Donna Maree Hanson, Author, Phd in Creative Writing

(c) Copyright Donna Maree Hanson 2018

Prologue

1858 East Sussex, United Kingdom

The wheels of the extractor’s machinery ground against the gears, vibrating the timber floor. The Executioner looked on, eyes greedy for every tremor of pain, every cry of anguish. Heat and steam rolled against his skin as the great piston shoved and tugged, turning the large wheel. The sight of Wilbur Hardcastle, recalcitrant magician, struggling feebly against the restraints as the extractor sucked out his life force, stirred no pity, only curiosity. The process of death never ceased to fascinate the Executioner. Wilbur emitted a hoarse-voiced cry steeped in agony and still he sighed at the wonder of it.

A ripple of power brushed up against his skin. Turning slightly, he saw Brother Wilfred materialise and then stride forward. The tall, gaunt magician, his features hidden by shadow, whispered urgently. “Did he reveal the location of the texts?”

“No. Only that they are hidden. If you want to question him, do so now. Within minutes, he will be drained and beyond redemption.”

“I have completed the search. He hid them well. I can find no trace. Has he said anything since the interrogation?”

The Executioner shook his head. An idea for one final attempt to extract an answer caused him lift an eyebrow. “Was not there a child?”

Brother Wilfred’s mouth dropped open. “A small talent and a female. Oh you mean as leverage?” His eyes widened as he caught on to the Executioner’s idea. “This execution was sanctioned. The child is thus protected.”

The Executioner shrugged. Wilfred had no imagination and was too limited by the rules. Lucky, not all the brothers in the societas magicae were as inhibited. “No use to us then. Shall I end it?”

Wilbur Hardcastle’s skin was pale, his cheeks concaved, and his darkened sockets feebly clutched bloodshot orbs. He looked as if his body had been wasted by disease for many months. Only the last stubborn spark of life remained in his eyes. The Executioner increased the machine’s speed and watched that spark fade.

The powerful machine was useful for harnessing life energy and efficacious in murder. Brother Hardcastle’s life force now resided in the machine to be used as the brotherhood saw fit. Stepping back, Brother Wilfred performed the spell that would send the machine back to their sanctum and bowed a farewell before he conjured himself away.

The Executioner began the task of arranging the body of Wilbur Hardcastle on the bed, setting all that was awry to rights. Evidence that his life had been unnaturally taken was quietly removed and his death would remain forever a mystery to the local coroner.

* * *

With the hum of industrious bees in his ears, Edward Hardcastle Huntington strode through the grounds of Willow Park, his newly inherited estate. Garden beds brimmed with summer flowers, the kitchen garden swelled with vegetables and the orchards with ripe fruit. Amazed at what fortune had bestowed on him, Edward continued his excursion, trying not to gape at every wonder that passed his eye—an Italian garden, a yew maze and a water maze, a well-stocked lake with pretty willows casting dappled shade on a row of punts.

Tall, with a good bearing and curling dark locks, he was at home with his surroundings. He was dressed finely in a new morning coat, offset with a dark blue silk cravat. His long legs ate up the distance between the lawn and the pleasure gardens, with the estate’s solicitor, Mr Stradbroke, trailing behind him, huffing and wheezing as he struggled to keep up.

“I am flabbergasted,” Edward remarked more to himself than his companion.

Mr Stradbroke took a few, hasty breaths and wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “Yes, a most worthy estate unencumbered by debt. Your cousin had modest tastes and has managed to deliver your inheritance to you in very good shape, indeed.”

Edward rubbed his chin, his gaze eating up the vista. Situated in East Sussex, the estate was within easy distance of London. How different his life would be, what wonders were his, what opportunities to indulge his passion for science. No more dark, rat-infested rooms and scrounged equipment.

Stradbroke cleared his throat and wiped perspiration from his brow with a large handkerchief. “So, Mr Huntington, is the estate to your liking? Do you have any particular directions for me?”

“I like it very well.” He had yet to come to terms with his inheritance and had no particular plans to change arrangements. He turned to Mr Stradbroke, taking note of the solicitor’s eager posture. “As for directions—”

A loud scream interrupted him. The solicitor started, his long moustache twitching at the ends.

“What the devil?” Edward uttered as he peered around, searching for the source of the disturbance.

More screams and two children erupted from some nearby bushes and, without a care for those around them, bounded down the path toward the lake’s edge before disappearing into the yew maze, where more screams emitted. One was a girl with hair flying in a tangle, wearing a stained apron over a dress rimmed in mud along the hem. The other was a blond youth of about sixteen, dressed in nothing but trousers and ripped shirt and equally smeared in dirt.

“Children of the servants, I expect,” he remarked to Mr Stradbroke.

The solicitor went pink around the ears. “I err…Yes, quite right. I’ll speak to the housekeeper about them.” They walked together in a slow circuit that would return them to the house. “Ehem…”

“What is it?” Edward asked, still distracted by the radical changes in his circumstances. He was now the owner of a splendid house and the generous income that came with it.

“I was wondering, sir, whether you had read all the terms of the will and the papers you have signed this morning.”

Edward’s left eyebrow rose. “Of course, I read them all. What are you suggesting?”

He turned and left the garden perimeter, his boots crunching up the gravel drive as he strode towards the front door. A cup of tea was in order and perhaps a few sandwiches. The housekeeper, Mrs Eddington, seemed a competent woman. Hopefully, she was able to predict that her new master needed refreshment on this very warm day. His mind was busily contemplating his afternoon tea when Mr Stradbroke coughed in his fisted hand to clear his throat. “I don’t mean to imply any insult, Mr Huntington, but you have yet to enquire after your ward.” He gazed up at Edward, his moustache dropping along the sides of his frown.

“My ward?” Edward stopped in his tracks, his heartbeat rather lumpy all of sudden.

The solicitor nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Mr Hardcastle left you the guardianship of his daughter, Miss Jemima Lily Hardcastle.”

