly cried out in surprise. Indeed, I was so deep in my work of cataloging, that I did not even notice his presence until I saw a hand touch the volume I was searching for on my desk.

Mr. Cutter apologized for scaring me, that crooked grin on his face.

“My dear Miss Hampton, please forgive me. It was not my intent to take you by surprise.”

Why didn’t I believe him? I felt uncomfortable in the library alone with him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I stammered out. “I was very absorbed in my work.”

“I know how easy that can be.” He glanced around the horrid mess of books. His gaze set upon the catalog cards sitting on the desk. “From the sheer volume of cards piled up, it appears you are doing a far more admirable job than I ever could.” He continued to gaze at me.

I wished with all my heart that he would go away or that Marion would sweep into the library and chase him out. He placed one of the few chairs in the room opposite side of the desk.

“May I sit for a moment?” Without waiting for my response, he sat down. When I did not respond, he picked up the tome by the Dunraven ancestor and looked at me in exaggerated surprise.

“Have you been reading this, Miss Hampton?”

I wanted badly to ignore him and run off if I could. “I have, sir. I find it interesting to look at while I eat my lunch.”

“Do not be so defensive, Miss Hampton. I was a bit startled at your choice of this particular book in the entire library. Are you a student of the history of the Knights Templar or are you more curious about what really happened to all their treasures and holy relics?”

“You could say both,” I said, sorry that I could not muster the bravado to tell him to mind his own business. “I’m most curious,” I added, “to find out if the book is a history at all. I would like to study the writing because I think it is mostly a map. I must admit to wondering that if a map, to where or what?”

His grin relaxed and his gaze suddenly grew more serious. “My dear, you must try to be less curious about this book. Richard Dunraven was known to imbibe mass amounts of alcohol and then take to the quill. His writings were never taken seriously.”

Was Mr. Cutter striving to lead me away from this particular book? But for what purpose?

“I gather you spent time with the book then? Do you know if it’s the gibberish writings of a drunk?”

“On the contrary, Miss Hampton, I never even knew the book existed in Julian’s library. I never found it in this huge cavern of books.”

His gaze began to frighten me, his hand resting firmly on the book as if laying claim to it. I resisted the temptation to snatch it away from him. Why did I suddenly get the feeling he wanted the book as much as I was interested in it.

“Mr. Cutter, as you know, since you did spend time here in the library, the work required to catalog each book is extremely time consuming. If you don’t mind, Sir, I do have much more to do for the afternoon.” I was desperate to be rid of him.

He pledged, in his smarmy way, that he wouldn’t dream of hindering my progress. Yet, he made no move to get up from his chair. Fortunate or unfortunate, I did not know at the time, Cora Dunraven entered the library.

“So there you are, David,” she cried. She appeared out of breath, as if she’d been searching all of Castle Dunraven.

Mr. Cutter finally rose. “Miss Hampton and I were engaged in literary conversation,” he said, straightening his coat. “It appears she has found a very old and perhaps rare old volume of Richard Dunraven’s treatise on the Knights Templar.”

“Indeed?” Cora said. “How interesting.” She glanced at me only briefly. “But my dear David, I have been searching for you everywhere. I never thought you might have found your way here.” From her tone, we might have been in the scullery or worse.

He finally let go of the book under his hand. “You haven’t forgotten, have you, my darling, that I do still have a fond interest in your father’s collection. I did put in some time and effort into it after all.”

She reached for his hand. “Of course I haven’t forgotten, David. But come along now, you must play for me again.”

They both walked out, neither taking another glance back at me. With the distractions gone, I went back to work with less concentration, granted, than before. I finished what I could but could not force myself to return to the library after supper. I went upstairs to my apartment instead.

Although I admonished myself in as many ways as I could think of for being an incurable fool, I could not free my thoughts of Marion. I was now not only obsessed with her beauty, but I needed her presence. Her hand upon mine. I began to feel jealous of Cora and even the staff for their daily contact with her. My job was solitary. What excuse could I have to see her? Although I allowed myself the silly pleasure of thinking about her in such a manner, I was not quite so witless as to imagine she could ever be more than my employer. Yet, there were moments, glances and the warmth of her hand in mine that gave me a glimmer of fruitless hope.

***

The downpour of rain began during supper. The fierce wind had risen to a fever pitch. It buffeted the outer walls and was audible even within the fortress of the kitchen in Dunraven. Mr. Andrews reminded me to close and latch my windows firmly, lest the winds blow them open. He predicted we were in for a full blown storm. From the sound of it, he proved correct.

I took the Knights Templar book from the library, but even though the book held potential to be an interesting read, I was still having trouble deciphering the handwriting. I found that I was unable to keep my mind upon it. As the gale winds howled with continued intensity outside, my eyes were drawn to my window. As Mr. Andrews had suggested, I had secured them but the casements rattled until I feared they might burst. I would be drenched in the rain that battered against the glass.

Resigning myself to not getting any further reading done, I set aside the book and went to the window. With each flash of lightning, I could see the torrential veil of water as it pelted the landscape beyond, illuminated in the black and white of the power of the lightning.

The storm cast everything like tormented ghosts, devoid of color and life. Before I indulged my imagination into overwhelming me, I turned away and attempted picking up the book again.

I was starting to make out entire sentences and even paragraphs, writing down each letter I had finally made sense of. Handwriting in the sixteenth century was like deciphering a jigsaw puzzle, but I was close to having the entire alphabet down. I was right about the little book. It was more a diary of sorts. Whether it was the alcohol induced writings of a drunk or not, Sir Richard Dunraven began his diary by claiming he knew where the Knights Templars had hidden their treasure!

My reading was interrupted by a violent crash and flash of lightning. It was so strong that my lamp sputtered as the very house shook on its foundations. The mighty roll of thunder that followed literally scared me off my chair. I stood in the corner, firmly pressed against the wall, awaiting the impending collapse of Castle Dunraven! This could not happen, of course, but my imagination made it certain.

I prepared for bed as quickly as I could move, preferring to be under the cover before the next monstrous strike of lightning and thunder. I lay completely covered up to my chin, my every nerve taut with expectation.

The loud clash of lightning came at last, but the storm must have spent itself out and was receding, for the flash was not nearly as bright and the thunder not as violent. As the tempest subsided, I was able to fall into a half-sleep, in which the recollected sound of Marion Dunraven’s voice blended in harmony with the barely audible whine of the wind as it wrapped itself around the walls of the house.

Gradually, another sound drowned out both Marion’s voice and the dying wind. I came to the startling realization that, as unlikely as it seemed, what I was hearing was music!

Startled and with my heart thumping louder than any remaining thunder, I listened for the melody that rose and fell, swooped and plunged. Someone was playing an organ! I must not have been in full possession of my senses or perhaps not fully awake, for surely, I would never have risen from bed, downed my robe and quietly padded out into the corridor.

I stood without moving, attempting to pinpoint the source of the music. The organ music was above. I was sure of it. I had to find who it could be. With my lamp thrust out before me, I walked carefully and slowly down the corridor.

The narrow staircase which led down to the servants’ quarters loomed ahead of me. There were stairs that continued upwards. I followed them gingerly, held one hand to the wall for support and the lamp in the other for illuminating the stairs in order to remain on firm footing. The music was pulsating so loudly that I felt sure I would come upon it at any moment.

I came upon a heavy, wooden door and reached for the latch. I knew I should have hesitated, after all, I was the intruder. I was the one skulking about in the dark, uninvited. No passage of warning or words of terror from my favorite Poe tales could stop me from proceeding. I depressed the latch and opened the door.

I stared down to an entrance to yet another low corridor. There was another smaller door at the end of the corridor that stood ajar. I could see little into that mysterious room, so I continued forward, as if in a dream. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

The room beyond the door opened before me. I could see tall, narrow pillars that soared into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling. To my left, an ornate altar stood at the foot of a huge screen. Angels and demons looked out from gloomy, dark niches or balanced on spires.

However, the music came from the opposite end of the room. A stream of high pitched arpeggios jabbed at the air. I turned and saw, illuminated by several candelabra, a shimmering tower of organ pipes. Below the pipes, sitting on a carved platform, was the organ itself and seated there was a man. Even though his back was toward me, I could not suppress a shiver. By the shocking head of wild, white hair and stooped shoulders, I knew who it had to be. Julian Dunraven.

Suddenly, the music stopped. The silence was more deafening than the stream of sound that brought me here. Did Julian Dunraven know I was standing behind him, intruding on his privacy?

The figure at the organ slowly raised himself with some difficulty and turned to face me. His body was angular and tall, but slightly hunched down at the shoulders. A face as angular and bony as his body was topped by a mass of unruly, puffy white hair and a drooping, tapering beard dangled from a square chin.

To my fanciful thoughts, this could have been Moses or Jove standing before me! I expected him to shoot me down with a thunderbolt. I almost put my arms up to protect myself and was only one second away from bolting out of the room.

He offered a scowl in my direction and his steely gaze held me transfixed. I caught a shadow scramble beside the figure. I still entertained doubts whether this imposing man was Julian Dunraven but if not, who could it be?

The dark, curly hair and bright face of the hunchbacked midget, Victorina, suddenly appeared on the organ bench and stared at me in disbelief and mild amusement. Julian Dunraven spoke and his voice was as booming as the organ pipes themselves.

“How dare you violate the sanctity of this chapel?” He pointed a long and gnarled finger at me.

The anger in his voice broke the trance of my immobility and I took the opportunity. I fled. The short corridor which had brought me to the nightmare room now seemed more like a never ending tunnel.

I kept repeating to myself that logically, he could not be healthy enough or nimble enough to leave his organ and catch me before I could outrun him. I reached the door and steps beyond and safety, but I could not help the overpowering feeling that someone was indeed at my heels.

Reaching the spiral staircase, I flung myself down its narrow, twisting shaft. As I stumbled around several turns, I stopped, ears alert. The organ had begun once again. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was safe. No one had pursued me after all.

I stood for a moment, catching my heaving breaths, clutching the wall and waited for my heart to settle into normal rhythm. It seemed to be keeping a beat with the booming organ above me.

I could not keep my knees from buckling so I sat down lest I fall down the remaining steps. There was a sudden noise just above me. I leaped to my feet, nearly knocking over the glass from the lamp, and turned around to find Victorina’s face peering around the center post of the stairs.

In my frightened and tortured mind, her benign and pathetic face had donned the mask of a hideous monster. I bolted and fled down the steps further, colliding against the rough wall at almost every turn. That was the only thing keeping me from pitching headlong down the steep stairs to my death.

My lamp struck against the door frame, the glass shattering into tiny pieces. I cried out and dropped it. It crashed loudly against the floor, fuel slapping against the wall and floor. It ignited the lit flames and fire leaped into the air and onto the walls. I had a horrifying vision of the entire house being consumed before the oil was finally burned out and the flames extinguished.

I had to get away. Ahead, illuminated by the cold light of the moon, was a large corridor. But it was not the same corridor which had brought me to the infernal chapel. Would this corridor take me to the safety of my apartment? I did not recognize it at all. I realized that I had left the stairs in my fright, at a different floor than my own.

But there was no turning back. I could not stay and burn to death. I should warn the others. I heard the midget’s little slippers tapping on the floor behind me. I had to run. She was no longer the amusing, harmless little jester but the minion of the terrifying man, Julian Dunraven. She would catch me and drag me back to face whatever Mr. Dunraven could think of as punishment for my sin of intrusion.

Even as I concocted those fearful imaginings in my head, my feet raced down the unknown passage. The corridor suddenly ended at a high, curtained arch. I plunged through the rich, velvet folds and stood in a small, semi-circular room. Through the narrow window on the one side, I could see distant thunder and lightning illuminating the dark mountains beyond, the tops of the mountains jagged against the turmoil of the stormy sky. The organ had become quiet once again. Had it even only existed in my over-stressed imagination? But my pursuer was very real. I could hear footsteps.

I spun about, seeking another way out, fearing I had trapped myself in a small room without an exit. But there was another door leading off at a left angle to the curtained entrance. I ran through it and found still yet another corridor with doors on either side. The floor seemed tilted upwards and then downwards. What kind of nightmare house was Castle Dunraven? I became dizzy running the length of the hall and finally found an open door.

I burst into another vast and sprawling chamber. It had been a ballroom, but was now barren and neglected. In the flickering light of the weak lightning, I could see it was rotting away in places and shadowy shapes lurked in the dark corners.

Cast off furniture lined the walls, draped over and long forgotten, like spectral giants, waiting for the next dance that never played. I moved along silently, fearful of waking the ghosts, across the dusty floor and stood alone at the center of the massive ballroom floor. I turned in a complete circle, my eyes taking in every part of the room. I recognized each shrouded object for what it was. In the far right corner was a platform where musicians must have played in the past glorious days at Castle Dunraven. Now only a forlorn spinet, partially covered, stood in one corner.

Along another wall stood a row of chairs where at one time, young men waited to gather enough courage to ask a lady to dance and young, eager ladies waited foolishly for a man to ask her hand in a dance. I couldn’t help but wonder how breathtaking the grand ballroom must have looked in its heyday.

And then another colder, more deadly and wicked thought gripped my mind. Was this the same ballroom that Cora and Helen had played in for the last time? Had Helen Dunraven fallen like a rag doll out one of these windows to her death? A strong fear gripped my heart and squeezed so hard I could not breathe.

That was when I saw something move near the door by which I had entered. I stood motionless, vulnerable in such a huge and empty expanse. Could Victorina have found me after all the turns I took? I searched the darkness for any shape that had moved. It was increasingly difficult to control my imagination.

But then I saw it again. I knew it could not be Victorina. This shadow was too tall. It began to move toward me, detaching itself from the deep shadows of the far walls. Once again, without another thought, I began to run. I spotted a low door that was hidden behind a sofa. It was open but it only lead to another hallway.

Footsteps echoed behind me across the cold stone dance floor. I reached an archway and flattened myself behind the recess of the arch against the cold wall and listened. There were no footsteps anywhere to be heard. Had I lost my pursuer?

I waited, trying hard to breathe and not gulp in air and choke. The silence persisted. I let out my breath, persuaded that I was indeed alone and began to wonder if I had indeed not created the entire fantasy myself. The ballroom, with its brooding ghosts of discarded, ghostly furniture, had affected me greatly.

Nevertheless, I waited, back against the wall, for many minutes before I allowed myself to resume my way down the corridor, treading lightly and alertly. I had taken only a dozen or so steps before I heard a responding tread once again behind me. It could not be my imagination this time. Someone was following me. I quickened my pace and the footsteps increased in response behind me. I began to run again.

The floor seemed to rise and fall in uneven undulation, the walls appeared slanted at ungodly angles. Was this some madman’s idea of architecture? The hallway seemed to grow narrower as I ran. I felt as though I were running through a quickly contracting tunnel.

At the end of the maddening corridor, I slammed hard into an old oaken door and as strong as it appeared, it gave way against my weight. The hinges were slow to open, but then it suddenly fell away and I dropped into empty nothingness!

The cold night air wrapped me up in a wet deluge of frigid rain. The dark earth loomed below me. I was hurdling toward my death! But instead, I found myself sprawled upon a hard, stone surface. My body had struck the edge of a precipice, upper body hanging over the void. Below, a cobblestone courtyard stared back at me and beyond it, a bridge that spanned the dark waters of the inlet.

I slowly moved back from the edge, my body aching, until I rested my cheek upon the cold, wet surface of the ledge. I was safe. Suddenly, I heard a sound behind me. The rain continued to fall and I was getting drenched. But the storm, mostly exhausted, produced one final, weak flash of lightning, and in that bright light, I saw my pursuer standing in the open doorframe behind me.

I saw the shiny black boots, long black coat with the unmistakable triple cape and the broad-brimmed hat. Between hat and collar, the faceless phantom stared back at me.

***

There was no sound and no light. Until I came to. I realized I had fainted. I shook my head slowly and rubbed my eyes. How much time had elapsed I did not know or could even guess.

The wind had died away, the rain gone and the bright moon peeked through still remaining clouds. I could see where I lay. My body rested on a small slab of stone that projected from the sill of the doorframe. The stone balcony was no more than six feet across. The door through which I had burst through remained open, a gaping dark corridor staring back at me. The phantom was gone.

I was alone and unhurt. Only my hands showed signs of light scraping where I had broken my fall. What logical mind would put a balcony of crude stone out here beyond a door without a railing? Not that I was complaining. It was the only thing between my body and the hungry, waiting earth below.

I raised myself carefully to my knees and saw that this was no balcony at all but the top landing of steep stairs which descended along the outside wall of Castle Dunraven. Could it have been a means of escape in the case of fire or other emergencies? Fire! I remembered my shattered lamp. Was the whole house aflame? I had to get back inside and wake everyone.

