The Highland Dragon's Lady (8 page)

A boiled egg cracked under Reggie’s spoon, and she began to peel away the splintered shell, always a satisfying process, not least because it gave her an excuse to ignore the conversation around her. Eight hours of dreamless sleep had done her good—“knit up the raveled sleeve of care,” if she recalled her Shakespeare by way of a nervous second-form mistress—but she’d never really felt up to company before noon. She certainly didn’t think she could manage to talk about—she raised her head and listened to Mr. Heselton for a second—German theology. Oof. How had
that
happened?

Pater had thrown himself into the discussion, so there was some balm in Gilead. The aged parents had calmed themselves considerably after an evening without casualties, but Mater had still turned a gimlet eye on Reggie that morning and had listened with considerably more attention than usual after asking if she’d slept well.

Colin hadn’t asked. Dimly, Reggie was aware that other girls might have found that insulting. She didn’t think she could claim any grounds for the insult, and anyhow his silence came as a relief. She thought he knew as much, which
wasn’t
a relief. Just how transparent did the man find her? More or less so than the average mortal mayfly?

Sitting at the other end of the table from him, she could hardly bait him with words. All the same, she caught his eye and smiled, lifting her eyebrows in what
generally
came off as cool and composed regard, and what she intended as a challenge. She was still here, and she was as serene as he was about yesterday’s events.

Since it was nine damn thirty in the morning, Reggie didn’t know that she succeeded. She
did
know that Colin looked far too cheerful and relaxed for the hour. Dragons didn’t get shadows under their eyes, maybe, or maybe they didn’t need sleep.

There were no words for what she thought of
that
.

German theology continued as Reggie applied herself to her tea. Then, abruptly, it didn’t. Mr. Heselton’s flow of speech cut off mid-sentence, and Reggie heard rustling as the gentlemen stood. She looked up to see Miss Browne standing on the threshold, pale and neat.

“Good morning,” she said, bearing up very well under seven pairs of eyes, in Reggie’s opinion. “I hope you’re all well. Mrs. Osbourne is awake and having her own breakfast, and she sends her regards—and her thanks.”

Not everyone let out their breath at the same moment, but the relief around the table was audible all the same. Mater was the first to speak.

“That’s wonderful news,” she said. “You must come have some tea and some breakfast, and then tell us all about it.” Her voice was heavy on the “and then,” her gaze keen as she swept it around the room. Having spent years with the woman, Reggie picked up the message at once, but even the others weren’t long in realizing her meaning: don’t bother the girl before she’s gotten some food inside her.

A small whirlwind of solicitude resulted. Mr. Heselton served food; Mater poured tea; Edmund pulled out a chair for Miss Browne; the others, bound by manners and distance, offered compliments and good wishes as audibility allowed. Even with Mater’s warning, Miss Browne might have been quite overwhelmed, save that Watkins entered just then with the mail, and the ensuing bustle enabled her to eat at least a few slices of toast and jam.

Nothing came Reggie’s way, which didn’t surprise her. She couldn’t think of one of her friends in London who was a good correspondent. She was sure that half of them didn’t remember where she was at the moment, and she would have bet that half of those didn’t quite know where
they
were. She leaned back in her chair, sipped her tea, and tried to wake up.

“Oh,” said Mater, looking up from a letter and smiling faintly. “It seems that we have more good news this morning.”

“The more the better,” said Edmund, looking up from his bacon. “Someone sending you a new gardener or three?”

“Not quite
that
good. Your Aunt Claire is giving a ball in a few days—a small affair, she says, but she’d be glad to have us and our guests.”

“Quite decent of her,” said Pater, and he added, by way of explanation, “My wife’s brother Lewis and his family have lived around here since before our marriage, you understand. Perhaps an hour away—no time at all on a pleasant evening. They’re very hospitable.”

“And,” said Edmund, directing a prophecy-of-doom look toward Colin and then Mr. Heselton, “they have three single daughters.”