“My lord, did he?” Edward suddenly faint, inserted a finger into his cravat to let some air onto his skin, and hurried through the front door and across the hall into the cool confines of the library.

“Well, yes, sir. The papers…this morning?” Mr Stradbroke said as he followed along behind.

“What the devil did he do that for? I have only just come of age myself.” Edward threw himself into a chair, sighing as his eyes ranged over shelves that housed an impressive collection of books. He recollected himself and sat up to face the unctuous solicitor. “A girl you say? How old is she?”

Mr Stradbroke stood before him, wiping the edge of his moustache with a forefinger. “Well, sir, she is an interesting young girl of about thirteen or fourteen.”

“I see…” A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the butler, hefting a loaded tea tray. The housekeeper had anticipated his needs precisely. Edward found his estimation of Mrs Eddington climbed even higher as he bent forward to inspect the tray. Feeling quite peckish, he took a plate of sandwiches and began to gnaw on them, while offering the solicitor to partake himself with a careless wave of his hand. After a sip of tea and a large swallow, he instructed Mr Stradbroke to tell him more.

The solicitor nestled his tea cup and saucer on his knee. The butler had served him with a moustache cup, with inbuilt guard to protect his waxed and pampered facial hair. Edward’s estimation of the butler, Cobb, rose also.

“She has her own legacy. One from her mother, who died when she was an infant, a heart condition, I understand, and one from the estate so she would not be a financial burden to you. There is the issue of her education.”

Edward reached for a generous portion of rich fruit cake and offered the plate to Mr Stradbroke, eyebrows raised. “Education? She’s at school then?” he asked with an optimistic air.

Mr Stradbroke placed his cup on the table, refusing the cake offered him with a shake of his head. “Ah no, not quite. You may not have heard about your second cousin, Wilbur Hardcastle, in great detail.” The solicitor coughed. “I am not sure how to say this with discretion. I will own he was a portion eccentric and spent much of his time in his laboratory performing experiments, most of which I could not comprehend. After his wife died, he brought the girl up at home, educated her himself.”

The butler poured another cup of tea, while Edward helped himself to a jam tart. All that walking had excited his appetite. “What is so eccentric about that? Next you will say he taught her Greek, Latin, logic and philosophy, with a smattering of modern science. A man’s classical education rather than how to read, write and do her sums.” He chuckled at his own wit.

“That’s exactly what he did.”

Edward coughed, choking on tart and tea. The solicitor hurried over and slapped him soundly on the back.

“There, there sir. Nothing to be upset about. I’m sure when you meet her you’ll know what to do.”

When the tea tray was taken away, Edward left the solicitor in the library to go over the accounts and prepare a list of the various investments for further discussion, while he inspected his newly acquired laboratory. It was such a luxury to have his own space instead of sharing rented rooms. Down in the converted basements, he found the most interesting array of animals—some stuffed, some preserved in jars. In journals, he found copious notes as to their habitat and sketches of the creatures from conception, birth and death.

In another part of the laboratory, he found a section devoted to plants, leaves, herbs, flowers in various stages of preservation—dried, chopped, pickled. Again, there was the same meticulous attention to detail in the naming of the plant, its properties, its propagation and culture. On the centre laboratory table, he saw the beginnings of a machine, the pieces not quite assembled. Cousin Wilbur had indeed been a man of science. A noise from the depths of the laboratory startled him. He swung around; he was not alone. As he strode down the aisle between the long workbenches, he saw a girl, the dirty urchin from that morning, putting away glass beakers in a cupboard.

“What the devil are you doing?”

The girl gasped and spun around. “Ah! You must be Uncle Edward.” She edged a pail to the side with her foot, then curtseyed. “I am Jemima Hardcastle. How do you do.”

“How do you do.” He responded automatically. “And what are you doing down here?”

She looked around at the bench. “Making sure my things were put away. Papa always made sure everything was put exactly where it should be.”

Edward jerked his chin at the pail. “What have you got in there?”

“Tadpoles,” she held up the pail, then lowered it to peer inside. “They will grow into common frogs, unfortunately—not pool frogs. Found them by the lake.” She shrugged and lifted her face to stare at him. “I want to try them on a new diet to see if it affects their rate of growth and colour.” He studied her as she rattled on about her frogs. Her face had a good bone structure, slight freckling across the nose, which might fade in time with the right application of creams. She was reasonably tall for her age, he supposed, but only time would tell. He had no idea what shade her hair was under the layer of grime. She looked as if she had been the object of a fox hunt. It just wouldn’t do, he thought sourly, realising that he was now responsible for this girl. This was a great responsibility, one that terrified him.

“Please dispose of them this minute and then meet me in the library.”

“But…”

“Now, if you please. This is my laboratory, and I won’t have a little chit of a girl getting under my feet.”

Jemima jerked the pail, spilling pungent water as she stormed out.

Edward rubbed his chin, considering what he was to do with his ward. She could not remain there—a most unsuitable arrangement. If she was to be a useful member of society, she had to go to school or have a governess.

* * *

In the library stood Jemima still adorned in all her muck, not even having deigned to wash her face. Stradbroke stared at the ceiling, probably trying to keep his gaze from this feral child, who was meant to be a young lady. The solicitor was probably embarrassed, too, because he had withheld important details when Edward had been signing all the paperwork, thus landing him with the responsibility for Miss Hardcastle. Edward felt bad for what he must do to this wild, orphan girl. It was his duty to see that she was raised properly. Heavens forbid, but he had to assert some authority, some discipline into her life.

“Mrs Eddington!” Edward called out.

The housekeeper, a pleasant and rounded middle-aged woman, with hair under her cap and rosy cheeks, immediately put her head around the door. “Yes, sir?”

“Please escort Miss Hardcastle upstairs and make sure she is bathed and properly dressed in time for dinner.”

