The Importance of Being Alice (22 page)

At the entrance of the house stood a little kiosk bearing the sign
TICKETS
. I waited while a large family bought their tickets, then greeted the woman manning the booth with a smile.

“Just one? Entrance to the castle itself is six pounds. The grounds are three,” she told me, looking more than a little bored. “Both, including the dower house, are eight pounds.”

“Oh, um . . . Actually, I don't think you can sell me what I want. I'm looking for information, not a tour.”

She pursed her lips.

“This is going to be a bit of an odd story. My name is Alice Wood. Er . . . Ainslie. I married Elliott a couple of days ago in Germany. I realize you don't know a thing about me, because Elliott was evidently injured before he could tell his family about us getting married, but I've come all the way from Germany, and I really need to see him. Can you please get me whoever's in charge so they can tell the hospital who I am?”

The woman just looked at me unblinking.

“OK, that came out kind of crazy, but I don't want you
thinking I'm a nutball who stalks barons or anything, because I'm not. I told Elliott that I don't care about him being a baron, and that's the truth. I like him for who he is, not what he is, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I'm not crazy or a stalker, but I am really, really tired, and I think my blood sugar is, like, nonexistent at this point because I haven't eaten in a couple of days, so I really, really just need someone to tell the hospital that I'm OK. Can you do that for me”—I consulted her name tag—“Beryl?”

“I'm only authorized to sell tickets,” she said after a moment's consideration.

“Right. You can't take the responsibility.” I nodded. “I understand, I really do. You're trying to protect Elliott. I'd likely do the same thing in your shoes. I applaud your willingness to keep the crazies away from him, and will mention your devotion to his well-being when I can talk to him. I'm sure you'll be in line for a raise. Tell you what—you point me to someone who can help me, and I'll leave you alone.”

“Someone in charge?” she asked.

I nodded some more, then had to stop myself because I was enjoying it too much. “Yes, please. Someone in the castle.”

“Entrance to the castle is six pounds,” she repeated.

“Yeah, I got that, but see, I'm Elliott's wife—”

“Lord Ainslie is unmarried,” she said stiffly. She looked like she'd been sucking on a lemon.

“Right, he was before he went on the cruise, but we got married while we were on it. Is Gunner back from Germany? He'd verify everything I'm saying.”

“Mr. Gunner Ainslie is out of the country and thus cannot confirm your story.” If her mouth puckered any more, her face might implode.

“Crap, that means he's probably in Bulgaria doing . . . er . . . things. Um. Isn't there someone in charge while Elliott is gone? Someone I can speak with? Someone inside?”

“Entrance to the castle—”

“—is six pounds, I know.” I sighed, dug out my wallet, and counted out my change. I had enough to get into the castle, and possibly buy myself a cup of tea at their tea shop, but not much beyond that. I doled out the money. “Fine, but I'm going to tell Elliott that you're not at all flexible.”

I took the ticket and stomped my way up the shallow stone steps to the grand entrance, part of my mind oohing and aahing over the graceful arches over the windows, the little stone decorations of flourishes and some sort of flowery leaf, and the fact that it was a real, authentic castle, even if it didn't have a moat and murder holes.

The entry hall was everything I hoped it would be—a black-and-white checkered tile floor, dark oak paneling, gigantic fireplace at the far end, lots of uncomfortable-looking wooden benches, a few bits of tapestry hung out of the reach of the tourists, and a no-nonsense woman with poufy red hair, and a businesslike blue blazer with white piping, who was rounding up the available visitors into a contained herd.

“The tour is about to begin,” she said, looking meaningfully over at me. “It is the last one of the day, madam, so if you will join us, we can get started.”

“I'd kind of rather just look around on my own,” I told her.

She looked horrified. “Ainslie Castle is available via guided tour only. You must join us.”

“See, I'm really just here to talk to someone in charge. Is there like a manager or someone? I need to find out about Elliott.”

“Lord Ainslie is indisposed,” she said stiffly.

