Читать книгу Keep Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 7

James Chadwick stared at the papers spread on the leather-topped satinwood desk. He’d checked three times and scoured every single paper in the deed box. This was all there was. The pile spread out in front of him included his own birth certificate and those of his mother, uncle, and grandparents. Marriage and death certificates for his grandparents and death certificates for his great grandparents. Heck, even a stack of outdated passports and driver’s licenses and his parents’ marriage certificate dated six months before his birth. Interesting! But most interesting was reading his parents’ names: Rachel Stephanie Amy Caughleigh and Roger Alexander Chadwick. Amy, spinster, aged seventeen and Roger, retired solicitor, aged sixty-six. Crap almighty! May and December wasn’t in it. What wouldn’t he give to know the story behind that? A rushed marriage with Sebastian putting leverage on his younger sister? Or was it his grandparents? They had still been alive then. Just. They’d both died in a car crash a year after the shotgun wedding.

James let out a slow whistle. Seems the Caughleighs had a couple of eventful years. His parents’ marriage, his father’s death from heart failure five months after his birth, his grandparents’ accident, and then his own mother’s death.

Except that as punctilious as dear Uncle Sebastian had been about record keeping, Amy Chadwick’s death certificate was missing. Odd. Extremely odd.

James thought back to the little he remembered about his mother. She was fun; she laughed and played with him. Why not? She’d been not yet eighteen when he was born and twenty-four when she’d disappeared, and only a few months after that, he’d been told she was dead, and Uncle Sebastian had left him with old Sarah Wallace when he went off to the funeral in…

Damn! He could not remember. He had to have been told, surely? But at six, he’d scarcely grasped what it meant that his mother was dead. Never to come back. Ever.

Odd, thinking back, but ole Uncle Sebby had never been inclined to speak of his sister. The few times James had asked, he’d been brushed off. Not really surprising. Sebastian always brushed off anything he didn’t want to be bothered about. It had only been a year later that Sebastian had yanked him out of the village school and packed seven-year-old James off to boarding school.

James couldn’t resist a dry chuckle. He’d been so lonely for a few weeks, he’d even missed miserable old Sarah and the moustache that tickled when she kissed him good night. He’d spent half his childhood making up tales of his mother returning. She’d been snatched by fairies, been off visiting the King of Siam, or been captured by pirates and unable to escape.

Wild, childish hopes and dreams.

But why the missing death certificate?

Was she not dead? Had she run off and stayed away? Life with Sebastian had to have been pretty confining for a young woman, but damn it—why leave him behind? He remembered it so clearly. She’d kissed him, tucking a Penguin in his hand as a treat for being a good boy, and promised to be there when he came out of school. Every other day she’d been waiting at the gate. That day she wasn’t. Where the frigging hell had she gone? And why?

James twisted the swivel chair from side to side, frowning to himself. It was enough to send him back to the bottle, but he’d sworn off the stuff a year ago after he’d woken up, on his back, in the middle of a field with no idea how he’d landed there and suffering the worst headache of his life. His sudden temperance earned him a ribbing for a while at the Barley Mow, but hell, that little incident had scared him sober.

And now…What had happened to his mother? Might almost be worth a visit to ole Uncle Sebby, except James knew before he even dismissed the idea that even if Sebastian were in one of his sane moments, he would tell James nothing.

But there were ways of finding out…

He pondered the wisdom of contacting one of the private agencies Sebastian had used from time to time but decided he had better plans for Sebastian’s money now that he had power of attorney, when the phone at his elbow rang.

“James?” He recognized the panicky tones of John Rowan, a member of Uncle’s erstwhile coven. “We need to get together. There’s trouble. These damn women.”

“What damn women?” Given that he’d just decided his mother had abandoned him, the adjective seemed apropos to the entire sex.

“Emily, Ida, and Mildred!” Ah, John was having wife problems again. Stupid man should give her bingo money and shove her on a bus to Leatherhead.

“And you expect me to do something?” Let alone even care. Old biddies!

“Listen, James, this is serious. Ida’s got them all steamed up. They’re all up in arms over the new people at Orchard House.”

“And…”

“Ida says the one she spoke to is a witch, and Ida thinks she’s here to take over the coven. Ridiculous I know, but with all the trouble last year, we need to…”

“John, I don’t give a flaming damn what you or the rest of the blasted coven do. I want nothing to do with you. Do you understand?” His voice rose, echoing in his ears, but he didn’t care. “Whatever does or does not happen to any of you is no concern of mine. I wash my hands of the lot of you! Don’t ever call me again. Understand?”

