The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,31
no reason not to return to Foxwood.
Cross pressed his hand flat against his jacket. He could feel the heart pulse, even through multiple layers of cloth. Its steady rhythm mocked his racing thoughts, darting to and fro, circling but not acknowledging the thought waiting at the back of his mind.
Thomas shut his eyes. Once they returned to Foxwood, Pip would be safe, and Thomas’ protection no longer necessary. He must accept the fact that his time was through, that Pip had no more need of him…
An unpleasant duty. Cross swallowed, the muscles in his chest and neck tightening almost to breaking point. A duty not made more palatable by waiting. No, he must go now to Pip and tell him all.
A sound caught his attention. Further along the dim passageway ahead of him, footsteps mingled with the sound of fabric dragging along the floor. A cloak or perhaps—a funerary shroud? Cross started down the passage. “Who is there?”
No response, but the footsteps quickened.
Cross picked up his pace. The hall ended in a tower, a stone staircase winding up to the next floor above. Dead leaves rested on the stairs, but he could glimpse no trees through the windows. The air was heavy with the peculiar aroma of autumn woods.
The staircase ended in a locked door. Cross listened, but could discern no sounds within. As he descended the stairs, he noticed that a landing door stood ajar. He stepped out onto a landing.
The air was musty, thick with neglect. Obviously no one used this particular wing of the castle. No one? No—there was a trail of footsteps discernibly among the dusty passage.
A voice sounded up ahead, a woman’s voice, raised in passionate argument. Cross placed his walking stick flat on the floor. He stole closer, moving as quietly as possible. Miss O’Flaherty’s voice—but who was she arguing with?
He reached the door, levering it open with care.
Miss O’Flaherty stood with her back to him, gazing at the window. She wore a white gown, and a tangled vein over her hair, which hung in loose curls to her shoulders. She clasped her hands to her breast. “There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies. That's for thoughts.”
Cross frowned. He had heard those words before. Rosemary for remembrance—
Miss O’Flaherty paused, as if in response to an unspoken reply. She continued, her voice an eerie sing-song. “There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it—“ She stopped. “What do we call it?” She turned towards Cross. She did not wear her glasses. Her gaze passed over him with no sign of recognition. She stepped forward, feeling for a side table on which was placed her spectacles and an open copy of Hamlet.
Much made sense.
“Rehearsing, Miss O’Flaherty?”
She jumped, her arm catching the side of the incidental table and sending both book and glasses to the floor. Her cry of dismay was genuine.
“Allow me.” Cross knelt. He gathered up the glasses, giving them to Miss O’Flaherty, before returning to the book. “I’m afraid I’ve lost your page. You don’t remember the scene?”
She twisted her hands in the fabric of her dress. “Lord Cross, please, I must beg you—do not tell my mother of this. She will be furious.”
Cross held out the copy of Hamlet to her. “Do I speak to Ophelia—or the banshee of Connaught Castle?”
She flushed. “It was not supposed to happen that way. You must believe me—I never intended it to go so far.”
Cross took her hand, placing the book within it. “Why don’t you tell me all about?”
The fading afternoon sun caught the edges of the veil as if Miss O’Flaherty stood under stage lights. Her ethereal beauty was exaggerated. She would have made a wonderful Ophelia—if not for the glasses she was currently polishing.
“Mama and I had one of our arguments. I didn’t want to sit here and watch Cousin James destroy everything that made Connaught Castle home. I wanted to set out and make something of myself. Mama wouldn’t hear of me going on stage. She said I didn’t have the memory or the vision. That I could not perform without my glasses, without doing myself, or others, an injury. I decided to prove her wrong.”
She replaced her glasses. “On fine evenings, Cousin James often likes to sit outside. I was reasonably sure that mother would accompany him. I decided to give them a performance they would not forget.”
“You certainly did that. From what Mr Leighton has told