CHAPTER 14
“This is absolutely insane,” Robert murmured.
They were back in the library in Connecticut. The household was even fuller than it had been last time, since Joe and Connie’s children were there, along with Connie’s mother. But for now Robert and Jillian were alone in the library, dinner eaten. Connie and Joe were tucking their children into bed. Eileen was wrapping gifts. Gracie was in the den, calling a distant cousin in Chicago. Since she had no immediate family of her own, she had been invited for the holiday, even though Thanksgiving was traditionally just for family and longtime friends. As Daniel’s ever-faithful shadow, Gracie had been elated by the invitation. In fact, Jillian wasn’t sure that there really was a cousin in Ohio, but she would never suggest that to anyone. Gracie seemed too alone in the world.
Most of the rest of the household was stuffed to the gills, entirely lazy, little more than a group of couch potatoes stretched out on every available piece of furniture and watching a movie.
With everyone else settled, Jillian and Robert had seized the first free time they’d been able to take to go to the library.
“Shelley said to finish the book,” Jillian reminded him firmly.
He lifted his hands. “Shelley is a tarot card reader. I’m reading a book about events that occurred hundreds of years ago—because of a tarot card reader. This is absolutely insane.”
“You made a point of seeing her,” Jillian pointed out.
Robert shrugged, easing down into the overstuffed chair facing the desk. She was perched on the swivel chair behind it, the book in her hands.
“There are a number of letters in here, and diary entries—I read those the last time I was here,” she said.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Why what?”
“Why were you reading the book?”
“Because you had been reading it.”
“Ah,” he murmured, and smiled, settling more comfortably into his chair.
“The majority of the story was written by someone named Justin. He was the one who grouped the diary entries and the letters together.”
“Yeah, I know. I was reading the parts Justin had written. Go toward the end. See if we can find out what actually happened. I think maybe she was executed—burned at the stake.”
“Burned at the stake?” Jillian repeated, feeling a cold draft sweep over her.
Robert leaned forward. “Jillian, do you think that you might have read this book before? Maybe you started dreaming about burning because of the book, because what happened to this girl was so horrible.”
She looked at him, shaking her head. “Robert, I never saw this book before you left it on the desk the last time we were here.”
He didn’t say anything, so she turned her attention to the book. “This part is written by Justin. It’s near the end.” She began to read.
It was nearing the Christmas season when last we came home, when last there was still what a man could call a home. We remained in the woods, hiding, for it was no longer safe to be among the King’s men in Cromwell’s England. Messages were sent to the house through Jane, our Lady’s maid, and she came in the night, slipping away like a wraith to the forest. She laughed with the captain, walked among the trees with him, and stayed with him by the river until morning. The captain was concerned, telling her she must come away with us. But she told him that her father still lived. Sir Walter had taken all control; he ran the village as if he were king in his own right. Across England, there was talk again that devils walked. That in a lawless land, torn by war, Satan had taken hold. She swore herself strong and safe; she had but contempt for Sir Walter.
I heard them talking, down by the river, when dawn came. She had the ability to make light of the most serious situation; she was afraid for her captain, certain that it was time for him to fly to Scotland, where the King was still respected as the King. “Go, flee,” she told him, and teasingly reminded him that Edward I had managed to murder most of the Welsh, while many a Scot had taken to the Highlands where no man could find them. They spun a tale that night between them, pretending that they both left the place they had once loved so much but that was now so torn by bloodshed. He said that there were beautiful green hills in Ireland, as well, and islands where even a man such as he might believe in magic. But Lord Alfred, stricken, taken to his bed, seldom even conscious of those around him, still breathed. She would not leave, and she swore that she was safe.
But I knew Jane, knew her well, and she told me that Morwenna lied, that her every day with Sir Walter was a fight and a threat, and that one day Sir Walter would seize her. He had threatened to take legal action against her many times. She laughed at his accusations of heresy, saying surely anyone’s pact with God could be construed as heresy these days, that the Catholic Church had departed England and the Inquisition was no longer in effect. He spoke to her of treason, as well, and she asked how she could be guilty of treason when she had honored her King but could do nothing to save his life against the sham of a battle he now waged in court.