Coming to my senses, I realized that if anyone needed an escape, it was me. I stood up, being careful of the edge, and began to descend the narrow steps, hugging the wall close and avoiding looking down.

I had taken only a few steps when I froze in terror. The final steps were broken. This was as far as they went. It was too high to jump. I would not survive the fall. There was no other choice. I had to turn around and go back through the broken door—the door where the faceless phantom had waited for me.

Thankfully, the corridor was empty and appeared shorter and straighter than it had during my frantic escape earlier. Still, I could not force myself to go the same route, knowing what it promised; the deserted, haunted ballroom, the curtained arch and Victorina or worse yet, the phantom pursuer. I dared not risk it.

Instead, I found another passage that unexpectedly took me, to my relief, to the gallery above the central hall of the house. I could find my way now. This was the second floor.

I fought the impulse to run like a madwoman and rouse the staff, yes, even Marion, and demand to be taken away from here, back to the train station and the safety of my mundane existence. Obviously, the fire had burned itself out and Dunraven wasn’t at all in danger. That made me feel somewhat relieved. But what if I shouted and the wrong person answered? Suppose the tall, black-garbed phantom came to my rescue? Or the menacing Julian Dunraven?

There was only one alternative. Go back to my apartment, into bed, cover my head and deal with reality in the morning. I was halfway to the door to my rooms when out of the shadows, Marion Dunraven appeared and pulled me hard up against the wall. She pressed herself so close to me that I could see the strands of loose hair from the tightly wound knot at the back of her head. They streamed down like wispy snakes. I was frozen and confused.

She placed her hands upon my face, her black eyes peering into me with an intensity that almost frightened me.

“Do not leave me, my Olivia. I need you more than I ever needed another human being.”

Her mouth inched closer and I could smell peppermint in her breath. I felt my body respond to her closeness but struggled with the rationale of this unexpected event. She looked me over and ran one hand over my still damp robe.

“You are soaked. What has happened?”

She did not move. I was firmly pressed against her and the wall.

“I…I had a nightmare, left my room and took a wrong turn. I ended up outside on a ledge.” My thoughts were so out of kilter that I didn’t know what to say. I was hesitant to tell her everything about the night.

Again, she took my face into her hands.

“Why did you not come for me, Olivia? Have you not realized how much I need you? Want you?”

Her eyes searched mine. I suddenly began to cry. I could not handle the emotions buffeting me. Had this not been my fantasy? My most cherished desire? Marion Dunraven, Mistress of Castle Dunraven, was here, pressed against me, pleading for my attentions.

“I do not know what to say, Miss—”

“No. Never call me anything but Marion from this day forward. That is my name. It will be so sweet coming from your lips.” She paused, still not moving. Her voice was low, raspy.

“Please, tell me you are feeling the same, my Olivia. Please do not embarrass me or admit I have insulted you tonight.”

I was a being a fool. I wanted Marion Dunraven’s lips more than I wanted anything. Why was I so hesitant?

“I do not wish to overstep my place, Miss…Marion. I never thought myself worthy of someone like you.”

She pushed even deeper into me. The heat from her body made my wet robe feel sticky and hot against my skin. Our lips were only inches apart. I could no longer control my own impulses nor did I wish to. I put my arms around her waist. She leaned in and kissed me. Softly at first, then with more intensity. Her tongue licked at my bottom lip, her perfect teeth biting gently.

I wanted more but suddenly, she released me and pulled away. The cold air struck me, filling the void where her body had been. I felt as if I had been deflated like an overblown balloon. How could she be satisfied with only one kiss? No, there had to be more. I reached out for her.

“No,” she said, “not here. Not now.” She took my extended hand and held it gently. “Don’t leave me in this house alone, Olivia. Stay with me.” She let go and without another word, left me cold and silent in the corridor.

“No, I won’t leave you,” I whispered to myself as I watched her disappear into the shadows of the hallway. I was overwhelmed by violent shivering. I wrapped my own arms around myself and managed to find the way to my rooms. I locked the door and fell exhausted upon the bed. I ran my hand softly over my lips. The memory of Marion’s lips upon mine was maddening. I didn’t think I would ever wash my lips again.

I knew that my night’s adventure would be an unbelievable and doubtless incredulous tale, but I cared not for the opinion of other persons. I cared only about Marion. I had to tell her the truth about what happened tonight and who I thought the faceless phantom to be.

I now believed the supposed accident to the wheel of the coach was only the first in a plan to injure or frighten me. And I was almost certain that Jack Griffen was the masked phantom. He could have easily galloped away and donned his disguise instead of going for a supposed pin for the wheel. I got a good look at the boots, cloak and hat tonight. Those were Jack Griffen’s boots, his cape and his build. And it wouldn’t be a stretch of my already charged imagination to put him behind the crashing bookcase, the open Poe book in my room and the curious glove. He wanted to frighten me or drive me from this house. But why? And could there be someone else involved? Did Marion also feel threatened in some way? She pleaded for me to stay by her side. Was it because of her feelings for me or some fear?

There was no reason for Jack Griffen to wish me ill. I did not know him, indeed, only met him at the Station upon my arrival. Whatever his motives, he would have to work hard at removing me from Castle Dunraven now. I was not leaving Marion. At least not unless she walked out alongside of me.

***

I awoke with a start at the knocking on my door. I struggled to shake off the web of nightmares of endless, blind corridors intermingled with sweet dreams of Marion Dunraven in my arms.

The voice on the other side of the door wasn’t the threatening voice of Jack Griffen but the welcoming Mrs. Milbanks.

Stumbling from my bed, I opened the door to find the housekeeper with a look of alarm. She rushed into the room and took hold of my shoulders.

“Are you feeling ill, Miss Hampton? It is nearly past ten in the morning. It is not like you to sleep so late. We were so concerned.”

She stopped and looked me over. I still wore the soiled robe from the night before. I must have looked a sight.

“My dear God,” she said in shock. “What on earth happened to ya, poor child.”

I trusted this woman, so I made her sit down and told her everything—well, I couldn’t tell her that her mistress, Miss Marion, had kissed me fiercely in the darkness of the corridor. I began at the beginning, when I first heard the organ music. She confirmed my own conclusions. The organ player had indeed been Julian Dunraven. She broke a smile when I described my flight from the chapel. She told me that no one was ever allowed to enter the chapel, well, herself for cleaning, or Victorina to operate the bellows while he played. Evidently, the chapel had been Sarah Dunraven’s sacred refuge for prayer and meditation. Mr. Dunraven had dedicated it to her memory and it had become his own escape.

Mrs. Milbanks was actually quite excited by Mr. Dunraven’s appearance at the chapel. She was positive that it was a good sign that he was feeling stronger. There was no doubt in her mind that Mr. Dunraven would be downstairs soon.

However, when I described the horrifying events with the masked figure, Mrs. Milbanks’s eyes darkened with anger and alarm. I was bold enough to admit that I suspected Jack Griffen and relayed all the incidents with the phantom in the forest, my bedroom and the library.

“I have no doubt you are right about that rascal Mr. Griffen,” the housekeeper said, shaking her head in anger. “I wouldn’t put anything past that shady fellow. He and Miss Cora are too close for our liking.”

I could not hide my shock. “Mr. Griffen and Miss Cora Dunraven?”

“Yes, Miss, that’s right. Seems Miss Cora surrounds herself with questionable men. I’ve caught her and Mr. Griffen exchanging glances. She thinks he will let her on those horses of his. He believes himself so high and mighty and above us. I’m sure you’ve noticed he doesn’t dine with the rest of the staff. No, he thinks himself special. He takes his meals in his rooms at the stable house. Either myself or Mr. Andrews has to fetch him his food. Miss Cora demanded the arrangement.”

I was still aghast. “But surely, they are not—you are not suggesting there is anything improper in their relationship? Miss Dunraven is—” I paused, searching for a respectable description—“ill-tempered and unpredictable, I admit, but she is a lady.”

Mrs. Milbanks uttered a loud harrumph. “Appearances can be misleading, don’t you know, Miss Hampton. What appears so isn’t so.”

I thought of Marion and felt that warm glow course through my insides.

“Surely, you don’t mean to suggest Miss Cora and Jack Griffen are joined in a devious plan together? That Mr. Griffen in fact might have her consent?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “No, Miss, I didn’t say that, but it certainly wouldn’t surprise me if it were true.”

“But why? I do not see the sense in it. I have been hired to work on her father’s library and nothing more. I am no threat to her or anyone else in this house. I am practically only staff like you and the rest except that I will be gone once my task is completed.”

After the words stumbled from my mouth, I realized the terrible truth in them. I could not leave Marion now. She had to come with me. I would have to convince her to leave.

Mrs. Milbanks stared at me and I foolishly worried that she was reading my thoughts.

“I do not have those answers for you, child,” she said gently, “but please do be careful.”

I became suddenly aware that I was foolishly arguing against myself. I told Mrs. Milbanks of my new found hesitance to meet Mr. Dunraven now that I had invaded his privacy and made a fool of myself.

“Don’t you worry about Mr. Julian, Miss.” She stood up and began straightening up my room. I took the opportunity to wash up and changed to a fresh day dress. We both headed down to the kitchen. Mrs. Milbanks fried some ham and eggs. I devoured them with renewed appetite. I could not think of anything but the passionate kiss and soft lips of Marion. Each time I thought of her, the butterflies would stir in my belly. I was in smiles the whole morning. But I had a job to do and I did not want to disappoint Marion.

When I finished eating, I thanked the housekeeper, excused myself and headed to the library, hoping against hope that I could see Marion again today.

I had only been at my desk a short time when the object of my thoughts entered the library. Her demeanor was restrained while I wanted to run and envelope her in my arms.

“Olivia, I have a surprise for you,” she said in a light mood. She came and wrapped her arms around my waist. I wanted and longed for her to draw me near and kiss me again.

“My father has come downstairs today for the first time in far too long and wishes to see you.” She pulled me away. “Come, dear, we must not keep him waiting.”

I resisted. Partly because I was still apprehensive about meeting that imposing figure I’d the misfortune of already having met and gotten off on bad footing. And part of me wanted to discuss what had happened between us last night in the hallway. What did her kiss mean to her? Today, she acted as if nothing had happened.

But as I searched for the proper words, the best way to expose my emotions, my resolution failed. I was drained of all bravado. I was a natural born coward. Marion’s dark gaze was one of questioning and urgency, coupled with controlled excitement. She really wanted me to meet her father.

“Come, Olivia, dear, this is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You two can discuss all things bookish. He is waiting in the drawing room.”

When we walked in the immense drawing room it looked empty. Then I saw him. He was seated in a chair beside the fireplace, a quilt throw across his knees. He was scarcely the frightening and imposing figure of the night before.

Nonetheless, I approached with trepidation. Marion applied a slight pressure at my back, urging me forward.

“He won’t bite, darling,” she whispered in my ear.

The older man fumbled with the quilt as he attempted to rise at my approach.

“Father, do not bother yourself, please remain seated,” Marion said, “I’m certain Miss Hampton understands.” She rushed to his side.

Mr. Dunraven shrugged her away. “No need to fuss over me. It is proper for a gentleman to greet his lady guest.”

He still struggled to get up, finally accepting her help until he was on his feet and then gently pried her fingers from his arm and advanced toward me with short, tentative steps.

“I am so very pleased to meet you at last, Miss Olivia Hampton.” He bowed in a courtly manner and smile, revealing even but yellowed, slightly tarnished teeth. In the late morning light, he struck me more like Mr. Longfellow, who had once lectured and read from his poetry at Cambridge University, than Moses or worse still, Jove. Longfellow and Julian Dunraven seemed to share exquisite grandness of bearing.

I curtsied and replied how honored I was to meet him. I felt emboldened to continue.

“I plead for your forgiveness, Sir, for my rude intrusion last night. I found my way to the chapel by chance and the sheer beauty of your music. I did not know where it was coming from or who was at the organ.”

He held out a hand in objection.

“There is no need for apologies, Miss Hampton. In fact, it is I who must ask your forgiveness. I’m afraid I was too stern and rude. I was startled by the storm and then your appearance. I did send Victorina to fetch you so that I could apologize and explain, but she relayed that you had been too distraught to stop and follow her back.”

“What is the meaning of interrupting my father’s private space?” Cora Dunraven’s shrill voice echoed through the room. She had come in quietly and obviously overheard my apology to her father.

“Miss Hampton,” she continued, “I surely cannot believe you had the audacity to enter the chapel. Why was I not informed of this?” She cast her accusatory gaze at Marion.

“Be quiet, Cora,” old Mr. Dunraven said. “She meant no harm. The child was drawn to my music and stumbled upon me by sheer accident. At least she has an appreciative ear for the music.”

“But it is outrageous, father,” she objected, casting me a disapproving gaze. “She is only a member of the staff.”

Mr. Dunraven ignored her and shook his head. “I’m afraid I must offer another apology, Miss Hampton. I am sorry I have not spoken to you all these days, however, I am sure that you have been informed of my illness.” He finished with a satirical tone and a glance at Cora. She was, however, not open to satire, for she immediately begged him to sit down and rest.

“Bah, both you and your sister will be the death of me.” He sat down but indicated I should take a chair next to him. I took the one other chair in the room and pulled it close next to his.

He cast his gaze at both Cora and Marion.

“Cora, dear, why don’t you find your favorite steed and take a nice ride. The weather is perfect.” He had obviously dismissed her and took great care to indulge her delicate mental condition. She pouted a few seconds and looked at Marion.

“What about Marion?”

Mr. Dunraven shook his head. “I need to go over certain matters in regard to the kitchen with your sister. You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

She stood, uncertain, for only a few seconds more, then turned to leave but not before pointing a finger directly at me.

“We have much to discuss, Miss Hampton.” In a huff, she turned and walked out.

“Father, are there problems in the kitchen?” Marion had come to her father, voice filled with genuine concern. He waved her off.

“No, of course there are no problems. I didn’t want to insult your sister but I feel Miss Hampton can do without her hysteria this morning.” He smiled. “Why don’t you take a seat on the couch and stay with us?”

Her smile was filled with joy. “Thank you, father.” She seated herself on the couch opposite us, her slim hands crossed on her lap.

“So, Miss Hampton, now that we are all seated, you must give me a report of your progress in my library. I am told you are making excellent progress. I cannot express my complete gratitude to you at long last. It is most reassuring to find someone who is as genuinely interested in books as I am taking care of the library that I so grievously neglected.”

I hastily summarized the work I had indeed done. He seemed particularly pleased that I had continued to use his own method of cataloging and classifications. I regretted not having made more progress, but he assured me that I had accomplished more than he’d been able to do in months and months. I was emboldened even to suggest that he might actually desire to bring in a knowledgeable book dealer proficient in antiquities to put value on some of the books, particularly the one by his ancestor, Sir Richard Dunraven.

“It is an extraordinary volume, Sir, which I’ve come to suspect could be a map or directions to old Knights Templar sanctuaries.”

Mr. Dunraven suddenly interrupted and looked at Marion.

“You don’t have to stay, Marion. And won’t you please make sure your sister Cora does not set foot in this room while Miss Hampton and I converse.”

Marion seemed confused. She’d been delighted to finally be welcomed by her father more warmly and now was being abruptly dismissed.

“But I really am very interested in hearing about Miss Hampton’s discoveries. Remember, it was I who met and employed her. I knew she was an excellent choice.” She cast a quick shy, glance in my direction.

“Very well,” Mr. Dunraven said a bit brusquely, “but your job is to keep your sister out of this.” He turned back to me. “I agree that we should consult more informed authorities in rare books and you and I should discuss the matter, but at a more suitable occasion.” He glanced briefly at Marion. “I should visit you in the library soon to talk about the volume in question. However, on another topic, I must declare that it gives me great pleasure to know that my music has touched you. Do you play, Miss Hampton?”

“Oh, no, Sir. I received lessons on the pianoforte as a young child, but lacked the inspiration to fully appreciate it.”

He smiled wide. “I am certain you are being too modest. You will play for me someday soon.”

“Mr. Dunraven, it would surely be an insult to your trained ears and a torture as well if I attempted to play. I could not do such a thing.” I really didn’t know how to play well at all.

He flung back his head and let out a dry, brittle but forceful laugh. “You have a delightful way with compliments, my child.” He was suddenly overcome by a coughing fit which alarmed me and sent Marion to his side again. He waved her back and quickly subdued the spasm. “I’m afraid at my age, my dear, a blush is beyond my nature. My dear girl, what you heard last night was merely the movement of painful fingers trying to remember the better days.”

