Page 27 of Mesmerized

“I know about the name!” Belinda said, her eyes lighting. “My tutor told me last year. He had me research the history of the house as an exercise, you see. A long time ago, long before the St. Legers even owned it, the house was owned by some nobleman who shut himself up in his castle and spent all his time brooding over his dead wife. The book I read said that is how the house got its name.”

“You see?” Madame Valenskaya exclaimed, eager to prove her point. “Another lost soul. There are many.”

Olivia noticed that, in her excitement, the medium’s accent slipped a bit, her s’s losing their sibilance and her th’s clearly pronounced. Madame Valenskaya seemed to realize it, as well, for she added, “Is not good place. De spirits wail with pain.”

“Madame, please tell us that you will conduct another séance tonight,” Lady St. Leger urged, her brow drawn into a frown. “You could help those spirits, perhaps.”

“No. Not tonight. Is too soon.” Madame Valenskaya put a hand to her forehead dramatically. “I cannot try again. Is too painful.”

“Mama suffers terribly sometimes,” Irina put in quietly. “Especially when the spirits are restless and tormented.”

Watching the pain on Lady St. Leger’s face, Olivia had to press her lips together firmly to keep from saying anything. One glance at Lord St. Leger told her that he was having difficulty being quiet, also.

“Perhaps tomorrow night,” Olivia said pacifically, hoping to forestall any words from Stephen, as well as ease his mother’s distress.

“Yes, tomorrow night,” Lady St. Leger said, her words a plea.

Madame Valenskaya nodded, her face that of a martyr. “I try.”

“Thank you. You are so good.”

After watching the medium’s manipulation of Lady St. Leger, Olivia found she had little appetite left. She was glad when the last course was brought in a moment later and they were able to finish the meal.

* * *

LITTLE HAPPENED THE next day. There were country things to do, such as croquet on the front lawn or games in the drawing room, or piano playing and singing in the music room, and Olivia participated, but with a sense of passing time until the main event of the day, the next séance, could take place. Stephen spent most of the day in his office, working on estate matters, so Olivia saw him only at luncheon. She could not help but wonder if he was perhaps avoiding her because of the kiss between them the afternoon before. He had apologized, which was the gentlemanly thing to do. But now she began to wonder if perhaps he had meant his regrets, if he wished that it had not happened. Feeling a trifle blue, she picked out a book from the library late in the afternoon and went upstairs. After taking off her dress, she slipped on her dressing gown over her undergarments and settled down in a comfortable chair to read until time for supper.

The afternoon sun was slipping below the horizon and dusk was falling outside when Joan came into the room, carrying Olivia’s freshly pressed evening gown. It was one of Kyria’s dresses that Joan had resewn for Olivia, a peacock-blue satin pulled tight across the front and gathered in a bustle at the back, with a spill of lace adorning the skirt from the bottom of the bustle down to the floor.

Olivia went to look at the dress as Joan spread it out on the bed. She could not help but feel a prickle of excitement at the thought of wearing it in front of Stephen. Would his eyes light with pleasure as she had seen men’s eyes do when Kyria entered a room? She could not quite imagine it; she was not the sort of woman who lit a fire in men. Still, she could not forget that kiss.

Joan picked up Olivia’s brush and comb, and Olivia sat down in front of the vanity mirror. Joan pulled the pins from Olivia’s hair and set about brushing it out in preparation for the more intricate style into which she intended to arrange it this evening. Suddenly a loud bang sounded from outside the windows, and Joan jumped, inadvertently hitting Olivia’s head with the brush.

“I’m so sorry, my lady,” she began, but Olivia was already on her feet and crossing to the window, curious about the sound. The maid followed on her heels. When she reached the window and looked down into the garden Olivia came to a dead stop and stared at the tableau below. Joan, coming up beside her, sucked in her breath in a loud gasp.

Olivia leaned forward, closer to the glass of the window. In the garden, a figure walked along a path in the closing twilight. There was still enough light to see that the person pacing slowly wore not any common sort of attire but a long black, hooded robe of the sort worn by monks. His hands were crossed at his waist, the long sleeves covering them, and the cowl of his robe stood out from his face, concealing it.

As Olivia watched, her skin prickling, the figure reached the end of the path, where it went down a series of steps to the lower garden. He turned and looked straight up at the windows of the house. Reaching up with one white hand, he pushed back the hood a little to reveal the stark white bony face of a skull.

Joan made a sharp noise, clapping her hand over her mouth, and from down the hall there was a woman’s shriek. Olivia whirled and ran across the room, stopping to tell Joan, “Call Tom Quick!” before she bolted through the door. She ran down the hall to the stairs, heedless of the fact that she was wearing only a dressing gown and soft slippers and her hair was flowing loose down her back. All down the hall, other doors were opening and people emerging, exclaiming.

Stephen was out of his door and to the head of the stairs a step ahead of Olivia, and they pounded down the stairs together. Aware that he was more knowledgeable about the house and gardens, she followed his lead, bunching up the long skirts of her dressing gown to give her legs better room to run.

He tore through the downstairs hall and out the rear door to the garden, Olivia on his heels. Taking the steps down to the garden two at a time, he headed toward the path the cowled figure had walked. Olivia hastened after him along the flagstones, wincing when she stepped on the edge of a slab of rock in her thin house slippers. But she did not stop, only hurried doggedly after him as he reached the path leading down to the lower garden, where the “monk” had paced.

There was, not surprisingly, no sign of the robed figure. Dusk had fallen fast, the poor light in which they had witnessed the “monk” now having turned to almost complete darkness. They walked quickly along the path to where they had last seen the figure and stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the lower garden.

“Bloody hell!” Stephen exclaimed. “We’ll never catch him in this light. He could have gone anywhere.”

He turned and really looked at Olivia for the first time, taking in her disheveled state. Olivia realized that her sash had slipped loose during her mad dash, so that the sides of her dressing gown hung loosely, a gap down the center at the top exposing the white lace of her chemise. She straightened, raising her chin, and belted the robe more tightly.

“I was about to dress for dinner,” she explained with all the dignity she could muster and pushed back her hair with her hands.

Stephen’s eyes went to her hair, tumbling down to her hips, thick and brown, and it was a moment before he said, tight-lipped, “Yes, of course.”

“Miss Olivia!” They turned, startled, and saw Tom Quick trotting toward them, holding a lantern in each hand.

“Tom!” Olivia said gratefully. “Thank heavens you thought to bring a light.”