Old Jeremy, who had served Lord Alfred so loyally for so many years, came with the dawn, warning that Sir Walter was searching for Morwenna. So she fled. But not before the captain held her in his arms, not before he vowed that he would always be there for her in her time of need.
That night, we rode away, hearing that there would be a meeting to the south, of those last cavaliers who had sworn loyalty to the King. There was a plan being circulated to rescue him from the grip of his persecutors. It was night, we heard later, when Sir Walter went all but mad, telling Morwenna that she would marry him, she must, he was a Godly man and she had bewitched him, and it was her one chance to save her soul. In anger, she told him that she could not marry him, for she was already wed to another. And when he touched her, she showed him such repulsion that he went into a tantrum, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. He didn’t call for the guards but took her himself, by the hair, dragging her, hurling her deep down into the dungeon, where the old women had been prodded and poked, tortured into admitting their pacts with Satan. She defied him still, telling him that Michael would come for her. Then she was afraid, for he wanted Michael to come, and she knew that he would kill Michael if he could.
Jillian paused in her reading for a moment, looked up at Robert. He was no longer slouched in the chair. He was sitting straight, as if suddenly jolted into perfect posture.
“Robert?”
“What?” He looked at her, tearing his gaze from the corner of the desk.
“This is what she was telling us, right? Shelley Millet. That we lived the events in this book. That our lives ended in tragedy and somehow we have to keep it from happening again.”
“I imagine so,” he said, his attention still not all there. “She said the same souls tend to come back together. So we need to figure out who around us was Sir Walter, who was Justin, and all the rest.”
“I suppose.”
Robert was dead silent for a moment. Then his eyes touched hers. He cleared his throat. “Milo says that he was Justin.”
“What?” A chill fell over her, colder than a blanket of ice. “What?”
He lifted his hands, dropped them, cleared his throat again. “Milo says that he was Justin.”
“Milo?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“Milo is here?” she asked. There was nothing in the room.
Except the cold.
“I thought you dreamed about Milo?”
“I did.” He looked at her for a moment. “I’m not sleeping, am I?”
“No. You swear that you—you who believe in nothing—see a ghost.”
He swallowed, gritting his teeth, his gaze unmoving.
“Where?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, then looked at her again. “Perched on the edge of the desk.”
“You can see Milo? My deceased husband.”
He nodded.
“Why can’t I see him?” she whispered.
“He says that I need help far more than you, but other than that, he doesn’t really know. He says he’s been with you. You were taking a subway somewhere, and you were too close to the tracks. He shoved you back. And…he was in Miami the day the branch fell.”
Jillian sat dead still for a moment, wondering if he was tormenting her, or trying to humor her through the situation.
“Why won’t he let me see him?” she whispered.
“He isn’t stopping you. It’s just the way things are. I’m able to see him because I have to help you.”
“How does he know I’m in so much danger?”
“Because the cat was poisoned.”
“We’re not going on about the cat again, are we?”
Robert looked at her. “I took the ashes from the furnace and had them analyzed, Jillian. There was rat poison in them.”
“We’ve had rats in the office,” she informed him defensively. “And Jeeves had been an alley cat. I’m sure instinct made him eat a rat.”
“Jillian, he died on your desk. On the tray with your Halloween cookies and tea. The poison was probably on your tray.”
“Robert, that is reaching.”
“Is it?” He leaned forward. “Douglas has been seeing his lawyers in his office lately. He’s also been arguing repeatedly with Daniel over something. Eileen watches you constantly with razors in her eyes, and Griff…well, God knows what Griff is really thinking. Then there’s Theo, who’s never really appreciated for being a good old grunt, an intelligent, middle-management kind of a guy.”
“And what does Milo say?”
“Milo says you’re in danger.”
She sat back, folding her arms over her chest. “You bastard,” she whispered. “You’re using Milo to try to convince me that someone in my family is after me.”
Robert rose with an impatient oath. “I don’t believe any of this.”
