“How do you like Roscoe Castle?” she asked when they were outside.
“I love it,” Daphne said without hesitation. And she meant it, too, though she had not yet been forty-eight hours in her new home.
“It is very ancient and very uncozy,” the countess said, “but it does seem to have that effect on people.My son is determined to have it, you know. It is theone fixed goal of his life.”
“What do you know of its history?” Daphne asked.
The countess smiled. “You mean the ghosts?” she said. “Has someone been terrifying you with themalready? Or have they not been mentioned and I amfrightening you?”
“Tell me about them,” Daphne said.
“They seem to be confined to the north tower,” the countess said. “It is sealed, as perhaps you know.Maybe it is for that very reason that various peoplehave claimed to see a faint light from the top windowat night and to have heard the sounds of clashingswords and a scream.”
Daphne shivered. “You think it all nonsense?” she asked.
“I think it unutterably exciting,” the countess said, “given the history of that tower. No.” She laughedand held up a staying hand. “You do not need to askthe question. Folklore has it that a hundred years orso ago relations between Baron Selbome and ViscountEverett—the earldom came later—were strained because the viscount was poor yet seeking a marriage with the baron’s only daughter. They deterioratedever further when the daughter and the viscount’syounger and even less wealthy brother became enamored of each other—the viscount was none too pleasedeither, from all accounts. The baron’s younger son,who had been a boyhood friend of Everett’s brother,was somehow caught in the middle. And then, underguise of calling secretly upon the sister, Everett’syoung brother stole a box of valuable jewels from thecastle and then murdered the baron’s valet, who hadseen him do it—but who first had reported to thebaron’s son. Or so the story goes, Daphne. Theremust have been a great deal more to it. The jewelswere never found and the accused thief was soon deadand unable to speak up for himself.”
Something lurched painfully inside Daphne.
“It seems that the young man was daring enough to hide right in the castle—in the north tower, ofcourse—while the countryside was being scoured forhim,” the countess said. “His young lady was takingprovisions to him there. But her brother followed herone night and there was a terrible fight.”
“And the man who was hiding died?” Daphne said, hardly able to get the words past her lips.
“There were no survivors,” the countess said. “It all left a terrible bitterness between our families thathas never been properly healed, though very few people still know the origin of the feud. I uncovered thestory only because I am insatiably curious. There mustbe some truth to it, I suppose, else why would thetower have been sealed off? It looks stout enough,does it not?”
Daphne looked toward the tower and swallowed painfully. “What were their names?” she asked.
Her ladyship’s footman was waiting to hand her into her carriage. But she paused, one foot on the lowerstep. “That I do not know,” she said. “It would besatisfying to be able to give them names, would it not?It has been lovely meeting you, my dear. I do hopeyou will look kindly on my son’s suit when he returnsfrom London and comes to wait on you.”
Daphne smiled and raised a hand in farewell. Their names were Justin, Margaret, and Sebastian, shethought. And she had not been dreaming. Somehowlast night she had been caught up in events that hadhappened one hundred years ago. She had not beendreaming.
She was in love with a man who had lived one hundred years ago. And died there in the tower soon after the encounter she had relived last night. She felt apain and grief as powerful as if she had lost a reallover.
She had not been dreaming.
Daphne explored every inch of the castle during the next three days. Miss Tweedsmuir showed no eagerness to traipse after her since the rooms that were notin frequent use were chilly—no, downright cold wouldbe a better description; the rooms with fires in themwere chilly. The long passageways were drafty.Daphne explored alone, and the feeling she had hadsince her arrival that this was home, that this waswhere she belonged, grew on her with every passingmoment.
She would have to marry the Earl of Everett, she decided, if he would have her. She had been at Roscoe Castle less than a week, but already she knew thatif she was forced to leave she would be haunted by itfor the rest of her life. And yet it was neither a beautiful nor a comfortable home. She did not know quitewhat its aching attraction was. Or perhaps she did.
The castle held all that remained of Justin. His spirit. His ghost, perhaps. Or perhaps neither, butonly her memories of him—of that night when shehad somehow been projected back into history asMargaret and had gone to him in the tower. It hadhappened only that once. She had awoken each nightsince and lain in her bed trying to feel the overpowering urge she had felt on that occasion to get up andgo from the room. But there had been no compulsion,only painful hope and a longing to relive that night.On each occasion she had got up anyway and lit acandle and opened the door of her room to peer out.But each night the candlelight had revealed only ablank stone wall at the end of the passage.
It seemed it was never to happen again. And yet her yearning grew and her aching, hopeless love for aman who had lived a century before and had lovedanother woman. And yet Margaret had not been another woman on that particular night. Margaret andDaphne had been one. He had loved Daphne as muchas Margaret.
She was never to see him again. But she knew that she would always want to live at the castle so that shecould be close to him. Close to his lingering spirit. Ofcourse, if she married the Earl of Everett, she wouldmove to his home. She would live at Everett Park.But still she would be close to Roscoe. She wouldbe able to ride there occasionally to hug close thememories—the memory. Alas, there was only the one.But it was a memory that she would wrap about herself like a cloak for the rest of her life, she knew.
Miss Tweedsmuir accompanied her on a return visit to Everett Park three days after the countess hadcalled on her. The house was a magnificent manor,she discovered, and the park splendidly laid out andwell kept. Even at the end of October it looked neat,its lawns almost free of dead leaves although the treeswere already shedding their multicolored load. Thehouse was light and warm, cozy and elegant inside.The countess was gracious. The earl had sent wordthat he would be home the next day.
“My dear Miss Borland, you are indeed a fortunate young lady,” Miss Tweedsmuir said as they rode homein the carriage. “Soon to be married to an earl andsurely a personable young man if he is anything likehis dear mama.”
Daphne hoped somehow that he would not be too personable. If he were, and if they married, she wouldfeel guilt. For she would never be able to concentrateall her affections on him. She would always dream ofJustin. Her heart would always ache for him.
“And soon to move to that luxurious home,” Miss Tweedsmuir added, “and be able to get away fromthat dreadful castle if you will excuse me for callingit that. It is a wonderful piece of history and worthyof being visited by travelers. But it is scarcely a comfortable home, I am sure you would agree. I worrythat you will catch a chill there.”
“Itiscold there at this time of year,” Daphne agreed. But she loved it. It haunted her. It was in herblood although a week ago she had never even seenit. She could not bear to leave it. She felt as if shehad lived there for a hundred years and now someonewas trying to wrench it away from her.
“You must select your very prettiest dress and have your hair freshly washed the day after tomorrow,”Miss Tweedsmuir said. “His lordship is sure to waitupon you. Perhaps he will even make his offer. Howlike the Cinderella story this is, my dear Miss Borland.”She beamed, the first time Daphne had seen her smile.“Just a short while ago you were preparing to becomea governess, and now you are to be a countess.”
She did not want to be a countess. She did not want to think of marriage just yet, though she supposed shewould eventually. She could not grieve for a hundredyears’ dead lover for the rest of her life. But she wouldhave liked some time to let the rawness of the painbecome dull. She did not have that luxury. She hadto agree to marry the earl within a month and a half.She had to be married to him a month after that.