I lowered my head. “Still, Sir, the result was very beautiful and haunting.”

He nodded. “Very well, I accept your sincere praise. Thank you.”

“Father actually performed at parties and events all over New England,” Marion interjected. “We all very much wanted and waited for his talents to manifest in vain. I’m afraid I’ve been mainly a disappointment to my father.”

“Nonsense, Marion. Do not give way to self-pity. You are a woman of many accomplishments, many which I’ve been privy to observe. I have not told you often enough, I suspect, but you have my utmost respect.”

Obviously not wishing to dwell on the high compliment he had just paid his daughter and leaving Marion with a delighted but shocked look, he turned back to me.

“By the way, Miss Hampton, I have reached a decision which I believe will please you greatly. I recently learned that you have been placed in a most remote and unsatisfactory section of the house, an upper floor. I know your apartment is actually one of the best furnished in this house, nevertheless, it is not proper for you and I suspect that you would feel more comfortable closer to Marion since you seem to have struck up a trusting friendship.”

I dared to glance at Marion and she gazed intently at me, a slight secretive smile upon her lips.

“Yes, I would like that very much, Mr. Dunraven,” I said quietly.

“Very well,” he said, putting both his hands on his lap. “The move will be effective immediately. I will see that Mr. Andrews has you moved before dusk. Now, I think it best to conclude our talk. I’m afraid I have tired myself out but I promise, Miss Hampton, that I will visit you in the library and have a look at that old tome you seem to have unearthed.”

The look he gave me was one of knowing exactly what the book was. I would look forward to his visit with much anticipation.

He allowed Marion to help him from his chair carefully and leaning heavily upon her arm, walked slowly but with great dignity, to the door. At the door, they stopped and turned back to me.

“One more thing, Miss Hampton. I almost forgot. I know you have been working diligently in that musty library. I must now urge you to find time for recreation. It’s a fine day outside and we will surely not have many more such nice days like it until next spring. Do get outside and enjoy the sunshine. Have Marion accompany you or one of the staff but do not go alone.”

I tried to protest that I had entirely too much work to do to even entertain an afternoon off, but Mr. Dunraven insisted vehemently, though with a solemn smile, that I was to consider his wish a command. I agreed with a curtsy.

As Marion led him away, she turned to me. “We’ll take a trip to the garden we spoke of. Meet me at the back courtyard. Wear comfortable walking shoes.”

I lingered in the room for a few moments longer after father and daughter had left. My heart was still beating wildly since learning that I would be in a room next to Marion. Had she anything to do with her father’s decision? Did she wield more power with Mr. Dunraven than Mrs. Milbanks and Mr. Andrews suspected?

Mrs. Milbanks showed up and began clearing out tray and cups. She had said she often took food and cleaned Mr. Dunraven’s chapel and quarters. Was she the one who had told him about my apartment?

“Mrs. Milbanks,” I said, not able to hide my excitement, “Mr. Dunraven has moved me out of my old apartment and into a new one next to Miss Marion’s. Was it you who told Mr. Dunraven?”

She smiled as she worked. “No, Miss. But don’t bother yourself about it. Old Mr. Dunraven has his ways of knowing what goes on in this house. Just be thankful he still keeps control here.”

I wondered what or if he knew about Jack Griffen and his torment of me?

On my way back upstairs, I ran into Mr. Andrews halfway up the stairs.

“Oh, Miss Hampton, I’m to move your things to another room, by order of Mr. Dunraven. I understand you’ll be staying in a room adjacent to Miss Marion.”

“Yes, Mr. Andrews. It’s wonderful news.” I ran quickly past him and up the stairs. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Andrews.”

I had to get up to my room and change shoes. The soft house slippers I wore would not take me over dirt roads, rocks or grass very well. Marion waited for me and I didn’t want to keep her waiting. To spend the afternoon alone with her in her private garden was a dream come true. I had to stop and pinch myself on the arm to make sure it was real and not a dream. It was real.

I managed to find my way to the courtyard. It was at the back of the house, just beyond two huge double doors of glass and stone patio. At first the courtyard seemed lonely and uninviting. I looked up, wondering if this was the courtyard I could see below from the outdoor stairs of the castle wall. But there was no stone stairs or doors on this side of Castle Dunraven. How many courtyards did this place have?

Despite the unseasonably warm October sun, the trees were near bare and the earth chilled under my feet. But as I gazed out, I noticed a splash of color and flowering trees beyond huddled around a narrow path of dirt away from the house.

And there was the stable house further to my left. It was red brick, bordered by several small wooden buildings. Their now faded roofs were pale yellow. The stable was a long walk for the Dunraven staff to take food out to Mr. Griffen daily. I thought it a selfish imposition for him to demand and wondered why it was it was encouraged. On the other side of me, a slight drop led to the edge of the river that snaked through Castle Dunraven. Ducks and swans floated in near formation on the dark waters, leaving a trail of ripples which reflected the bright, blue sky. Mr. Dunraven had been right. It was a too beautiful a day to be stuck inside a dusty library.

I grew impatient and my head filled with delightful and somewhat naughty thoughts of Marion. This was such a heady feeling as I had never experienced anything like it. Was this how young ladies felt when being courted by a young gentleman?

Not able to steady my nerves, I crossed the path and wandered toward the stable house. The last thing I wanted was to meet up with Mr. Griffen, but the lure of the soft muzzle of the horses propelled me forward. I hesitated. Would Marion find me if I went any further? She had said to meet in the courtyard. I decided it would be fine if I just said hello to the horses and left.

While my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the stalls, I heard the comforting snuffling and pawing of the horses. After blinking a few times, I was able to make out the four beautiful black beasts that had brought me to Castle Dunraven. They were contently munching on piles of hay. I wished I had thought of bringing a couple of apples for treats. There was also another, lighter colored horse.

Then my eyes caught movement blocking the doorway. I silently prayed it was Marion. But it was a man. He wore shiny black boots, a voluminous cape and large dark hat.

Neither of us moved. Was it possible that he did not see me? I wondered and prayed that was so. Like myself, until his eyes adjusted, I would be near invisible to him as the horses had been to me. Now was my time to escape. If I waited another minute, it would be too late. I would be trapped. I cursed myself for being so careless and putting myself in this danger.

I looked about in desperation for another exit or rear door of escape. The only thing I saw was a wooden stairway that led to the hayloft above. It was my only option. I prayed silently that the horse sounds would cover the snapping straw below my feet. I tiptoed quickly and reached the bottom of the stairs. When I put my foot on the first step, the creak, to my ears, was as loud as chopping wood.

I flattened myself against the rail and gathered up my skirts hoping they were out of sight. I listened, my heart beating so loudly I thought sure it would give me away. There was no other sound, only the chomping of the horses.

Had he gone away? Or was he also being quiet, listening to my movements? I dared not look around the corner. Instead, I decided to slowly continue up the stairs, keeping to the outside in order to prevent further squeaks.

The loft was darker than the stable below, but enough light shone through a tiny window under the roof peak to show me the piles of stacked hay surrounding me. I did not relish hiding in the hay. Instead, I slipped around one large pile and leaned in tight against the farthest wall. The shadows were thick here and I thought I might escape notice. It was then that I saw, not two feet away from me, two pairs of beady little eyes staring back at me. High pitched squeaks erupted. Rats.

I thought my heart would explode from my chest as a wave of nausea swept over me. I placed my hands over my mouth to both prevent a scream and to keep down the bile threatening to come up. Suddenly, the two plump rats scurried away, leaving me gasping silently for air.

Perhaps it was a blessing that I was already nearly paralyzed with fear, for the sound I heard upon the stairs would have been enough to cause a faint. All I could do was listen to the uneven footsteps making their way up to me.

Was there still a chance he might not find me? Maybe all he wanted was another forkful of hay for the horses or a check of the hay supply. He might not see me in the shadows.

Inside, I knew I was deluding myself. He had seen me. I was not surprised when he finally reached the top of the stairs and spoke out my name. I did not answer.

“Oh, come out, Miss Hampton. I know you’re here. You really have no reason to be frightened. I will not hurt you.”

I knew nothing of the sort but I did know it was hopeless to resist. I was basically trapped. My silence might even provoke him further. Still, I refused to respond to him. My tongue refused his command.

Suddenly, without me even hearing his approach, his eyes appeared beside me as close as the rats had been. They were cold and menacing eyes, filled with disdain.

“Don’t be so foolish, Miss Olivia. Why not come back downstairs and tell me what you’re doing up in my hayloft. You know, a young lady could get hurt playing around hay and pitchforks in the dark.”

“I…I…” I couldn’t speak.

“No fear, Miss Olivia, here, give me your arm and I’ll help you down the stairs.”

“No.” I finally found my nerve.

“Give me your arm, now.”

I shrank further against the wall but he reached out toward me.

“Olivia, are you here?”

From the courtyard in the distance, I heard Marion’s voice.

“Olivia?” She seemed to be coming closer toward us, to the stable house.

Jack Griffen let out a hoarse curse.

“Well, my dear, there’s your new companion. Just in the nick of time too, eh? Now run along and tell her how she saved you from the big, mean bogey man, right.” He stepped aside and I was able to dart past him and fly down the stairs at record speed, not caring for my own safety.

Marion stood just outside the stable door. I must have looked a mess, for she eyed me with concern and seized my arm, peering into my face and dusting some hay from my dress.

“Olivia, what is wrong? What happened?” She glanced inside the stable house with alarm.

“Mr. Griffen. He cornered me in the stables and followed me to the hayloft.”

Anger flashed in those black onyx eyes. “If he touched you—”

“No. No. He was only concerned for my safety. I let my silly imagination run wild, that’s all.” I wasn’t ready to tell her everything about the phantom and Mr. Griffen. It wasn’t the right time or place.

She placed a warm hand upon my shoulders. “Perhaps so, Olivia.” We walked away from the stables and toward the rough dirt path. “What were you doing in the stable house?”

“I wanted to visit with the horses. I do so love animals. No other reason.”

“But you were warned not to go alone. I’m to be with you at all times.” She paused and looked down at me with a deep longing in her eyes. She looked away quickly. “Besides, I am not altogether sure of Mr. Griffen. He’s one of the best stable hands and horsemen in these parts, but he has a reputation that followed him.”

“Wh—What do you mean?” I stammered.

“I mean simply that he cannot be trusted with unwary young ladies. He has been known to take advantage of them.”

“I am so grateful, then, that you came in search of me. I promise I shall never wander and wait for you with more patience in the future.”

She squeezed my arm and wrapped it around hers, her other hand upon mine. “Let’s take a walk to my garden as I promised, shall we?”

We walked leisurely down the path, colorful flowers multiplied the further we walked. Although the trees had shed much of their colorful foliage, to me, the world was awash in color. Walking arm and arm with Marion Dunraven was like a rainbow in a darkened sky.

As we went over one small hill, Castle Dunraven fell further behind. Marion explained how Mr. Andrews had helped her plant and plan her garden with help from her grandmother. The garden would never have come to fruition without the magical plant food mixture her grandmother had trained her to mix and feed the plants and flowers. The garden was started while Sarah, her mother, was still alive and her grandmother, Eleanor, as well. It did not become an obsession until after Helen’s death. The garden was the only thing that kept Marion from going mad as her sister Cora did. She nourished and loved it all these years and by keeping it away from prying eyes or trespassers, the garden thrived and had become her refuge.

We had come to a point in the road where the over brush grew thicker and the path nearly disappeared deeper into the wild woods. Marion stopped and looked at me.

“Well, we are here.”

I looked about me and saw no garden, but the end of the path and trees all sides of us. Wildflowers grew in abandon and I could hear the rippling of the water although we’d left the view of the snaking river far behind.

Marion smiled at me in her secretive way and grabbed my hand. “This way, my darling.”

I would have followed this woman anywhere. She led me over a path of slightly overgrown grass that appeared to be more traveled than not. There were several small trees that served as a canopy of sorts, offering shade. Immediately, before us, was a wooden gate, barely visible and covered over with overgrown hanging roses and other flowering vines.

I stared unbelieving. October was hardly the season for roses or other bright flowers.

“Truly, Marion, you must have one of the greenest thumbs I have ever known.”

She laughed and the sound of her laughter was like sweet honey dripped upon my heart.

“I’m afraid that is the only talent or gift I was blessed with, and I choose to keep it a secret. But not from you.”

She pulled out a tiny key that she had tucked beneath her sleeve and quickly opened the small lock. Reaching out her hand, she opened the door.

“Come into my secret garden, my sweet.”

We walked into an oasis of green and magnificent flowers reminiscent of desert colors at the beginning of winter. It took a stretch of the imagination to even dream of such lush plant life in the center of such wild land.

The garden was not large but it made up for lack of size in the beauty of its rich and vibrant health. I stood perfectly still, taking in the sight of roses growing in October in Maine. Granted, there weren’t many, but the rich redness of the climbing rose bushes was striking.

Marion pulled me gently toward the left side of the garden. I followed, mesmerized by the magic Marion had worked in her paradise. She stopped and pointed to a grouping of what I recognized as a patch of Sweet William.

“I have strived to include as many annuals, biennials and perennials so that I might perhaps see something colorful most years.” Marion stared at the gently blowing little flowers of purple and white.

The very faint sound of water made me look around for a stream. As if reading my question, Marion pointed further to our left.

“There is a small pond that sometimes ebbs and flows at the whim of the river. When the river runs high, there is a narrow inlet that flows here to the pond, filling mostly during the spring and summer after the snow melts, to its highest.”

She smiled and stared at me intently, putting out her hand.

“Come, let me show you my place of peace.”

We walked past lilac, hawthorn and honeysuckle. There was an abundance of lavender and the air was thick with its scent.

“There are pink and crimson geraniums and also golden scotch broom scattered throughout the garden.” I could see from the glitter in her dark eyes that she was proud of her garden. It told me much of Marion Dunraven that I did not know. She kept prying eyes and encroaching nature from her prized garden with a wooden fence that surrounded it. The fence was almost overgrown with vines and climbing plants. Several big trees offered a ceiling, of sorts, yet did not block out enough of the sunlight so necessary for the health of living plants.

“Do you need to ever trim down the large trees that must grow out here near the woods?” I asked, staring upwards.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, when the trees become too out of hand or too large and threaten the garden, I hire out very private and loyal axmen to remove them from the property. I pay them well and they keep my secret.”

We had nearly reached the back part of the garden where the small pond, with a beautiful double sided trellis, alive with flowers and climbing plants, came into view. Beneath it, a sturdy stone bench. The pond wasn’t nearly full, but water still bubbled and rippled as a delicate rivulet flowed slowly into it. A wide shaft of sunshine pierced through the canopy of trees, directly casting a warm glow on the bench, pond and trellis.

I stood still, frozen in delightful amazement. It could not have been a more perfect place for a private moment with Marion.

I followed her to the bench and we sat down, the seat cool to the touch despite the sun. The rays reflected off the bit of water in the pond like little bursts of gems that sparkled.

“It is the most beautiful garden I have ever seen.” I managed to whisper.

“Oh, Olivia, I am certain you are being too kind in order to humor me,” Marion said. “There are stunning gardens in and around Cambridge.” She cast her black gaze upon me. “Or perhaps you are merely caught up in the passion of the both of us finally being able to share a moment together alone.”

She took my hand and inched closer to me on the bench. She began to stroke my hand and my fingers in a way that made my insides tremble with a fever. I inhaled and closed my eyes. I could only respond with my body. My mind was blank. There were no words worth repeating that would make any sense.

Marion drew closer and reached to turn my face toward her.

“I never thought I could find my happiness until I met you. I was set to meet my future devoid of love.”

I opened my eyes and could feel the tears gathering. I squeezed her hand hard.

“It is I who has discovered what it means to be in love. I thought such passion would pass me by or worse yet, I feared being pushed upon the first man that was bold enough to ask for my hand in marriage. My nights were filled with nightmares of becoming enslaved to a life of servitude to a man I could not love or have passion for.”

She leaned her head back and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to the sunlight. It was the picture of my fantasy and my chance to unlock my most secret of passions. What better place than in Marion Dunraven’s secret garden?

I grabbed her shoulders gently and kissed her ever so softly in the delicate, exposed part of her exquisite neck. She did not push away but instead, inched closer into me, her head pulled back even further, an invitation for my lips.

I licked my tongue toward the bottom of her earlobe, hearing a low moan escape her lips. I had no intention of stopping. I could no longer control myself. I wanted to undo the top button of her jacket, but she stopped me.

