Chapter 15

15

M iriam was a tiny thing with a sweet round face and a thick Irish accent. Ellen missed half of what she said as she fussed around the dressing room, appalled to see that Ellen had already started unpacking her suitcase. She ran a hot bath without asking and scented it with pink beads that bubbled up and made the room smell like roses. While the tub was filling, she hustled Ellen to a vanity chair and pinned her hair up off her neck, then laid out a plush bath robe and two thick towels.

"You get yourself in there, Miss, and enjoy a good soak." She held up two of Ellen's recent purchases in London, a blue linen dress and a soft lilac two-piece suit. "If you tell me which of these you'd like to wear down to your supper, I'll steam out any wrinkles and have it ready before you finish your bath."

The dress was relatively simple compared to the price tag it had borne. A straight sheath with long sleeves and a square-cut neckline. But it had fit her perfectly and made her feel… elegant .

"The blue dress," she said.

Miriam smiled and nodded. "Lovely, Miss. Be back in a blink. Oh, and would you be liking a wee tot of something to warm you inside as well as out? Sherry, perhaps, or wine? Brandy?"

"I would kill for a brandy."

The girl giggled. "I'll fetch it right the way."

She bustled out and Ellen stripped down and stepped into the tub. She had been chilled since leaving her uncle's room and the hot bubble-bath was exactly what she needed.

Miriam reappeared a few moments later carrying a small silver tray that fit across the width of the tub. On it was a large crystal snifter with two fat fingers worth of a dark amber brandy inside.

Ellen took a long sip and sighed her thanks before sinking to her chin in the steamy water.

Miriam smiled and whispered, "Welcome home, Miss."

An hour later, Ellen was sufficiently warmed inside and out. Her new dress felt soft and expensive against her skin. Miriam had fussed with her hair despite being told there was no need; but she had looked so crushed, Ellen had perched on the vanity seat and let herself be pampered like some Edwardian miss.

The maid chattered while she fussed and Ellen learned that she had only been hired as a lady's maid two weeks ago, for the Keep had been without a mistress in residence for many years. But while she had been born in Dublin and sorely missed the emerald isle, Miriam's family had lived in the small village of Alford, for the past five years. She was one of twelve siblings—seven of them girls—and the first to have a long enough attention span to graduate from high school. She had scraped up enough money to pay her own way through beauty school, and because her fiancé, Kevin McCarthy, worked as a groundskeeper at the Keep, she was thrilled to have been hired on.

She had not known Henry Ward personally, but she hadn't heard anything creepy or weird—her words—about him other than he kept to himself and rarely went into town or appeared at any of the fêtes held on the castle grounds.

"Kind of like a Gothic hero in one of those romance books," she said. "Our Kevin said the master liked to watch the goings-on from behind the curtains in his bedroom. Kevin also said he liked to go over to the old keep and talk to the ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"Oh, aye. It wouldn't be a respectable castle if there wasn't a ghost or two roaming about the ruins. Why, there's a castle in Ireland that has a whole army of knights who ride out of the forest and along the coast when the air is crackling with a storm. Tales told say it is King Arthur and his knights of the round table. And of course, there is the headless Scottish Queen who haunts the Tower of London. ‘Tis said that was why Elizabeth's face was always so white, on account she murdered her own half sister and kept seeing her wandering through the corridors.

"Not that Kevin actually believes there is a ghost in the Keep, mind, but he did say he heard voices sometimes when he went to fetch the master for a meal or whatnot and the master was supposedly over there alone.

"Most times Master Henry went with Mr. Benjamin, who likes to dig around the old ruins and look for arty-facts. I never heard Mr. Benjamin say aught about ghosts, though if he did, I suppose it might be considered a bit creepy. At any rate, Master Henry was a lovely old gentleman, everyone says so, and was always good to his people. Gave lovely big bonuses at Christmas-time, birthdays and the like."

Ellen stared at her reflection. So…her uncle had been a recluse, a bit eccentric, but also a wonderful employer who spent his days hiding behind curtains and talking to ghosts in a decrepit old medieval tower.

Nothing to worry about there, Ellen thought. Nothing at all.

She found the dining room on the first pass but chose not to go inside right away. It was big and empty and she had no desire to be found sitting alone at the huge table taking inventory of the silverware.

