Ghost of the Thames Page 24

  The effort to bring formal education to the women of India had begun a decade ago by some male students at Elphinstone College, who formed a society to promote the cause. But now, with Sophy’s inheritance funding it, the dreams were quickly becoming a reality, and day schools and boarding institutions were opening. Before leaving England, Sophy had worked with Dickens to interview and select British women to come to India to teach, until such time as Indian women could be trained to take their place. Angela Burdett-Coutts had already committed a large donation to the cause, as well.

  Sophy’s goal was to reach out not only to those who lived in the cities but to small villages, as well. She believed education was the way to help these women put an end to some of the abuses that were prevalent here. John Warren’s web of iniquity had been shut down, but there were many opportunists waiting to profit from the same sordid business.

  The music played and the celebrations continued, despite the darkness descending on Calcutta. Torches were being lit, and dancers were to be seen in every corner of the square.

  Edward looked for Sophy and found her standing with the Admiral. His father had given his blessing to Edward’s decision to run for a seat in Parliament. Somehow, an inspection of Calcutta had required him to sail to India this month in time to join them. Edward knew it was no coincidence. The Admiral wanted to meet his daughter-in-law.

  From the first moment the Admiral met Sophy, he’d been enthralled with her. She was the daughter and niece he’d lost in one. She was the salvation he’d wished for with regard to their family. Her intelligence and beauty and charm made him fall in love with her, and he was not reticent in telling his son how extremely happy and proud he was of his choice.

  As happy as Edward was with Sophy’s conquest, he’d never imagined his father’s attentions would be the reason that he couldn’t get enough time with her.

  Sophy looked around and motioned to him. Edward made his way through the crowd to the bandstand where the two were listening to music and chatting.

  He and Sophy were sailing back to England next week. Much of what was being done here, they would continue to direct long distance, for they’d just discovered that Sophy was carrying their first child. Priya, originally planning to stay in India, had changed her mind upon hearing the news. She was coming back with them to London, and the Admiral was already planning to be back in England in time for his grandchild’s birth, as well.

  The happiness Edward was feeling these days was unmatched by anything he’d felt before. The only dark cloud in his conscience was Amelia’s absence. She had stopped appearing to Sophy.

  As a result of all the arrests and the dozens of confessions, it had become clear that Henry Robinson died when he tried to confront a crew moving women from the warehouses by the river. None of the villains, however, made any mention of the young woman who had been accompanying Henry.

  Sophy turned and smiled up at him as Edward reached their side. He drew her into his arms.

  “This has been a long day,” he said. “Mothers-to-be need their rest, I’m told.”

  “Off with you lad,” the Admiral said. “Sophy looks as fresh and beautiful as she did this morning. You mean it’s been a long day for you.”

  “Yes, for me. The expectant father.” He smiled and obliged as Sophy lifted her lips to be kissed.

  “And what time are we starting tomorrow?” the Admiral wanted to know.

  “Not too early,” Edward warned, taking his wife and walking away. “Good night, Admiral.”

  There were many dignitaries and attendees that they had to speak with before they actually left the celebration. Teachers, students, local chieftains and mothers stopped them, all wanted to express their gratitude.

  When they finally reached their waiting carriage, though, Edward saw Sophy stop abruptly and turn around. She was smiling at the group of young women, dressed in colorful saris, who had gathered under a tree on the edge of the square.

  As Edward looked at the women, he noticed one dressed in luminous white, gazing back at them.

  Amelia. She was there, and she smiled.

  Author’s Note

  We hope you enjoyed Sophy and Edward’s story. As always, we have tried to depict a place and time in a way that mingles the real and imagined in an entertaining way.

  Charles Dickens holds a warm place in our hearts. As novelists, we stand in awe of the creative genius with which he produced some of the most unique and yet human characters ever to populate a fictional landscape. Because of his knowledge of London’s denizens and his compassion for those struggling in the Victorian Industrial Revolution, he was able to give identifiable faces to the poor and the downtrodden, and elevate their stories with a sensitivity that continues to touch readers a century and a half later.

  It was impossible for us to place our novel in London and not mention Urania Cottage, an idea founded by Dickens and financed by the millionaire philanthropist Angela Burdett Coutts. Also, it was amusing to imagine that the mystery of Sophy’s identity and her connection with the London riverfront would give Dickens the idea for his great novel, Our Mutual Friend.

  To those wondering about our villain Shill, he is the shadowy force of evil, the Professor Moriarty, the Don Corleone. He is the villain who will return.

  To our many readers, we want to thank you for encouraging us to write more McGoldrick novels. We love to hear from you.

  JanCoffey@JanCoffey.com

  www.JanCoffey.com

  A sneak peak at

  Flame

  by

  May McGoldrick

  Available in all ebook formats

  The charred shutter, high in the ruined tower, suddenly banged open as the afternoon breeze moved around to the west, and the golden rays of sunlight tumbled into the scorched chamber.