Jemima in turn stood there gaping at him as if he was some kind of apparition. Obviously, she had been running wild for months while the estate confirmed him as next heir in the entailment. Certainly, the servants had not taken charge of her. She was too old by halves to be running with a young man without a chaperone.

Shrugging off the guiding hand of Mrs Eddington, she blurted out. “How dare you, sir! Who are you to tell me what to do in my own home? Why we have only just been introduced.” Her gaze went pleadingly to Mr Stradbroke. “Please, sir, tell me what is to do here?”

Edward raised himself up, puffing out his chest as his own erstwhile father was wont to do. At twenty-one, he did not have much fatherly experience himself and had not supervised anything except maybe the care of his cocker spaniel, Turnip, before being sent to school.

“I will tell you what is happening. You are going to school. Tomorrow. A proper school for young ladies, where you will learn deportment, drawing, elocution, sewing and, most importantly, manners. You will leave first thing in the morning.”

“What?” was all the girl could manage. Despite her unseemly upbringing, she had tears in her eyes. The feminine in her had not been totally obliterated. This gave Edward some hope that she was not lost, not destined to be a blue-stockinged spinster forever an outcast in society.

“Stradbroke, you will ride to London this evening. I have an acquaintance who runs a school for young ladies. You will take my letter to her. I am sure she will oblige us by taking on Miss Hardcastle in on short notice. You will, of course, access the necessary funds to set up her wardrobe and other essentials. Miss Blake will take it all in hand.”

“No! You cannot send me away from my home. This is all I have left of my father, of my life. And what about David? You cannot send me away without letting me say goodbye to him.”

The torn look on her face, shredded his heart. He tried not to buckle so he frowned at her, adding some theatre to his posture. “I can send you away young lady. Your father made me your guardian, therefore, I make the important decisions in your life and control your money until you come of age or marry. I am sorry for your loss, but this is my home now and you must bear it as best as possible. If your young friend can read, you have my leave to dispatch a note to him so that one of the servants can deliver it. However, you will not be able to visit him in person. Now, I suggest you accompany the good Mrs Eddington upstairs and see to your toilet. I will see you again at dinner.”

The young lady turned on her muddy heel, lifted her ragged and stained skirts and stormed out after the housekeeper, slamming the door. After a moment of shocked silence, the butler brought in some wine. “Sherry, sir?”

“Most certainly,” Edward replied, reaching for the glass. He was relieved to see Mr Stradbroke partake because it convinced him that the solicitor had found the scene taxing also. He fought the guilt and won. He knew he was doing what was best for her in the end.

Miss Hardcastle did not make an appearance at dinner but rather ate in her room. According to the housekeeper, the young lady was feeling out of sorts. From what he had heard while changing for dinner, he thought it likely that she had ruptured some organ or other while screaming blue murder in her room and tossing about a few items of furniture. He smiled to himself as he tucked into his roast beef. His friend, Miss Blake, ran a very strict school. He cut into the crispy Yorkshire pudding. All of Miss Hardcastle’s wayward habits would be curbed and a nice marriageable young lady would be produced at the end of four years or so. By the time he finished off the baked potato and soaked up the last of the gravy, he considered his role of guardian well in hand. Later, he sat by the hearth, sipping some very nice port, smoking a cheroot and told himself that she would get over her grief and thrive in her new environment. It was for the best.

* * *

His ward had departed by the time he arose in the morning. He had to admit that he was glad he had missed the farewells and the tears. He might have buckled and that would not do. A young man could not have charge of a young girl, particularly one as wayward as she. Mrs Eddington’s tears did give him pause as she saw her dart into her room. The butler guided him to the breakfast room before he could ask after the cause of her distress. After a leisurely repast, he made his way to the laboratory to become acquainted with the most treasured part of his inheritance.

He lit a few lamps and investigated a number of under-bench cupboards. Everything was placed precisely and with much care. After wandering down the aisles, he came once again to the partially assembled machine. There he stood examining the pieces, when he felt a tingling sensation against his skin, more like the soft caress of a feather. He looked behind him, wondering if there was a breeze, but the several small windows high in the wall were shut. Turning back, he noticed a sealed white envelope, sitting on top of a pile of journals. These were shut up tight with rather sturdy locks and no key was visible anywhere. After trying to pry them open for a few minutes, he once again stared at the letter and turned it over. It was odd that it was addressed to him by name. Wilbur Hardcastle must have known who his next heir was, which seemed strange as it took the trustees an age to decide. Edward was sure his cousin had died unexpectedly.

On opening it, his eyebrows went north as he read the neat script. His cousin had indeed been eccentric, for the letter contained the most extraordinary communication. Then looking about him, he could see nothing but order and logic, which was contrary to the bizarre assertions in the letter. With a shrug, he picked up the uppermost journal and touched the lock saying ‘open’ as instructed. To his surprise, it sprang open as if by magic. Immediately, he dropped it and, with trembling hands, picked up the letter to read it again.

“Could it be true?” Edward let the letter fall from his hands and reached for the next locked journal. Again, it sprang open at his command.

A vibration in the air tingled the skin on the back of his neck. Turning slowly to peer behind him, he saw a weathered, wooden chest. He had not noticed it before. Kneeling in front of it, he ran his hands over the once fine wood and along the partially rusted, iron straps. The huge lock, he cradled in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Open,” he said, and the mechanism clicked. Lifting the lid, he inspected the contents—three, large leather-bound tomes, reeking of age. When he reached in, the tips of his fingers brushed a number of innocuous looking stones. He hesitated at the vibration emanating from them. The scientist in him wanted to reject the thought of magic, of inexplicable power, yet he had felt it, used it. He had always known there were things that could not be explained. He stood and picked up the letter, re-reading the last lines—this is your true inheritance, your heritage, your destiny…you have magic. Use it well. He frowned though at the warning hastily scrawled along the bottom of the page…tell no one of what you have.