Instead, she went to the next set of tall double doors and cautiously peeked inside. It was another large room, but it was filled with comfortable chairs and couches arranged in informal groups conducive to conversation. There were more portraits on the walls between shelves full of knick-knacks and figurines. Dominating all was a massive fireplace, the white marble carved to look like two scantily clad Grecian beauties balancing a mantle strung with realistically carved vines of ivy on their bare shoulders.

The next set of doors revealed a slightly smaller sitting room brightly lit by an attached solarium. The latter had a domed ceiling with spokes of wrought iron between the panes of glass and a border of leaded panels made to look like clusters of wisteria blooms trailing down. She deduced, from the table and chairs inside the solarium that this might be a cheerful place to enjoy breakfast or an afternoon cocktail. Both sides of the solarium had doors that led outside to a stone terrace, as did the sitting room.

Ellen glanced over her shoulder, but she was still very much on her own, so she took advantage of the time to walk through the sitting room and exit onto the terrace. It overlooked a small rose garden and a round, patterned maze of boxwood hedges kept trimmed to knee height. Beyond the maze and another wide stretch of lawn was a vegetable garden, and beyond that, the rear section of a tall, fieldstone wall. On the other side of it she could see the looming silhouette of Mercy Keep, it's ramparts tall and foreboding, silent and dark.

"There you are! We thought perhaps we'd lost you." Wormsley and Veronica came up behind her carrying glasses of white wine. Wormsley had two, one of which he handed to Ellen. "Veronica spied you through a window and thought you might be thirsty."

"You have uncanny insight," Ellen said, smiling as she accepted the glass. "I came downstairs a few minutes early and thought I would peek around a bit."

"Everything was to your satisfaction? The rooms? Abigail was charged with finding a suitable maid to see to your personal needs and I understand the girl is quite young."

"Miriam is very sweet. I don't really need a personal maid, but—"

"But you are who you are now: an heiress of considerable means. There are, literally, over a hundred cards and invitations stacked on the desk in the library, some from curious neighbors but most from local businesses and charities hoping to wedge a foot in the door. I will ask Benjamin to keep a sharp eye on the front gates to deter unwanted guests. I've often thought it was a shame the drawbridge was disabled."

Ellen took a sip of wine then rubbed her free hand down her arm .

"Come along inside before the dampness settles into you. I believe I heard the old dragon stalking down the hallway a moment ago in search of us.

Ellen started to walk back to the doors but halted and glanced over her shoulder. "What is that rumbling noise?"

Wormsley pointed to the dark shadow of the old keep. "The northern ramparts of the castle are built along the edge of the cliffs. That sound you hear is the sea crashing up against the base several hundred feet below. It is quite a hair-raising view from the rooftop, but thankfully the access has been padlocked for several years following a fatal fall."

"Henry's wife? My Aunt Rachel?"

Wormsley hesitated, but nodded. "She suffered from severe depression. We came close to losing Henry the same way before…"

Ellen waited, then offered up a prompt. "Before…?"

Wormsley's expression cleared. "Well, before he came to the realization it was not his time to die. And there is the dinner chime. Come along and pray it is not Abigail's shepherd's pie."

The shepherd's pie was glutenous and bland. It was served with scorched carrots, peas drowned in a butter sauce, followed by a desert of store-bought lemon cakes and tinned pears. It was announced at the outset that until Mrs. Winklebottom had been advised of Ellen's arrival, she had seen no need to employ a full time cook. And because they were a day early, so too was the return of Mrs. Amborski, the cook. She would be fetched in the morning and be back in time for luncheon.

Ben had been the last to arrive, offering up profuse apologies. He had shaved his chiselled jaw clean and his long hair framed his face like dark silk. He wore a slate gray sports jacket over a pale gray dress shirt and a green tie. That was where his concession to formality ended, for he still wore jeans, albeit clean blue ones.

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine which, Wormsley pointed out, was in endless supply.

"A stroll through the wine cellar is like a stroll through history," he said. "Brush the dust away and you will find the Napoleonic crest on a store of brandies large enough to make your spine tingle. Henry's two loves, in his later years, were his wine cellar and horses."

"Horses?" Ellen asked.

Wormsley waved a hand. "There used to be quite a few back when riding to the hunt was popular, but Henry considered the foxes to be cruel victims and so he saw no need to keep more than a dozen or so. Horses, that is. Not foxes."