“Marion, but it is near impossible to control myself. Have I offended you?” My breathing was irregular and my heart pounded. I leaned back, struggling to keep the fire inside at bay and composed myself.

She gazed at me steadily. “I am not being cruel, my dearest.” She placed both her hands on mine. “You must understand that I am a woman of strict control and complete regiment. I long ago made the decision to kill my wild streak and unbridled emotions. I feared those emotions, unchecked, could lead to devastating consequences and deeds I might regret. I thought I might go as mad as my sister.” She turned her face away and withdrew from me.

“My darling Olivia,” she continued, “please know that you mean the world to me and what happened in the darkened halls of Castle Dunraven and here now should prove how special you are to me.” Her gaze came back to me, eyes filled with emotions that I believed were sincere.

But the ache between my thighs was so very real and powerful and my need and want of her so intense that I fought to accept what she was saying. Why would someone so beautiful and so alive still wish to keep herself under lock and key from life and passion?

Marion pulled me closer again. “Olivia, leave your door open at night. You are safe beside me in your new apartment. I will come to see you often.” Her face lit up with a wide smile. “Oh, please say you will.”

How could I deny her anything she asked of me?

“If it be your wish, then it becomes my command,” I said, unable to hide my smile. “Only please, say that you will feel free to trust your emotions with me. I have the fondest feelings for you and will cherish your love with my life if need be.”

She drew me toward her in a tight embrace, covering my face, my lips, my neck with tender kisses.

“Oh, my dear heart, please be patient with me, won’t you? I am trapped in my ways. Do not leave me or tire of me.”

“Never. Never shall you lose me,” I whispered, drunk in the kisses of Marion Dunraven.

***

Dear Mr. Andrews had been wonderful in transferring all my belongings from my old apartment to the new rooms next to Marion. He’d taken the time and arranged my things exactly how I’d left them.

Granted, the new rooms were a bit smaller and lacked the faded opulence and grandeur of the old, but for me, my new apartment was a little piece of heaven. The walls were a pale blue and some rooms had wallpaper. My canopied bed was unusually large and with a delicate ecru satin draping. And the most glorious part was that Marion lived and breathed in the rooms next door!

I went directly to my new quarters after supper. I’d hardly been able to eat the delicious chicken Mrs. Milbanks had baked so excited was I after my afternoon with Marion. I had to avoid the questions and the questioning looks from the staff and merely smiled all night long.

As I removed my dress, I ran a hand over my neck and my face where Marion’s lips had caressed me. I closed my eyes and imagined her tender kisses again. Was she in her room this minute? Had she undressed? Would she be insulted and angry if I knocked on her door?

I lacked the bravado to do what I so badly wanted to do. Instead, I donned my night shirt and lay quietly in my new bed, trying to still the excited beating of my heart. How would I be able to even contemplate sleep with the knowledge that Marion was only a thin wall away?

I must have dozed off to a light sleep, for I awoke with the slight sound of a door latch closing. I had turned down my lamp, my room illuminated only by the rays of a very full moon high in the sky.

She stood bathed in the moonbeams piercing through the window. Marion Dunraven appeared like a vision in a dream. Her black tresses tumbled unbound down her shoulders, her body covered only by the sheerest of night robes. She was completely bare underneath. I held my breath and raised myself in bed.

“Marion.”

She walked quietly to me, her perfectly shaped breasts and entire body luminous. The dark triangle of darkness between her legs contrasted with the milky beauty of her body.

“I’ve come to you, my darling Olivia, as wreckless and devoid of restraints as you wanted.”

I stood up to stare unbelieving at the vision before me. Was she real? Was I sleepwalking and this a mere fantasy?

When she put her hands on my shoulders and removed my nightshirt over my head, I knew it was not a dream. The fire that raced through my body threatened to consume me. I thought I would go mad with desire. I pulled her close and kissed her deeply, untying the satin band that held her robe and slipped it off her shoulders.

The heat from our bodies should have ignited the sheets on the bed as we lay together as close as two human beings could. She slipped one knee between my legs and I could not help a moan as she pressed against me.

“Marion,” I whispered in a hoarse voice. “I never thought this could be…that you would be here tonight. I do not know that I am worthy or beautiful enough for you.”

She dug her fingers through my long, loose curls and kissed me gently.

“You are golden, my love. Your hair, your skin, your heart. You shine from within and from without. It is I who am unworthy.”

I inhaled of the sweet scent of Marion. She smelled of lavender, the wild lavender from her garden.

“Oh, Marion,” I whispered as I kissed her breasts hungrily. “What shall become of us?” I placed my head on her chest as she still fingered my golden curls.

“Stay with me, my love. We can love each other. We need nothing else. Do not fear the future. As long as you remain by my side, my shield, we will want for little.”

I wanted to say that she already had all of me. Always and forever. But she put one finger over my lips while her other hand caressed the length of my body until it found the place between my legs. I quivered uncontrollably as the explosion of passion inside me engulfed all my control.

Marion Dunraven would own me body and soul tonight and for as long as I lived.

Mr. Julian Dunraven was positively overjoyed at the size of the stack of cards piled up on the desk in the library. He acted as if they were stacks of money. My nightly encounters and lovemaking with Marion had created a work demon within me. I had found new energy and enthusiasm in my task.

“I must wonder, Miss Hampton,” he said as he watched me work, “why such a lovely young girl as yourself wishes to pass her days stuck in a library putting an old man’s books in order. Do you love books that much or are you in dire need of the job?”

“To be honest, Sir, it is a bit of both. Yes, I need the job. How else will I eat and afford housing without having to depend on my dear aunt’s kindness forever? Yet it is a labor I do indeed love. I feed my hunger for literature and the art of books and book-making by doing it.”

“Well, I would imagine you’ve had precious little time for reading, judging by the work that stack of cards required.”

I couldn’t very well admit to him that what kept me away from reading was his ravishing daughter.

“I manage to read what I can,” I said with a smile. Thoughts of Marion kept me smiling most days.

“Tell me, how old are you, Miss Hampton?”

“Nineteen, Sir.”

He offered a gentle smile. “I marvel at your love of books at such a tender age. Most young women at your age are worried about the latest fashion or what young man might be available for the best marriage. How did you acquire such a fascination and respect for books?”

“I have my aunt Lucille to thank for that, Mr. Dunraven. She was a fine teacher and encouraged my intellectual tastes and pursuits. She saved her pennies so that I might get schooling and have a chance for proper employment.”

“Oh, yes, I recall that Marion did mention having met you at Cambridge University. I have an old friend who has been invaluable in my book acquisitions at Cambridge. He is the curator of the historical library, Professor Quint. Do you know him?”

“Indeed, Mr. Dunraven, I know the professor quite well. He was an excellent tutor to what little bibliographical knowledge I possess.”

Mr. Dunraven looked at me steadily. “Perhaps then it is his opinion on the value of my library that we should first obtain?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, and we should start with the ancient volume by your ancestor.”

His reaction surprised me. He cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat.

“Yes, of course. I’m aware that you probably think the book to be the most prized of my collection and quite criminal to leave it lying about without care.”

It was not for me to tell Mr. Dunraven how to care for his valuable books. “I believe, Mr. Dunraven, that it could be the most valuable book in history if it proves to be what I think it might be.”

Julian Dunraven stared at me with a grave look in his eyes.

“It is a fake. A fraud. It has absolutely no value.”

The confusion and shock I felt must have shown in my face. He smiled wide but remained silent.

“Mr. Dunraven,” I finally said, I do not understand.”

He folded his hands on his lap. “Miss Hampton, the Dunravens of Scotland were a very powerful force within the Knights Templar. When the order was betrayed by King Phillip and our brothers tortured, persecuted and put to death, many were able to escape with the fleet and the treasure and relics. Most came ashore in Scotland and were welcomed by the Dunraven clan…” He paused and looked furtively around the library, leaning closer toward me.

His words were whispers. “What I tell you must forever remain a secret, Miss Hampton. The secret has been passed down only among Dunravens but I feel you are a kindred lover of all I hold dear—books. The Templar treasure is very real. All of it.” His gaze bore into me. “Everything was buried. Hidden where no human would ever find it again. The Scottish Grand Master of the Templars, a high born Dunraven, wrote of the Templars history, including maps of the location and descriptions of the treasure and holy relics. But the book was buried, the other leaders believing it too dangerous to keep among others not of the Order. Dunravens that came after have often attempted to learn the details of the book. Some actually wrote what they believed the book contained, all by hearsay and passed down rumors.”

He sat back in his chair. “That is what you came across in my library. Richard Dunraven was indeed a notorious drunk. During his drunken bouts, he took to penning that fake diary and it has continued to be coveted by generations of those who do not know the truth as the authentic location and history of the treasure of the Knights Templar.”

The story was breathtaking. So a book with the secret of the Templar treasure really did exist but it was buried along with everything else, perhaps never to be found ever again.

“But Mr. Dunraven, I suspect many believe your book by Richard Dunraven to be a true and valuable piece of history.”

He nodded. “And it is all of that. As a piece of fiction written and hand- bound in the sixteenth century, it is indeed quite a valuable artifact. But it is not the map to the secret treasures of the Knights Templar. I daresay, there are some who are totally convinced that it is and who would do whatever it took to get their hands on it…” He paused and eyed me steadily. “Our Mr. Cutter is one of those and he has convinced my gullible and power-hungry daughter, Cora, of the same. He had the audacity to feign interest in my library as an excuse to search for the book and steal it.”

He could have told me Edgar Allan Poe had not penned his own works and I would have been as equally shocked.

“You have startled me with two scandalous revelations, Mr. Dunraven. The more staggering is that Mr. Cutter actually knew of this book. He lied to my face and denied his knowledge of its existence. But that he would have taken your property for profit is unforgivable. The rumors of his less than admirable traits appear to be well founded.”

The old man chuckled and nodded his head.

“I am afraid you are correct and so are the rumors. He never suspected I found him out, but it gave me great pleasure to relieve him of his duties as cataloger of my library. Oh, but I am not done with him. I have a smashing good plan to set him out for good and you shall play a part in it.”

It was good to know that my inner sensibilities had been right about Mr. Cutter. He was a despicable scoundrel. But what could Mr. Dunraven be planning that would involve me? I did not wish to be rude and held my tongue.

“Tell me, my dear,” Mr. Dunraven said, “how did you come upon my ancestor’s book? Do you harbor an interest in medieval history or the Knights Templar in particular?”

“No, in truth, I have no single interest in the Templars and only a general curiosity for medieval studies. At any rate, I must confess to being an avid reader of Gothic literature.”

“Ahh, yes, Mrs. Radcliffe and her ilk?” he asked with a quick laugh. “Interest in Udolphos and Otrantos is an inevitable conclusion for a New Englander, is it not? The literature is part of our very fabric of Victorian existence.”

“Oh, but no one can match Mr. Poe in my eyes,” I smiled.

“Indeed. Can you recite a favorite line for a restless old man?”

I had barely begun to repeat the somber last lines from The Mask of the Red Death when Miss Cora Dunraven appeared suddenly from the shadows behind one of the bookcases. So unexpected and so subdued her appearance that I suspected her of being there all along, listening to our conversation.

“I have finally found you, Father,” she said. “I have been searching for you nearly all morning.” She cast a disdainful gaze at me. “And good morning to you, Miss Hampton. I trust Father has not distracted you from your work.”

“Rubbish,” the old man muttered. “I promised Miss Hampton to consult with her and offer assistance in the valuation of some of the books.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. “I am not an intruder in my own library.”

“I did not mean to imply anything of the sort, Father. We are all excited that you are feeling well enough to take an interest in Miss Hampton’s work. My concern is your health above all else and since this has been an exceptional October, I wondered if you might wish more time outdoors. It would be very good for you.”

“You might be right, my dear, but I do not wish to go outside now. I have not concluded my business with Miss Hampton.”

She looked at both her father and me, uncertainty in her eyes.

“Very well, then. Do you mind if I join you? I might learn something about books.” She drew up a chair, sat down and cast an disingenuous smile.

The old man gripped the arms of his chair tightly until his knuckles were white. He rose abruptly to his feet with an unsteady stance.

“It appears I’ve tired myself for the day and now wish to rest. Please excuse us, Miss Hampton. I promise to get back to you regarding that little matter I touched upon.” There was an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes. “Come, Cora, take me to my room, please.”

She immediately rose and offered to steady him. The old man took her arm with an irritable look and they left the room together. It was a relief to be rid of her and I thanked Mr. Dunraven silently.

I put in a half-hearted attempt at continuing my work but my mind and my thoughts were with Marion. Perhaps work was not meant to be part of my day, for not minutes after Mr. Dunraven and Cora had left, Pervis Andrews walked into the library.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss Hampton, but I was on my way up to the tower when I had a thought that you might be interested in seeing it.”

“The tower?” The word evoked all sorts of dark, fantastic imagery. How could I not wish to see it?

“Did you notice it in your arrival to Dunraven?”

I did indeed recall the square towering structure rising above the other architectural forms that made up Castle Dunraven. I really had not given it much thought or importance.

“It was late when I arrived,” I said, “but I did notice it in the moonlight.”

“I go up there to check on the railings and such every once in a while and it offers the best view of the land surrounding Castle Dunraven than anywhere else in these parts. Care to see it by daylight?

“How could I refuse?”

“Excellent, Miss. I enjoy good company while doing my rounds. Victorina is no conversationalist…” He smiled with a sheepish grin. “We can reach it by the servants’ stairs. Well, then, follow me if you’re ready.”

The servants’ stairs were, of course, extremely familiar to me from my daily passages before I changed apartments. We went up two flights but on the third, I was haunted by uneasy memories of the frightful night escaping the midget. We went up another round of steps and I marveled at Mr. Andrew’s stamina. He was so much older and yet here I was, breathless. He seemed ready to continue without stopping.

He looked back at me and chuckled. “Perhaps we should stop and rest a moment.”

“You mean there is more?”

“Just one more. From here to the tip of the tower there is but one set of stairs.” He waited a few minutes, looking up all the while. “If you are ready, let us go on, Miss.”

We reached a corridor and at the end of that, was an entrance to a large, square chamber, completely bare and at least two stories high. There was a thick rope that hung from an opening in the center and ran all the way up. Another staircase climbed around the walls. They were fortified by sturdy railing and Mr. Andrews tested all the welded joints by applying weight and shaking them hard.

There were narrow, recessed windows but they were so dirty and dusty that we could not see through them. We finally reached the last turn. Daylight was streaming through an opening in the ceiling. The last remaining step took us to a flat platform surrounded by a low wooden wall with railing above.

I stood transfixed by the splendor of the view before us. Stretching below us and beyond, surrounding us in every direction, was a landscape of multi-colored fields, scattered forests with colorful leaves still on the branches, the snaking dark river which wound through the valley and finally disappeared over a remote crest and the road that brought me here.

Mr. Andrews eyed me with a grin. “Impressive, right? What you think, Miss?”

I could not remove my gaze from the beauty around us. “It is magnificent. Mesmerizing.”

“I come up here mostly by myself but sometimes with Victorina. I wanted to share it with someone else.”

“Unquestionably it is something to be shared.” I wondered if Marion had even ever been up here.

“What do you think of the size of that bell?” Mr. Andrews asked as he pointed way above us. “Bringing that bell up here cost more than one life.”

I’d been so stunned by the landscape that I had not bothered to look around me where we stood. A vast, hollow dome sat upon four large pillars. Suspended inside it sat the huge bell.

“It hasn’t been rung since the day of Mrs. Dunraven’s death,” Mr. Andrews said. “They are probably wise not to be too quick to ring it again, for the din, even several miles away, is enough to wake the dead.”

A chilling breeze suddenly swept through the platform and I could not control a shiver.

“Well then, we should be going back before you catch a cold, Miss,” Mr. Andrews said. “I should have reminded you to fetch a coat.”

I followed him down those innumerable flights of stairs. I thanked the dear man for the lovely view but by the time I reached my rooms, I thought my limbs would be stiff for a week. However, I was certain that Marion’s touch would soon dispel any lingering discomfort.

I lay down, picturing Marion and me up in the bell tower, the air gently tousling her hair about as I kissed her. I dozed off with those delightful thoughts but Mrs. Milbanks soon woke me by lighting my lamp. I was still leaving my door open for Marion.

“I did not mean to wake you, Miss Hampton, but your door was open and I’ve been searching for you all over the house.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Milbanks,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Mr. Andrews wanted to show me the view from the bell tower.”

The housekeeper paused and looked away, a wistful expression on her face. “Oh, Miss, how I loved going up there in my younger days. My old legs won’t allow me the chance nowadays. I’m glad Pervis gave you the tour.”