“You’re the one who called the tarot card reader!”
“I called Shelley because I was trying to help you stop screaming in the middle of the night,” he lashed out angrily. “And,” he added more quietly, “I am not using Milo for anything. I don’t want to see a ghost, especially the ghost of your last husband—sorry, Milo, nothing personal there,” he told the corner of the desk.
She jumped away from the desk suddenly, totally freaked out. “And what does Milo say to that?”
“He said he didn’t take it personally at all.”
She clenched her fists by her sides. “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t do this anymore.”
She fled the room.
“Jillian!”
Robert ran after her. She ignored him, racing to join the others in front of the TV. Douglas was seated in one of the large wing chairs facing the television. Jillian curled up at her grandfather’s feet, aware that Robert had followed her. She didn’t look at him.
“Griff,” she said, “want to go to the tree farm tomorrow? Chop down our own tree?”
“Only if it’s not totally freezing,” he replied.
She turned her attention to the movie, ignoring her husband. Later they had hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls. Everyone thanked Agatha for a terrific meal, then meandered upstairs.
Jillian went to her room, still angry, still unnerved—and still afraid. She hesitated. This was her grandfather’s house, and he didn’t know about her marriage. Out of respect, she and Robert had agreed that they would maintain their own rooms, especially since all they had to do to be together was move the wardrobe out of the way of the connecting doors. But the day had been so busy that they hadn’t gotten that far yet, and now she was feeling uncertain. She was about to lock the hallway door and consider the situation when the door was shoved open even as her fingers were set to turn the lock. Robert.
“We’re not going to play these games,” he told her.
“Games? Do you know what you’re doing to me, what—”
“Yeah, I was being honest with you. Making a fool of myself, a totally vulnerable fool. You may think I’m insane, but I love you. I married you because I love you, and I understand if you feel you need some distance in this house, but…don’t lock me out, Jillian. Don’t lock me out.”
She stared into his eyes, then wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him.
A moment later she drew away uncomfortably. “Wait a minute. Is Milo here? Now?”
Robert smiled. “No.”
“But…”
“He swore to me rather indignantly once that he never comes to this room, and never comes around when we’re…together.”
She leaned her head against his chest. “Does he know that I really loved him? That he was my dearest friend?” she asked softly.
He smoothed back her hair. “Jillian, he knows. Why else would he still be here? He loved you, too, with all his heart.”
Amazingly, they both slept exceptionally well that night, wrapped in each other’s arms.
* * *
On Friday morning Jillian insisted on getting the tree. Thanksgiving was over; it was officially, traditionally and totally time to set up Christmas.
For years she had gone with Griff to get a tree, but this year Robert refused to let them go alone. Since Joe and the kids were still sleeping, Connie decided to join them, as well. They sang carols in the car. Jillian told Griff it was his turn to play Santa for the kids that year. Griff said they were Joe’s kids, so Joe should have to play Santa.
“That’s the point—they’d recognize their father,” Connie said, hitting him on the shoulder.
Snow still lay heavily on the ground when they reached the tree farm, but they were bundled in coats, gloves and sweaters, and the temperature wasn’t brutal. Jillian led the way through row after row of pines to find just the right tree, with Connie laughing and Griff whining all the way.
They were alone in the wilderness, so it seemed. No other shoppers were out quite so early.
Griff took the hatchet and the first swing. It went wild, causing Jillian and Connie to laugh, taunt him and hop back. Robert didn’t appear so amused. He took the hatchet and whacked down the tree with so few blows that Jillian found it almost frightening. Griff didn’t seem to notice, though in the car, he teased her, saying, “Ditch the macho madman, Jillian. Marry me.”
“We’ve discussed this before, Griff,” she teased back. “We don’t want to have two-headed children.”
“We can avoid procreating—oh, no, I forgot. We have to procreate. Keep the Llewellyn dynasty going. Oh well, two-headed children it is. We can make Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and become rich and famous in our own right.”
Connie was giggling. “She can’t marry you, Griff. She’s already married.”
Griff stared at Connie, as if amazed she could be so casually cruel. “Connie, Milo’s dead,” he reminded her softly.