"A dozen horses," she repeated.

"The very best way to see the grounds and the surrounding countryside. I'm sure Benjamin would be pleased to take you out and about so you can gain a full appreciation of the land you have inherited. Do you ride?"

She wondered if he considered the act of sitting on a pony at a birthday party the same as riding? She did not dare look at Ben in case she might actually be forced to commit herself to an outing.

"There are also eight cars and a jeep at your disposal, none of the models very recent, I'm afraid, because once again, your uncle's tastes were somewhat removed from anything too modern."

"None of the models are recent because most of the cars are classics," Benjamin said, shaking his head and smiling. "Collectors would happily give their eye teeth to own any one of them. You do drive, do you not? I've heard the traffic in New York is such that people rely on taxis most of the time and driving has become somewhat of a specialized skill."

"I have my license," Ellen said, unsure whether to smile or resent the fact he let her get away with the horseback riding but not the cars. "Though it may take me a little time to get accustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road."

Benjamin poked his fork into one of the carrots, frowning when it was instantly reduced to mush. "The reason why we drive on the left side of the road is because swordsmen required their right arms free to fight any footpads or enemies they might encounter on the roadway. Not quite sure why the colonists chose to change the practice when they migrated across the ocean. No doubt it was part of their rebellious nature."

"Or perhaps because by then we had muskets instead of swords and when we were fighting for our independence, it didn't matter what side of the road we shot from."

He looked up and Ellen felt the full impact of his eyes. His smile was slow to form, part wolfish, part enticing and it seemed as though he was caught between deciding whether he should patronize her or cut her to the bone to see if she could handle herself.

Ellen tipped her head and smiled an invitation.

Wormsley interceded. "Abigail tells me you saw your uncle's room. And the portrait of your grandmother."

Ellen's gaze slid away from Ben's and she nodded. "Yes. The likeness is a bit startling; I have to admit."

"I should think ‘startling' is quite the understatement. You are identical in every way, and should anyone doubt who you are or challenge your right of inheritance, the proof is plainly there for anyone to see. "

"Why should anyone doubt who I am?"

Wormsley dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. "My dear, with a legacy of this size and importance, there are always bloodhounds sniffing about. Charities will be looking for donations. Long lost friends will appear who you don't remember because they never were. Moreover, as soon as your presence becomes known here at Mercy Keep… and I expect the postmistress, Mrs. Bunkin, has already seen to that… reporters, people from the tabloids, gossipmongers of all means and measures will be clamoring for an audience. Especially after they learn you are an American. The English get quite indignant at the idea of outsiders presuming to intrude on this side of the pond."

"It was not my idea to intrude," she said softly.

"No. No of course it wasn't, my dear. You were certainly not consulted when your father made his decision to emigrate. It is just the nature of some people to want what others have, which always seems to hold doubly true when it comes to money and inheritances. Greed is a vicious motivator. I have seen families torn apart over a few thousand dollars."

Veronica chose that moment to yawn widely enough to inhale half the oxygen in the room.

"Beggin' your pardon," she said, noting everyone's stare. "But it's been a bloody long day."

"Indeed, it has," Wormsley agreed. "Dessert is gone, thank God, and may we never see prune cake again. My wine glass is empty, and I confess the thought of finding a pillow and closing my eyes is quite appealing. No need for you two youngsters to retire so early," he added, waving a hand at Ben and Ellen, "but Veronica and I need to recharge our batteries, so to speak. If you will excuse us, we shall adjourn for the evening and meet again over breakfast at, say, nine-ish? After which I shall be delighted to take you on a tour around the house and grounds."

"Nine o'clock sounds perfect," Ellen said.

Wormsley helped Veronica to her feet, then the two bid their goodnights and left Ellen and Benjamin Chase alone at the table. Neither spoke right away, but Ben did reach up and slide a finger under his collar to loosen his tie.

"Feel free to take it off, if you like," Ellen said. "I am probably the least formal person you are likely to meet."

He did not need to be told twice and a moment later the tie was folded and tucked into his pocket. The top two buttons on his shirt were undone next and he rubbed his neck with a gratified sigh.