“I know, that's why I am trying to find someone in charge!” I was about ready to pull out my hair. It was an emotion that continued when she insisted that I either join the party or leave the castle. With no other choice, reluctantly I tagged along, keeping my eyes peeled in case I saw someone who looked like they worked there.

I had to admit, as Cecily (the fluffy-haired, iron-willed tour guide) steered us through a number of staterooms, there were definite “Elizabeth Bennet touring Pemberley” moments. I kept thinking that all the paintings, the objets d'art, the gorgeous furniture . . . all of it was Elliott's, and just as soon as I got someone, anyone, to tell me what was going on with him, I would be able to walk around and enjoy the fact that I had married a man who had such a tangible link to the past.

Failure was, unfortunately, my lot to bear. No one appeared in the distant hallways. Cecily ignored my repeated pleas for assistance. And by the time the tour was finished, she had evidently had enough of my attempts to bribe her into helping me.

“The castle is now closed,” she told me firmly. We stood at the entrance of the great hall, the other tourists making their tired way down the drive to the parking lot. “You must leave.”

“But I've explained to you a dozen times—”

“And I have told you almost as many that I will have no part of your shenanigans. I know Lord Ainslie. He is not married. That is the end of it.”

“Is there no one else—his mom? She knows about me—”

“Lady Ainslie is occupied elsewhere. If you do not leave now, I will be forced to have you bodily removed.”

I gave up. There was no hope for it. I took the three steps needed to leave the hall, wincing when the door slammed shut behind me. Ahead of me stretched the treelined drive, with a few figures straggling down it. The ticket kiosk had been removed. A few birds sang, but even their songs were tinged with despair and depression.

“Alone in a strange country, with no money, no way to get to Elliott, and absolutely no friends,” I said. My voice sounded as dull as the stone steps before me. “Now what the hell am I going to do? It's going to be night, soon, and I don't have enough money for a hotel room. Hell, I don't even have enough for a meal, and I'm going to pass out if I don't get something to eat soon.”

No one answered me. No one was around to hear me. No one cared.

It was with those melancholy thoughts that I trudged back to the bus stop, waiting almost two hours to catch a bus back into Ainston, and from there—with nowhere else to go, and a vague idea that I could prowl the halls of the hospital at night in order to find Elliott—out to the hospital.

The bus let me off on the other side of the hospital from where I had entered before. My hopes, pretty nonexistent by that point, rallied momentarily. There was a slight chance that the woman at the reception desk who had denied me entrance earlier wouldn't notice me if I went in via that entrance . . . or perhaps she'd gone home for the day?

I walked through the large parking lot, and into the front entrance of the hospital. A large, well-lit waiting area greeted me, one with scattered televisions for those people waiting for news of loved ones. There was also a small shop, but it was now closed. There was a different woman at this desk, so I marched up and asked for Elliott.

“I'm afraid Lord Ainslie is only seeing family members.”

“If I told you that I was married to him, would you believe me?”

She looked a bit taken aback, but recovered quickly enough. “No, I wouldn't.”

“I didn't think so. Is there a problem with me waiting to see him?” I asked, gesturing toward the mostly empty waiting area.

“No, although I can't say when Lord Ainslie will be receiving friends.”

I nodded. I was so exhausted, it was about all I could do. “Gotcha. I'll be over there if anyone cares, not that anyone does, because . . . well, because no one does but Elliott, and he doesn't know I'm here.”

The chairs were surprisingly comfortable. I chose a bank of them that was located next to a vending machine. I plugged the last of my sparse money into the machine and was rewarded with two candy bars and a cup of tepid coffee. I claimed three of the seats as my own, ate and drank my meager dinner, and curled up on the chairs, too tired and too hopeless to care if the reception woman noticed me camped out for the night.

Wicked dreams chased my sleep, dreams in which strangers circled around me taunting and jeering at me, calling me a liar. I tried pleading with them just as I'd begged others to listen to me, but the dream people were
just as obstinate, and dragged me off to a high cliff where they threatened to throw me over the edge.

