Oxford Whispers (22 page)

Chapter
44

RUPERT REMAINED silent as Black forged on. “She died in childbirth in June 1651, in Oxford, where she was buried in St. Giles Church. But the baby survived, little Rose.”

Rupert’s interest peaked. “So, you’re saying Robert had a child with Sarah, not Anne. I don’t understand why Anne ended up raising the kid. I would have thought that Sarah’s father would have forced her into marriage with someone, anyone, as a cover-up for his daughter’s affair with Dallembert.”

“He probably did.” Archie Black drew a square notepad from his inner jacket pocket and flicked through the worn pages. “Sarah Barnaby married at the end of December 1650. Her daughter was born seven months later. This
smells
suspicious to me.” The genealogist giggled, and pointed at his nostrils to illustrate his point. “She seems to have brought bad luck to her spouse, because he died one month after her, in July of the same year.”

“That explains why Rose’s care was entrusted to a close relative.”

Black nodded. “Indeed, Peter Perkins might not have had any other close family.”

A brutal coolness hit Rupert at the core. “The name of her husband, what was it?”

“Peter Perkins.”

Peter. The name Madison had been whispering like a mantra before she threw herself in Magway’s staircase. Controlling his voice, Rupert thanked Professor Black.

“I know the way out. No need to bother yourself.” He stood and had almost closed the study door, when his head peeked back through the opening. “By the way, Miss LeBon is very well informed. She knew about the connection between your family and William Shakespeare Burton. Very few do. I always thought Robert Dallembert looked like the Cavalier.” At that last statement, Black’s owlish face disappeared.

Rupert didn’t lose time and headed straight for his father’s desk. He bumped into the wastebasket on the way. The chair squeaked when he sat. Switching on the Internet, he Googled the name Archie Black had pronounced: William Shakespeare Burton.

The same scene appeared on the computer screen, over and over again. The painting was indeed by Shakespeare Burton and titled
The Wounded Cavalier
. Rupert had seen it before. Where?

He clicked on it and enlarged the painting: three people—two men, one girl—set during the English Civil War. The costumes of the characters spoke for themselves. Cavalier against Puritan.

His eyes squinted to focus on each character, from left to right, starting with the Cavalier.

His heart started to gallop.

The blond features of the Cavalier were familiar, a mix of the face he had looked at so many times at Magway, that of Robert Dallembert, and one which he had stared at even more often. His own.

THE SPRINGS OF Madison’s desk chair jutted against his back and Peter shifted his upper body forward. He scratched at his twitching cheeks. The voices, the voices that weren’t here, echoed in his soul. They hadn’t given him any respite. Jumping out of the seat, he headed to her bed. He could have a rest there.

But no, he couldn’t. His eyes stumbled on a picture on Madison’s bedside table, next to her makeup and hair ties. The smiles of her family. His shoulders curled toward his chest and he started rocking on his feet. But fury and jealousy kicked him out of his defeated state. His fists grabbed at handfuls of hair on each side of his head and he screamed.

He screamed, only it wasn’t his own voice that he heard; his wasn’t so high pitched. Throwing himself against the wall, his fists started pounding the solid surface. Pain radiated through his bones.

“What are you doing here?”

The question reached his brain, but with a delay. Peter didn’t have to turn his head to know the identity of the intruder. Miss Lindsey.

“You shouldn’t be here, in Miss LeBon’s absence. How did you get in?”

The spinster stood on the threshold between the study and the bedroom, staring down at him. Either her mind was sharper than the angles of her face, or his own expression gave him away.

“You’re the one who broke into this room before.” She must have realized how futile her words were. “I’m calling for help.”

She spun around and headed back to the bedroom door. Peter couldn’t let her escape.

Panic gave him added strength. With haste, he grabbed the picture frame from Madison’s bedside table. Even in this borrowed form, the fear of seeing his plans destroyed was enough to make him grab Miss Lindsey’s shoulders and hit her head with the angle of the frame. Blood splattered.

Peter threw the censor’s willowy body onto the threadbare carpet. He covered her attempt of a cry with his hand.

“Quiet, woman.”

Her head was shaking, in a desperate effort to shout for help. Her nails scratched at his skin.

Peter had no choice.

His hands slid from her mouth to the sides of her cheeks and down her neck. They circled it and applied forceful pressure. More and more pressure.

While Peter strangled Miss Lindsey, Sarah’s scent—a tender blend of bergamot—drifted into his nostrils. The last time he had enjoyed her scent had been when he had killed her.

The woman beneath him stopped moving. She was dead.

Taking the shattered picture frame with him, he left. The censor lay splayed across the center of the room. Her neck was forced against her shoulders at a distorted angle.

The coppery taste of blood spread throughout his mouth. Peter had failed in today’s plan. But soon, he would execute his still-pressing need for justice.

Chapter
45

JACKSON MCCAIN was the last person Rupert expected to see waiting for him on his doorstep back in Oxford.

The journey from London had taken ages with road construction along the way. The delay had given Rupert too much time to chew over Archie Black’s revelation.

Stepping out of his Morgan, he gave a brief nod toward McCain, but the American held Rupert’s gaze all the way from his car to the porch of his house.