"Please don't feel you have to stay and keep me company. If you prefer to retire…"

"Actually, I would prefer a comfortable chair and some of Henry's good whisky." His smile was genuine as he stood. "Have you seen the library yet?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well then, allow me to give you the mini-tour."

She stood and accompanied him out into the main hallway. Even wearing her new shoes with three-inch heels, he was half a head taller than her. And his hand, when it touched her waist to gently guide her to the left, felt warm and sat naturally in the curve.

A second long, wide hall behind the split staircase formed a T and revealed at least a dozen sets of tall double doors leading off to other rooms. He indicated a right turn this time and took her almost to the end of the hallway before stopping in front of a set of double doors. He stepped inside first and flipped several light switches, which controlled a dozen or so lamps positioned around the enormous room. None gave off any harsh glare, which suited a solemn space comprised mostly of row upon row of bookshelves.

The ceiling rose two storeys high, with a railed catwalk circling the entire room. Sliding ladders gave access to the uppermost shelves on the main level, while a black iron spiral staircase in the corner led up to the catwalk. An open fireplace was at one end, with a massive wooden mantel spanned the ten-foot-wide hearth. An equally huge desk had a place of honor in front of the fireplace, while groupings of comfortably padded chairs were placed in front of each of the six double sets of windows. The smell reminded Ellen of her college library; old books and leather with just an underlying hint of pipe tobacco. The wood was dark, crowned with ornate moulding surrounding a ceiling with another elaborate quatrefoil pattern.

Ben walked over to a sideboard and poured two glasses of Teeling Single Malt and carried them both to where Ellen stood looking up in awe at all the books.

"The glass cases over there that look like large refrigerators," he said, pointing, "are temperature and humidity controlled. They hold the first editions. Seven or eight hundred of them, I think. The rest are organized by centuries rather than by following an alphabetical order; a peculiar system begun a few generations ago."

Ellen thought of the dusty bookstore in Nottingham. "How on earth do you find something if you want to read about a particular subject?"

"You look it up on the extremely efficient computer system. Every book is catalogued by title, author, and subject matter. Every new purchase is entered before it finds a place on a shelf and God spare the lout who reads and returns a book to the wrong place. This library is one of the few things around here that is kept shockingly well organized. If you look carefully, you will see a small number engraved at the end of each shelf. You can locate any book you want in under thirty seconds. As you can probably guess, the medieval section is by far the largest."

He touched her arm and indicated a second large glass case.

"This contains some of the documents, letters, books that have been found in the ruins of the castle. A good many more have been given to libraries and museums over the years, as have some of the original tapestries and paintings."

He paused to take a sip from his glass and Ellen debated whether she should tell him about the Langton paper or wait until Wormsley was present. She was fairly certain the lawyer would want to be in the thick of it, so she sipped her own whisky and followed the professor as he moved on to the next point of interest.

"When Ethan shows you around tomorrow, he will undoubtedly take you to see the armor room, where some amazing pieces are on display. Pieces like that," he said, pointing to a pair of crossed swords that were hanging above the fireplace.

The blades of each weapon were at least four feet long with thick iron hilts engraved and studded with jewels.

"Magnificent, are they not? Henry and I found them in a storeroom in the undercroft of the Keep. French made, likely taken as trophies in the Hundred Years War."

"How on earth did anyone lift one of those, let alone fight with it?"

"They are deceptively light, weighing between four and five pounds at most. And the balance is nothing short of amazing. I'm not saying it was any easy matter to bash away at someone on the battlefield with one of those, but knights of old trained vigorously for many years. Their wrists and arms were like steel and they were accustomed to wearing upward of forty pounds of armor.

"Now muskets," he led her to a second display, "they were a different story. They could weigh anywhere between ten and twenty pounds with the heavier harquebus needing a Y shaped support to steady and fire it. They were also a bitch to reload, having to swab out the barrel, feed a shot down the tube and ram it in tight with wadding, then prime the pan with powder and light it… all without blowing off your face. I have fired one in a re-enactment and the recoil almost lifted me off my feet. I suspect that was why bows and arrows remained popular for several hundred years. Portable, lightweight… am I boring you?"

Ellen turned to him, startled. "No, not at all. Why would you ask?"

"I tend to rattle on when it comes to anything medieval. Weaponry in particular. Knights, archers—"

"Robin Hood? He was supposedly England's best archer."

