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Chapter Twenty-Three
After Artemis shared a light luncheon with Horatia before the drawing room fire, she decided to see how Lady Celeste was faring. Dominic sent word that he was touring the estate and visiting several tenants—despite the fact it was now pouring again—and wouldn’t be back at the abbey until dusk. Artemis hopedhewouldn’t catch cold.
Once she’d delivered her books to the duke’s daughter in the west wing—the housekeeper had provided Artemis with directions—she’d retire to her own room to continue with Lady Mirabella’s tale. She was sure she’d have a few quiet hours to herself until she needed to prepare for dinner. She had no doubts that Dominic would want to visit her again tonight. As long as he was well, of course. The man really did like to burn the candle at both ends. As his wife,shecertainly wouldn’t put up with—
Artemis stopped dead still in the middle of the west wing’s hallway, clutching her books to her chest. What onearthwas she thinking? She wasn’t going to marry Dominic. She was a jaded spinster. She didn’t believe in love matches. She wanted to establish a college. She didn’t have time for a husband or babies or stepdaughters or the countless duties of a duchess.
Did she?
But Artemis, as Dominic’s wife you’d have everything you’d ever need. You’d have the funds and the staff to do whatever you wanted. But most importantly of all, you’d have a husband who supports you. A man with power at your side who could influence those members of society who are actively stopping women from gaining entrance to the hallowed halls of higher learning. Places that are presently the sole province of men.
All you have to do is say yes…
A small noise—a creak perhaps—barely discernible above the sound of the rain lashing the abbey, caught Artemis’s attention. Turning her head, she saw that a door to one of the rooms was slightly ajar. A bedroom perhaps? And then she frowned. She was certain all of the doors had been shut when she’d entered the hallway. And wouldn’t she have noticed the light spilling out of the room onto the Turkish floor runner if the doorhadbeen open?
The hair at her nape prickled and a shiver slid down her spine. She suddenly felt as though someone was watching her, and the air around her had turned frigid. Dominic had said Ashburn Abbey wasn’t haunted. But what if it was?
And then she admonished herself for being so ridiculously fanciful. There was one simple way to reassure herself that she was not, in fact, being spied upon by an actual someone or something that perhaps wasn’t corporeal.
Drawing a bracing breath, Artemis crossed to the open door and entered the room. And then blinked as wonder followed by a wave of great sadness washed over her.
It wasn’t a bedchamber or sitting room or parlor. It was a nursery.
Despite the grayness of the day, the room was light and airy. Chintz curtains of pale blue framed the windows, and most of the furniture was fashioned from lustrous satinwood. The plush Aubusson rug that Artemis padded across was in soft pastel shades, and the diaphanous lace hangings cascading over the empty cradle were so fine and delicate that they were almost transparent.
As Artemis approached the cradle, her vision grew misty. Dominic and Juliet’s baby boy, Alexander, would have lain here if he hadn’t arrived too early. And no doubt Dominic and Horatia and Celeste had all slept in this cradle too.
She definitely felt Juliet’s presence here, because above her head was the most exquisite trompe l’oeil of the heavens she’d ever seen. The moon and sun had been painted in the center of a powder-blue sky, and tiny constellations of twinkling stars were scattered around the edges of the ceiling where the blue melded into shades of dusky pink and lavender. But sweetest of all was the border of white, pillowy clouds, where rosy-cheeked cherubs lay sleeping.
A soft sound, like someone humming a lullaby, drifted past Artemis’s ear. The sweet scent of orange blossoms and jasmine filled the air. And then the lace netting about the cradle shifted, as though a breeze had just wafted through the room.
Her heart pounding, Artemis stepped back from the cradle. There was no one here, no one at all but her. There must be a draft somewhere. That would explain the soft whisper of sound and the movement of the lace.
Turning on her heel, Artemis quit the room, and then shut the door quietly behind her.
She had books to deliver and a book to write. She didn’t have time for fanciful imaginings about ghosts.
***
When Artemis entered Lady Celeste’s bedchamber a short time later, she found the duke’s daughter already tucked up in bed withJane Eyrein her hand and a cup of tea and plate of buttered toast at her elbow.
Even though Miss Sharp was unwell, she was apparently ensconced in the adjacent sitting room, curled up in an armchair with her own book—probably something grim and depressing by Dickens. The communicating door was ajar, and Artemis called a brief greeting to the governess before she crossed to the bed. “How are you feeling, my lady?”
“Horrid.” Indeed, Celeste looked and sounded quite under the weather; although her face was pale, her eyes were unusually bright, and her voice had a raspy quality. “I didn’t have much of an appetite for the soup, but the tea with lemon has been quite soothing for my scratchy throat.”
“I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful. But here…” Artemis placed her small pile of books on the bed beside Celeste. “I brought these along for you.” She dropped her voice. “BesidesNorth and Southby Elizabeth Gaskell, I’ve also sneaked in a few of Lydia Lovelace’s titles. I don’t know which ones you’ve read but choose whatever you’d like.”
“Oooh, thank you so much,” whispered back Celeste. Her eyes danced with delight as she picked up the topmost volume. “Lady Fanny and the Fantastical Phantasm. Now I have read that one as well asLady Violetta and the Vengeful Vampyre. Of course, I’d happily read them again, but I haven’t come acrossLady Guinevere and the Ghastly Ghost, nor this one…” She flipped open the small, leatherbound volume that had been on the bottom of the pile, and Artemis almost died.
It was her notebook that contained her unfinished manuscript.
“Oh, no! Not that one.” Artemis tried to take back the book, but Celeste quickly turned away from her and extended her arm toward the center of the tester bed so that the book was beyond Artemis’s reach.
“Lady Mirabella and the Midnight Monk?” said Celeste. “This looks interesting.”
Old Nick’s nob.This couldn’t be happening. How could she have been so foolish as to accidentally add her manuscript to the selections? It must have ended up on the bottom of the pile when she was sorting through her books. Artemis’s pulse was racing so frantically, her throat was so tight with horror, that she almost couldn’t speak. “I’m so sorry,” she managed. “That book wasn’t supposed to be included. Please don’t read it. It’s not—”
“It’s handwritten.” Celeste leafed through the pages until she reached Artemis’s last entry. “‘Lady Mirabella laid her hand on Count Bellugio’s chest,’” she read under her breath. “‘Beneath her trembling fingertips, his heart thudded—’” Her brow knit. “But…is that it?” She turned to the next page and the next, which were blank. “It’s not finished. It’s just a manuscript.” Her gaze shot back to Artemis. “Areyouwriting this? Is this yours?”