She plucked a folded piece of paper from her apron. “Mr. Julian requested I deliver this to you personally, in your hand and nothing less.”

I took it, wondering if it had anything to do with what we had spoken about earlier that day in the library.

“Oh, and I should also tell you that you’re expected for a special dinner tonight.”

“A special dinner?” What exactly did that mean?

“Yes, Miss, you’ll be dining with the family and with two guests. Mr. Cutter came by earlier today wanting to speak with Mr. Julian. They were in his private room a good time. Mr. Cutter and another guest he will be escorting will be sitting at the table. Mr. Julian requests your presence and expects you to be there.”

She left and I silently breathed a sigh of relief that I had at least thought to pack an appropriate evening dinner gown.

There were six of us at the table, but somehow the affair took on the air of a splendid grand banquet. A luminous chandelier above the large and exquisitely set table cast its sparkle upon linens, crystal and silver and suffused the carved ceiling and wallpapered dining room with a glowing warmth.

Mr. Dunraven sat as the head of household in a high backed chair at one end of the table. He was attired in dress black with white dress shirt and green vest with black tie. Marion, being the eldest, sat opposite him, with Cora and myself on one side and Mr. David Cutter and his guest opposite us.

In the center of the table there was a centerpiece of a shimmering silver cornucopia which overflowed with a profusion of perfectly formed glass fruits and flowers. We were all dressed in our finest, Marion dazzling me with a blue and black dress that plunged lower down her chest than her normal style. I knew I was going to have trouble concentrating on the conversation without staring.

Mr. Cutter introduced his guest as Lady Eugenia. She was an elegant woman with hair the color of silvering frost, swept behind her head and a high colored deep maroon satin dress. She held herself with an air of importance. Apparently, she was in charge of the New England Chamber of Literature Book Depository and Studies. I had never heard of such a place and if Mr. Cutter was closely allied with her, I was immediately suspect. She proudly proclaimed to be a graduate of Lynnbridge College and renowned countrywide for her knowledge of medieval treatise and literature.

I cast a quick glance at Mr. Dunraven. We both had a good idea why she was here. But the discourse was lively and Lady Eugenia brought wonderful news of what was happening outside the secluded walls of Castle Dunraven. We no longer seemed so remote from the world. The news and gossip added energy to the table. Cora was surprisingly cordial and remained in control, laughing and generally being polite.

I pretended to understand the references to Mr. Rockefeller and the talk of oil companies and of Mr. Edison and his revolutionary, life-changing electric generator station.

Marion and I eagerly questioned Lady Eugenia on the latest author news and fashion as well, even though the Lady did not appear to be a woman who followed the latest fashion developments. Mr. Cutter interjected, volunteering his own opinion, and if his narrative comments were at all accurate, I was content to be some years behind in my fashion accessories and dress.

Lady Eugenia found the conversation pertaining to the women’s movement distasteful, while my ears were perked to hear what was happening. I had attended several private women’s meetings and attempted to follow the works of Belva Lockwood. Women had finally won the right to vote and some women and many men were still fighting to repeal what we had fought so hard for. Marion cast quick but intense gazes my way and I returned them with smiles just for her.

I was so enjoying the conversation that I had to concentrate hard on sampling all the food which Mrs. Milbanks and her helper for the night, her niece Beatrice, set before us. The vegetable soup and fresh fish prepared in a delicate red wine sauce seemed the most splendid culinary treat, but it was only the beginning. It was eclipsed by the roasted Cornish hens which followed. They literally melted in one’s mouth. The evening was topped by a crème and strawberry brulee and sherry.

Soon after Mrs. Milbanks and Beatrice had cleared the desert plates, Cora addressed Mr. Cutter.

“David, I understand that Lady Eugenia is here to see one of father’s rare books.”

Mr. Dunraven gazed at his daughter for a long second and set his eyes on Mr. Cutter.

“Indeed, Mr. Cutter.” He looked at Lady Eugenia and offered a tight smile. “Your guest, Lady Eugenia, has had the afternoon to examine the Templar book by my ancestor, Sir Richard Dunraven. You seem interested in learning of its worth almost as much as I do. This is a perfect time to hear the results.” His gaze rested squarely on the older woman at the table.

I waited with baited breath. I knew what Mr. Dunraven planned this evening. He had written it all out for me in the note Mrs. Milbanks had delivered to me. It was, for all intent and purposes, an ambush. Payback. Sweet revenge. And it couldn’t happen to a more deserving man than David Cutter. I tried hard to suppress my smile inside.

Lady Eugenia cleared her throat. “First, let me thank you, Mr. Dunraven, for allowing me into your home and for the wonderful dinner invitation. I am so fortunate to be able to offer my expert opinion on the value of such a valuable and historically important book. Without a doubt, the book your ancestor, Sir Richard Dunraven, penned is one hundred percent authentic and a well preserved specimen of medieval literature. I have not come across a book this old in this kind of condition. But it’s far more important than just that.”

She paused and eyed each person at the table. “It is my professional belief and opinion that the book is an authentic map to the secret location of the Knights Templar treasure and quite possibly the resting place of the holiest of all relics, the Holy Grail.”

She gazed at Mr. Dunraven as if her words held power. To my left, Cora Dunraven inhaled and exhaled.

“Father, what unbelievable and wonderful news. To think we had such a powerful treasure here in your dusty, cluttered library!”

I glanced at Marion who was in slight shock. Mr. Dunraven remained quiet and stoic. David Cutter smiled.

“You see, Mr. Dunraven, I had my suspicions of its value when I found it on Miss Hampton’s desk. I took the liberty of contacting Lady Eugenia. She came highly recommended.” He lowered his gaze for a moment. “And as we spoke earlier, I am prepared to pay a hefty sum for the book. If it proves to be a true guide to the treasure of the Templars, I will split my discoveries with the Dunravens. If it is a fake, then I am a fool parted with my money and you and your daughters will be set for life. It is a more than fair offer, since you have no male heir to take on such an expedition and your daughters are—”

“There will be do expedition. No deal, Mr. Cutter,” Julian Dunraven interrupted.

I lowered my head, ready for the plan of revenge to unfold. Mr. Cutter looked from Lady Eugenia to Julian Dunraven in confusion, a quivering smile on his lips.

“I don’t understand, Julian, Mr. Dunraven. We spoke at some length this afternoon…”

“I never made a deal with you. I have, however, appreciated your proffering of the Lady’s expertise. If she will sign a paper guaranteeing her findings and legitimacy as a book grader, I will pay her handsomely. It will further validate the deal I have agreed to with Mr. Quint at Cambridge University for the book. It will go into the history archives and be available for all to see and appreciate. The money for the sale of the book will go into Miss Olivia Hampton’s trust account which I took the liberty to set up for her.”

I nearly blurted out my shock and surprise. Mr. Dunraven had written nothing of this in his note to me, only the outline for his plans for Mr. Cutter and the book. We both knew the book was not a true map to the elusive and legendary treasure of the Knights Templar but we also knew the book was extremely valuable as an original and genuine medieval document and as such, worth a large sum of money. Mr. Dunraven would take advantage of Mr. Cutter’s own expert and have a ready-made signature to validate the value of the book for sale to Mr. Quint at Cambridge. Mr. Cutter would be out the money he must have paid Lady Eugenia for the trip to Castle Dunraven and for her evaluation.

Mr. Cutter bolted up from his chair, anger turning his face crimson.

“How dare you, Sir, take advantage of Lady Eugenia’s services and my generosity.”

The Lady sat like a bewildered animal caught in a trap. Cora flew to Mr. Cutter’s side.

“Father, I think perhaps you have misunderstood David’s interest and generous offer to us.”

“I have misunderstood nothing about this scoundrel. He used his position here to corrupt you and to help himself to my valuable books, in particular, the book in question.” Mr. Dunraven glared at David Cutter. “I believe you know your way out.” He turned his gaze next to Lady Eugenia. “Dear Lady, my offer still stands and I ask that you await me in the study if you wish to take me up on my offer. Mrs. Milbanks will show you the way.”

I was still so much in shock that I did not notice that the old man had suddenly sunken down in his seat, staring straight ahead at no one in particular, his shoulders slumped against the chair back, his face ashen.

Mrs. Milbanks screamed. She was in the middle of pouring Mr. Dunraven a glass of sherry when she uttered the cry, quickly setting the bottle down. She caught his elegantly shaggy-haired head just before it struck the table. Marion had leaped from her chair to her father’s side.

They were able to lift the old man and rested his back against the chair. I panicked for I thought him dead. His eyes were closed and his skin looked icy pale. But suddenly, he raised his eyelids open and actually forced a smile.

“Please, everyone,” he said in a thick voice, “do not fret over me. Sit down, Marion, Cora and you too, Miss Hampton. I only had a little faint. Forgive me. I’m embarrassed but also old and prone to these things.”

I sat down slowly and watched Marion do the same, reluctantly. Mrs. Milbanks and Beatrice remained by his side, behind the chair.

Cora and Mr. Cutter remained standing. The Lady Eugenia still sat with a lost and panicked look on her pale face. Mr. Dunraven stared at his daughter Cora and David Cutter.

“Must I command you, Cora, to return to your seat? Mr. Cutter, you are no longer welcomed in this house. Mrs. Milbanks will show you out if you’ve forgotten the door.” The old man’s voice had almost regained a semblance of its former thunder. “Lady Eugenia, you are welcome to stay the night until tomorrow if you like or leave with Mr. Cutter.”

David Cutter did not utter another word, but straightened his coat and put his arm out for his guest, who hesitantly got up, nodded meekly to the rest of us and walked out with him. Mrs. Milbanks led them from the dining room. Cora stood, confused, fire raging in her eyes. She fled the room after them.

Julian Dunraven straightened back in his chair, relief and pain showing on his face.

“Father, will you go to your room?” Marion rushed to his side.

He hesitated but then nodded his consent.

I was left stunned by the turn of events of the evening but felt compelled to speak before he left for his room.

“Mr. Dunraven, I had no idea what you had done in regard to the sale of the book and my part in it. I cannot accept your generosity, Sir.”

He put out his long arm and pointed at me. “You have no choice in the matter, my dear. It is already done. I will come and see you again in the library tomorrow. We shall talk then.” He left with a weak smile.

I left my seat, intending to help Marion with her father, but her gaze and the shake of her head stopped me in my tracks. There was nothing left for me to do but return to my rooms and anxiously await Marion for more news of Mr. Dunraven’s condition. The night had gone out of control and I believe we all came away shocked and confused in some manner or another.

I paced the short distance between my rooms, attempting to convince myself that what Mr. Dunraven truly had experienced was a common faint. But what I saw in his eyes when he awakened was not just a mere trip to the land of Nod but something far more chilling.

It was finally Mrs. Milbanks who came to my room and assured me that Mr. Julian was resting comfortably and that Miss Marion intended to stay the night by his side. It was something mild and no cause for alarm. She bid me good night. I prepared for bed but with an odd sense of melancholia. I missed the warmth of Marion’s body and struggled with so many questions regarding Mr. Dunraven’s revelations. Thankfully, I was exhausted and fell asleep quickly.

***

I was in the library at work early the next morning, hoping to see Mr. Dunraven sometime during the day.

Shortly after noon, Marion came to find me. She appeared flustered and tired, her hair less tightly wound than usual. She came to stand close to me and put her hand on mine. It was cold as ice.

“My father is asleep in his room. I have recently left his side and had time to refresh for I just had to see you, dearest.”

“But Marion, my love, your hand is so cold. Are you ill?”

She shook her head and smiled tenderly. “Not ill but deeply worried over my father. I know you share our concern as well and I must confess to you that I am not at all certain of his condition even now.”

“But should we not call in a physician? Is there a family doctor in Seffenwich or somewhere else nearby that will come and attend him?

“My father has never requested nor will he allow a physician to see him. He does not believe what little is known of medical procedures will help him.”

I did not know what to respond. I myself shied away from any medicines other than what my Aunt concocted for me. They seemed to work for the sniffles and colds I got.

“I merely came to see you and also to assure you that father has passed on all the information and paperwork pertaining to your trust to me in the event he could not relay it to you personally right away.”

She smiled and took both my hands.

“I am so happy for you, my beautiful, golden Olivia. Father is so fond of you as you know I am as well.”

Her smile alone softened all the jagged edges of confusion and doubt which had threatened to overwhelm me. I could not resist my desire and threw myself into Marion’s arms.

“Oh, Marion, it is only you and your kind and generous father that keep me in this house. I am frightened by all the strange happenings here, but I feel I have found a real family and real love. For you. I will never leave.”

Marion looked at me with serious concern.

“What strange happenings do you speak of, Olivia?”

I did not wish to burden her any further with tales of my encounters with the masked phantom and my suspicions. She had enough distress with her father’s illness. I should not have said a word of it.

“It is nothing, my sweet,” I said, caressing her cheek with my hand. “One day, I will tell you the stories.”

Her loving gaze searched my face, still showing worry.

“Very well, I will allow you to leave it at that for now. I must leave to check on father. We shall speak…tonight.” She was gone.

I tried very hard to complete as much work as I could, wishing to lose myself completely in books. By the end of the afternoon, I had succeeded. My stack of finished cards had nearly doubled.

Intending to do another hour’s work, I was unfortunately interrupted when Cora burst into the room. She seized my hands so fiercely that I dropped my pen and splattered ink on the card which I had been filling out.

“Miss Hampton, you must come with me with haste.” Her face had transformed from the glowing and gay persona she had shown at dinner the night before. She appeared drained of color, only irregular red blotches stained her skin. Her eyes glittered with a mad fever and were smudged and swollen as if she’d cried too much.

I leapt to my feet. “Is it Mr. Dunraven?” I cried out. “Has something gone wrong?”

“Oh no, dear Miss Hampton, nothing is wrong. But we must both go to see him at once. My sister Marion is already there.”

I resisted. I knew she could have the madness about her and could be capricious and cruel and yes, dangerous, I believed. There was no telling what she had in mind. We hadn’t seen her since she left with Mr. Cutter the night before.

“Why must I go? I don’t understand.”

“I shall explain once we reach his room.” She pulled me away. “Please, come quickly.”

I followed her as best I could as we almost dashed from the library, across the hall and to the stairs. At the first floor, we turned toward the front of the house and down another short corridor to stand in front of a closed door.

She pushed it open and I followed her into a darkened apartment illuminated by the warm flicker of a healthy fire in a massive stone hearth.

Julian Dunraven sat in an oversized, deep armchair near the fireplace. Marion sat in a small chair beside him. A book lay open upon her lap. They both gazed up in surprise.

“What is the meaning for this interruption, Cora?” he inquired.

His lap was covered over with a beautiful quilt and he wore a russet velvet coat. I did not know if it was the light and shadow play in the room, but the old man seemed shrunken into his great chair and his face ashen and tired. But his eyes still blazed.

Cora looked at each of us, finally returning her gaze to her father.

“Father, dear Father, there is something I thought it time you should hear.” She advanced toward him, dragging me with her. Marion looked toward me, questions in her dark gaze. I could only shrug my shoulders and shake my head. I could not guess what Cora Dunraven was up to.

“Well, what is it this time, Cora?” her father asked in a hoarse voice.

She did not answer him immediately. Instead, she walked swiftly to the opposite end of the room and began to abstractedly smooth out the folds of the window drapes. She did this for a few seconds, then walked back to stand before him.

“Father, I have spent too many years after my sister Helen’s death searching for the proper way and time to inform you of what has kept me prisoner in my own mind for so long. I have finally decided I can no longer be justified in keeping it from you.”

She paused to inhale deeply. I looked in bewilderment at both of them. Marion had risen to stand erect beside her father. Mr. Dunraven seemed to have no idea what his daughter Cora spoke of. He merely gazed at her patiently, his face without emotion.

Cora continued. “The night I asked Helen to come with me to the ballroom, I was in a jealous rage. I wanted desperately to take all my frustrations out on her. We argued. Yes, we did. She ran from me, Father. Helen feared me.” Cora’s voice raised to nearly a scream. “She ran to the window to get away from my fury. She ran to the window. I ran at her and she was so frightened that she backed up against the open window, tripped and went over. But when I reached her, she was hanging on to the window ledge, her fingers gripping it so hard they were turning white. She screamed for me to help her.” Cora shook her head. “I pried her fingers loose and watched her drop to the hard earth below.”

There was momentary stillness in the room. An unnatural silence.

“I killed Helen, Father. And I have no remorse or guilt.”

Julian Dunraven uttered an almost inhuman, incoherent cry. He pushed himself out of his chair more nimbly than I had seen him move since I arrived. His face was the color of lead. He raised both hands and advanced toward his daughter. His mouth opened and closed. I didn’t know if he was trying to say something to his daughter or not. For a moment, his gaze caught my eyes. I could not read what he wanted.