Chapter 1

Four years later— Kent, United Kingdom

The sound of Sylvia Horton’s familiar laugh drew Jemima Hardcastle to the rear garden of Primrose Manor, where the large party of house guests lounged on chairs and sipped cool lemonade. Under the shade of her parasol, Jemima walked with a light step. Last night’s introductions had been rather blurred as both Sylvia and Jemima had been tired, arriving well after dinner. Despite their fatigue, they spent half the night discussing the people they had met. One young man had already attracted Sylvia’s interest—Mr Jasper Heaton, who was a dashing medical man with dark hair, hazel eyes and a ready smile. Sylvia’s parents had assembled an assortment of young people for their daughter’s entertainment, the goal being a good marriage. Jemima had no such inclination for matrimony but had to admit the attention of the handsome and intelligent members of the opposite sex was diverting and flattering.

With a wave to Sylvia, who was dressed in pale pink, with her white blonde hair curled into tight ringlets, Jemima walked up to the party, not too ashamed of her own turnout. She was wearing a pale green day dress, trimmed in braid, with flattering sleeves. Her own strawberry blonde hair was swept up in a tall bun, with one trailing ringlet draped over her neck. Sylvia’s maid had dressed it for her and she felt so mature. No more school ringlets and pigtails.

A deep laugh drew her attention, a newly arrived guest, she surmised. Her gaze darted to the tall figure of a man, with a well-tailored morning coat hugging his broad shoulders. When he turned around, she saw dark, curly hair trimmed to frame his somewhat olive-toned face. Their eyes met. Her heart thumped, and she had to lock her knees before she collapsed. Sucking in a breath, she did her best to hide her trembling hands. How odious that he should be here. No glint of recognition flashed in his deep blue eyes, allowing her to relax somewhat. She smiled to hide her discomfiture and hoped she did not perspire too much. Had she changed that much in four years?

He stepped forward and bowed slightly. Sylvia performed the introductions. “Oh, Mr Huntington, please meet my friend, Jemima H Castle.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Huntington.” Jemima blushed, terrified to her heart at the out and out lie of her name. Sylvia had no trouble calling her by her school nickname, Jemima “H”, for Hard, Castle. And Sylvia knew she was using the name to avoid the notice of her guardian. The Hortons had accepted the name, swallowing the story that she was an orphan of no particular breeding, which meant of course, she was a nobody and less likely to compete with Sylvia in the marriage stakes. But now, what could she do? If she announced she was Jemima Hardcastle and that Mr Huntington was her guardian, there would be no end to the uproar. His was the exact circle she wished to avoid.

“A pleasure, Miss Castle.” He bowed over her hand, which quivered in his grip. A slight flicker of his eyelids betrayed that he noticed her reaction.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Jemima replied, while thinking she could not bear him calling her by that counterfeit name. Glancing about, she was in want of a seat before her trembling knees failed her completely.

“Will you not join us?” he asked pleasantly.

With a sigh, she relaxed as she was in no immediate danger. “With pleasure. Thank you.” Jemima gracefully lifted her skirt and sat down on the garden chair he held for her. She placed her parasol beside her leg and smiled nicely at everyone. She had no idea how long she would get away with it. When she was found out, all hell was going to break loose. At that odious thought, she began to look optimistically on her predicament. It was a good joke to play on him—mixing in society in front of his nose. That thought made her arch her eyebrow and consider her situation some fine fun, provided she had the nerve for it. Of that she was not convinced. Her smile widened. Those who dare win, they say.

* * *

Sylvia’s brother Roderick, who was as every bit of blond as his sister, joined them, swelling the party of young people to twelve. Beside Huntington and his friend Heaton, there was their school friend, Genevieve Preston, who suffered from lack of spirits, and her unfortunate brother, Eustace, who had a stutter and weepy skin condition, a set of twins from the neighbourhood, Winifred and Oliver Luton, who had interesting country manners and did not resemble each other at all. Oliver paid a lot of attention to Sylvia, which her friend accepted with ease. Roderick Horton was accompanied by his fiancé, Catherine Catch-pole, her poet brother, Gideon and rather effeminate cousin, Julian Beldere, who often embroidered his conversation with French. Another family friend, who Sylvia confessed she did not know well and neither did Jemima, was Penelope Winters and her rather handsome cousin William Littleton, who were modest people brought up by a vicar.

There was enough variety of company to avoid boredom, provide interest and inspire humorous private commentary. The young folk spent the morning in desultory conversation. It was hot, and no one seemed to mind whiling away the hours doing nothing in particular. Jemima found her guardian’s gaze often on her. When she caught him at it, she smiled. Not too flirty, she hoped. Was that speculation in his gaze a titillating memory of a screaming, muddy girl in the library?

Gideon Catchpole’s poetry was amusing, not intentionally, Jemima guessed. It was not quite riveting either and she found she had to shut her mouth so as not to tease the young gentleman. Terribly bad mannered of her to even think of doing so. While Catchpole recited rhyming couplets, her eyes danced over the assembled party, avoiding Mr Huntington the best she could. The others though were all too polite, though she did notice William Littleton’s eyebrows jerk a few times when a mismatched metaphor was expounded by the budding poet.

With interest, Jemima watched Heaton skilfully monopolise her friend after Gideon ran out of poetry to recite. Heaton was rather deft at seeking out things of interest to say to Sylvia, compliments on her clothes, hair, manners and taste and Sylvia had a great deal of trouble keeping the admiration from her gaze. Jemima recollected the object of her own childish admiration and dropped out of the conversation going on around her.

Penelope Winters was urgently whispering to her cousin William— no doubt advising on tactics to outwit Heaton’s play for Sylvia. Sylvia had a good dowry, that Mr Littleton could not be left to ignore. Jemima thought he had lost his chance as Sylvia looked smitten with Heaton already.