“Yes, but—oh!” Connie gasped, seeing the way Jillian was staring at her. “Oh God, I forgot. What a mouth I’ve got on me. I’m so sorry.”
Too late. Griff was staring at Jillian. “You’ve married him. Already?”
“Yes, she’s married me, already,” Robert said firmly, his eyes catching Griff’s in the rearview mirror.
“Well…”
“Don’t say anything yet, please, Griff. I haven’t told Grandfather,” she begged.
“Oh, like he won’t be pleased,” Griff muttered.
“I haven’t told him. I hadn’t told anyone,” Jillian said.
“Connie knew,” Griff said, sounding hurt.
“By accident. She overheard something, that’s all. Griff…”
“So you stole her away and married her, just like that,” he said to Robert. Then he shrugged. “Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks, Griff. But, please…”
“Maybe we should just tell everyone,” Robert suggested.
“Not yet,” Jillian said.
“Right. Fine.” Despite his words, he sounded angry. “You can tell people in your own good time.”
Griff started to laugh. “I think you’re crazy for not saying anything. Douglas is going to be thrilled. I mean, he’s an old-fashioned guy. He’s spent years trying to ignore the fact that Eileen and Gary slip from room to room when they’re in this house. And not even Eileen has had the balls to tell him they practically live together. He ignores my lifestyle totally—just mentioning now and then that a promiscuous lifestyle is dangerous in this day and age. He’s down on Daniel these days, though. I wonder what the old boy has done? If it’s something nice and evil, he isn’t sharing with me.”
They reached the house then, where suddenly they had all kinds of help with the tree. Connie and Joe’s girls were up, and they were thrilled with the prospect of decorating the tree. The entire household got involved. Eileen supervised from a sofa, while Gary and Daniel put up lights. Agatha and Henry worked together in the kitchen, making popcorn for strings to wrap around the tree. Joe helped Douglas sort through the boxes of ornaments, giving the unbreakable ones to Connie and Joe’s girls, Tricia and Liza, one by one. Theo and Gracie lifted the girls when necessary to allow them to reach the higher branches. Griff called himself music management, sorting through the Christmas CDs to get them in the proper mood. Kelly Adair, Connie’s mom, stood across the room and eyeballed the three, telling them where they needed more ornaments, while Connie and Jillian supervised from a closer range, rescuing ornaments when they fell from little hands.
The effort took most of the day. It was only when they stopped for a late lunch that Jillian realized she had not seen Robert for a long time.
She hesitated, deciding not to try to find him, since she meant to take the kids with her to the cottage that afternoon and start decorating there.
She tried to slip out with the least amount of fuss. Connie was coming with her. She took Crystal, her own horse, that day, while Connie rode Cream. Tricia rode in front of her, while baby Liza rode with her mother.
On the way, they sang Christmas carols. The girls were wonderful, fascinated by the deep snow, oblivious to the cold, enjoying the adventure.
They reached the cottage and began going through the many boxes of Christmas items. Jillian managed to leave the others downstairs and walk up to Milo’s studio for a few moments alone. She walked around the room.
“Can you hear me?” she whispered. “It’s me, Jillian. Milo, what are you doing? What are you saying to Robert? What on earth is going on here?”
She stood still, closing her eyes, expecting to hear his voice.
“I thought I heard your voice once. On that subway platform,” she said softly.
It seemed suddenly as if a breeze stirred in the room. She thought she could hear the soft rustling of curtains.
“Milo?” she whispered.
She closed her eyes. A whisper of air seemed to caress her cheek.
“Thanks for trying to help.”
“Jillian, who on earth are you talking to?”
Her eyes flew open, and she spun around. Connie had come up the stairs. Jillian shook her head. “No one. I was just talking to myself.”
“Hey, I saw Madame Zena with you, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. But I was just talking to myself.”
“Have you read that book yet?” Connie asked her seriously.
“We’ve started.”
“Started?” Connie said. “When we get back, you need to finish it.”
They stayed another hour or so, making instant hot chocolate loaded with little marshmallows for the girls. Finally, they rode home. It was almost dark.