The last flicker of life in his body went out and he fell like a rock upon the floor. His limp body made a muffled thump as it struck the carpet. Marion fell to her knees by his side. She put her head, then her ear against his chest. For a second, she looked at me. She seemed like a lost child.

“He’s dead!” she cried, staring at Cora. “Father is dead.” Marion got up and ran to stand before her sister. “Is it true that you killed Helen or was this one of your mad games?” Her voice quivered.

Cora’s eyes were wild as she glared at her sister. “I wanted Helen dead and I took the opportunity. It was the perfect set up. No one even suspected and poor Mother and Father suffered too long. I did not want or plan for that.”

Marion raised her hand as if to strike her sister, but stopped in midair. “I suspected you, Cora. I hid what I thought were terrible thoughts of you because I felt your mind had suffered enough. But now I am beginning to think you are not mad at all. You are a devil, Cora Dunraven and not my sister.”

Marion turned to me. “Go and get Mr. Andrews and bring him here.”

“No! She is not to bring the servants into this,” Cora thundered. “Go and fetch Mr. Griffen. He is at the stable house. He shall help us with Father.”

Before I could move, she ran to me and seized my arms as if to prevent me from running away, although in fact, I was nearly frozen in place, unable to move or utter a word. I was in total shock. She glared at me.

“You must say nothing of what you have seen or heard here! Nothing, do you understand? Not to anyone.”

She shook me violently. I could only nod and look at Marion. I needed to know what she wanted me to do. Cora should not be allowed to be mistress at Castle Dunraven. She must not be allowed to command orders to anyone. And then a small voice in my head revealed a stunning epiphany, why Marion had begged me not to leave her. She was afraid of her sister. Of her sister’s madness or evil and what would happen when her father passed away. There would be no one left to moderate her violent impulses. Marion had to find the strength to stand up to her sister. I knew she had it inside. I was going to help her find it.

Marion stared intently at Cora but she spoke to me.

“Go to your room, Olivia. Stay there until I come for you. Cora and I will take care of Father.”

But I wanted to stay and lend my support. I was not certain she could face the malevolence of Cora, especially if she brought in her support, Mr. Griffen.

“Go now, Olivia. Please. Do not open your door to anyone but me.” When she looked at me, I knew I should go. The fire in her eyes was blacker than night.

I ran from the room. The room of death and evil. Even as I dashed down the corridor, I heard her echoing cries for help as she summoned Mrs. Milbanks and the others. Even now, I could still feel the depth of darkness and madness in the face of Cora Dunraven and the fury of anger in Marion’s eyes. For my lover, now was the time for her to rear up against her sister and possibly her accomplice as well. She must find the strength and courage inside her.

In a daze, I staggered around the corridors, not realizing that I was not racing to my room as my beloved asked me to do, but going higher in the house, to the third floor. I went beyond the third floor and continued on. At length, I found myself at the door to the chapel.

Softly I crossed the stone floor toward the massive organ. In the darkened, gloomy chamber, the few shafts of light that filtered through cast shadows upon the giant set of pipes, making them seem almost insubstantial, like the folds of a rusty, metallic curtain.

I continued up the short steps which led to the organ and sat upon the wooden bench. The same bench where Julian Dunraven played his haunting music. And now he was gone. I had grown so close to the older man, imagining him to be my own grandfather. Or as close to one as I would ever have.

I raised a hand and touched the ivory keys. They depressed easily under the weight of my fingers but without Victorina or someone else to work the bellows, only silence and dust greeted the air.

Slowly, as I caressed the keys, exhaustion began to overtake me. I had trouble keeping my eyes from drooping.

***

I awoke from my reverie—perhaps a strange sort of faint—to discover that I was hunched over on the wooden seat in almost total darkness. Judging from the waning bits of light filtering through the window, it was near nightfall. As reality set in, I was suddenly swept with an almost choking tenderness for Julian Dunraven. I never played the pianoforte for him. And my heart felt sickened for Marion. I knew how much she loved her father. I had to go and find her. She would be worried not finding me in my room.

I felt my way cautiously down the steps and toward the door. The corridor was deep in shadows and I reverted to touching the walls surrounding me as I went along to guide me down the stairs. I continued down the floors until I came to the second floor.

When I opened the door and went along the long hall which led to the first part of the house, I stopped and listened. There was an unnatural stillness to Castle Dunraven. There was no sound at all. I continued to the gallery above the central hall and stared down into the cavernous darkness below.

I was almost certain that no one else was about. Was Marion in her room, waiting for my kisses or making arrangements with the others for the burial of her father? I decided to continue to the door of Mr. Dunraven’s room. I wanted to pay my own last respects in this quiet hour of night. Perhaps Marion might be there. She would be grieving him as he lay on his bed.

I pushed the door open slowly. A lamp burned dimly on one wall. There was a door which I assumed led to the sleeping chamber beyond. I made sure no one was about and finding the place empty, entered the second door.

Fully prepared to find Marion or perhaps Mrs. Milbanks or Mr. Andrews sitting in wake beside Mr. Dunraven, I saw no one. The room was empty. Only Julian Dunraven lay on a magnificent canopied bed, looking just as he had over dinner yesterday evening, in his suit of formal black. His hands lay folded on his chest. Candelabras, each tied with black velvet ribbons, stood at the head and foot of the bed. They cast an eerie light upon his hair and beard.

My fondness for him overwhelmed me and I threw myself upon my knees beside the bed. I rested my brow upon his clasped hands and felt a trickle of tears as I remembered his last generous gift to me before his death. I began to offer silent prayers for his soul upon its way to heaven.

I cannot remember my prayers, but what occurred to interrupt them. I shall never forget that as long as I breathe. A hand came down upon my head—Julian Dunraven’s hand.

To describe my thoughts would be wholly impossible. I truly believe that my brain had ceased to fully function, except to receive impressions it could not understand or interpret.

I leaned back and lifted my head. Mr. Dunraven’s hand slipped from my head and fell upon my hands. I tried to pull away but his grip was strong and I could not slip away. Mr. Dunraven still lived!

I searched his face. In the light of the flickering candles, I saw that his eyes were indeed open. My heart leapt with joy. He moved his pupils from side to side and his mouth twitched, however he spoke no sound.

Was Mr. Dunraven in some sort of trance or seizure that prevented movement? I somehow pulled my hands free from the hold of his cold fingers and rose to my feet. I began to inch away from the bed but my eyes never left his face, now writhing in agitation as if he struggled to speak, to move, to live. I finally could go no further in the room. My back was upon the wall. My body and thoughts paralyzed. I knew that I had to run and find someone to help Mr. Dunraven or he might truly die, but my body would not respond to the command.

Then I heard the rustle of clothing in the first adjoining room. Oh, please, let it be Marion.

The door stood open to my left. I could not see who had entered until they were completely in the room. It was not Marion but Cora. She walked directly to the bed and looked down at her father. And she laughed as she watched his struggle. But it was not quite a laugh. It was more of a deep, throaty chuckle. Frightening.

I opened my mouth to shout out, but nothing came out nor could I move. I was totally useless, frozen by fear and confusion. I felt pinned against the wall like a poor butterfly in a display case. All I could do was watch in horror.

Cora held something against her breast. It was only after she raised it above her head that I saw it was a cushion of blue velvet. She suddenly brought it down upon her father’s face. She meant to kill him.

With an effort that felt as if I were tearing apart my muscles, I wrenched my body free from the wall. Cora heard and whipped about to look at me. She was shocked to find me there, privy to her murder. Yet she still held the pillow over her father’s face.

I seized her arm and pulled with all my strength, but she was stronger. I let go, attempting to perhaps tackle her from behind and knock her over. She fell forward instead, on top of the cushion and Mr. Dunraven. His feeble fingers tore weakly at the smothering cushion. Next, I grabbed Cora about the waist to drag her away from the bed, but she kicked against my shins and pushed me back. I lunged at her again, grasping the neck of her gown. I yanked with such fury that the fabric ripped halfway down her back, part of the collar in my fist.

And yet that evil woman still lay like a beast from Hell across her father’s head. Sobbing uncontrollably, unable to do much else, I threw myself upon her once more. She groaned, finally rolled off the bed and crouched upon the floor like a feral animal, her eyes wild with the fever of murder.

I flung the cushion from the bed but it was too late. Julian Dunraven’s struggles were over. But the old man had proved to almost have nine lives like a cat. What if this was just another death-like trance? Could there be a chance he was still alive?

Driven by desperate hope, I dashed through the outer room in search of waking someone to help me and Mr. Dunraven. But I was not able to utter my first cry for help, for I collided headlong into someone else who was just entering from the corridor.

Jack Griffen stood as surprised as I was. He jumped upon me and despite all my kicking and pounding, clamped his hand across my mouth and pinned my shoulders. He dragged me toward the fireplace, seized a heavy piece of wood and brought it down upon my head.

***

Consciousness returned with a painful throbbing that seemed to touch every fiber of my being. I felt a cold and hard stone floor beneath me. I finally opened my eyes, the pain brutal.

There was darkness surrounding me. I allowed my eyes to adjust and found rectangles of dim bluish illumination through small windows. I could make out beams of a low, sloped ceiling as I took in the room. Where was I?

I stumbled my way across the floor, fingers groping through deep layers of dust and dirt. When I reached the wall, I stood up and saw I was in a small, narrow gable of sorts. The window glass beside me was frigid as a block of ice and dull with grime. When had it gotten so cold? It was difficult to turn the window latch but I had to get it open and scream for help.

I leaned my head out but it was so cold. I screamed out as loud as I could and prepared to wait for someone to come. In the meantime, I decided to make my way slowly around the room and search for anything I might be able to use to pry open the door or at least slam upon it loudly. There were several large trunks and only one was open. It was filled with musty clothing, all of it masculine, as far as I could ascertain in the near darkness.

I drew out what I thought to be a military greatcoat and bundled it about myself. There were no gloves or hat that I could find, but I would at least not freeze to death before I was rescued. And I was sure I would be found. Marion would have the entire household staff in search of me.

The thought of escape presented a chilling dilemma. What if I were apprehended by Cora and Jack Griffen once again? I could not imagine that Cora would allow me to expose her horrible murder. What did they have in mind for me then? Eternal incarceration or would they murder and then dispose of me? Never in my wildest imaginings would I have thought that coming here would have put me in the middle of a tale even Poe would be hard pressed to imagine.

In desperation, I began to fling myself against the door. I was not surprised that it resisted every ounce of force I had. I decided it was best to conserve my energy so I sat upon the trunk, trying to allow the despair that was roiling in my thoughts from overwhelming me. I tried to scream again but grew impatient. No one had come. It became obvious this room was far removed from the main house and not often used.

And then it occurred to me as I sat upon the trunk of clothes beneath me. I would throw something from this trunk in the light of day that would be seen by someone outside. From the open window, I could scream so they could find me. Unless, of course, my captors returned before that happened.

Then just as I was about to open the window and fling every piece of clothing out into the ground below, I realized there was even a better way of marking the precise place in which I was being held and it would also prevent whatever I threw out from being buried by any falling snow before the morning.

I began to tie articles of clothing together, knotting sleeve to belt and trouser leg to shirt tail and sleeve to collar as fast and as sturdy as I knew how. Opening the window and shielding my face from the blasting wind and slivers of snow, I lowered my bedraggled flag into the darkness below and secured it all on my end by smashing the window shut upon one corner of the last piece of garment, snaring it in place. I could only pray that Mr. Griffen or Cora would not notice it if they came back tonight.

After closing the window, I could do nothing more. I found a space between two trunks, burrowed further into the oversized greatcoat and mercifully fell asleep.

I awoke startled by the sound of the door being unlocked. Pale light suffused the room. I scrambled to my feet and searched in vain for a place to hide within the room. There was nothing but the trunks.

The door swung all the way inward and Mr. Griffen stood in the opening.

“Well, good morning, Miss Hampton,” he said, a sardonic smile plastered on his face. The look of it would have chilled my blood had not the frigid air in the room not already done so.

“I see that you know how to make yourself comfortable. So like a woman.”

He did not wear his familiar overcoat and hat but his unmistakable boots shone in the weak light. My memory of the stables was still so strong that I could almost smell the strong scent of hay. My only salvation lay in offering no resistance. I hoped that it might dissuade him from intent to violence. I prayed silently that since dawn was upon us, someone would surely see the rope of garments dangling outside the window. I lowered my eyes and did not offer a reply.

“I’m certain you are this very moment thinking that you’ve been missed from your room and that the entire staff and Miss Marion are frantically searching for you. Well, you are right,” he said smugly.

I looked at him, trying to hide the hope in my eyes.

He stared at me. “Old Pervis Andrews and Marion are organizing bands of neighboring farmers to comb the fields as we speak.”

“The fields?” I screamed. “The fields are away from Dunraven.”

“Naturally. They all believe you’re out there in all the freshly fallen snow.”

“But why should they think I left the castle?” My desperation grew with each hopeless thought.

He smiled again, his wicked eyes narrowed in cunning. “Well, when Miss Marion told everyone that you had not been in your room all night, I had to tell them of my sudden recollection. Last night, when I heard someone scream from the corridors for help because the Master had had a stroke, I distinctly remembered seeing Miss Hampton run out of the kitchen door, running as fast as she could out towards the fields.”

“No!”

“And I apologized that in the shock of seeing the old man dead, I did not remember sooner. Why, by the morning, I lamented, the poor mad woman might have covered miles. Or maybe fallen in the snow and frozen to death or plunged into the river which would be even a worse fate. So you see, my dear, they will search days for you.” The grin never left his face.

Even as I despaired at the diabolical scheme, hope grew bright that at least with the presence of so many men out and about, someone would see my flag. I decided I should keep Mr. Griffen talking, which wasn’t such a difficult task, for he relished informing me of my forthcoming demise.

“So the mask and all the games I played with you are over with now, aren’t they, Miss? Being the smart young lady you are, I knew you’d suspect me but I did try my hardest to add uncertainties. We could not afford accusations.”

The man was a monster. A perfect mate for Cora Dunraven.

I eyed him boldly. “If I may ask, what was the purpose of your masquerade, Mr. Griffen?”

“You may ask, Miss Hampton. Ask me anything you are bold enough to ask. You are allowed to know anything and everything…now.”

“Why did you haunt me so, pretending and lying ever since the carriage break-down on the way to Dunraven, intruding in my room and running down the corridors after me and finally nearly killing me with the heavy bookcase. All that was your work, was it not, Mr. Griffen?”

He nodded, a gleeful smile on his lips.

“It was. I’m afraid I went a bit too far in the library with the bookcase. I truly did not mean for the thing to fall on you, you understand. I do apologize.”

“Why apologize if your intent was to kill me? And you had other excellent opportunities.”

“Miss Hampton, you have misunderstood me. We had no desire to kill you…then. Miss Cora wanted to whip me physically for the heavy hand in the library. She was furious with me.”

“Cora Dunraven!” I’d had my suspicions about her and now they proved true. “She was behind this with your help? But why? She barely knows me.”

I thought I understood. Cora knew of the old medieval Dunraven book. She, like David Cutter, saw a chance for huge profit with such a book. For Cora, that meant independence. She could finally have freedom from her prison here at Dunraven. Perhaps they both would marry—wealth and her hand in marriage a strong temptation for Mr. Cutter. That was why he took on the job of cataloging Mr. Dunraven’s library. His interest was only to find the book and run away with it. And then Marion hired me and I found the book and brought it to Mr. Dunraven’s attention. He, in turn, had to be murdered and I was to follow him.

“Cora will have to answer your questions,” he said. “I’ve explained my part. Now, let’s turn to more pleasant affairs.”

He took several steps toward me and his gaze told me what his pleasant affair entailed. It would be my ruin. I retreated back toward the wall. He only smiled wider and hastened his advance.

“Oh, come now, my dear. I am not a repulsive man. Better women than you find me good enough. Cora, for one.”

“Cora Dunraven? You can’t mean that she and you—”

“That is exactly what I mean,” Mr. Griffen said with pride. “There will be a period of some mourning for the old man, but then Cora and I will take care of business and marry. Mr. Cutter couldn’t give her what she wanted. His loss was my gain. I take advantage of any opportunity that comes along, you see. Mr. Cutter’s failure was my lucky draw.”

He stepped closer and even though I was aware that a sign of fear would probably inflame him even further, I could not keep myself from cowering in the corner. There was nowhere to escape.

“This time,” he said, “there is no one else here to come and interrupt us. No Miss Marion to stick her nose in our business.”