Genevieve Preston had begun to extol all of her brother’s virtues to an unspecified audience in a loud but flat voice. Eustace Preston blushed, thus emphasising the deplorable state of his skin. Looking away to preserve the man’s dignity, Jemima found herself in the past, reliving her departure from Willow Park and the wrench of leaving David Longhurst, the vicar’s son, without saying goodbye. David Longhurst had corresponded with her for a year or two while his father was the local vicar. Then he had stopped writing to her. He had been her childhood friend, perhaps her first love. That night she had cried over her farewell note. What a silly girl she had been and how angry had she been at her uncle.

“It grows chilly,” her guardian’s voice cut through her thoughts. The others were gathering shawls and heading inside, away from the evening chill. “Shall I escort you indoors, Miss Jemima? I believe there is tea and sandwiches being served at present.”

Jemima looked up, startled that Huntington was addressing her as she had been day dreaming about the past. “I do beg your pardon. Have I been ignoring you?”

“Not at all,” he said, holding out his elbow for her to hold. “I must confess I have been watching you from afar.”

Jemima blushed and looked away. Goodness, she thought. He was flirting with her. She glanced sideways at him, seeing a smile curve his lips, then she shook herself. What a horrible fate it would be to be attracted to the very man she had hated all these years.

There was a rustle in the bushes behind them. Mr Huntington frowned. “I wonder what that could be.”

He stopped, moving her gently behind him as he scanned the lawn and the hedge. He lifted his hand as if to salute and spoke under his breath and then drew it down in a slash.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, her gaze travelling over the lawn bathed in the afternoon sun. She thought she heard something: a faint gasp. Her gaze narrowed. What was he doing?

He turned back to her, once again securing her hand in the crook of his elbow. “No, it is nothing. I thought I saw someone there, crouching in the bushes. Did you see anyone?”

“No, only you.” She laughed and smiled up at him.

That response brought a sparkle to his remarkable blue eyes. He led her on, pausing slightly to look over his shoulder, a slight frown marring his brow. She glanced behind her and saw nothing. Catching her look, his expression cleared, letting her precede him into the drawing room.

Visitors mingled, and the room was quite full. Jemima took a place next to Lady Arbunkle, who sat like a sultana on the sofa. She was a baroness by marriage and wore outrageous jewellery at all times. Currently, a sizeable emerald hung around her neck, nestled between her ample bosoms. It was so remarkable that even Mr Huntington commented on it.

“My, that is a great beauty of a stone, Lady Arbunkle. Is it a new acquisition or a family heirloom?”

“Why it is from India. My husband gave it to me along with some lovely rubies and a collection of sapphires. I am so fortunate in my choice of husband, am I not? He sends me so many pretty things silks, shawls, jewels, servants…I want for nothing.”

“Why certainly,” Edward replied, before turning his gaze back to Jemima. While she suppressed a smile, she believed he winked at her.

Sylvia had gossiped to her that Lady Carbuncle’s husband was a bit of a libertine. The baron had many mistresses but kept his wife’s silence by showering her with jewels and expensive gifts. Such a situation made Jemima angry. It smacked of inequality and although Lady Arbunkle seemed happy with the arrangement, why should she accept jewels instead of fidelity in marriage? It confirmed her dislike of the married state.

Edward Huntington brought her a cup of tea, passed her sandwiches, begged her to take some cake. Was he playing with her? Surely, he was not so absent minded that he failed to remember the letter and the name of the family she had requested to visit. Jemima swallowed the offered cake, feeling it stick in her throat, remembering that letter. Her face began to heat as she recalled the details of the alterations she had made to his letter to Miss Blake that ended up providing permission for her to travel with Sylvia. All she could envisage was a sticky end to this situation. The overload of her nerves would lead her into error, she was sure.

After dinner that night, where luckily Mr Huntington had been seated too far away from her to engage in conversation, the group gathered together in the large drawing room. The folding doors opened to the music room where Eustace Preston played a concerto, thereby elevating himself in her esteem. A few of the older guests gathered there talking quietly, some listening to the music.

Mr Heaton, Mr Huntington and Sylvia, along with Jemima and a few others lounged on the sofas, discussing trivial things when suddenly someone introduced the topic of burial practices.

“As a doctor, indeed a man of science, I think it is deplorable in this day and age that people who commit suicide are buried at the crossroads and staked through the heart to prevent them from becoming the walking dead. Why it’s utter rubbish.” This was from Mr Heaton.

Mr Huntington leaned forward in his chair, his posture giving every sign of keen interest in the topic. “I do agree with you, Heaton. It is not very scientific at all but not everything has a logical explanation. Customs like that have some basis in historical events.”

“Barbaric practice! Next you will be saying that there is such thing as the walking dead and…and vampires.”

Mr Huntington smiled, his shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “All I am saying is that some customs and superstitions derive from some real fear or real event. Not everything can be explained by scientific means. There are mysteries that defy the scientific method.”

Jemima found the conversation extremely interesting. “I read about vampires in some countries in Eastern Europe. Surely there is some truth to those stories.”

Mr Heaton scoffed, and Mr Huntington nodded. “Perhaps,” he said warmly.

Encouraged by that warm smile, she continued the topic. “So, Mr Heaton, have you not come across some curious things in your work? For instance, unexplained blood adorning the mouths of cadavers on your dissecting table?”

“Jemima!” Sylvia and a few others blurted in shock.

Conscious that she may have overstepped her mark, she turned to them all and said, “Oh I beg your pardon. Was that a portion too explicit?”

“Really, Jemima, we are not at school now. No point in trying to prank anyone here.”

Jemima laughed lightly. “Quite so. I am unmasked.” She took out her handkerchief and played with it to avoid meeting the serious look in Mr Huntington’s eye.