He slammed down the receiver with shaking hands. Those old fools! He was having nothing more to do with them. Ever. It was Sebastian’s association with the coven, starting with those old crones down at Orchard House, that had him fixating on power and magic. The obsessions that drove him loony in the end.

Come to that, his mother had spent hours up there. Seemed half the trouble in the world started in that house and the damn coven.

James stood up. Might as well go out in case John called back—or even worse, decided to come racing over, hell-bent on dragging him back into the coils of the blasted coven. Never!

Locking the door behind him, James strolled down the drive and turned right toward the village. A good walk and a bit of fresh air might help clear his whirling thoughts.

“Hi”—Elizabeth looked up from the computer as Antonia opened the kitchen door—“been on a tour of the entire Mole Valley?”

“Never left the village.” Antonia pulled out the other chair and sat down. “But I did find two potential clients. Both great.”

Elizabeth listened. Attentively at first but as Antonia waxed lyrical about the potter on the common, she couldn’t hold back a grin.

“He sounds tasty in every sense of the word.”

“For Abel’s sake! He’s not just a handy vein! He’s a wonderful craftsman. We’ll be damn lucky to handle his work. He’s…”

“Decorative? Worth the bother?” Elizabeth ignored the raised eyebrows and frown. “Bedworthy?”

“Like to live dangerously, do you, ghoul?”

“No, just picking up clues. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading vampires the last few months.”

Antonia rolled her eyes. She’d have sighed if her lungs still worked that way. “He’s…interesting and, I can’t deny, attractive. A nice, healthy mortal who won’t miss the odd pint or two.”

No point in getting squeamish. She was a ghoul who was pretty much committed to another vampire, and her dining habits weren’t exactly the sort to get herself invited to Buckingham Palace. “You really are serious.”

Antonia nodded. “Why not? I’d do better to keep the blood bags for emergencies. He lives in the back of beyond. I can visit unobserved. I’ll not harm him, Elizabeth; you know that.”

She did. Why was she objecting? Something about the light in Antonia’s eyes suggested this Michael whatever his name was might be more than sustenance. And if so, why not? Antonia was certainly old enough to look after herself. “I know. Look, while you’ve been gallivanting over the common, I’ve been working. Tom called with all sorts of wonderful advice I may or may not follow.” Much as she loved the vampire, he had to get used to the idea that they were not joined at the hip. “And best of all, Stella called. Seems Sam’s cricket coach broke his leg and won’t be coaching Sam after all, so they are on their way…or will be in the morning.”

“I’ve got a job for her already—finding and interviewing staff. Can’t wait to see her.” Neither could Elizabeth. One disadvantage of setting up house in London with Tom was not seeing Sam very often. She’d developed a big soft spot for the ten-year-old. “Anything else?” Antonia asked.

“I need to eat. I’ve eaten everything we brought with us, except your blood bags, and I don’t much fancy liquid dinner. Let’s try out the Barley Mow. Wouldn’t mind the walk either. I’ve been glued to this chair all afternoon.” She pushed back the chair and shut down the computer. “Want to come?”

“For the company?”

“So we can both order large, rare steaks for me.”

The Barley Mow was pretty much as Dixie had described it—an old, tile-hung building with low ceilings, beams, and horse brasses all over the place and a wide, now empty inglenook fireplace. The bar filled one corner, the menu was written on a blackboard in neat handwriting, and a well built man with salt and pepper hair polished glasses behind the bar.

“Evening,” he said, nodding in their direction. “What can I get for you ladies?”

“Are you Alf?” Elizabeth asked.

“Right you are.” He inclined his head and smiled. “You have the advantage of me there.”

“I’m Elizabeth Connor.” She held out her hand. “Dixie LePage told me about this pub.”

His rosy face broke into a grin. “Well, I never! You’d be American, too, I gather.”

“Oh, yes.” Might as well get that straight. “Dixie said to say hi and told me you’d have something great for dinner.”

He gave her a questioning glance. “You ladies wouldn’t be more vegetarians, would you?”

Little did Alf dream…“No way.” “I’m not either.” Antonia obviously decided it was time to chip in. “I’m Antonia Stonewright. I just bought the house from Dixie.”

Alf reached over and shook her hand. “Well, I never. So you’re the two ladies opening the souvenir and gift shop.”

She sensed Antonia’s wince. “A craft gallery. We’re still getting organized.”

