CHAPTER ONE
Belhaven House
Home of Grayson Sherbrooke
Mid-March 1842
Grayson could have reached out and touched the young girl dressed in a dazzling rich green velvet gown over a gold filigreed satin underskirt, diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires sparkling in her vibrant coiffed red hair, incredible freshwater pearls around her neck. She was very tall, towering over the weedy young man beside her, a boy really, his dark-blue velvet cloak lined with ermine and covered with even more precious gems, his skinny legs encased in dark-blue satin. These two children wearing costumes surely heavier than their weight were getting married? In his dream, Grayson realized the cumbersome, too-elaborate clothing was from Queen Elizabeth’s time in the mid-sixteenth century.
Even though he knew they were from a bygone era, Grayson felt no jolt of displacement, only mild curiosity about where he was and who this boy and girl were. The girl’s eyes were a curious amber color, quite beautiful, really, and even though her face was pale, her expression serene, he felt her barely restrained excitement. Her lips were moving soundlessly, yet Grayson heard her words as clearly as if she’d shouted them, and he understood her as if she’d spoken to him today in the Queen’s English.“I’m going to be the queen of France, I’m going to be queen of France. The witch will no longer control me.”
Queen of France? When? Who was she? Who was the witch?
He saw thousands of people spread out in the background, their features smoothed away, as if in a smudged drawing. He knew they were shouting and cheering, even though there was only silence. Behind the boy and girl, a procession of elegantly dressed people followed them into Notre-Dame cathedral, led by two cardinals wearing blood-red satin robes and tall red miters on their heads.
Before she stepped into the cathedral, the bride turned her head ever so slightly and smiled directly at Grayson. She chanted in a whisper,“I am Mary, Queen of Scotland. Soon I shall also be the queen of France.”And her brilliant amber eyes gleamed with pleasure and triumph.
Grayson jerked awake. He lay still in the cool darkness, letting his racing heart calm, and marveled at what he’d dreamed. Mary, Queen of Scots. She’d actually spoken to him, this young girl who had no idea she would have her head chopped off well before her fiftieth birthday. He rose slowly, lit a lamp with a lucifer, shrugged into his ancient dark-blue velvet robe, and made his way downstairs to his study.
He found a history of Scotland and rifled through the pages until he read that Mary, Queen of Scotland, had married the Dauphin of France in Paris in 1558. He’d become Francis II in 1559 upon the death of his father, Francis I. Then the young King Francis died himself in 1560, still a boy. There was no issue from the marriage. And shortly thereafter, Mary left for Scotland at the age of eighteen. Catherine de’ Medici, her mother-in-law, was delighted to see her go, and Mary was delighted to leave as well since there was nothing for her now in France. So, Grayson realized, Catherine de’ Medici was the witch who’d had control over Mary from her fifth year when her mother had sent her to Paris to be raised in the court and eventually become the queen. He read about Mary’s second husband, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, only nineteen when they were wed in Edinburgh. He was a wild, dissolute young man, hated by many, and came to a very bad end.
Mary had three husbands—very briefly the king of France, very briefly Lord Darnley, and for only a moment of time James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell.
Grayson read on until he yawned, then sat back and closed his eyes. No happy, extended married bliss for Mary. Her short time as the queen of Scotland had been filled with lies, manipulations, and treachery, all ensnaring her like a spider’s web. It was fascinating. He yawned again and reluctantly closed the history book.
On his way back to bed, Grayson walked quietly into Pip’s bedroom to see his precious son sleeping on his back, as was his wont, his arms flung out, making little puffing sounds. Grayson’s heart swelled, and he repeated the prayer he’d said every night since Pip’s birth.Please give him a long, happy, and healthy life.He leaned down and kissed his boy’s soft cheek. Pip’s Sherbrooke blue eyes opened, and he looked up at his father. “Papa, I saw a pretty red-haired girl, and she smiled at me and started singing.” Pip gave him a sleepy smile and closed his eyes, once again asleep.
