Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney

and when she’d concocted this particular lie, she was ready to say anything that would persuade Burke to go away and leave her alone.

      Had she ever told anyone in the village she was unwed? The subject hadn’t really come up that she could remember. She was called Miss Clarke and no doubt everyone assumed she was a spinster, but she had never said so.

      In public she usually wore gloves, like a proper lady, so the presence or absence of a ring was unlikely to have been noticed except by the manor servants and her friend Julia Bancroft. Mariah must find a ring for her wedding finger, at least until Burke left Hartley for good. How her father would laugh when she told him of this scene….

      Her body spasmed at the visceral realization that her father was dead. She began to weep uncontrollably.

      Rest in peace, Papa.

      The day after Burke’s visit, a letter arrived from the London solicitor who had handled the transfer of title to the estate. He confirmed the death of Charles Clarke and offered his sympathies in dry, lawyerly prose.

      The letter killed Mariah’s despairing hope that Burke had lied about her father’s death in the hope of coercing her into marriage. In the following pain-filled days, George Burke called on her regularly. He brought flowers and left his polite best wishes even though she wouldn’t receive him at first. The servants and her friend Julia were the only people she could bear to see.

      Eventually her social conscience caught up with her and she went downstairs to see Burke when he called. He was so polite and charming that she wondered if she’d misjudged him. That first time they met, both had been upset and less than reasonable.

      She suspected that he was trying to decide whether or not she really had a husband. He was attracted to her—she could feel lust radiating from him and perhaps he sensed that she was lying. Whatever his private thoughts, his behavior was beyond reproach. Since he acted like a gentleman, she must be a lady.

      As she began coming to terms with her new life, the Sarah side of her began murmuring that perhaps it was worth considering Burke’s offer. Though she had been admiring the vicar, that was mere daydreaming. Burke had made her a genuine offer, and being a wife would give her more standing in the community. He would likely spend much of his time in London, leaving his wife free to run the estate. And he was undeniably good-looking. One could do worse for a husband, and many women did.

      Besides, she was so lonely knowing that her father would never come home….

      At this point in her ponderings, Mariah would tell Sarah that she couldn’t possibly be lonely with an imaginary sister living in her head. Burke was a gamester and would make his wife’s life hell. He’d probably gamble Hartley Manor right out from underneath Mariah’s feet. She had craved stability for too long to place her welfare in unreliable hands. Far better that Burke believe she was married and out of his reach.

      Yet Burke persisted in his attention. One night Mariah awoke shaken by a vivid dream that she was marrying him. They were pronounced man and wife, he took her hand—and squeezed it painfully hard, trapping her with him forever. She knew why she’d dreamed that: he’d visited again that afternoon and hinted about lawsuits between his compliments. His noose was tightening around her.

      She buried her face in her hands and whispered, “Oh, Granny Rose, what should I do? If Burke keeps coming around, in a moment of weakness I might say yes.”

      While Sarah was a product of her imagination, Granny Rose was an indelible part of her memories. Dark, calm, and loving, she had raised Mariah, teaching her cooking and riding and laughter. Though Mariah had waited breathlessly for visits from her father, it was Granny Rose who had been the center of her life.

      There were some people in their small village of Appleton who had called her grandmother a witch. That was nonsense, of course. Granny Rose made herbal potions, read palms, and gave wise counsel to girls and women of the village. Occasionally she performed rituals to achieve particular ends, though she always said there was no magic involved. Rather, rituals focused the mind on what was desired, and that made goals more likely to be achieved. Like prayer, but with herbs added.

      Mariah needed a good ritual. She thought back and decided that a wishing spell would be best since she could ask for whatever would best solve her problems. Her grandmother had always cautioned Mariah against being too explicit with her wishes, because sometimes the best solution was one that she’d never thought of.

      She had some lucky incense that she and her grandmother had made together years earlier, and tonight the moon was full, a good time for a ritual. Since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well try a ritual. At the least, doing so would strengthen her resolve to keep George Burke at a distance.

      She tied a robe over her sleeping shift, slid her feet into slippers, then wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. After collecting a tinderbox and a packet of lucky incense, she descended the stairs and went outside toward the sea. The night was cool and clear, and moonlight silvered the fields and the sea.

      The garden included an open gazebo with a stone patio and a sundial. Thinking this a good place for her ritual, she closed her eyes and thought about her lost loved ones until she felt their friendly presences.

      She started by setting the incense on the brass top of the sundial. After striking a spark and setting it ablaze, she silently asked for help through this difficult time. Healing, protection, strength, luck…

      For an instant she imagined a real husband—not Burke but a man who fit her dreams. Ruthlessly she suppressed that image and concentrated on asking for mental and emotional strength.

      As the pungent scent of the burning incense faded into the wind, she stepped into the gazebo and sat on one of the stone benches that circled the interior. She leaned back against the wall, feeling peaceful. Her night braid had come undone and her hair was drifting around her shoulders, but she felt too lazy to redo it.

      As a child, she’d had few playmates—that’s why she’d invented Sarah. But she’d had her grandmother, and they did everything together for many years. She’d nursed her grandmother in the old woman’s final illness, and her father had appeared at the end to help. She and Charles had mourned together, and then he had taken her with him on his restless travels around the British Isles.

      Now they were gone and she was truly alone for the first time in her life. That was why George Burke was looking treacherously attractive. He did seem to like her, and it was very appealing to be wanted.

      But not by George Burke. Though she’d like a husband someday, she wanted a reliable, kind man like the local vicar. Whom she had been avoiding since her father’s death, because of her complicated situation. She really couldn’t be glancing coyly at the vicar under Burke’s nose when she was claiming to be married.

      Closing her eyes, she rested.

      Hold on hold on hold on…. In the far corner of his spirit to which he had withdrawn, he was aware that the end was near. He had been clinging to life for an eternity, and soon the sea would claim him. By now, he no longer cared if he lived or died. Almost, he didn’t care.

      The dream brought Mariah sharply awake. Go to the shore. The internal voice sounded like her grandmother, and it was filled with urgency.

      Not stopping to question, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and raced down the lane at a tomboy’s speed. The full moon’s light was bright but uncanny, and she felt a chill, as if she had entered a world where magic could really happen.

      Waves crashed hard on the narrow beach, which was a mix of sand and shingle. She halted, wondering what madness had brought her here in the middle of the night. Then she saw a dark object floating not far offshore, every wave bringing it closer.

      Curious, she studied it. Good heavens, was that a head? Perhaps a corpse?

      She gagged at the thought, wanting to run away. But if this was a drowned man, it was her Christian duty to bring him ashore so he could be properly buried. The tide would shift soon and she couldn’t be sure the…object…wouldn’t be washed out again.