Alf chuckled. “That old place has been needing work since the 1960s. Dixie cleaned it up a bit, and there was a new roof put on back in the spring, and of course, you’d be the one having the painting done these past weeks. Well, welcome to Bringham, and what can I get you ladies?”

“How about a nice steak?” Might as well get it clear right off that she was a definite carnivore.

“We’ve got a nice Porterhouse or, if you want something smaller, a nice fillet.”

“I think I’ll have the fillet. Rare.” Elizabeth carefully pronounced it fill-it like Alf did. “And…”—she eyed the board on the wall—“how about a side salad and a jacket potato?”

“Right you are.” Alf turned to Antonia, “And what about you, madam?”

“The same.”

He called the order back to someone through the open hatch and turned back to take their drink orders. He seemed disappointed that they only wanted sparkling water, encouraging them to pick a bottle of wine. “We’ve a nice line in California wine you might be interested in.”

If he’d offered Oregon wine, Elizabeth might have been tempted, but it really wasn’t worth the heaviness in her head that resulted from drinking alcohol. “Maldon water will be fine.”

Taking their glasses, they settled in a corner table by the empty fireplace, nodding to an old man sitting on the opposite side of the inglenook. He sat deep in a wing chair and looked as if he inhabited the spot permanently. In front of him was a half-empty tankard of beer and an open packet of crisps. At his feet lay a shaggy black spaniel that raised its head and growled softly as they passed.

“Easy, Parsnip, easy,” he said, patting her head to calm her. “It’s just two ladies. Nothing to get het up about.” He looked up, returned their “good evening,” and gave his attention to his crisps and beer.

Antonia took a sip of her water before setting the glass down on the polished tabletop. “Can’t see the point, paying through the nose just to get bubbles in it.”

“It’s called fitting in. Something Tom has lectured me about endlessly. It’s most unchic to drink tap water these days.”

“I know, I know. I paid a ridiculous amount every month to get twenty liter tanks of drinking water delivered to the gallery in York. But one has to cater to them, after all.”

By them, Antonia meant mortals. Sheesh, vamps could be terrible snobs at times. “They have their uses though, don’t they?” She couldn’t resist the jab. “Like a certain potter?”

“Behave yourself, or I won’t share my dinner with you.”

Elizabeth grinned “What are you going to do with it then? Feed it to Parsnip here?”

Antonia cackled. Several customers looked their way, curious but not altogether interested, and returned to their drinks and conversation. “So much for being unobtrusive. Ghoul, you’re a disturbing influence.”

“Sorry about that.” Big lie really. Antonia needed to laugh once in a while. She was too damn serious about everything. “Tell me more about the potter.”

“His work is good. Very good. I’m not sure I totally convinced him we’d be a good outlet for it, but I’m not giving up. Having his stuff and those incredible cushions from Judy, the vicar’s daughter, will start us off with quality articles. Set the standard, so to speak. My one dread is having all sorts of handicraft nuts wanting us to sell their crocheted loo roll covers or candlesticks made from wooden cotton reels.”

No point in telling her cotton thread now came on plastic reels. “I think you can handle that, Antonia. We just need to accept work slowly. We ought to talk to Emma, sound out her interest in taking over the tearoom once it’s finished. How long do you think that will take?”

“Judging by the work on the gallery in York—twice as long as the contractor estimates. Demolition is the easy bit. Once that’s done and everything cleared away, then comes the slow work. We’ll open without it and hope to have it done by October or November. We also need to decide what to do with the garden. We have to find space for a car park, and a picnic area with tables might be a good idea.”

Elizabeth had definite plans for one particular part of the garden, but she’d pick her moment to share them. “We still need internet connection. Once we get that, I can set up the web site.”

“You’ll see to that?”

“You bet! I’ll start on it tomorrow.” Would be nice to get connected. Would be even nicer to have Tom here to work with her. She was already missing him, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. Vamps did really get a hold on one. “I might need to talk to Tom about it…”

Antonia let out a deep chuckle. “Missing him already, are you? I thought you wanted time on your own to put space between you?”

“I thought so too.”

Antonia must have inferred more than she’d intended. “If he means that much to you, why did you ever leave him?”

Darn good question. She took a drink of the sparkling water. “When I’m with him, I feel as if I’m being absorbed into him. I can’t describe it. We make love and I’m utterly content, but then I yearn to be single, alone and self-sufficient again. And when I’m on my own, like now, I miss him like hell.”