  Huddled in the corner on a pile of straw, a startled figure pulled her ragged cloak more tightly around her. Even though it was late spring, she found it more and more difficult to shake off the chill that had crept into her bones. Perhaps it was because she so rarely saw the sun, she thought. For she was now a creature of the night, a mere shadow.

  She shivered slightly, acknowledging the gnawing pangs of hunger in her belly. She shook her head, trying to dispel the feeling. There would be no food until tonight, when the steward and the servants that had remained since the fire all slept. Then she would partake of her nightly haunt. Then she would search the kitchens for some scrap that might sustain her.

  Those remaining in the castle thought her a ghost. What fools they would think themselves if they only knew how human her needs were.

  The wood plank continued to bang against the blackened sill, and she glared at it. This was her rest time, she silently scolded the troublesome shutter. Like the bats and the owls, Joanna thought. For it was only under cover of darkness that she could move about freely in this burned out prison she had once called home.

  Pulling herself to her feet, the ragged creature moved silently across the floor. As she neared the offending shutter, she was suddenly aware of the sound of horses in the distance. Shouts came from the courtyard below, and as she listened, the yard below seemed to explode in a frenzy of activity.

  Taking hold of the shutter with her swathed hands, Joanna eased it shut without peering below.

  The doomed man, she thought. The cursed laird had arrived.

  *

  The pawing hooves of the tired horses against the soft ground raised a gray cloud that swirled about the riders’ heads. Gavin Kerr lifted his eyes from the approaching grooms and stared at the huge iron cross fastened to the rough stone wall above the archway of the great oak entry doors. From the blood-red rust stains on the stone beneath the cross, the new laird judged that it must have hung there for ages. Tearing his eyes away, Gavin glanced around at the buildings facing the open courtyard.

  The castle itself was far larger than he’d expected. Stretching out in angles of sharp stone, the series of huge structures wrapped around the courtyard
like a hand ready to close. Far above, small slits of windows pierced the walls of the main building as well as the north wing. The south wing’s upper windows were larger. A newer addition, he thought. Gavin let his eyes travel slowly over what he could see. There was no sign of the fire that had claimed the life of the previous laird, his family, and their servants. The winter sleet and rains had scoured the stone of any trace of smoke, no doubt.

  He caught the movement from corner of his eye--the slow closing of a shutter in the tower at the top of the south wing.

  However, men approaching drew Gavin’s attention earthward again. The tall one scolding the running grooms had to be Allan, steward to the last four MacInnes lairds. The man’s graying hair and beard bespoke his advanced years, while his powerful frame--slightly bent though it was--told of a strength necessary for the position he had held for so long.

  Dismounting from his horse, Gavin nodded to a groom and handed off his reins as he exchanged greetings with the bowing steward.

  “You did indeed arrive just as we had expected, m’lord. Not a day too soon nor a day too late.” The old man’s hands spread in invitation toward the entrance of the castle. “I took the liberty a day or so ago to have Gibby, the cook, begin preparing a feast for your arrival.”

  He paused as a dozen household servants, along with a dwarfish, sickly looking priest, came out to welcome the new laird.

  “Your neighbor, the Earl of Athol,” Allan continued, “has been quite anxious for you to arrive, m’lord. If you wish, I can send a man over now and invite...”

  “Nay, Allan. That can wait for a day or two.” Gavin’s gaze took in once again the towers at either end of the courtyard. “While my men settle themselves in, I want you to take me through this keep.”

  The older man nodded his compliance as he fell in step with the new laird, who was striding toward the south tower. “You might, m’lord, wish to start in the main part of the house--what we call the Old Keep--and work toward the kitchens and the stables in the north wing. There is very little to see in the south wing.”

  Gavin halted abruptly, glanced up at the south tower, and then looked directly at the steward.

  “Much of this wing was ruined by the fire, m’lord,” Allan explained quickly. “From the courtyard, it looks sound, but inside, especially where the wing joins the Old Keep, the damage was extensive. The roof is gone in some places, and I’ve had the outside entrances to the building barred to keep...”

  “Barred?” Gavin interrupted, staring at the tower.

  “Aye. The worst of the damage is on the far side, though, where the tower looks over the loch. That’s where they were all sleeping when the fire started, God rest their souls. By the time the rest of us in the Old Keep and the north wing smelled the smoke, the whole south wing was ablaze.”

  Gavin strode to the stone wall and peered through the slits of the lower windows. He could see shafts of light coming through the rafters of the floors above.

  “Why do you allow servants into this wing?” Gavin asked shortly, making the old man’s face suddenly flush red. “Those upper floors look dangerous, even from here.”

  “No living person, m’lord, has stepped foot in this wing since the fire,” the steward responded with conviction. “As I said, I myself had all the doors barred and the inside corridors walled up. With the exception of some badger...or a fox, perhaps...” His voice trailed off.

  Gavin stepped back from the building and looked upward at the windows in the tower, his eyes finally coming to rest on the last one in the top floor. “I saw the shutter in that chamber move.”

  The steward stared briefly at the tower windows, then looked at his new master.