* * *

The next morning when she went downstairs to breakfast with Sylvia, Mr Heaton and Mr Huntington appeared to be waiting for them, coming into the breakfast room within seconds of them entering. Mr Huntington read them snippets of the paper and he pulled faces when Sylvia asked him to read the gossip columns, full of the latest society scandal. He did read them in a very serious voice, which juxtaposed the hilarity of the content. Jemima’s face heated as he read out snippets full of innuendo and infidelity. She should confide in him, she thought to herself. This couldn’t go on.

Closing the paper, Mr Huntington strode to the window and peered through the curtain. “It is fine out. Do you ladies care for some fresh air? A game of croquet?”

Sylvia grinned at her across the table, her eyes speaking her pleasure in such an excursion.

“Croquet?” Jemima responded. “Are you sure you are able to stand being beaten? Sylvia is a fair player, school champion to be exact.”

Mr Heaton’s eyes widened as they settled on her friend, a smile playing about his mouth. Not that croquet was particularly athletic, but picturing the elegant Sylvia, who exuded femininity, with a mallet and a determined look in her eye was probably beyond him. As Jemima had been thrashed by her in many a tournament, she was eager to see if Heaton’s admiration would wax or wane afterwards.

As they played, Jemima’s disappointment in Sylvia grew. She had lost her competitive vigour and spent her time ogling Mr Heaton and flirting with him while she aimed her mallet without any care at all. She thanked Heaton when he helped her hold her mallet, no doubt enjoying the feel of his arms as they surrounded her.

“Are you feeling well?” Mr Huntington asked.

Jemima dragged her gaze from the other couple. “Yes, perfectly.”

“You seem out of sorts,” he said as he took the hoop they were playing with an impressive swing. She had learned that Mr Heaton and Mr Huntington were firm friends. She had no choice but to be Sylvia’s foil in her attempts to thwart chaperonage and keep Mr Huntington occupied, discretely, of course.

“Well, I don’t mean to sound malapropos, but you know Sylvia is a very good croquet player and she’s letting Heaton win.”

“And that upsets you?”

“Certainly, she should be thrashing him as she has done me many a time. Yet…”

Mr Huntington’s gaze slid to where the couple were talking quietly, foreheads almost touching. “Perhaps, but they do seem to be enjoying themselves.”

Jemima looked the couple over again and then tilted her head to the side. “Yes, I concede they do.”

“Perhaps we could give them some privacy? I noticed a nice walk through the park here, with some very old oaks and ash trees. Excellent specimens.” He pointed to a gap in the hedge on the other side of the croquet pitch. Should she dare such a thing? Go off with Huntington and leave Sylvia alone? What would Mrs Horton say? Surely it was a bit too daring.

“We won’t go far. I promise.” He smiled at her, eyes sparkling with just a hint of mischief. It was hard to believe this was her severe, unfeeling guardian.

Jemima looked over her shoulder. Sylvia had given up all pretence at playing and she and Heaton seemed to be heading to a bench in the shade. They talked as they walked, heads inclining toward one another.

She faced her companion and sighed. “Thank you, Mr Huntington. A short stroll might restore my spirits.” She happened to glance up and saw his contented expression. He offered his arm and she took it, trying to ignore how the warmth of him enveloped her hand and how she must be out of her mind taking a stroll with her guardian.

They roamed through the park, sheltered by great boughs full of leaves. They looked for squirrels and pondered on the age of the trees. Jemima rested against the wide tree trunk while Mr Huntington threw acorns at a post. He had a good aim, and he was an engaging conversationalist. She found herself relaxing and enjoying their time together. While shaded by the tree, she watched as he gathered more acorns. “Are you keeping score?”

She laughed despite herself. “Yes, you have hit the target eight times.”

“Surely not. My aim is much better than that.”

The way he moved fascinated her. There was a precision to him and strength too. He really was a handsome man. Oh dear, she thought. I cannot be thinking like that.

“We best head back now,” he said taking a final shot. “That makes ten from fifteen. I could do better.”

“I expect no less than perfection, sir.” She laughed when he tossed an acorn at her, which she caught and held.

As they walked back, they caught sight of Sylvia and Heaton walking ahead, and they slowed their step. “Are you sure it isn’t too warm for you?” Mr Huntington asked solicitously.

“Er no. It’s lovely out.”

“You have such fine skin.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really? I mean, thank you.”

He smiled at her again and then faced forward. He offered her his elbow and she took it. Such a gentleman, she thought. A beastly gentleman, she told herself. He was horrid to you. How could you forget!

The rest of the day was spent socialising with the remainder of their party, with little opportunity for Sylvia to spend time alone with Heaton. However, the next day and the next, Jemima was called upon to keep Huntington occupied so Sylvia could have time alone with her suitor.

“What are you looking at?” Mr Huntington asked. He was punting her on the lake. Sylvia and Heaton were just ahead.

Jemima was leaning over the side. “Just looking at what is living in there. I thought I saw a brown trout, but I might have been mistaken.”

His brow furrowed. “Do you like to fish?”

She sat back. She could not admit that she found natural history interesting. That might jog his memory. “No, just curious about what lives in the lake.”

He nodded absently, his brow showing he was deep in thought. “Jemima,” he said after a while. “I enjoy spending time with you.”

Slightly startled, she replied automatically. “I enjoy my time with you, also.” He nodded once and then turned the punt in a slow arc to take them back to shore. The looks he sent her way were deep and thoughtful. Jemima kept her eyes averted, afraid of what she might see in those intense blue eyes of his. Recognition.

Guilt at the game she was playing weighed her down. Why did she not take advantage of these moments to confide in him? she pondered. Because you like being treated as an equal. You like talking to him and listening to his interesting conversation. You like looking at him period and you do not want your visit to end.

She tried to picture what the future would be if she got away with this sojourn undiscovered. Perhaps she would meet Mr Huntington in a few years, and he would recognise her then as his ward and as a companion at Primrose Manor and they would laugh about it over tea and sandwiches. She was not stupid enough to imagine such an outcome was possible and began to contemplate avoiding seeing her guardian ever again.