If she was anticipating a sarcastic laugh or another of his patronizing looks, she was mistaken.

"There would be no Robin-in-the-Hood legend without the longbow, it being his weapon of choice. And yes, both he and his sister were deadly, expert archers."

"His sister? I thought Robin Hood was a compilation of many men rolled into one."

"The legend of Robin Hood was most likely a compilation of many feats by many men. But, as with every legend, there had to have been the germ of a seed sown to begin it. The identity, indeed the existence of who may or may not have been the real Robin Hood is one of the grand mysteries of medieval England. Volumes have been written claiming him to have been Robert, Earl of Huntington or Robert Hode of Loxley, both very real men, but neither one meeting all of the criteria of time, place, and recorded deeds. Complicating matters, Robert was popular name at the time and ‘Robin' was the common diminutive. And if that wasn't enough to muddy the waters, the name Robin Hood was used like your John Doe by sheriffs and bailiffs all over England when the real name of a victim or criminal was unknown."

"Yet you seem confident you have found another Robin who might fit that criteria? Enough to say that he has a sister?"

Ben smiled. "I thrive on unravelling mysteries and I will admit the local lore has always fascinated me. It was one of the reasons I came to Mercy Keep in the first place. The Robin I found most intriguing happened to be the grandson of the nobleman who built Bloodmoor Keep, Draggan Wardieu. He had two sons, one of which, Lucien, became a legend in his own right as champion to the dowager queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. In turn, he had two sons, Eduard and Robert. It was the latter who was also referred to as ‘Robin'. He is mentioned several times in the old chansons having earned himself quite a reputation in the lists. Apparently, his skill as an archer was equally impressive, though I have reason to doubt he deserved all of the accolades. As it happens, women archers were more common than one would suppose, so attributing the skills of a sister to a brother would not have been too much of a stretch."

"Enndolynn Ware was an archer."

Ben's smile took on a slight tilt along with his head. "Now how would you know that?"

"Because she refers to herself as Ellyn the Fletcher in her journal. If her trade was making arrows, it would follow that she knew how to shoot them. "

He blinked and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "Her journal? Are you referring to the rose folio?"

"Her handwriting is more of a scrawl but I have managed a couple of pages and they seemed to be wanting to tell a story."

He was staring. "You were able to read the pages in the rose folio?"

"As I said, not well between blots of ink and odd spellings, but—"

"You were able to read them?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I could read them. Why do you seem so surprised? I grant you I am not as well versed in Olde English as a scholar of medieval studies might be, but—"

"My dear Miss Bowe. I am a scholar of medieval studies and I could not read them. Henry showed me a few of the pages but I could not make heads or tails of the language. I faxed copies to half a dozen historians and scholars of medieval literature, but the best they could come up with was possibly some variation of archaic Romany. And since there was Romany blood in the line, it was as good a guess as any. But Henry could not read a word of it. His mother… your grandmother could, but to him, as to me and anyone else who looked at the pages, the writing was pure gibberish."

Ellen felt the skin across the back of her neck prickle. "Okay-y-y that's not creeping the shit out of me. Not at all."

"I think it's bloody fascinating. Mysterious, intriguing, and bloody fascinating."

"For you, perhaps. For me it's just… bloody weird. Ethan mentioned it was an archaic language, but he obviously left out a few details."

"Perhaps he thought you'd had enough to absorb. "

She shook her head, drained her glass, and held it out for a refill. After Ben obliged, he topped up his own and swirled the contents, his forehead creased in a frown.

"You know… I had a brilliant speech prepared on how invaluable my services are both here in the manor house and at the Keep. I even went so far as to rehearse it in front of Mrs. Winklebottom, risking her input, for what that's worth. But it all sort of falls by the wayside in lieu of simply asking if I still have a job here. If so, I would happily offer up my left arm if you could share some insights into Enndolynn Ware's world."

"You know she was accused of being a witch."

He nodded. "Henry did tell me that much, although it was more of a slip of the tongue after a few whiskies. After he let that slip, he said his mother had read to him from the diary but he was oddly hesitant about sharing anything more with me, I don't know why." He paused and looked around at the towering shelves full of books. "I always had the feeling she had told him some deep dark secret about this place, about his ancestors. He was the one who sent me on the hunt back through the centuries to find out what I could about the lineage of the owners. In fact, it was one of the reasons he hired me, and why he gave me room and board and let me putter about the Keep in my spare time."