I pressed my body tight against the wall and turned my face away from him. Mr. Griffen was upon me. I could smell his breath and feel the harsh whiskers of his beard upon my cheek. I would not just stay like a lamb to the slaughter and not defend myself. But before I could act, he pinned my arms to my side with his strong arms. I could not move away.

“Jack, you never surprise me anymore.”

It was Cora.

He released me and stepped away, shocked and surprised he’d been caught.

“She was attempting to escape,” he stammered.

“Of course—from you and your brutish manners.”

“No, from the room. I forgot to lock the door when I came in. She would have taken off running.”

“The door locks only from the outside, darling. I’m sure you’d forgotten that. No, I believe the beast in you is still too untamed. You have much to learn before I can make you master of anything.”

Jack Griffen laughed with contempt.

“Master? Here? You are delusional, Cora. Who would wish to lord over this decaying property? What happened to your own dreams? Your plans of buying your own home in New York and becoming the talk of society? I will not stay here and rot and you must pay me my price once this is over and done with. I am master of my own fate.”

If Mr. Griffen expected a wild and mad diatribe at his heartless remark, he was mistaken. She smiled with the haughtiness of a queen at the center of her court.

“So those are your true feelings, Jack. Whether I choose to remain here or seek a new start elsewhere, the truth is that I never intended to include you. My initial and desired plan was with Mr. Cutter. Unfortunately, Miss Hampton soured those plans and father helped. I dangled what I thought you craved to guarantee your loyalty in the only other plan I had. You were my plan B, darling. It had nothing to do with a desire for or attraction to you.”

I could see in the slight sag of the shoulders and downward turn of his mouth that Mr. Griffen’s pride took a hit. He had only spurned her in pique. Yet her words stung hard. He bowed in mock and said. “I accept the honesty, Miss.”

“No need to lose heart, dear,” she said, “I simply felt that you should know my chief attraction for you is the money and fame we shall receive from retrieving that book. Money and fame are the only things I’m still fully prepared to gratify. You will get your portion for your part in it.”

I could no longer restrain myself. “Money?” I screamed. “You killed your father for money? For that book?”

For an instant, I feared Cora would break out in one of her wild and frightening tirades. But even in her fury of anger, she remained calm, only her cheeks flamed with red. Her mouth curved into a smile that froze my blood.

“Well of course for money, Miss Hampton. Why else bother? Of course, it could have been for all the years of brutal neglect. Years of forcing myself to take on the semblance of a woman gone mad. I lived a charade, you know. I hated that he continued to live forcing me into a prison.”

Cora Dunraven was not mad at all. She was evil but not mad. It had all been an act while she waited for her father to pass. I could not control my frustration and desperation.

“Do you intend to open the window and fling me out too like you did your sister Helen? Or shall I die of exposure? It wouldn’t matter to you.”

Now she laughed. The sound echoed in the room. A more cruel sound I hope to never hear again.

“Oh, my dear Miss Hampton, how well you played my game. My clueless sister played right into my hands without realizing it. I hoped you would find that book for us. And you did. But by you taking it to father before David or I could steal it and then you joining Father in his own little game, it prevented my goal of living a life of fame and wealth .”

She stopped abruptly and began to sob like a child.

“What?” I asked in a gasp. Her mood had changed so quickly. “You dare to weep. A cold-blooded murderess can weep for her victim? Your own father?”

“I weep for myself, you fool, not for him. Killing Father was nothing. I feel nothing and no guilt will keep sleep from my nights.”

Jack Griffen, bored by our display of feminine emotion, had walked to the window where I had thrown down my flag of garments. I inhaled and prayed he would not discover it. He turned and smiled at me. Had he seen it?

“Miss Hampton, if I might interrupt, if you will step to the window, you may witness all the panicked people searching for you below.”

Before I could distract his attention from the window, he finally discovered my makeshift flag.

“Well, well, well,” he said, chuckling, “Our little prisoner in the gable seems to have rigged up a signal for her would-be rescuers.”

He held out the corner of the shirt which I had pinned under the window. He opened the window and began to drag the flag of clothes back into the room.

“Very ingenious, don’t you think, Cora?”

“Next time, dear, we shall have to make sure and bind your hands and feet when we leave.”

Mr. Griffen had pulled up the last of the garments when he pointed out the window.

“Cora, I think Marion has spotted the bitch’s signal.”

Cora ran to the window. “She is looking up here!” She grabbed for Mr. Griffen. “What shall we do, Jack?”

He stroked her hand seductively. “Do not fear, my dearest Cora. We shall make sure Marion will not trouble us. You just go back downstairs and do what you must so that your meddling sister doesn’t make it up here.

“What about her?” She pointed at me.

“I am always prepared.”

Cora went to the door but hesitated. “I believe I will wait until you are done. Marion will probably never find this room but make it quick.”

Jack Griffen grinned at her. “Ever my trusting lovely, aren’t you. Very well, you may stay. But if Marion does find us, we’ll have to be rid of her.”

As he advanced toward me, pulling on a thick, rough rope he had dragged from under his coat, I thought of several desperate measures I could take. It was now or never. If I didn’t get away, who knows what they would do to Marion. I could not bear any harm come to her because of my involvement in all this.

I could rush the door and hope to send Cora crashing to the floor and escape the clutches of Mr. Griffen. Or, I might make it impossible for the horrid Mr. Griffen to catch me and have him chase me around the room, hoping he would trip on one of the trunks.

I never acted on any of those far-fetched thoughts. He was upon me like lightning. He tied my wrist so snug that the bite of the rope sunk into my skin. He then lifted my skirt to tie my ankles but I kicked hard against the rude invasion. Unfortunately, he grabbed me in a harsh matter and proceeded to tie the rope about my ankles. I hated to admit it, but I was grateful that Cora had elected to stay behind. There was no telling what the horrid man might have planned if she did not stand watch. The mere touch of his hands upon my flesh was indescribably disgusting.

I lay on my side, both hands and ankles tied tightly.

“I do hope you won’t be too cramped,” Cora said. “Perhaps, if time permits, I will come back later with food and drink.”

Why would I believe her if their ultimate end for me was death. I wanted to spit upon her face. If she had the evil, black heart to murder her father in cold blood, how could I expect any compassion?

“How long will I be kept like this?” I asked, not restraining the tears falling down my cheeks. I knew that if they saw me frightened and weakened, it would only serve to further gratify their cruel lust.

“You’re lucky, Miss Hampton,” Cora replied. “Only until nightfall. But that will only be the beginning of your end, I’m afraid. You will not be released to safety. Now that Father has done what he did, you cannot live. That money from the sale of the book belongs to me, as does the book. You will not have it. Since everyone believes you are out there somewhere, possibly dead under the snow or floating in the river, Jack and I will find a way to oblige them. They will find a very dead Miss Hampton. Goodbye, dear.”

They bolted the door behind them. I was to die by their hand. Would Cora merely smother me as she had her father while Jack Griffen held me down? It would be easy then for them to drag my corpse to some remote field or woods and let the snow cover me up. Or would they just take me to the river and drop me through the thin patches of ice forming on the water and let the currents carry me away to be found by some farmer?

Entertaining myself in the ways and means by which they would accomplish my death was not the way I wished to spend my last hours alive. I still sought to find escape somehow. I filled my mind with images of Marion. I pictured her naked and pressed into my arms in passion. Or she was kissing me so deeply I thought I would lose my breath.

I do not know how much time actually passed but it seemed barely an hour when the door was unbolted. My heart stopped and I forced down the bile that erupted into my throat. My time had come. But I looked at the window and saw, with some hope, that it was still light. Had plans changed? Was Cora actually bringing me food?

But it was not Cora nor was it Jack Griffen. It was my darling Marion! There were no words in the English language or yet invented that could describe my emotions.

“My dear God, Olivia!”

Tears spilled forth from both our eyes and she embraced me fiercely as she began loosening the knots in the rope from my ankles and wrists.

As she untied the tight rope, she told me how she had not believed one word of Mr. Griffen’s claim that he had seen me run out of the house the night before. She knew me better than that. She had also found evidence which strongly suggested that I was indeed still in the house much later than Griffen claimed.

Not finding me in my room, she had discreetly questioned Mrs. Milbanks and Mr. Andrews on where I mostly visited within the house. Fortunately, they hid nothing from her. They told her everything. She waited for the household to settle for the night and searched the most obscure regions.

In the chapel, she discovered a handkerchief which I had evidently left behind on the organ bench as I wept in the darkness after Mr. Dunraven’s supposed death. Beatrice had dusted the chapel that very afternoon and had found no handkerchief at that time.

Far into the night, she and Beatrice and Mrs. Milbanks had searched the corridors, cellars, the ballroom, the bell tower and as much of Castle Dunraven as time allowed.

When Mr. Griffen announced his version of my flight, which he claimed happened immediately after Mr. Dunraven’s stroke, the handkerchief in the chapel took on a special significance and also proved that she had not been foolish in suspecting Mr. Griffen’s hand in my disappearance.

Marion helped to organize the search party, along with Mr. Andrews, but all the while keeping an eye on Mr. Griffen. He had offered excuses for not joining the search party, so Marion surreptitiously followed him all the way to the third floor but then lost him. Waiting quietly and patiently in an alcove, she soon saw her sister obviously headed in the same location. She had seen the rope of garments I’d flung outside the gable and figured the only way to find me was to follow Mr. Griffen. Putting all the pieces together, she came upon me and this room. Everyone else was out in search of me, so Marion had no choice but to come and rescue me herself.

She yanked the last of the rope from my wrists and I flung myself into her warm arms. We kissed passionately as Marion ran her hands through my hair.

“I was so afraid, my Olivia, of losing you. I would not be able to go on without you.”

I covered her face and lips in kisses. “I thought of nothing but you. You kept me strong. I was so fearful that they would harm you.”

I had to tell Marion the monstrous deed her sister had done. We both stood up, my knees weak and trembling from being tied in such a cramped position. I held her at arm’s length, my gaze locked onto her beautiful black eyes.

“Marion, your father did not die from his stroke or seizure or whatever it was that happened in his room.”

She pleaded with her eyes. “What are you saying? Please, Olivia, tell me.”

“Your father only seemed to die. Maybe he suffered from some form of disease where you go into a death-like state, only to awaken later, like catalepsy, but your father did not die then.”

I described to my love my terrifying yet miraculous discovery while kneeling at her father’s bedside and supposed corpse. I then revealed the diabolical act Cora had done after failing to do so by revealing her hand in the murder of Helen. She intended to bring on a stroke or even a heart attack upon her father. It was her intent to kill him all along. I also told Marion how Cora had several plans in place with both Mr. Cutter and Mr. Griffen for the acquisition of the book and the money from its sale.

“Marion, that was why they put me here, Cora and Mr. Griffen. I saw what she had done and I had Mr. Dunraven’s money. They had to kill me to silence me and somehow take the money in the trust he set up for me.”

Marion’s shoulders sagged and she buried her face into her hands.

“Dear God, my sister is a monster.” She dried off the tears and grabbed me. “Darling, we must act quickly. They will still destroy us both if we give them the chance.”

“But what can we do, love? We cannot fight off Jack Griffen. He most likely has weapons that he will use against us.”

“We shall get help. Mr. Andrews, Mrs. Milbanks, or even Beatrice.”

“But they are all out in the fields and woods, are they not?”

“Oh, God, I forgot.”

“The coach,” I said. “If we could reach the stables, we could escape.”

Marion looked at me with reddened eyes and shook her head. “The coach is gone.”

“Gone? But in heaven’s name, where? Are they driving it around the countryside for my search?”

“No. It is in Seffenwich. Arrangements had to be made for my father.”

I suddenly couldn’t contain my smile. “But there is an extra horse in the stable! I noticed it when I was there. We shall ride bareback if we must.”

“But I do not know if I can ride bareback,” Marion said.

I looked at her with determination. “There is always a first time for learning, my love.”

***

We nearly ran the final flight of stairs, escape almost within reach. My heart was pumping hard and fast. I tried not to think of failure…or food. I hadn’t eaten a bite since the previous afternoon. I wondered if there would be time for the both of us to grab something from the kitchen on our flight to the stable house.

My heart sank and my hunger quickly evaporated when Marion pushed open the door to the kitchen and Cora looked up at us. She covered up her shock and surprise with the curl of her lips in a wicked smile.

“I was curious if Mrs. Milbanks had returned from the search, since I rang and rang for tea and there was no response. Now I understand. Unfortunately for you both, neither of you will escape alive.”

“You will not stop us, Cora,” Marion cried.

She flung herself at her sister. I should have assisted her, but my nerves were so overwrought that instead, I stepped back and stared helplessly at the two sisters struggle.

Marion’s fury won out. She pinned her sister’s arms to her side, twisted her about and appeared bent on dashing Cora against the door frame.

She looked at me and shouted. “Olivia, quick, make your escape. I will come after you. I promise.”

But I did not wish to leave without her, especially since she still had to subdue her sister and Mr. Griffen could appear at any time. Before I could make a decision, Jack Griffen ran into the kitchen. Without a word, he seized Marion’s arms from behind and pried them away from Cora, twisting them behind her back. Marion winced in pain.

“Thank god!” Cora cried. “Throw her into the kitchen storeroom and lock the door. She will not be able to get out and no one is here to hear her screams. We shall take care of my darling sister later. In the meantime, I can take care of Miss Hampton.”

The way she looked at me was like a hungry tigress eyeing a rare piece of steak. There would be no more extended stays in empty rooms. Once she caught me, I was dead—and so was Marion. But what could I do? Where was my escape? I could never get past her in that narrow stair well.

We studied each other as if playing a live game of chess and each of us deciding what move to make. The one to make a wrong move would suffer checkmate. Marion’s cries of protest were cut off by the slamming of a door—the sound of her fists pounding against it were loud. I admired her courage and determination for escape.

Cora, distracted by Marion’s commotion, looked away for an instant. It was all I needed. I spun about and dashed up the steps, moving quicker than I ever had needed to before in my life. If she followed me, I still might be able to descend the main staircase and reach the front door first before she could grab me. But before she took off after me, she called out to Mr. Griffen to watch the other stairs.

I was trapped between them now. How in God’s name could I escape or hide? How could I signal for help? Suddenly, from the remotest part of my mind, the answer burst forth. The bell tower! The thunderous bell that could be heard for miles around. I would ring the bell. I could then fight off Cora or Mr. Griffen until someone arrived. It was my only hope. If I lost my life, at least someone would come and save Marion.

Cora was not far behind me, but I was quite limber and a fast runner. And I’d gotten to know those servant’s steps like my favorite passages from my favorite books. By the time I reached the third floor, the sound of her steps had grown fainter.

I couldn’t lose my sense of direction now. I had to remember how Mr. Andrews and I had gotten to the bell tower. Corridors seemed to branch out in all directions and in confusing angles in this house. Luckily, I remembered correctly.

At the end of the left-hand corridor, I shoved open a door and stepped onto the platform of the bell tower room. I breathed a sigh of relief. The rope dangled motionless from the opening in the ceiling way above me, at the very top of the tower. I shut the door but found, to my distress, that it had no lock. But there was no time to stand there and fret. I ran to the center of the platform and reached out for the rope.

I had never yanked on a rope so hard in my life. I pulled down with all my strength. It gave slightly, but then seemed to catch and there was no sound at all. What happened? Cora or Mr. Griffen or both could be here any moment.

I racked my memories for anything I might have ever read or seen pictures of depicting bells. Certainly they figured prominently in many stories I had read. From somewhere in those memories formed a picture of a man raised entirely off the floor, jumping up and down like a leaping frog, holding on to the bell rope.

My dress was cumbersome for me to take a leap, but I pulled my skirt up, jumped as high as I could and grabbed hold of the rope well above my head. I clamped my knees together and hung on. For the longest time, I hung in mid-air, then slowly I began to sink. I dipped downward faster until I nearly sat upon the floor. From above came a creaky sound, as if some large piece of metal had come to life.

The rope burned into my hands, but still I clung steady and suddenly back up high into the air I went. I reached the apex, my insides heaving, and then down I plunged again. This time, as I slammed back on the floor like a rat at the end of a string, it happened.

The impact of the clapper against the side of the giant bell broke the air. The tower seemed to shake and my ears went nearly deaf. But I clung to the rope because I had no tomorrow if this didn’t work.

The next time I descended, I lowered my feet, crouched for balance and let go. Still, I lost my balance and rolled on my side. The rope writhed upward like a wild, living snake and the bell rang once more without my help.