“What can I do for you?” Rupert asked, fearing something had gone awry in his class work. Again.

“We need to talk. About Madison.” The American’s voice had an unusual, guttural quality to it.

Rupert tensed his muscles to withstand some impending attack. The guy hadn’t come around for afternoon tea and scones. But no way would Rupert let this self-righteous, pompous arse lecture him about his relationship.

On the other hand, the professor was Madison’s friend. Pissing him off could mean upsetting her.

“Please come in.”

They made their way inside, then onward into the living room. Jackson sat on the Chippendale sofa, a spider lamp haloing the top of his head. Nervous about what was to come, Rupert slipped his hands into his pockets. Continuing to stand, he leaned a little way toward the glass coffee table marking the divide with the American.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Rupert asked.

“Leave Madison alone.” McCain’s terse words filled the room.

Delaying his response, Rupert grabbed a chair and straddled it. “How is she any of your business?” He had adopted his father’s technique of answering all approaches with a counterattack.

“With your track record with girls, you’re not what … who Madison needs.” McCain raised his chin, as if inviting Rupert to punch him.

“And I take it you are what she needs.” Rupert’s suggestion dripped with sarcasm.

McCain shook his head. His hands formed into a peacemaking gesture and he replied, “Madison is my student, and whatever my feelings toward her, I won’t act upon them. But there are some things about her you don’t know. She has issues to resolve before getting involved with anybody.”

Like being suicidal, or having a stalker on her tail.

“I’m aware of what’s going on in Madison’s life. Therefore your warning isn’t necessary.” Rupert stood to signal the end of the conversation.

So did Jackson. But the American had clenched his fists, his knuckles white, ready to strike.

Instead of lashing out physically, McCain assaulted Rupert with words.

“Madison has a gift, abilities she inherited from her mother’s family. Call it psychic visions, voodoo, ghost-whispering, whatever …” McCain made a full sweep with his arm. “She can talk to dead people, see them,
feel
them. And it’s screwing with her sanity.”

An empty laugh erupted from Rupert’s mouth.

“That is absurd. Madison is the first one to dismiss her grandmother’s mumbo jumbo.” Rupert started biting the inside of his cheek. Actually, Madison never said that exactly.

McCain seemed to revel in his confusion. He crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. “That’s the reason she’s so obsessed with your ancestor, Robert Dallembert.”

“Oh yes, that painting.
The Wounded Cavalier
.”

The professor’s eyebrows furrowed and betrayed his surprise.

Take that, McCain
.

“Yes.” The American warded Rupert off with a hand and dismissed his questioning. “The last thing she needs is a smartass player who can’t offer her support.”

“What makes you think I can’t?”

“Come on, Vance. You think she’s a whacko. It’s written all over your face.”

“You’re wrong.” Haunted houses, knocking on tables by spirit guides, tarot cards telling the future. All that wasn’t his thing.

McCain turned his back and headed for the exit, his body now relaxed. When he reached the threshold between the living room and the hallway, he swiveled and held his index finger aloft. “Madison doesn’t trust you entirely. She knows you’ll leave at the first chance. So do her a favor and bugger off.”

After these words of warning, the professor left.

Rupert buried his face in his hands and let out a massive sigh. Then looking up and staring at the door, he rummaged through his hair.

His limbs grew heavier and heavier. Numbness settled into his mind and throughout his whole body. He moved over to the wall, leaned his back against it and slid to the floor.

Madison had confided in the American. But she hadn’t even given the beginning of a hint to him. Not that night at the Turf before Christmas, not when they’d found her room burgled, and not even when he had saved her at Magway right after they’d made love for the first time. She had opened up to her history professor, but not to him.

Anger replaced the gut-wrenching sensation of knowing she lacked faith in him. Didn’t she consider him strong enough to help her?

The door opened wide, letting the crisp wind swirl inside the house.

Monty stepped in, still wrapped in his padded winter jacket, his hair tousled wild. “You look like shit.”

Rupert stared at his friend, but couldn’t find anything to say. Then Monty threw his jacket on the Chippendale and knelt near Rupert on the antique oriental rug.

“Dude, tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s Madison.”

“I told you so. That girl isn’t right for you.”

Rupert resented Monty’s words. He’d waited so long for Madison, for someone to open up his heart. He couldn’t avoid the truth that had come.

“She hid something from me. Something important.”

“It must hurt, after you opened up to her.”

You bet.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Monty tilted his head, tightened his lips and contorted his jaw into a weird angle. The gesture meant he was thinking hard.

“Man, you’ve been going out with her for a few weeks. There’s still time to back off.”

“Just like that?”

Monty shook his head. “Not just like that. But you’ve been through a lot since … since your mother passed away. If that girl is hiding things from you, you’ll get hurt. Break up before you start having feelings for her.”

Too late for that. He had fallen for Madison on that first night, at that stupid ball, the moment he’d set eyes on her tiny frame hidden in a corner, her teeth biting her lower lip.

The doorbell cut off the stream of his memories. Monty dragged himself up on his feet again, exhaling with the effort.