“Don’t be ungracious, Edmund,” said Mater, “and don’t exaggerate, either. Cynthia’s as good as engaged to…oh, that young man in the Navy, the one with the beard…and Minerva’s only eighteen.”

Edmund made a skeptical noise into his tea.

To Reggie, sitting still with her hands wrapped around her teacup, the exchange drew itself out over about a day. She heard it from far off and felt the knotting of her stomach just as remotely. A ball at Aunt Claire’s: wonderful. That was exactly what she needed. After all, it had worked out so bloody well last time.

Don’t have hysterics, for God’s sake
, she scolded herself, hoping the thought would stick.
It’s been years. Nobody will remember
you.

Swallowing tea still took more effort than it should have.

“As I said,” Mr. Talbot-Jones continued, “quite the decent thing of Claire. But would it be wise, considering everything?”

“I think it would, actually,” said Miss Browne. “It’s fairly common that negative emotions will excite a spirit—fear and tension can make a ghost antagonistic even if it wasn’t before.”

“And if it already was?” Colin asked.

“I don’t really know.” Miss Browne looked down at her hands. “I’ve never encountered such an angry spirit before. But emotions do affect all of them. I’d imagine that a hostile spirit would grow bolder. Perhaps stronger.”

“Sounds like dogs,” said Edmund. “Or horses.”

“Spirits are, in a way. Death”—she frowned over the words—“simplifies things, it seems, and intensifies them at the same time. Particularly feelings—a ghost’s own or those of others. They sense them more deeply than what you or I could observe.”

Remembering the mental tumult the first time her power had woken, Reggie fought the urge to shudder. That moment had been bad enough. If she’d been reading other people without even having to touch them, she thought she might well have ended up in an asylum—or dead, as little as that apparently solved the problem. For the first time, she felt some sympathy for the ghost, and a good deal of fear along with that.

On the other hand, there were those at the house for whom a ball at Claire and Lewis Stafford’s would do absolutely nothing to banish negative emotions. Reggie thought she’d be first among them, but she doubted that Edmund would be far behind, particularly with the way Miss Heselton was eyeing him.

“Well, I would love above all things to accept such generous hospitality,” she was cooing, even as Reggie watched. Miss Heselton’s eyes grew wide, and her bow-shaped mouth formed just the beginning of a pout. “I just hope that I’ll have enough partners. I don’t know
anyone
here, and with James injured as he is, I’m a little scared that I’ll be a wallflower.”

“I shouldn’t worry over it,” said Reggie. “Country’s absolutely infested with young men this time of year—up for the shooting.”

“Oh, but strange men?” Further widening of the eyes hadn’t seemed possible, and yet there Miss Heselton was, accomplishing just that. She shook her head slowly, the picture of demure propriety. “I’m not at all sure it would be right—”

“You needn’t worry about
that
,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones, shaking his own head but smiling with approval. “Claire’s sure to have gone through her guests with a fine-tooth comb.
She
won’t let anyone put a foot wrong. Never has. And a young lady like you will never lack for partners—don’t you agree, Edmund?”

Thus cornered, Edmund nodded. “Oh, yes, rather,” he said, but even if he hadn’t sounded a little too hearty for perfect sincerity, Reggie knew the uneasy look in his eyes well enough. “Might be better if I stayed home, actually,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to unbalance things. Aunt Claire hates superfluous men.”

With three debatably single daughters, Reggie didn’t think Aunt Claire would find any man—even a relation—all that superfluous, but she didn’t say anything, and neither did Colin, although she saw him hide a smile behind a slice of toast.

It was Pater who made the correction, of course. “Don’t be idiotic, Edmund,” he said, though cheerfully enough, “and don’t slight your aunt like that. She’d be glad to see you.”

“But he does have a point,” Reggie put in, seeing her brother begin to founder and searching for nearby ropes. “In a way, I mean. About staying home. Not all of us, of course, but—well, we’ve got two injured people here, not to mention an angry ghost.”