Jillian headed for the library as soon as she arrived.
As she had expected, Robert was behind the desk, already reading. He looked up when she came in. He was in a teal turtleneck, dark hair curling over the collar, eyes grave. He watched her for a minute before he spoke.
“You went to the cottage?”
“Yes, I would have asked you to come, but I wasn’t sure where you were.”
He set the book down. “Bull.”
“What?”
“You went to the cottage without me to see if you could drum up Milo’s ghost.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Milo.”
“He told you?”
Robert smiled suddenly. “No. But I knew that’s what you were doing.” He sobered. “Jillian, don’t go off without me again, all right? Especially not here.”
“I was with Connie and the kids.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She sighed, sitting across from him. “Did you finish the book?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“And?”
There was a soft tap at the door. It opened, and Connie stuck her head in. Jillian stood up quickly. “Connie…”
“Oh, come on, you two. I was there with Madame Zena!”
“Yes, and you also opened your big mouth in the car this morning,” Robert said sternly.
“I’m sorry. Really.”
“And,” Jillian reminded her, “you’re married to Joe. Daniel’s right-hand man.”
“Hey,” Connie protested. “I don’t tell Joe everything. I can keep a secret. Really. Besides…I’ve already read pieces of the book. And if I’m anyone, I’m Jane. Ye olde faithful maid.”
“You read the book?” Jillian asked.
“Well, you two left it right on the desk. It wasn’t like I had to prowl around to find it or anything. And I’m serious. You heard what Shelley Millet had to say. I’m your office assistant now—I was your maid back then. Not at all fair. I mean, I have friends who have done that whole regression thing. They were always princesses, or rich, brilliant women. I get to be office staff and domestic help.”
“Connie, you have a great job.”
“Yes, but I don’t get to be the Princess Llewellyn.”
“And you didn’t get burned at the stake,” Robert said sharply. He stared at Connie, then at Jillian, and began to read.
We were riding hard to the south when Garth reached us with the news; the Lady Morwenna was being held in the dungeon. Charges had been read against her; witnesses had been summoned. She was judged guilty of witchcraft and heresy against Almighty God Himself, and she was labeled a traitor against England and the English people. Come the 24th, Christmas Eve, she would be executed by the laws of her country and her God, burned at the stake until dead, her ashes scattered to the wind. Michael was outraged. He heard the news but could not believe it, could not accept it. Sir Walter would not dare commit such a deed. But looking at Garth, seeing the lines of trial and tension in his face, we knew it had to be true.
“We ride,” Michael said.
“It’s a trap, you know,” Garth warned him. “He will set the lady upon the stake, then wait to seize you when you come.”
“He will die when I come,” Michael vowed. “We ride. Now. I swore that I would be there.”
And so, with Garth struggling to keep up, we rode for home. Garth told us that Sir Walter’s fury came mainly from her rejection of him, that even in the fierce cold of the dungeon, she refused to give in to his demands. She told him that before God she had a husband, and that her only act of treachery could be to betray him. Sir Walter swore that she would burn, here on earth, then do so again in eternal hell. She vowed that she would come back to seek revenge, but that his words were foolish anyway, because Michael would come for her. He had promised to come for her. With her whole heart, she believed that he would do so.
Garth fell back. He could not keep up with the fierce pace of our desperate run. Michael vowed again and again that he would arrive before the appointed hour. Yet I could see the fear in his face that he would not do so. We later heard that she stood for hours upon the pile of kindling and faggots, and even when the fire was lit, she swore that he would come.
Sir Walter did not have her strangled first, as would have been kind.
They say that her screams echoed through the day and into the night, though she could not have lived near so long upon her pyre, then rang across the hills forever after.
We came upon the scene too late by only moments, and yet what those moments had wrought. Michael had great talent with a sword, with firearms, with his fists. His greatest ability, however, was his aim with a bow and arrow. And so he saw where she stood, consumed in flame yet living still, and he strung his bow and let loose his arrow, and he killed her himself, striking her heart through distance and flame.