Antonia’s mouth twisted at one corner in a wry smile. “I think it’s called being in love.”

“I’m sure of it! Just never thought it would be this complicated.”

“Oh, it is, Elizabeth. It is.” She grinned. “But at least you have a good man. He might drive you batty, but he’ll never be unfaithful.”

Did Antonia still hurt? Obviously! Dumb question. Good thing she’d kept that thought to herself. “If he were, I’d cut the offending part off.”

“Doesn’t work with a vamp. It just grows back.”

Elizabeth spluttered expensive bottle water down her nose. Most undignified, but when she wiped her eyes with the napkin Antonia handed her and had her breath back, she asked, “You are speaking from experience?”

“Oh, yes! When I caught Etienne with that floozy, I grabbed his own knife from the bedside table and amputated. If he’d just been feeding, I’d not have given it a second thought, but he was going beyond the bounds of mere sustenance.”

Didn’t pay to wrong a vamp. Not that she planned to any time soon. But she had to ask…“Didn’t he fight you?” She could just imagine two angry vamps locked in combat, one hell-bent on revenge, the other defending his manhood—literally!

“He tried, but it was approaching dawn, and he was half asleep—he’s different from us—his bloodline sleeps during the day. Plus, I’m several centuries older and much, much stronger.” She paused to sip her drink. “I don’t think he’s ever forgotten or forgiven.”

“I met him, remember?”

“And Tom had a fit, if I’ve heard rightly.”

“He didn’t need to. Frankly, the smooth, smarmy sort doesn’t appeal.” Not that anyone did, not that now she had Tom.

“Not to me now either, but…” She shrugged. “I was younger then. Amazing what a century or so can teach you.” She looked up, and Elizabeth followed her gaze. A young black woman with a shaved head and a silver barbell through one eyebrow stood by their table, a plate in each hand. “You’re the ladies who ordered fillet steaks?” She set the plates on the table and reached into a pocket of her apron for cutlery rolled in linen napkins and salt and pepper. “Anything else I can get you? Worcester? HP Sauce? Ketchup?”

It was hard to think of a reply with the heady aromas of meat fogging her brain, but Elizabeth managed, “No, thanks. This is great.” Barely registering Antonia’s, “Thank you, this looks lovely.” A lie if ever there was one.

“Right you are then. I’m Vickie; let me know if you want pudding later.”

She’d barely stepped away before Elizabeth grabbed her knife and fork and attacked the steak, cutting it into eight pieces and swallowing three of them right away. It was good and nicely bloody. The edge off her hunger, she ate the rest at something more approaching human speed before looking up at Antonia, who was watching with open fascination.

“Amazing,” she said. “It still smells much as it always did, but I honestly can’t remember what cow or bull tastes like. It’s been so long.”

“You miss it?” Tom claimed he didn’t miss eating solid food, but Stella unashamedly hankered after chocolate chip cookies and rocky road ice cream.

Antonia shook her head. “Not really. I don’t remember mortal food ever giving quite the same pleasure as warm blood from a willing vein.”

And if she were still mortal, that would have put her off the rest of her dinner! As it was, the immediate interest their entry stirred had settled, and everyone was back to playing darts or watching snooker on the TV. Elizabeth reached over, stabbed her fork into Antonia’s steak, and shifted it to her own plate.

Her movement caught Parsnip’s attention. The dog sat up and cocked her head expectantly. Her pink tongue lolling to one side, presumably to give the impression of being half-starved. Her sleek coat and plump body made a lie of the attempt.

“Oh, Parsnip! Give over!” her owner said. “Leave them alone. Sorry,” he went on to Elizabeth. “She can be a right pest if you let her.”

“She is beautiful though.” Elizabeth put down her fork and stroked Parsnip’s sleek head. “Mind if I give her just a taste?”

“Spoil her you will but…” A smile creased the wrinkled face. “She’ll love you for it, but mind you, she’ll never forget. She’ll expect it every time she sees you.”

“I can spare a mouthful. Here, Parsnip.”

Elizabeth cut off part of the fringe of fat and offered it. Parsnip took it, her dark eyes gleaming as she wolfed it down.

“That’s enough, Parsnip; you lie down now.” With the closest thing to a canine sigh, Parsnip lay down, resting her nose on her owner’s boots.

Elizabeth took care of the rest of the steak.

“You’d better stock up at a local butcher,” Antonia said. “You’ll literally eat all our profits if we come here for three meals a day.”