“Don’t worry on my account,” said Mr. Heselton quickly. “I’ve every intention of going. I won’t be able to do any good as a dancing partner—but then, I never really could. I’ll enjoy the dinner and the company, at any rate. And I think it would do the rest of us good,” he added, looking across the table and smiling at Miss Browne. “Including, as the lady says, the spirit.”

Mater nodded. “And I’m sure Emma and Mrs. Kelly will take excellent care of our remaining patient. Of course, Regina, you’re quite welcome to stay behind if you think it’s best. I’m sure it would be very generous of you.”

She didn’t even look over at Reggie, but she didn’t need to. Both of their memories were as sharp as ever.

“Maybe,” she said, not wanting to seem too eager—and not wanting to leave Edmund in the lurch. She cast a glance his way, trying to think of a means for pulling him into her excuse.

“I understand,” said Miss Heselton, with a syrupy smile in Reggie’s direction. “I’m nervous myself. Society at these country parties can be
so
overwhelming at times, particularly to people who haven’t been…able…to be part of it for a while.”

She sounded completely innocent. If asked, she would surely reply that she’d meant nothing but a remark about how busy Reggie must have been in London. There was real venom beneath the sugar this time, though, and Reggie didn’t mistake her meaning for a second. Her hands tightened on the edge of the table, and she knew that her face had gone very still.

“Quite overwhelming indeed,” said Colin. “As a matter of fact, there are some parts of society I’d consider it a privilege to avoid.” He spoke lightly, even carelessly, but the edge to his voice was like a blade against silk.

Reggie turned to look at him. Why was he defending her? Why did he think she
needed
defending? How much had he heard? She saw no answers in his face, just his usual faintly amused expression.

Before
that
, she wouldn’t back down.

“Well,” she said, smiling back at Miss Heselton, “it’s sweet of you to worry, but I think I’ll be fine. Mater’s right—the servants can handle things for one night.”

So could she.

She’d just have to keep from strangling anyone for the next few days.

The trees around the Whitehill village graveyard still shone lush and green in the late-morning sunlight. The cemetery was a well-kept little place, the stone walls neat and the grass well-tended. A lark was singing somewhere above, and only consideration for his companions kept Colin from whistling himself, at first. A moment’s thought convinced him that it was best to keep silent regardless. Places of the dead had never been as solemn to him as they were to modern mortals, but he and the Talbot-Jones men had come here with a purpose, and not a merry one.

Many more ghostly tricks, and Colin thought he might become a sight more solemn around graveyards himself.

Still, he stood for a moment and took in the view, admiring the way the old stone church beckoned from among the trees a short distance away. It made him think of his own youth, though the MacAlasdairs had only showed up at chapel often enough to keep suspicion down.

“Young Heselton’s kept the place very well,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones, coming up a little ways behind Colin and Edmund. “They say the last man who held his place wasn’t half as diligent. Older chap, of course, and only had a housekeeper.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Edmund.

“It’s quite a scenic little place, at that,” Colin offered. “And Heselton seems a sensible fellow, as vicars go. I’m not terribly well-acquainted with the species myself, you understand.”

Although the comment had passed only idly from his lips, he saw Mr. Talbot-Jones frown and his bushy gray eyebrows draw together with concern. “Ah. Yes, quite—I’d forgotten that religion’s a bit different in Scotland. I do hope you’ve taken no offense. I assure you I intended none.”

“No, no, not at all,” Colin said, holding up his hands and smiling reassuringly once he’d realized what his host was talking about. The Church of Scotland was not the Church of England, nor could a man translate between the two as easily as taking a train across the border. He dimly recalled some controversy about the matter perhaps fifty years ago, though he’d mostly been in Italy at the time. “As much as I’m sure it would scandalize some on both sides to hear it, the difference is mostly an academic one with me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Edmund, sitting down on the wall. “Colin’s wish to sleep in on a Sunday knows no nation or creed.”