“Oh my God!” Connie gasped, leaping to her feet. “Jillian, when you met Robert, you passed out, grasping your heart. He shot you in the heart with an arrow—he killed you!”
“Connie, she was already half dead, being burned to cinders. He did her the only kindness he could,” Robert interrupted patiently. “And this is a story, a book.”
“It happened,” Jillian said.
“You actually killed her,” Connie accused him incredulously.
He shook his head in aggravation, turning back to the book.
She was gone. Our lady was gone, but her screams never seemed to die away. Michael took up the chant with a thunder of rage, and we rode through the snow, so few of us, so many of them. But there had never been such a rage as seized us then. He had failed to believe that he could best the fire, but insanity came then, and he believed in his sword arm. We cut through the guards and the crowds. Most probably the common folk had no will to stop us, and once upon a time the guards had been Lord Alfred’s men, so perhaps their own guilt caused their deaths. Blood stained the snow. He hacked through every man until he came to Sir Walter. Sir Walter he slashed to ribbons, until the head was all but severed, the torso a stump, the limbs strewn, and still it was not enough.
Michael had his horse race over and over the body. But Cromwell’s forces were behind us. And so we rode north.
Robert looked up at Jillian, then at Connie. He placed the book on the desk and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head, stretching his legs out under the desk.
He smiled at Connie. “Milo said to tell you that you weren’t necessarily the maid.”
“What?” Connie gasped.
“Milo talks to him,” Jillian murmured. “In dreams.”
“He’s here now,” Robert said, still watching Connie.
“Oh, really? And how does Milo know?” she demanded.
Robert shrugged. “He says that he was Justin.”
“Oh, sure. Milo was the loyal, trustworthy Justin, honest and brave. You were the great warrior, and Jillian was the lady. And now you’re telling me that I didn’t even get to be the maid?”
“Souls stay the same, so the belief goes. We’re not all necessarily the same sex when we return. If you believe in that kind of thing,” Robert told her intently.
“So who was I?” Connie demanded. “The wicked Sir Walter?”
Robert shook his head. “Connie, how on earth would I know? It’s just a book. And I’m half crazy. I see ghosts, for Christ’s sake.”
Connie frowned, backing toward the door. “What did I ever do to you?” she whispered to Robert. “I encouraged her to love you,” she said, looking as if she were about to burst into tears.
“Maybe you did,” he told her, rising, following her. Jillian watched him with astonishment and dismay. “But you are up to something,” he said to Connie softly.
Connie looked as if she were ready to flee. She bit her lower lip, backing away. “Well, she married you, right? The dynasty is created.” She stared at Jillian. “Does this mean you’re firing me now? Oh, and what about my husband? Is he out, too? After all, he works for Daniel, and there’s bound to be a power struggle.”
“Connie, stop it,” Jillian protested. “Robert and I aren’t taking over the company. Douglas is alive and well, and Daniel excels at his job. What is the matter with you?”
Connie suddenly burst into tears and fled.
Jillian glared at Robert, who didn’t even seem to notice. He was just watching Connie’s departure speculatively, eyes narrowed.
* * *
When it was time for bed that night, Jillian managed to get upstairs early, far ahead of Robert, and lock the door against him. She couldn’t believe what he was doing.
Attacking her family.
And now her best friend.
She lay in her bed and whispered aloud softly, “Milo, help me. I’m the one who needs it.”
But if Milo was there, he remained silent.
That night, she dreamed again about the burning. Fire all around her. A blaze, leaping up. Flames licking her flesh…
She screamed so loudly that she woke the whole house, and when Robert burst through her locked door to grab her and shake her, she was so terrified that she fell into his arms sobbing.
“Jillian needs a vacation,” Theo whispered softly as they left her doorway.
Only Douglas remained, watching the two of them.
Robert straightened, holding her protectively to his chest, smoothing her hair. “It’s all right, sir,” he said stiffly. “We flew to Vegas. We’re married.”
“I should have suspected” was all Douglas said, then he turned and walked away.
It was late Saturday morning before Jillian was able to get to sleep again.