Brighid Glace is not a witch, no
matter how many times Blake Chetwey has called her one. She's a healer and he
should be quite grateful she is too. Without her abilities, he might not
survive his holiday at haunted Marisdùn Castle
when another bout of Malaria hits him. But should anything terrible ever befall
Blake, Brighid would never forgive herself if she didn't do all she could to
save him. Her heart would never survive otherwise.
After years of denying that
Brighid’s mere presence affects him in ways he can't understand, Blake's future
is now in her hands. She is lovely, and enchanting, and only a witch could make
him feel such things. Was his fevered state causing him to see her in a
different light or could he no longer deny what he has tried to ignore? And
would he now lose her to a friend?
** This novella originally appeared
in “One Haunted Evening”, an anthology.
Her Muse, Her Magic
Copyright © 2015 by
Jane Charles
Blake Chetwey pulled his
greatcoat close around him and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling
together. With each bump in the road, his body protested in pain. Bloody hell!
Now was not the time for another episode. Not that there was ever a good time,
but he had been looking forward to the coming weeks and the party his hosts
were planning. What healthy gentleman did not look forward to a celebration
where young ladies might not wear undergarments?
He groaned. He was far
from healthy at the moment and could only pray that this episode was of a short
duration. Malaria! That is what the doctor in Barbados had called it and warned
him that he would most likely have recurrent attacks, without warning and for
no apparent reason, in the coming years before the disease had purged itself
from his body.
Blake turned his head to
look out the window at the passing scenery. He should have had the driver take
the road to Tolbright a few miles back. Beyond the small town was Torrington
Abbey, his home for a good portion of his life, and the estate he would one day
inherit from his uncle, the Earl of Torrington.
He preferred to suffer through this episode
in his own bed instead of the haunted Marisdùn
Castle. Not that the Abbey wasn’t haunted. Well, at least it was for a short
time, but Blake never saw evidence of the rumored ghost to be roaming the halls
either. And could he really consider the last haunting to be an actual
haunting?
“Do you really believe Marisdùn
Castle to be haunted?” David Thorn asked from across the carriage.
Had the man been reading his
mind? Blake assumed Thorn was thinking about ladies without drawers. It was a
favorite pastime of his. Blake simply shrugged. Who was he to decide if a place
was haunted or not? A year ago he would have scoffed at the idea. Not any
longer.
“And, is it true that Patrick
Delaney once haunted Torrington Abbey?” Thorn continued. “Or did you invent the
entire story?”
Blake groaned and glanced at
his friend from the corner of his eye. He should never have told Thorn or the
others about what Delaney and his sister, Laura, believed. If he hadn’t been in
his cups following the races, he would never have breathed a word of their
story, of how Delany had hovered between life and death after being attacked
and left for dead, and how his spirit left his body and had gone to Laura to
what they assume was to deliver the message that was intended for her, though
he couldn’t recall what the message was until he awoke, alive, and in his own
body. Blake didn’t understand it all; and doubted that he ever would. It was
Brighid’s explanation that when Patrick hovered closer to death, his spirit was
set free and not chained to his body. Though nobody could ever explain why
Laura had been the only living person
able to see Patrick, even though he’d been in the presences of Blake’s aunt and
uncle, as well as servants and other guests at Torrington Abbey. Brighid
believed it was because Patrick sought only Laura as she is who Delany was on
his to see.
He snorted and returned his
gaze out the window. Brighid Glace is a charming yet odd young woman. If
Patrick had haunted Torrington for a bit, then Brighid truly was a witch, as he
always accused her of being. However, he was certain there was a reasonable explanation
for what Patrick experienced. He simply hadn’t discovered them yet.
“Well, did you?”
Oh yes, he had forgotten to
answer Thorn. Why was he having such a difficult time concentrating? Could it
be because he was so cold, or maybe it was the headache he could no longer
ignore? “You’ll have to ask Delaney.”