Hearing Mr. Talbot-Jones chuckle, Colin allowed himself to laugh as well. One never knew how men would take such matters. He’d seen religion turn deadly often enough, in Ireland and elsewhere, and he understood the man’s caution. “I think,” he said, “as long as a man tries to live well, it’s probably no great matter. And Heselton’s certainly been fine company, and helpful as well.”

“His sister’s been more helpful, I should say,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones. “Rather something, the way she stepped in to take care of poor Mrs. Osbourne like that. I’d no idea she’d been trained as a nurse.”

“I’d think her brother’s parishioners couldn’t do without her,” said Edmund.

“Yes,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones. “It’d be best for them if she settled down with some local fellow.”

“Plenty of those around, aren’t there?” Edmund asked. Hands in his pockets, he inspected the marble angel in front of him. “Plenty of chaps in London who’d be glad to settle down in the country too. I’d imagine she’s had quite a few proposals already, a girl like that.”

Mr. Talbot-Jones nodded. “I shouldn’t wonder if she’s engaged before the year’s out. On the other hand, she might still be waiting for the right young man to make an appearance. One who could support her comfortably, perhaps.”

“I’d hope she wasn’t the mercenary sort,” said Edmund.

“No, of course not. But there’s nothing mercenary about a girl who wants to see herself provided for, and her children. She comes from a large family, you know.”

“For the love of God.” Edmund sighed. “Don’t go any further with this line of discussion. I’ve no wish to hear about the suitability of her hips.”

Mr. Talbot-Jones scowled. “Really, Edmund, I fail to understand why you take such a—” he began, at which point Colin felt that he’d best remind both men of his presence and coughed politely. His host flushed and cleared his throat; they sounded briefly like an outing of consumptives.

“Well,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones, recovering himself, “quite so. It’s a shame Heselton himself couldn’t accompany us today. I’d imagine he knows the place better than any of us, and I’d, ah, rather not disturb the sexton if we have a choice.”

“By which he means,” said Edmund, drawing up to Colin’s side for a moment as the three of them began to walk about the graveyard, “that Mater doesn’t want word of what we’re doing getting about too quickly.”

“And he’s not concerned?” Colin asked.

“Less so. Shortsighted of the old man. The son of an eccentric might be less of a catch, regardless of his wealth.” His smile was thin and bitter.

Looking back and forth between Edmund and Mr. Talbot-Jones, short and straight-backed as he peered at gravestones, Colin shook his head. “You’ll have to marry sometime, you know. You said so yourself. Unless you’ve a cousin you truly want to see inherit.”

“Or unless Reggie produces a husband and heir,” Edmund said and snorted.

“Not such a ludicrous prospect,” said Colin, more warmly than he’d intended. After watching the morning’s quiet storm, he found himself inclined to come to the lady’s defense, whether or not she needed it.

“Is if she’s not inclined, and she’s fended off all comers—at least as far as I can tell—for ten years or so.” Edmund sighed again. “No, I’ll step up to the block in time—but I’d like to find a woman who understood, if you catch my meaning. One who was as happy to be left alone and could tend to her own affairs.”

“Miss Heselton isn’t that,” Colin said. It was a bad time to inquire about the man or men who Reggie
hadn’t
fended off, and he couldn’t think of a way to do it subtly, not now that Edmund had moved on. “To say the least.”

“Neither are the other women Pater thinks would be good for me. Sweet, romantic creatures, all of them.” Edmund frowned down at one of the tombstones they passed. “And marrying a girl like that…well, it’d be a cruel trick. I can try to be decent in some ways, at least.”

In his long life, Colin had rarely been at a loss for words, but now all that he could think of were the things that he couldn’t say: that times changed and changed back again, that the standards of England and of humanity were not the only ones by which a man could be judged, that he’d known plenty of lawbreakers in his time and would have trusted many of them more than their respectable counterparts. To speak too freely along those lines would have invited questions he didn’t want to answer.