That evening when she came down to dinner, he came forward and kissed the knuckles of her gloved hand. That action did all kinds of things to her insides. Suddenly, her appetite fled as a sudden queasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. He tried talking to her, but Jemima could not summon a thought.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

“Er…I…perfectly, I thank you.”

Sylvia walking up, dangling from Mr Heaton’s arm, provided a necessary diversion. Jemima fanned herself vigorously. The room was suddenly too close and warm for her tastes.

Luckily, at dinner she was seated further down the table. Mrs Horton played musical chairs with them, always mixing and matching her guests, except of course Sylvia and Mr Heaton. After the meal, Jemima staged a headache and raced upstairs to her room. The maid brought a note up with the warm water she had asked for. It was from Mr Huntington, enquiring after her health. She stared at the note, admiring the elegant hand, while simultaneously wanting to throw it into the fire in disdain. The situation was impossible.

Thus divided in her emotions she went to bed and had a troubled sleep. She had gone too far to confess, although she replayed imaginary confessions in her sleep over and over again, tormented by the shock and pain in her guardian’s visage. And what would Sylvia say, her mother? The shock would be too great for them all.

The next day, she stayed close to Sylvia, worried about all the time she was spending with Mr Huntington. It was Sylvia who was bent on matrimony, not her. She twisted her ankle deliberately, so she could not go on any walks. Sylvia was loath to leave her, and Jemima absolutely refused to let Mr Heaton examine her, so they sat around and read or engaged in idle conversation. Jemima kept quiet, letting out an occasional groan for good effect.

Lady Arbunkle joined them, plonking her ample behind on the sofa and requiring Jemima to move a little closer to Mr Huntington. “Have you seen my new clockwork decanter?” She pointed to the sideboard. “I brought it with me to amaze you all. You wind it up and it pours out wine with no human intervention. Another gift from my husband.”

Jemima seizing the opportunity, leaped off the couch to investigate the mechanism. It was a rather ornate contraption, influenced by Indian Raj art and culture and complete with golden elephants and little monkeys in silver.

Lady Arbunkle called from the couch. “A magical device!”

“May I wind it?” Jemima asked.

“Of course, my dear. I brought it down for your enjoyment.”

Jemima wound the decanter. “Do you think it runs on magic?” Mr Huntington asked beside her. Jemima glanced at him sideways.

“Of course not. As I turn the key, the energy is stored in the mainspring, which then drives the gears.”

“Bravo!”

A blush stole over her features. “I do beg your pardon. You must think me a complete blue stocking.”

A light glinted in Mr Huntington’s eyes. “Whatever the colour of your stockings, I do not think they are blue.”

Jemima’s blush grew hotter at the suggestive undertone. A man did not comment on a lady’s stockings. By then Sylvia and Heaton had come over. “Jemima what have you been saying? I swear I despair of you.”

Mr Huntington came to her rescue before she could defend herself. “Nothing at all to despair of, I assure you. We were admiring Lady Arbunkle’s contraption.” To Lady Arbunkle he said. “Do you wish to take some wine, my lady?”

“Thank you, young man. I don’t mind if I do.” Mr Huntington took one of the filled glasses and with a slight bow to her delivered it to the old lady.

Meanwhile Sylvia and Heaton took turns to wind up the mechanism. Wine poured into little glasses. Jemima poured it back into the central bowl where the wine was stored as it was a bit early to drink.

* * *

On the seventh night of the house party, Sylvia invited Jemima to join her in her room to dress for dinner much earlier than usual. First, they dallied in Sylvia’s room, chatting. Sylvia was full of Mr Heaton. Jemima thought he was a fine young man, a little too impressed with his own intellect. Jemima had to work hard not to correct him when he quoted Latin or espoused an outdated scientific theory such as diseases were spread by miasma. Really, she thought, Heaton must not keep up to date on his medical journal reading. However, he would do very nicely for her friend.

Sylvia chatted away, asking for advice on one gown and the next she laid her hand on.

“Pray, do ask Mr Heaton to give us a detailed account of his most recent autopsy tonight,” Jemima asked as they considered what the night’s activities would be.

Sylvia made a choking sound, her blond ringlets jiggling. “How horrid! I would not ask him such a dreadful thing. Why I might be sick in his presence. How lucky I am that he never tells me anything about his work that might distress me. He is so considerate.”

“Anything is better than being asked to sing. I am trying to avoid it so do not blame me for adopting strategies. I think they will insist tonight, considering I have managed to absent myself from the piano all week.”

Sylvia called from her dressing room. “If Miss Blake were here you would not be so bold. You do your best to hide your gruesome tendencies whenever she is around. I saw that issue of the British Medical Journal in your room before we left the school.”

Jemima walked to the doorway and put her head in, while Sylvia held up some ribbon to her chosen gown. “I am not gruesome at all. I am interested in facts not fancies. There was a very interesting article on Homeopathy. The medical profession hate practitioners, of course.”

Sylvia looked up from her employment, saucy smile gracing her lips. “So you say. I noticed you seem to enjoy Mr Huntington’s company. He is handsome but a little old for my taste. He certainly admires you and does little to hide his regard.”

“I devote my time to him so that you are free to flirt with his friend. He is likeable, I suppose. Remember, I am doing this for you.”

Sylvia called out. “Be careful. You might get caught in your own game.”

At the mention of ‘game’, Jemima considered confessing all to her friend, but her courage failed her. Sylvia would fall into hysterics if she knew who Huntington was. The ramifications for her friend was probably a lot more considering she was complicit in lying to her parents about who Jemima really was. Best not to let on how precarious the situation was.

When Jemima could forget who Mr Huntington was, she found him the most pleasing company but then recollections would intrude, marring her happy thoughts. He was handsome, a second or third cousin, so not a forbidden alliance, but how odious he had been when she was young with tender feelings, full of grief. How shabbily did he treat her all those years ago? She remembered every detail of that moment in the library—his countenance, his words, were etched across her heart. How she had hated him. Not once had she been invited home. His home now, not hers.