  “Aye, m’lord. We see the same thing from time to time, but ‘tis just the wind.” As the new laird moved along the front of the edifice, Allan followed along. “The smoke was everywhere, and the stairwells leading up to it are ruined. Of that I’m certain. The roof there may be sound, though, and a bird or two may have taken up lodging there. And wings are what you’d be needing to make your way into the tower.”

  Gavin peered up again at the looming tower. A number of shutters were banging against stone in the rising breeze. Nature, it appeared, had the upper hand in every window...but one. The window that he had seen open before, now stood closed against the north wind.

  So the birds of the Highlands can latch a shutter, Gavin thought to himself. Turning without another word, he started for the main entrance of the Old Keep, his steward in tow.

  *

  No one ever dared step into her domain.

  The crumbling, fire-damaged roofs, the gaping holes in the walls overlooking the sheer cliffs of Loch Moray, and the scorched, unsteady floors all combined to make the south wing of Ironcross Castle a forbidding place to enter. But as Joanna made her way quietly through a blasted room toward the wooden panel and the secret passageway that would take her down to the subterranean tunnels and caverns, she suddenly sensed that someone had been through there, and quite recently.

  She paused and looked about her in the encroaching dusk. There was little to be seen. Dropping softly to her hands and knees on a plank by the doorway, she peered closely at the ash-covered floor of the passage beyond the door. She herself always avoided those corridors for fear of being discovered by some intrepid soul snooping in this wing.

  Squinting in the growing gloom, she saw them clearly--the faint imprints left behind by someone coming from the Old Keep. Whoever it was had gone in the direction of her father’s study...or what was left of it. Quietly, Joanna rose and, hugging the wall, followed the passage toward the study.

  Standing rigidly beside the door, she peeked inside the charred room. The chamber was empty. She peered into the murky light of the corridor again. Since she had just come from the top floor, whoever had come in here must have continued on and descended the nearly impassable stairwell to the main floor.

  Relieved, she wrapped her cloak tightly about her and glanced inside the study again. Her chest tightened with that familiar sorrow as she stepped inside the fire-ravaged chamber. Nothing had changed here since that terrible night. All lay in ruin. Hanging from one wall were the scraps of burned rag that had once been a tapestry. Elsewhere a scorched table and the broken sticks of a chair. Everything ruined.

  Everything but the foolish portrait hanging over the mantel of the fireplace. She stared loathingly at the face that smiled faintly back at her. Her throat knotted at the sight of herself, of the picture of perfection she had once been. What vanity, she thought angrily.

  She wanted to cross the room and take hold of the fire-blackened frame. She wanted to pull it down, smash it, destroy it as it should have been destroyed long ago. But the unsteady floor stopped her approach. From experience, she knew every loose board, every dangerous plank. Nay, she hadn’t survived this ordeal so long just to break her neck falling through the floor. But those eyes dared her. Challenged her to come ahead. She hated that painting. Why should this blasted thing survive when no one else had? No one, including herself.

  As a tear welled up, Joanna dashed at the glistening bead. Turning away from that vain and beautiful face, she pulled her hood forward and headed for the darkness of the passages that would take her deep into the earth, where no one would see what she had become...a ghostly shadow of the past, a creature of the night, burned and ugly, miserable. Dead.

  Disappearing into the dark, Joanna MacInnes thought once again of her poor mother and father, of all the innocent ones who had perished in the blaze with them.

  Well, it was her destiny, now, to hide and await her chance for justice.

  *

  As the fire’s embers burned out beneath, a huge log crashed down, sending crackling flames and sparks flying in the Great Hall’s huge fireplace.

  The new laird’s face was in shadow as he looked around at the young features of the three men sitting with him. Scattered about the Great Hall, servants and warriors slept on benches and tables, and a number o
f dogs lay curled up amid the rushes covering the stone floor. Most of the household was already asleep, either here or in the stables and outbuildings, but Gavin had kept these three trusted warriors with him. In the short time since they had all arrived, these men had been tasked with determining what needed to be done to secure the castle. Each man had gone about his business, and now the Lowlander leaned forward to hear them.

  Edmund began. “I heard with my own ears the steward passing on your wish to have the south wing opened for you to view in the morning...”

  “Aye,” Peter broke in, gruff and impatient. “And a couple of the grooms and the old smith hopped to the task of pulling down one of the blocking walls.”

  “The steward has fine control of the castle folk,” Edmund added admiringly.

  “That he does,” Peter agreed. “Though a body would think barring a door might have been plenty good enough. Building a wall to stop trespassing!” The thickset warrior spat critically into the rushes on the floor. “Why, most of the servants are too old even to lift a latch unaided!”

  Gavin interrupted the two men. “I can see Allan’s concern. He told me that after the fire, he wanted to be sure that no one would go in that wing, not until such time as Lady MacInnes or the next laird came along to go through what was left.” The Lowlander sat back and lifted a cup as he looked about the silent hall. “With so many accidents plaguing the lairds over the years, I am certain it shows good judgment to leave everything untouched. What did you find, Andrew?”