"Did you find anything odd?"

"Not a damned thing. As in all matters pertaining to the peerage, precise records of inheritance were kept. Quite amazing to trace how the various branches of the Wardieu family have spread out across Europe and the rest of the world via marriages and progeny… including, of course, America."

Ellen digested that for a moment and sipped on the deliciously smooth whisky .

"Miriam said that you and my uncle spent a great deal of time together exploring the ruins. She also seemed to think that Henry used to converse regularly with the ghosts who reside there."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "The Irish have grand imaginations. Hard to find one who doesn't believe in faeries and leprechauns. On the other hand, like strange words in an unknown language—cue spooky music—they may only appear to those fated to see them."

"An excellent non-answer, if I might say. And hardly reassuring."

He laughed. "Well no one here in the manor house has ever heard rattling chains or screams in the dead of night, so I think you are quite safe."

"What about in the Keep?"

"Castles, legends, the romance of knights and outlaws and damsels in distress can inspire the imagination, and some people tend to see what they want to see."

He had a seductive smile and a husky, no-fake-shit laugh, and Ellen could understand why her uncle… why the entire household liked him. He was an infinitely likeable guy and easy to talk to. Rational as well.

She thought of her own ‘visions' of a girl dressed like one of Robin Hood's merry men and she could see how jet lag, lack of sleep, plus castles and inheritances and everything else that had been heaped on her since stepping foot inside Ethan Wormsley's office might cause a sensory overload. It was a wonder she didn't see pink elephants and little green men running about.

She took another sip from her glass. "What did Mrs. Winklebottom think about your speech?"

"I beg your pardon? "

"You said you had a speech all prepared asking if you still had a job here."

"Ah. Yes." He huffed out a breath. "Well… she found it wanting in a few places, but basically thought it adequate."

"Offering up the left arm may be a little dramatic, but if Mrs. Winklebottom liked your speech, who am I to disagree. I'm not sure how much influence I have at the moment with regards to hiring or firing, but as far as I'm concerned, of course you still have your job here. For at least a year and a day. In fact, Ethan suggested you might take me on a tour of the old Keep."

"I should be delighted to do so," he said with a cavalier bow. "There are parts that are unsafe, and others that are downright dangerous, so it is sound advice not to roam around on your own until you know your way around, but yes. I would be pleased to take you up and show you the Keep."

"Wander up there on my own? In a possibly haunted castle?" She almost snorted. "I've seen enough horror films to know that's the last thing in a million years the na?ve visitor should do. And most certainly not after dark."

He grinned and finished the last of his whisky in one large swallow then set the glass on a side table.

"Much as I have enjoyed this evening, Abigail has conscripted me to drive to Cambridgeshire and fetch the cook. It is a ninety-minute drive both ways, so I can't afford to be rendered legless tonight."

"I'm thoroughly done as well." She looked uncertain about just setting her glass down, but he plucked it lightly out of her hand and put it beside his.

"The gremlins come out at night and anything that does not belong where they find it, magically vanishes. Furniture is set back to rights; surfaces are waxed and polished. You won't find a water mark or speck of dust anywhere."

He accompanied her out into the hallway and along to the bottom of the grand staircase, where he abandoned her with a formal English bow.

"I do hope you have a good night's sleep and… may I say: Welcome to Mercy Keep."

"Thank you. I think." Ellen smiled, and turned to go up the stairs. Halfway up, she felt the prickling across the nape of her neck again and had a sudden image of Rhett Butler leaning on the banister watching Scarlet climb the stairs of Tara. But when she glanced back, Ben was gone and the foyer was empty.

By some miracle, she found her way back to the burgundy room without any wrong turns.

Miriam had turned down the sheets and, having correctly surmised the long jersey nightshirt with dogs all over it was what Ellen slept in, laid it across the chair in the dressing room.

Ellen's head was only spinning slightly as she changed and carefully hung the blue dress in one of the embarrassingly empty closets. She tried not to think too much about what Ben had said about the folio, about scholars being unable to read it. Her brain was overloaded enough already. Thinking back, however, she did remember the odd look on Ethan's face when she said she had read some of Enndolynn's writing, but then they had both been distracted at the mention of the document written by Stephen Langton.