Twice had to be enough, I told myself. Surely, by now, everyone searching for me in the fields and woods and all the way to Seffenwich or beyond had heard the booming bell. They would return to Castle Dunraven. The bell would warn them that something was amiss or that even maybe I had been found.

Now I had to find a place to hide. I ran to the door and flung it open. At that moment, Cora emerged from the top of the stairs. She was short of breath and breathing heavily. I slammed the door shut again and ran to the foot of the stairs which angled around the walls of the tower upwards. If I could reach the top floor, I might be able to launch a better defense and gain me some time.

I had tired from my run up here and my gymnastics on the bell. I was not as nimble. My limbs quivered with exhaustion. Before I reached the second turn, Cora Dunraven burst into the tower platform. For another strange moment, we stared at each other, she from below and I from above. Then she began her dash toward the first steps upward and I plunged onward.

I finally reached the very top of the bell tower and this time did not have time to admire the landscape below. The large bell hung huge and silent above me. I searched wildly for anything with which to defend myself. There was nothing. I ran across the floor, avoiding the hole in the center through which the bell rope dropped, and leaned over the wooden railing.

The rooftops dropped away, shingles sprinkled with fallen snow. Far below stretched the fields and the hills beyond. The river was a dark etching in an expanse of white.

I spotted someone on horseback racing this way and behind him, other figures ran on foot. I raised a hand to wave but realized there was not a chance they could see me from this distance and this high. Still, they were coming. Marion and I would escape and Cora and Mr. Griffen would be punished for their evil.

I turned to find that Cora watched me from the top of the stair opening. I could see only her head and shoulders protruding through the rectangular stair opening. She was short of breath.

If I were to keep her from coming all the way up, I would need to act now. I started toward her. I ran as fast as I could, but she quickly ducked back down into the stairs below.

When I reached the top opening, I looked below and saw that she had actually retreated halfway down to the second turn on the staircase. Crouched, she looked up at me, still gasping for air.

“I am in no hurry, Miss Hampton,” she breathed hoarsely. “I can wait.”

“Wait? For the others to catch you? Will you give up, then?”

“For Griffen, you fool!” Her voice was venom. Her lips curved into a smile. “He is on his way here as we speak, you know. He heard the bell. He knows where we are.”

I ran away and toward the railing again. The searchers were advancing at a crawl. The snow was slowing them down. I feared Mr. Griffen would arrive well before any of them.

Cora had finally summoned the strength to make it up to the top of the steps opening again, although she remained hesitant and would bolt anytime I should move toward her. Still, I was cornered. I could attempt to kick her down the steps, but she might grab at me and we would both go tumbling down.

Then any further thoughts of futile speculation were broken. From behind Cora appeared Jack Griffen.

“You stay down,” he warned Cora. “Neither one of us must be seen up here. It must look as if Miss Hampton was completely alone when she fell.”

Cora disappeared completely below the opening. Mr. Griffen crawled up from the stairs and advanced toward me. I inched my way back.

He paused and eyed the opening where the bell rope dangled. He then looked at me and broke into a wicked grin. I knew his evil intent. He was imagining what the others would think when they found me below. I had tried to reach the rope to give another ring of the bell and had accidently missed the rope, falling to my death.

The silence was interrupted by Cora’s scream.

“Jack, help me!”

She literally leaped out of the stair opening and fell forward on hands and knees. Jumping up behind her, like a jester shot from a cannon, was Victorina.

Cora attempted to stand, but Victorina flung herself upon her back and brought her down to the floor. Cora screamed in terror, thrashing about in an effort to throw the midget off her back. She finally did fling Victorina to the floor in one violent pull of her hair, and moved back to escape. She was directly under the bell, inches from the yawning hole in the platform.

Mr. Griffen cried out a warning and Cora seemed to have understood her predicament but too late. Her feet tripped and she plunged back through the opening. Her hands hit the edge but could not find a grip. She clawed and scratched, then she was gone from sight.

Not an instant later, the rope jerked and the pulleys groaned into motion. Jack Griffen and Victorina glared at each other across the big hole in the floor opening like two grotesquely unmatched fighters about to engage in a life or death match.

And suddenly, the large bell began to swing. Jack Griffen saw it too late. The huge rim struck him square in the chest with almost no sound, lifted him off his feet, into the air and tossed him against the wooden railing like a stuffed doll. He struggled to stand, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth and a blank look in his eyes. Then he staggered back and went over the railing, disappearing from sight. A low scream floated up, but it ended with the crash of his body against some part of one of the roofs.

And the bell swung again. The boom crashed in my head. I clapped my hands to my ears, fearing the ear drums would burst. Victorina, of course, was oblivious to the sound. She grinned at me and beckoned me away from the bell and the railing.

To my surprise, she then threw her short arms about my waist. Overcome with gratitude, I hugged her back as hard as I could. The little woman had saved my life.

The bell continued to clang and as we descended halfway down the steps, we saw why.

Cora Dunraven had managed to grab hold of the rope on the way down. She clung for dear life above the floor, afraid to let go yet nearly ready to lose her grip. Her eyes stared back at us, glazed over with fear.

Even as we helplessly watched, she began to lose her grip and slip. She tried desperately to use her knees to get a better hold, but her skirt would not allow her. She slipped ever faster. As she neared the last of the rope, her scream of pain and fear soared above the clamor of the bell above.

She fell the last twelve feet or so. Her feet struck the floor first and she toppled forward. Victorina and I raced the final steps to the bottom. When we reached Cora’s writhing form, we realized why she wailed so in anguish. The rope had burned and stripped her hands into bleeding strips of flesh. The rope, with years of exposure to the elements and harsh weather, had turned into a rough weapon. Her feet angled at unnatural directions. The impact from the fall had snapped both her ankles.

She was unable to move. We would have to get someone up here to help. After leaving Victorina with Cora, I flew down the stairs. I had to get to Marion who was still locked in the kitchen storeroom.

When I opened the door, we flung ourselves into each other’s arms. Concern and terror quickly turned to joy. We stood holding each other so tightly that there was little room to even breathe. Marion covered me in kisses, starting at my hands and ending passionately and deeply upon my mouth.

I finally told her what had happened while she was locked away. Jack Griffen was unquestionably dead. I hesitated about how to explain her sister, Cora. I told her she was in bad shape. Marion’s eyes grew sad and she lowered her gaze from me. I knew she had feelings for her sister despite the evil she had done. My Marion had a beautiful heart. I added quickly that at least Cora was still alive.

“Where is my sister now?” she asked.

“She is up in the bell tower with Victorina. She will need medical care, Marion.

She took both my hands and pulled me away. “Come, we must meet the others quickly to help Cora.”

***

Mrs. Milbanks brought hot tea and sandwiches into the drawing room and sat down to wait with the rest of us. Mr. Andrews and several of the men from Seffenwich involved in the search had brought the limp form of Cora Dunraven into the room and laid her upon the couch. Mrs. Milbanks, ever the housekeeper, had placed sheets of muslin on the couch in order to prevent blood from ruining it or from scrubbing her fingers raw cleaning it.

A Mr. Hugh Smith, a physician also from Seffenwich, had bandaged her hands with gauze and ointments, but the blood had still soaked through in spots. He had applied splints to both her ankles. The doctor was rather an elderly gentleman and mostly fumbled around. Mr. Andrews had to help with most of the ministrations. Mrs. Milbanks gasped at the sight of blood and the stink of the ointments.

Cora never made a sound. She looked at each one of us in the room, but her eyes seemed dead and devoid of understanding. I wondered if she was in shock. I feared it was instead more likely that she had truly slipped away from us and from reality.

Her blue eyes saw things that were not there. She would stare at an object in the room and grow panicked. We could see nothing. Her pale lips seemed to be conversing with beings not of this world and not present among us. Perhaps the devils that had driven her to so such evil were now mocking and tormenting her.

Marion attempted to put some brandy to her sister’s parched lips but she refused. She raised one bloody hand and pushed the glass aside, the brandy spilling upon her dress and mingling with the stains of blood.

I saw the concern in Marion’s eyes. I rose from my chair and held out my hands to her. Together, we walked to the furthest part of the large drawing room, away from the others.

“My dear Marion, you must not be concerned for Cora. She will survive. She has been given a healthy dose of laudanum and will be resting comfortably soon. You must think of yourself. Of us. Our future.” I searched her face with a smile and squeezed her hand firmly.

“Our future,” she repeated, gazing at me intently. “My darling Olivia, I am so fortunate to be able to have a future with you beside me and perhaps now is the best time to discuss that future.”

I looked at her, confused. A future with Marion was a scenario which I had never given a thought to until one fateful night in Castle Dunraven when she pressed me against the wall and kissed me sweetly.

She moved in closer to me and whispered.

“Among the papers that Father left with me was a copy of a letter he included along with the agreement to sell the book to Professor Claude Quint at Cambridge University. In it, he recommends you with high praise for a position as assistant to the professor in the Historical Library department, to work alongside him. My darling, that is a very prestigious position at Cambridge.”

She continued to gaze at me with a sparkle of excitement in her black eyes. “Your future, Olivia, could very well be back in Cambridge. We could both start a fresh, new life there together.”

I could barely control my joy. “You would leave Dunraven?”

She nodded, the fire of promise in her eyes.

I so very much wanted to press my lips to Marion’s and slip my tongue hungrily into her lovely mouth, but I settled for a tight embrace and a whisper to her ear.

“I love you.”

September 16, 1884

Cambridge University Library of Historical Studies

Professor Claude Quint

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Dear Miss Olivia Hampton,

It is with great pleasure and pride that I welcome you as a resident of the faculty of Cambridge University Library of Historical Studies.

It was a privilege to have tutored you for a time, short as it was, while you were employed here at the university.

All papers have been signed and sealed and your arrival date only awaits your agreement. I look forward to serving many long years with you as a fellow colleague and fellow seeker of history.

Yours Cordially,

Professor Claude Quint

I took one last look at the letter before I finally stuffed it in a box and put the box away on the upper shelves of the attic. I relished one last look before storing it away for good. The letter had served as much inspiration and joy these past years.

It had been over two years since we left Castle Dunraven and one year since my acceptance letter from Professor Quint at Cambridge University. I had Julian Dunraven to thank for all the good that has followed my life since.

Much had happened since then. The sale of the house and most of its contents, including the library that I worked at and concluded cataloging in the final year at Dunraven, had yielded a decent inheritance for Marion. It was hardly a fortune but my darling Marion had few needs that I could not meet.

The both of us bought a lovely, two-story home just a block from the university, with a nearly ready-made garden for Marion. It had pained her to leave the garden, more than anything else in Castle Dunraven, I believed. But to remain there would have been to live in sorrow with daily remembrances of the dark shadows of pain from the haunting spectre of wounds unhealed. The acceptance at Cambridge University had sealed the decision. However, the new house simply had to have a garden or room to grow a new one.

Marion has worked her magic in her new garden and it is more beautiful than the one she left behind in Castle Dunraven, with the sweetest lavender to be found on God’s soil. It continues to be Marion’s favorite. And the roses seem to spring in all their glory just for Marion.

We have entertained some of the women’s suffrage members at our home and Marion has become passionate about the movement. Some notables such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton have even asked Marion and me to speaking engagements.

Of the old Castle Dunraven staff, Mr. Andrews stayed in Seffenwich as a stable hand for one of the large families just moved to town, and Beatrice also stayed behind in Seffenwich looking after Mrs. Milbanks’s sister. Mrs. Milbanks works three days here and Marion makes sure she gets a full week’s wages. Neither one of us could bear to lose her. She lives comfortably enough in a room at a local boarding house. Victorina left Castle Dunraven almost immediately. She managed to find employment at Barnum and Bailey’s Traveling Circus and recently sent us a poster proclaiming her the star of their new tour. Always curious of the relationship between Julian Dunraven and the miniature woman, I finally asked Marion.

She looked around the room, making sure Mrs. Milbanks was not in earshot, finally laughing.

“Victorina was part of a group of performers that were invited by father and mother back in the glory days of splendid parties and grand events at Castle Dunraven. She told the story of being alone, having lost her parents, and of being homeless if not for the traveling theater. Her wit and intelligence endeared her to my father and he asked if she were interested in a permanent home. He admired her interest in the arts and was convinced she was smarter than most of his staff.”

We both had a good laugh. I thought Marion so fortunate for having had such a loving and compassionate father as Julian Dunraven.

And as for me, my unquenchable thirst since childhood to learn of my real parents came to an unsatisfying but necessary end. Some say not to go searching for something that didn’t come looking for you, but I could never have rested without discovering the real identity of my father and the woman that gave me life.

With the help of Mr. Quint from the university and the unfortunate event of Aunt Lucille’s severe illness, I was able to uncover letters and learn the true identities of my parents. And why my aunt had guarded the secret so fiercely.

My father was indeed Colin Kavanagh. He came from Ireland with my mother, Patricia Kavanagh, who was already with child. Aunt Lucille, my mother’s sister, offered them a room until my father could settle down and find proper employment to provide for my mother and his newborn to come. Instead of being responsible and an upstanding man, my father squandered away any savings they had brought with them and began to borrow money from bad men to support his gambling and drinking ways. Those men would have killed him if he didn’t pay up.

When he feared for his life, he took off without a word. He took a steamer to an unknown destination. My mother died while giving birth to me and my father wrote my aunt on occasions, sometimes asking after me but mostly needing money. My aunt never responded and did her best to raise me a proper woman and to keep me away from those letters. The only reason she kept them at all was to at least allow me, when I was old enough, to make the decision whether to read them or destroy them. I have no idea whether my father lives or has passed. It does not matter now. I shall proudly keep my aunt’s surname with pride. My grandparents are presumably still in Ireland and my search for them is something I wish to continue.

Until the last part of this year, it had been my habit to accompany Marion on her unhappy trips to an unsavory part of Boston where at her own expense, she kept her sister Cora in a private hospital for the insane. I had been the most injured and assaulted by Cora’s deeds, yet did not file charges against her. No one did. It was doubtful, moreover, that such charges would have been successful, since the wretched thing was, at the end, as mad as she once pretended to be.

Since her arrival at the hospital, she exhibited lack of concern for herself and extreme withdrawals. She was now barely more than a vegetable. Her doctors despair of keeping her alive, for she barely eats and seems indifferent to life or death. How can I, with good conscience, pray that her agony be drawn out?

But mad gloomy thoughts were far from Marion’s and my mind now. I made my way slowly from the attic and through the back glass doors to the backyard where Marion’s garden flourished like a paradise in the middle of a warm and slightly breezy spring day.

She sat, like she often did, under the Silver Bell tree, on the white marble bench, her eyes half closed to the sun. Those who visited with us were speechless that Marion had so successfully grown and nourished a Silver Bell tree in Cambridge, Massachusetts. But then, I had seen her magic garden in Dunraven.

As I approached, she held out her arms and smiled, the sun catching the sparkle in her eyes.

“Come into my garden, my sweet Olivia, and let me show you how much I love you.”

AFTERWORD

“The Language of the Past”

I could not let this book go by without saying, “I love you, Mama.”

Most of you know that my mother passed away on October 5th, 2010. I vowed that each book I managed to write after that would always contain a little piece of her.

I’ve written four Brenda Strange Supernatural Mysteries that are still very popular, a vampire tale and last year, my very first Historical Gothic Romance. And now the new Gothic you hold in your hand. I never thought I would be so swept away into the past that I would wish to linger there, in candle-lit hallways and drafty castle rooms, traveling by horse and carriage instead of powerful sleek automobiles.

Give me a historical mystery, a historical romance, a Gothic Romance or just a plain historical novel, rich with long gone sounds, tastes, imagery and language. You see, the language of the past is as much a part of historical fiction as the characters or the plot. They are stories of another time and place and the words used to express emotions.

I may never write another current day novel. I may wander, quite willingly, through the dark corridors of the past, listening and reveling in the language of the past, penning more Historical Gothics and tales of heroines looking for their dark and brooding heroines.

Thank you to all my readers. Your thoughts and comments are always important.

Patty G. Henderson

June 2012

Other Novels by Patty G. Henderson

Brenda Strange:

THE BURNING OF HER SIN

TANGLED AND DARK

THE MISSING PAGE

XIMORA

Historical Gothic Romance

THE SECRET OF LIGHTHOUSE POINTE

Vampire:

SO DEAD, MY LOVE, Author’s Choice

Anthologies:

Chilling Tales of Terror and the Supernatural

Dark Things I

Dark Things II: Cat Crimes

Please visit me at my author website:

www.Pattyghenderson.com

Website for book covers and graphic art services:

www.boulevardphotografica.yolasite.com

Publisher website:

www.blancarosapublishing.yolasite.com