* * *

When she tapped on Sylvia’s door later, Sylvia was still fussing with her hair and driving her maid to distraction. Jemima decided to go downstairs on her own and venture outside to walk in the garden in the evening sun before everyone gathered for dinner. Draping a shawl around her bare shoulders, for she was wearing a daring low cut gown of purple sarsenet, with a gauze overlay and gold trim. She stepped along the path a short way, breathing deeply of the cooling air. The scent of roses wafted over her. Exhaling, her concerns floated away.

A crunch of gravel heralded the arrival of another. Before she could turn, hand lifted her shawl higher up her shoulders. Turning, she came face to face with her guardian, whose arms circled her in an intimate embrace. She gaped stupidly at him, caught in a moment of surprise. The light scent of his herbal soap spilled over her. The bold brightness of his blue eyes mesmerised her as he leaned his head down. His warm, moist lips touched hers, sending an unexpected thrill through her. The kiss deepened, making her head spin. His left arm held her firmly, as his right hand reached up to caress her neck. She had never experienced anything so potent to her senses. Then she recollected who he was and struggled in his embrace. This cannot be happening, must not let this happen, she thought wildly.

“Uncle!” she blurted out, hand pushing at his chest.

He pulled back, nearly shoving her away in turn. “What the devil did you say?” he said somewhat ruffled. “I am not that much older than you. Why should you call me that?”

Jemima wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shuddering with a multitude of feelings. Tears pricked her eyes. “You really should pay more attention to your correspondence, sir.”

Jemima huddled into the shawl wrapped tightly around her.

“My correspondence?” Her guardian’s face was a study in puzzlement. He raked a hand through his hair, disturbing the arrangement of his curls.

“Yes, yours.”

“What has my correspondence got to do with you at this moment? Have not your own actions led us to this…Are you so fresh from the schoolroom that you do not know how to…to…”

Jemima let anger touch her voice. “Yes, I am fresh from the school room. The school where you sent me four years ago, uncle.”

He backed up to one of the cast iron benches and sat down hard. “Uncle?” He grasped his head in his hands, shaking it from side to side. “No, no. Stop calling me that. I am no one’s uncle.”

“Let me introduce myself properly.” She curtseyed. “My name is Jemima. Lily. Hardcastle. Ward to one Mr Edward Hardcastle Huntington. Recently graduated from Miss Blake’s Academy For Young Ladies.”

She saw the horrible recognition cross his features. Astonishment turned to anger.

“But you…your name is…Miss Castle…I do not understand…” His forehead rested in his palm, his expression tense.

Her face heated. She was filled with shame. “A slight counterfeit on my behalf. Not done to wound you.”

He dropped his hand, his face reddening. “Why you…you hoyden…you…you little flirt.”

Jemima sucked in a surprised breath at his insult. “Me? A flirt? But you…it was…”

“You led me on a pretty chase. And you knew who I was from that first moment. Didn’t you?”

A guilty flush stole up her neck and stained her cheeks.

He stood up and came forward and she held her ground. “All common decency should have led you to announce yourself straight away. Yet you deliberately concealed it from me. I cannot believe you would try to lure me this way, try to entangle me.” He rubbed his forehead, shaking his head.

She swallowed as he ranted at her. “I did nothing of the sort!”  Her hands curled into fists at her side.

Jemima’s turbulent emotions made it difficult to mount an argument as she was clearly in the wrong.

He glared at her. “No, you meant to wound me. How could you be so irresponsible and so spiteful?”

She blanched at that. “I found myself in a predicament and could not get out of it without causing all kinds of fuss.”

“That I do not believe. You excel in making a fuss. Had you spoken to me frankly in those moments when we were alone, we could have worked something out.”

Hands on her hips, Jemima’s anger settled nicely on her shoulders, replacing the shawl that slipped off. She could forgive him his wounded pride, his surprise and even his anger. However, it was not all her doing. “Do not lay all the blame on me. If you had paid more attention, you would have known who I was.”

“Outrageous girl. You used a different name.” He smoothed his hair as he paced in front of her. She noted with some guilt that his hand shook. He was rattled, and she was sorry for it. A little calmer, he asked, “What the devil do you do here, anyway? Why are you not at school? And for the record I’m not your uncle, I am a cousin several times removed or something.”

Jemima’s anger had still not left her. She lifted her chin higher, not to be intimidated by his superior height. “It perhaps escaped your notice that school is finished. Surely Miss Blake sent you notice of my graduation. You cannot keep me prisoner there forever. Besides I wrote to you seeking permission to join my friend Sylvia Horton for a short stay.”

He scratched his chin, his gaze distant. “I recollect the letter, but I do not recollect answering it. Moreover, I did not connect the circumstances of this family and you. As a friend of Heaton’s I was included in his invitation.” He stamped away a few steps, running clawed fingers through his hair. Then he whirled around to face her. “You have behaved most improperly. You should have told me straight up who and what you were to me.”

“I behaved improperly? It was you who kissed me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“What were you doing then? Practising dentistry?”

No longer restraining his anger, she could see any tenderness he may have felt toward her dissolve.

“I see that even Miss Blake did not succeed in curbing your wayward tendencies. You may mock me now, young lady, but you will not be staying here another day.”

Jemima sucked in a breath. “But I cannot up and leave. What will people say? Sylvia will be most upset.”

“You can and you will. Tomorrow to be precise. I will write a letter to my Aunt Prudence and she will join you presently at Willow Park. I will have my man, Fulton, accompany you and watch out for you until I return. Then we will see what we will do with you.”

“Do with me? I am not some baggage to be sent about. I am a person with feelings, a mind and a will.”

He took a step closer, his voice low. “As am I. You have outraged them fully.”

 

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