He clapped Edmund on the shoulder, a light and friendly gesture. “I’ve always thought you decent enough. Except for your ties.”

That got an honest grin out of the other man. “Have a word with Perkins, then. He’s always having hysterics at me about ’em.”

“And you scorn his advice. The man might just as well work in a factory, you know that?” Choice bits of Reggie’s conversation on the balcony came to mind then, and Colin began to ask, “Does your sister—”

“Over here,” called Mr. Talbot-Jones from the other end of the graveyard. “All the Morgans, from the look of things.”

As Edmund turned, Colin saw the expression on his face. In sharp contrast to the way he’d looked before, he now seemed relieved to hear his father’s voice.

* * *

Under the shade of a leafy chestnut tree, in the corner of the graveyard where the land began to slope upward into a hill, generations of Morgans lay beneath the earth. Limestone vaults, carved with figures and stained with moss and rain, stood next to simple worn markers, and a plain granite stone in the center crowned the only newish grave of the lot.
James
Edward
Morgan
, the carving said, and the dates suggested that this was the “Old Morgan” Edmund had mentioned.

The others were the usual mix that one found in family plots: old and young, alone or surrounded by family, and one small marker to commemorate a lad who’d been lost at sea in the days when Napoleon had loomed great and villainous in the English mind. Colin looked down at the small polished marker and shook his head, remembering how perilous the ocean had been in those days—perilous even for him. The breadth of the Pacific was too far for flight, and a dragon needed even more food and water than a man.

“Fifteen,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones, regarding the same gravestone. “Poor boy. If the modern world has anything to recommend it, Mr. MacAlasdair, it’s that war on such a vast and brutal scale is far behind us.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s the only advantage,” said Colin, who’d been thinking of steamships himself, “but it’s certainly one of the foremost. I don’t see any women named
J
-anything about, do you?”

“No, not at all.” Mr. Talbot-Jones frowned and stroked his beard. “Men—there are about five Jameses and a number of Josephs, and I believe a Julian somewhere—but no women. Unless she’s under one of those terribly worn stones, and I think those are too old for the woman in the picture.”

“There’s another possibility,” said Edmund, walking up to them. He gestured over the wall to a smaller and much humbler plot.

Mr. Talbot-Jones’s eyes widened. “Unconsecrated ground?”

“It might explain why she’s a ghost,” said Colin. Before he thought of either reverence or concealment, he vaulted easily over the wall, a possible stunt for a mortal young man, but one that made Edmund whistle and Mr. Talbot-Jones cough.

Devil take it: they could think what they liked.

Leaves and sticks crunched beneath Colin’s boots as he wandered, inspecting the markers. Most of these were plain, carved with businesslike starkness: a name, two dates, and nothing more. Against the wall, though, a neighbor with the respectable Morgans, stood another stone, overgrown but sturdy. Colin knelt and tugged away ivy until he could read the inscription.

“Janet Morgan,” he said aloud. “1700–1750. May God Let Her Rest.”

“I suppose He didn’t oblige,” said Edmund, and he chuckled hollowly. “Or she chose not to take Him up on the invitation.”

“If she’s our ghost,” said Mr. Talbot-Jones.

His protest was obviously formal, though. The cruel cast to the woman’s face in the portrait, the lady’s grave in the midst of thieves and suicides, and the inscription—so close to a normal platitude, yet just far enough away in phrasing to be significant—might not have been an airtight case in a court of law, but it was enough evidence for Colin.

He didn’t fear the dead. He didn’t fear very much, as a rule. Mortal weapons could kill one of the MacAlasdairs, but it took considerable doing, and he’d spent a long time learning the ways of magic. Yet, kneeling by Janet Morgan’s forgotten grave, he felt a chill run through his body.