Rupert had his hands now spread flat on the polished wood of the floor. The cold surface didn’t shake him out of his thoughts, but Monty’s voice did.

“Someone’s here for you.”

Rupert stared up. Madison stood a few feet away from him, her hands clasped in front of her.

Chapter
46

THE CENTRAL HEATING was on in Rupert’s house, but it wasn’t enough to warm up the atmosphere. Madison could feel Monty’s stare drill through her back. Rupert sat on the floor, his knees pulled close to his chest, his ankles crossed. Silent.

A very warm welcome to me.

“Thanks, Monty. Can you leave us alone? ”Rupert’s voice was frigid, and Madison’s heart squeezed. She turned and looked at Monty with a slight smile of apology.

Shaking his head in dismay, Rupert’s friend shrugged his shoulders, then shifted his chubby body over to the staircase.

While he disappeared, she edged closer to the invisible barrier she could sense around Rupert. He kept his head inclined away from her, as if pulling back.

In the face of his silence Madison crossed her arms and asked, “Have I done something wrong?”

His eyes clouded over, the stiffness of his face holding his emotions in check. “I know.” He wasn’t avoiding her eyes anymore. On the contrary, he now stared back at Madison, straight through her. “I know everything: the painting, the ghosts, your powers.” His voice filled the last word with sarcasm. “McCain just left.”

Rupert slouched, defeated, against the wall, his shoulders tucked toward his chest. Panic rose in Madison.

Her mouth turned dry, her eyes damp. She rubbed her throat, brushed her trembling lips. She had been found out.

Rupert had to understand. He had to forgive her.

She couldn’t lose him, not now, not ever.

“I wanted to tell you. I swear I did. But I was scared.” She heard the tremor pulsating across her vocal cords.

With a sharp movement, Rupert rose to his feet and came closer to her, one step at a time. For the first time, he scared her.

“How was I supposed to say it?” she continued. “‘Dear Rupert, I’ve been talking to ghosts since I wore diapers.’” She lifted her chin, defying him. “I’ve tried all my life to fit in, to pretend this crazy thing isn’t happening. I want a chance to be happy, to be with you.”

In an attempt to bridge the gap between them, Madison laid her hand on his chest. Her touch made Rupert spin away. His move left her unsteady on her feet.

Searching for some support close to her, anything to hold onto, she scanned the room. The same abstract paintings hung on the walls as always, their lines like needles pricking her eyes.

That was when the now all too familiar smell reached her nostrils. Burning candle wax.

A room opened inside the room. A dark hollow inhabited by Sarah’s fragile form.

“You must fight for your love. Do not let Peter win.” Her voice had a flat echo to it.

Madison clapped her hands over her ears. She wanted to shout, but couldn’t, not when Rupert stared down at her, questions written all over his face. Strengthening her focus, she looked back toward the side of the room now engulfed by the shadow. With a silent prayer, she shook her head at Sarah.
I must be with him, on my own
.

Sarah nodded. Her world spun around and receded.

“Oh, let me guess, just as our conversation got uncomfortable for you, you happened to see one of your dead guys. Is that the way it works?” Rupert had always been a master at sarcasm.

Madison’s body drooped. He had decided to push her at her most vulnerable point. “This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t listen to what I’d say.” Her tone didn’t betray her missing heartbeats.

“But you told him. You told McCain.” Rupert’s shoe thumped against the table leg. “You told him, but you kept it from me.”

He was right. She tried to explain. “I talked to Jackson because I don’t love him.”

Rupert swung his arms in defiance. “Don’t go there.” She saw tears sparkling in his eyes. His face was ashen.

“That’s the truth. If Jackson had freaked out, I could have lived without him. But I can’t live without you.”

How easy it had been to say. How wrenching it was to watch his blank face, and wait for an answer, a reaction … Madison yearned to touch him.

Rupert turned his back on her. With a few slow steps, he stood in front of the window overlooking the side garden. The late afternoon light outlined his silhouette. He wasn’t hers anymore. Maybe he never had been.

“I trusted you, and you lied. You would have kept lying if I hadn’t found out.”

She pressed her palms over her lips to hold back a cry. The truth engulfed her with a sense of shame. Hot, melting shame, that every word he said was right. She had lied by omission.

She had nothing to add, so she retreated. The slam of his house door behind her produced a flood of tears from her damp eyes.

Did a broken heart feel like the flu? Nausea, sweating, a tingling sensation in the chest. She should ask her mother and her grandmother. They both knew about heartbreak.

Madison wanted to crumple onto the ground and curl up in a ball. But Rupert’s doorste
p wasn’t the appropriate spot for collapse. She had enough common sense left in her to realize that.

Her muscles quivered. Her nails bit into her palms. A visit to Doctor McCain would be perfect to express her rage. He had betrayed her secret, and she’d show that Yankee how they fought in the South, Fort Sumter-like.

Then she thought of the letter she’d found earlier and the cancelled flights. McCain was the one who had broken into her room, who had sent the flowers. If she was going to confront him, she needed to do it without a quaking voice or a glassy stare.

No, she had to regroup and decide what to do next. She walked away from Rupert’s house, every step digging deep into her heart, deep into the past. Sarah’s.