“I’ll make sure Braden sends an
invitation so I can find out for myself.” Thorn glanced out the window as the
carriage began to slow. “I believe we are here.”
Blake didn’t rise to see for
himself. He knew what Marisdùn Castle looked like. As long as it had a warm
room and soft bed he didn’t care if it was haunted by two dozen ghosts. They
just needed to leave him alone so he could rest until this episode passed.
The carriage rolled to a stop,
and a moment later the driver opened the door. Blake jerked away from the
bright light that flooded the interior of the carriage.
“You don’t look so well,”
Thorn observed.
Blake waved him away. “I
just need rest.” He pushed himself to the end of the seat and tried to stand.
His legs protested and his body screamed in pain.
“Are you having an
episode?” Thorn’s brow was marred with concern.
He could only give a slow
nod before letting his head rest against the squabs.
* * *
Brighid Glace tied the
strings of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I shan’t be long, grandmother.”
“Where are you off to?”
the older woman asked from her chair beside the fire.
“I told you.” She offered
the woman a loving smile. “I am to go into Ravenglass.”
“I don’t know why you
can’t go into Tolbright,” grandmother grumbled. She never liked Ravenglass, and
Brighid never understood why, except grandmother always claimed the people had
strange ideas and superstitions.
Brighid grinned. “We
can’t get Daphne Alcott’s rum butter in Tolbright,
and I promised to bring Spikenard, Monk’s-Hood, and Horehound to Mrs. Small at
Marisdùn Castle. They have none of their own left.” She paused in thought. “I
should really see about harvesting the remaining herbs before winter sets
in.”
The
older woman frowned deeply. “I don’t see why they can’t gather their own herbs.
Besides, Ravenglass boasts a fine doctor.”
“The servants don’t have the time to tend the
garden, nor anyone who has learned the use and preparation of medicinals since
the Widow Wythe passed.” Brighid chastised. “Besides, they don’t wish to send
for Dr. Alcott each time one of them has a slight cough or minor injury, and
our family were the healers at Marisdùn Castle long ago. It is only right we
continue to help when asked.”
“Maybe
you should teach someone so you aren’t running off there so often.”
Brighid
bent to pick up her basket full of herbs. “That is exactly what I intend to do,
if someone will agree.” Since the Widow Wythe passed on, Brighid had seen to
the care of the medicinal garden nestled behind the kitchens and herbarium. It
wasn’t part of the vast, carefully manicured and well-tended gardens on the
rest of the grounds but a purposeful array of plants with no thought to color.
They served to heal not to be viewed for their beauty. That isn’t to say it
wasn’t a pretty garden. She loved sitting in the middle of it, on the flat,
dark, round stone. There were a few benches at the edge, but she rarely sat
there. For the oddest reason, the stone always warmed her, even on the coolest
days.
“Just
like your mother, off and about, nursing the sick when you should be tending
your family,” her grandmother grumbled.
Brighid
pursed her lips together to keep from responding. Her mother had been a healer.
With only one doctor in the area, sometimes she had been needed to treat the
ill and act as a midwife until the physician could arrive. It was just a shame
that the one person her mother had been unable to help was her own husband. Her
mother had not been the same after she could not cure the illness that caused
father’s death and soon followed him to the grave. Brighid suspected it was
more from a broken heart than anything else.
Besides,
her grandmother did not need tending. The woman may be getting on in years, but
she was strong, healthy, active, and possessed all her faculties, even if she
could be unpleasant at times. It was she who did the cooking and most of the
cleaning in their house. Her brother, Cavan, was home only long enough to eat
and sleep. If he wasn’t working the land and dairy, he was in Torrington with
his friends.
“Just
don’t be long,” her grandmother insisted.
Brighid paused at the
door and stared down into her basket.
She should take Wormwood. Had Mrs. Small requested this medicinal herb
as well? She couldn’t recall but knew she needed to take it anyway. Brighid no
longer questioned these odd sensations or thoughts. Her mother termed them a
gift, and she listened to them every time.
No comments:
Post a Comment