She washed her face and brushed out her hair. Teeth flossed and cleaned, she turned out the light and started to wander back into the bedroom, but stopped. Testing her memory, she retraced her steps to the door to the adjoining bathroom and tried the handle. She was right. Abigail had not locked it again after they exited.

Ellen turned the knob and pushed the door open. She walked through to her uncle's dressing room and groped the wall until she found a light switch. She went through to the master bedroom, groped around a bit more and found a lamp.

Her grandmother's portrait loomed out of the shadows above her. It was a crazy likeness, right down to the shape of her lips and how her smile pulled slightly back to one side, like she knew something no one else knew.

"What deep, dark secret did you know?" she asked in a whisper.

The painting remained silent.

Her grandmother's face was lovely and serene but it was obviously not going to share anything with Ellen tonight.

Ellen switched off the lamp and returned to her uncle's dressing room. She stood for a moment looking at all the racks of men's clothes, shirts, sweaters, boots. There was a tray of watches on a shelf, another of cufflinks. A small leather box held several heavy gold rings. Moving over to a rack of tweet jackets, she smiled, noting that most of them had suede patches on the elbows, the same eccentric fashion Ethan favored. She made a mental note to ask him if he would like any of them.

Not all the contents were casual. There was a rack of suits in varying shades of black, blue, and pinstripe, and at least a dozen tuxedos that she could see. Even several tailcoats—penguin suits her father had called them.

Mrs. Winklebottom had said the local vicar would be only too happy to take all of the clothes and Ellen supposed that was where they should go.

There were two curiously tall closets at the end of the long row and she was more than a little surprised to open them and find the racks full of dresses. Lovely, elegant dresses, some formal, some plain but, like her simple blue silk dress, no doubt very expensive. She and her aunt looked to be about the same size… not that she would give a thought to wearing the dead woman's clothes… but the garments had obviously meant something to her uncle if he had kept them after his wife's death.

Her eyes were drawn to a splash of soft yellow and she pushed the neighboring garments aside to see the most beautiful velvet gown, floor length, with lacing running up the side and a very low neckline. It looked more like a costume than a dress, for the sleeves were long, and bell-shaped, the cuffs falling into points that almost reached the hem of the skirt. A belt made of gold links was draped around the waist, the ends sparkling with a large clear jewel.

Yellow was far from Ellen's favorite color, but curiosity got the better of her and she took it out of the closet and held up against her body, checking her reflection in an ornate oval wall mirror.

Ellen gasped and dropped the dress.

Someone was staring back at her. The face reflected in the mirror was hers. Yet it was not hers. The lips were rounder, fuller, the jawline firmer, the eyebrows honey-colored but shaped naturally and left unplucked. The hair was the same silvery-gold scattered around her shoulders, the eyes the same pale blue that were looking back at her with the same expression of surprise.

Ellen exhaled softly.

It was the girl she had seen twice before; once in the window of the bookshop and again at the edge of the forest as they had driven up to Mercy Keep. Then she had been wearing brown leather pants and a brown tunic, but this time, where Ellen's nightshirt was covered with dogs, the woman in the reflection wore a plain white shift made of some thin homespun fabric. Behind her was a wall of cold gray stone painted with a mural that depicted a man on horseback riding across an open field. Hounds were running alongside, and in the distance, at the top of a hill, was a stag with a tall rack of horns.

Ellen turned instinctively and glanced over her shoulder. Immediately behind her was a bank of dark wooden shelves piled with her uncle's sweaters.

When she dared to look at the mirror again, she saw only her own reflection. It was her face, her groomed eyebrows, her round shocked eyes, her own nightshirt with dogs racing all over it.

She started to reach her hand out to touch the glass surface but jerked it back and quickly bent over to retrieve the yellow dress. She returned it to the rack then slammed the closet doors shut and avoided looking into the mirror again as she hurried past and returned to her room.

There, she jumped straight into bed without turning off the lights and pulled the covers up to her chin.

Too much wine for dinner, too much whisky afterward in the library, she thought. A very bad move to mix them. That and talking about ghosts and journals no one could read… then snooping through a dead woman's clothes…

She closed her eyes to stop the room from spinning and Abigail Winklebottom's words came back to her in a faint echo: Keep your wits about you. There is more to this house than ordinary folk might think.