Good point. “I intended to today, but after I had such an odd experience when I picked up the car, I wanted to come back and think about it.”

“What happened?”

Elizabeth gave her the gist of her conversation with Ida.

“She might just be cautious. I bet they had the place overrun with reporters last year.”

“She knew I wasn’t a reporter. I mentioned Dixie and you buying the house. Heck, I called a couple of weeks ago to book the car. It was as if…” she paused, “she was scared. Afraid. Though why she should be afraid of me, I don’t know.”

“She no doubt has her reasons.”

Antonia was right but…“I know. It’s just…”

“You’d counted on her for introduction to the coven.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I know you lot don’t really understand, but I want to meet fellow witches. Meg Merchant and her coven welcomed me once she got over Tom being a vampire. She invited us into her home. The coven was small, but they joined with me in defeating Laran. It was a shared venture based on our common faith. But Ida was downright unfriendly. I could try contacting Emily Reade, the other name Dixie gave me, but I don’t even know if she’s still in Bringham. I need to ask around.”

“Maybe the coven has completely dispersed. You might have to look further afield.”

“At least you’re not telling me to forget it like Tom did.”

“I’m trying to be broad-minded. Also, I go back further than Tom. When I was girl, the old ways were still observed, often alongside the newfangled Christianity.”

“I thought Gwyltha said the witches all moved west. You grew up in the south, right?”

“The Druids moved west, mostly into Wales, and took their magic with them, but old practices remained, and wandering Druids and Merlins kept customs going. They were chased out in the end, but Gwyltha was one at the time—she was part of an envoy sent by King Aramaugh to negotiate an agreement to fight the Saxons.”

She’d learned more history hanging around with Tom and his lot than in twelve years of compulsory education, four years of college, and a couple more of grad school. “Was she always so imperious?”

Antonia nodded. “She was, but she had reason to be: she spoke for the king. Her reputation preceded her as a powerful woman. A couple of days into the negotiations, I learned I was part of the agreement.” Elizabeth waited, hoping she’d go on. “I was to be married to Aramaugh’s second son.”

“You agreed? Or did you have no choice?”

“I could have refused. My father, Vortax, would never have forced me into marriage; at least, I don’t think he would have. I was sixteen. I had reached puberty a year earlier. I knew I was expected to marry sooner or later, and my agreement meant increased defense for my father’s lands. And I was clearly informed that the union had the approval of the High King, Arthur.”

“So you married King Aramaugh’s son?”

Antonia nodded as she took a sip of water. “In two weeks, I was married to Bram. Less than a year later, I gave birth to twin boys.” She paused, her eyes going misty as if looking back over the centuries. “They were heralded as a wondrous omen. The king’s eldest son’s wife was barren. My baby boys were considered the hope of the kingdom. They were less than two years old and had only been walking a few months—I still hadn’t weaned them—when they were slaughtered in a Saxon raid. I tried to hide them, but a group of raiders dragged me off them and beat their brains out on the ground. Then they cut my throat, as if anything more could hurt me.

“Gwyltha drove them off. Killed a few of them, I think, and carried me off into the woods where she transformed me. She told me, when I came to, that I had the chance and the power to avenge my children and my husband. That was the first I’d heard for sure Bram was dead, but I knew in my heart he was.

“I’m sure you can imagine the havoc one new-made, vengeful vampire can wreak. Between us, Gwyltha and I and two others I never dreamed were vampires dispatched our share of Saxons to hell. For some years, they avoided that part of the coast. Declared it was invaded by evil spirits. We were next to unstoppable, impossible to slay. Driven by hate.”

“Excuse me, you want pudding or something else?”

They both stared at the waitress as if she were a being from another planet talking in an alien tongue. In a way she was. Elizabeth had been transported back to fifth-century Britain, and Antonia was there with her, reliving ancient pain.

“Thanks,” Elizabeth managed as the girl cleared away the plates. “We’ll skip pudding tonight.”

“Right you are. Brill, thanks.” She grinned as she pocketed the tip Elizabeth handed her. “Hope to see you back in here again some time. Okay?”

She walked back to the kitchen, and Elizabeth hoped Antonia would continue her story. She didn’t. Couldn’t blame her. Elizabeth had had some nasty experiences she’d rather not dwell on, but nothing to match Antonia’s horrors. She drained her glass of water in silence and had just opened her mouth to ask Antonia if she was ready to leave when a tall man lurched up to their table, grabbing the edge and knocking Antonia’s water onto the floor.