One of them, the fluffy-haired Cecily, shoved her way forward and taunted me by name. “Alice, Alice, no one loves Alice,” she said in a singsong voice.

Tears leaked out my eyes, hot and burning on my face. I touched my cheek and saw blood.

“Alice,” she said again.

I wanted to shriek with the unfairness of it all. I
was
loved. Elliott loved me . . . didn't he? Or had I dreamed him up, as well?

“Alice!”

“Hrn?”

The realization that it wasn't Dream Cecily calling me dragged me out of the deep well of sleep. I blinked up at the person who was bending over me, trying to get my eyes to focus.

“Are you awake now? Were you dreaming? You were making squeaking noises like my dog makes when he chases rabbits in his sleep.”

“Nightmare,” I mumbled. I stared at the man for a moment, then shrieked, “Gunner!” and flung myself off the chairs onto him.

“Steady, now, or you'll have us both on our arses,” he said, wobbling slightly, but managing to keep on his feet. “What are you doing out here? Why aren't you with Elliott?”

“They won't let me see him,” I said on a sob, and then, to my eternal embarrassment, burst into tears. I told him my tale in between blubberings, clutching his sleeve like it was a life preserver. I had a horrible fear that if I let go, he might disappear into a puff of smoke.

“It's all right,” he said, patting my shoulder, and
shoving me back onto one of the seats. “Let's have a cup of tea—that's how I found you, by the way, so smart thinking parking yourself here—and we'll work it out.”

“Elliott!” I said, leaping back to my feet.

“Is all right. He's sleeping now, which is why I came down to fetch some tea.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, mollified enough to take the milky cup of tea that he offered. “How badly was he hurt? Was he shot? Knifed? Poisoned? No one would tell me what was wrong!”

“Shot? Poisoned?” Gunner shook his head. “I have no idea where you came up with that. There was an accident at the castle in the old wing—the tower collapsed, injuring some workmen. Elliott flew out to examine the damage, and part of the remaining wall came down while he was doing so. His collarbone is broken, that's all. They had to put in a couple of pins to piece it back together—that's why he had surgery. But he should be fine, so stop worrying.”

“Can I see him?” I clutched my cup of tea hopefully. “I want to see him. I want to make sure he's all right. I want to make sure he still loves me.”

“You really
were
having a nightmare, weren't you? Of course he still loves you. Why wouldn't he? You're perfect for him. And if he won't have you”—he winked at me—“I will.”

“I thought you were in Bulgaria. They said you were out of the country.”

“They who?”

“The people at the castle.”

“Ah.” He rubbed his nose. He looked almost as tired as I felt. “As it happens, I was at the airport, just about to board a flight to Sofia, when my brother Dixon texted
me that El had been hurt. I changed tickets and got here a couple of hours ago. Since Elliott was sleeping comfortably, I said I'd stay so the family could go home and get some rest.”

“I'm just glad you came out to get tea. I think I would have gone mad if anyone else refused to tell me what was wrong with Elliott.”

“Sounds like you had a rough time of it.”

I willed him to drink his tea as fast as possible, telling him again about my hellish day. I was still telling him when he escorted me up a couple of floors, and introduced me to the nurses at the nursing station as Elliott's wife, asking them to make a note on the official records as to who I was, and that henceforth I was to be given all possible courtesies.

I was ready to kiss Gunner when we entered the darkened room containing the man who had consumed all my thoughts. Instead, I said, “Elliott!” in a tiny voice, and rushed to the bed.

He had been asleep, but groggily turned his head and blinked at me. “Alice?”

“Yes, my darling, it's me. Oh my god, you look so horrible.”

One side of his mouth curled up. “You certainly know how to make me feel good. What are you doing here? You should be on the tour.”

“Don't be an idiot. Of course I'm going to be here. It took me longer than I would have liked because no one would believe that someone as handsomely wonderful as you would marry a lowly American, but I'm here now, and I'm going to take care of you.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes drifting closed. “Tired.”

“Go back to sleep, then.” I leaned down to kiss him. “I won't leave you.”