Grayson stilled. A red-haired girl—it had to be Mary. And she’d also invaded Pip’s dreams? She’d sung to him?
Grayson stretched out on his bed and wondered aloud in the soft, quiet air,
Mary, why did you show me your wedding day? Why did you visit Pip? What is it you want from me?
Grayson wasn’t surprised when on the following day he received a letter from the commendator of the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh, a Mr. Cibalto Terduck.
Mr. Sherbrooke,
Your father gave me your direction. He and I were at Oxford at the same time and have kept in touch. Perhaps you will recall I met you at your wedding six years ago and was very impressed with you. Let me get to the point. Our glorious new queen, Victoria, appointed me as commendator at the Palace of Holyroodhouse three years ago, and for these past three years all has been as expected, including accustoming myself to several resident ghosts. I’ve heard talk of your experiences with otherworldly beings, actual experiences outside your splendid novels.
I am in dire need of your assistance, sir. There have been alarming disturbances I am unable to explain. Just yesterday I went into the long portrait gallery, and paintings of all the kings of Scotland that normally line the walls were lying haphazard on the floor, some of the frames torn apart, as if by enraged hands. And in my own house I was working at my desk when books flew through the air out of my bookshelves, some striking me before I could hide under my desk. I fear I myself am in danger. I found a curse, sir, a curse I believe made by Queen Mary herself. I trust you will come.
Your servant,
Cibalto Terduck
CHAPTER TWO
Four days later
Tuesday
Grayson had planned to ride to Edinburgh by himself, but it was not to be. What had begun as a solitary plan became two coaches carrying seven adults, three children, and “enough luggage for a short Grand Tour,” George Nathan Cox, eighth Baron Worsley, had remarked, laughing. He’d then looked at his newly discovered son, Brady, and smiled, seeing himself taking Lise Marie, his bride, and Brady, his long-lost son, to Paris and Rome. Pip, P.C., and Brady were in tearing spirits because their carping and pleading had gained them what they wanted, namely an unexpected holiday to Edinburgh. It was a close thing since George still didn’t want to let Brady out of his sight for longer than a visit to the privy. But Lise Marie had prevailed after seeing Brady’s pitiful look toward P.C. and Pip, so the three children were kept together, George saying it was a good thing his butler, Frobisher, had given Haddock enough games to amuse an army of children. The children changed carriages at their two stops in Haddington and Musselburgh so the adults wouldn’t go mad.
They left from George and Lise Marie’s home near Broxburn early on a Monday morning for their day-long trip to Edinburgh. On a rare stretch of smooth road, the sway of the carriage put Miranda to sleep. Her clever straw bonnet lay on her lap, and her head rested on Grayson’s shoulder, her soft hair tickling his cheek. Across from them sat George and Lise Marie, speaking quietly to each other, holding hands, appropriate since they were newlyweds. For the next three hours, the children were under the nominal control of Haddock, Grayson’s valet and butler, who had perfected the adult fish eye by the time Pip had turned two. Haddock’s hair was as white as an Englishman’s arse, though he’d just turned thirty-one. The children called him Moses and treated him with great deference. Haddock’s reinforcements were Mary Beth, Pip’s nanny, and Meg, Miranda’s maid. Lise Marie’s maid, Florence, had gained herself an unexpected holiday as well, visiting her parents in nearby Coxton.
The second coach was crowded, a good thing since it kept the children from leaping about.
Grayson settled back, closed his eyes, and thought about Mr. Cibalto Terduck’s letter. Grayson knew ghosts could cause all sorts of trouble if something had upset them. The disturbances sounded more like the ghosts were well beyond upset—they were enraged. By what? Grayson had learned as much as he could about Holyroodhouse before they left. He’d read about two principal ghosts at the palace, David Rizzio, Queen Mary’s secretary and confidant, and her second husband and cousin, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, the dissolute, arrogant young nobleman who’d plotted to kill Rizzio in March 1566.
