Since the accident, he’d stayed by her side, returning to Arbury Hall only to bathe and change. It was flagrantly improper. Father, above all else, would be furious, but Annabelle’s parents were beside themselves and unable to care for their daughter. They’d crumbled in the face of disaster, a telling sign, his father would say, of instability.
Sir Layton was overwhelmed by Annabelle’s severe injuries. He’d come several times to her chamber, face ashen, eyes tormented, hardly noticing Alec in the room. If only Annabelle were one of the butterflies in his collection, he kept murmuring, he could make her better. He had the glues and the supplies to keep her preserved under plate glass. His confusion was alarming.
As for Lady Layton, she hadn’t been in to see Annabelle. Not once. She hadn’t even met them at the doors of the castle that terrible morning. Upon hearing of the accident that had claimed her son, she’d taken to her bed, immobilized by her loss. According to Mary, she barely spoke a word to anyone. It was not healthy. As if the fear and grief he felt were healthy. Or the anger.
What had possessed her? When she was young, Annabelle had made a habit of sneaking into the carts he and Gareth raced through the countryside, but she should have been past such foolishness by now. Yet she’d dressed in boys’ clothing to disguise herself. Doubtless, Gareth hadn’t even known she was there, or he’d never have allowed the race to get under way. Again, Annabelle had done as she pleased, but never had the consequences been more tragic. The proof lay there, broken and bleeding, on the bed.
He dropped his head into his hands with a long, shuddering breath. If only he’d controlled his temper. Or stopped the race. The thought that she might not recover was more than he could bear.
• • •
It was almost midnight. Annabelle was sleeping peacefully, her lips slightly parted, her breathing soft and steady. Her cheek, so smooth beneath his hand, was cooler to the touch, and Alec was dizzy with relief. Her fever had broken.
He stood slowly, every muscle protesting the movement, and stepped away from her bedside chair. Mrs. Fritchens, the Laytons’ formidable housekeeper, had insisted that he and Mary get some rest. She would look after Annabelle tonight. Yet Alec found it difficult to give up his watch. He needed to somehow show he cared—that he always had. Even in ways he should not.
He slipped from the room, walking through the darkened halls, one hand on the Tudor-era wainscoting to help guide him through the old home. It was almost empty now. Following the accident, the houseguests had departed in a panic, nearly tripping over each other’s belongings in their haste. Digby, of course, had fled before Gareth’s body was cold. Many of their friends from university, though, had taken rooms in town for the funeral. The doors and windows of the castle were hung with black crepe, the mirrors covered. Alec felt a fresh rush of grief. It seemed impossible that Gareth was dead.
As he crept down the main stairs, he heard someone singing softly, which made no sense. Not in a house shrouded in black. The sounds were coming from the small chapel, located off the Great Hall, where Gareth’s body rested in repose on a block of ice. Astley Castle was said to be haunted, and in the dark of this night, he could well believe it.
As he edged closer, the singing grew louder. A woman’s voice filled the chapel, plaintive and ghostly. He looked past the doorway into the heart of the room lit by candelabra, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Beside his friend’s catafalque sat Lady Layton, clad in a wrinkled dressing gown, hair tangled about her head, her face tortured with grief. She was singing an old nursery song, the same one she’d sung when Gareth and Annabelle were small and crying over scraped knees. The one they had always relied on to make their pain go away and set everything right.
Alec’s
Sir Layton was overwhelmed by Annabelle’s severe injuries. He’d come several times to her chamber, face ashen, eyes tormented, hardly noticing Alec in the room. If only Annabelle were one of the butterflies in his collection, he kept murmuring, he could make her better. He had the glues and the supplies to keep her preserved under plate glass. His confusion was alarming.
As for Lady Layton, she hadn’t been in to see Annabelle. Not once. She hadn’t even met them at the doors of the castle that terrible morning. Upon hearing of the accident that had claimed her son, she’d taken to her bed, immobilized by her loss. According to Mary, she barely spoke a word to anyone. It was not healthy. As if the fear and grief he felt were healthy. Or the anger.
What had possessed her? When she was young, Annabelle had made a habit of sneaking into the carts he and Gareth raced through the countryside, but she should have been past such foolishness by now. Yet she’d dressed in boys’ clothing to disguise herself. Doubtless, Gareth hadn’t even known she was there, or he’d never have allowed the race to get under way. Again, Annabelle had done as she pleased, but never had the consequences been more tragic. The proof lay there, broken and bleeding, on the bed.
He dropped his head into his hands with a long, shuddering breath. If only he’d controlled his temper. Or stopped the race. The thought that she might not recover was more than he could bear.
• • •
It was almost midnight. Annabelle was sleeping peacefully, her lips slightly parted, her breathing soft and steady. Her cheek, so smooth beneath his hand, was cooler to the touch, and Alec was dizzy with relief. Her fever had broken.
He stood slowly, every muscle protesting the movement, and stepped away from her bedside chair. Mrs. Fritchens, the Laytons’ formidable housekeeper, had insisted that he and Mary get some rest. She would look after Annabelle tonight. Yet Alec found it difficult to give up his watch. He needed to somehow show he cared—that he always had. Even in ways he should not.
He slipped from the room, walking through the darkened halls, one hand on the Tudor-era wainscoting to help guide him through the old home. It was almost empty now. Following the accident, the houseguests had departed in a panic, nearly tripping over each other’s belongings in their haste. Digby, of course, had fled before Gareth’s body was cold. Many of their friends from university, though, had taken rooms in town for the funeral. The doors and windows of the castle were hung with black crepe, the mirrors covered. Alec felt a fresh rush of grief. It seemed impossible that Gareth was dead.
As he crept down the main stairs, he heard someone singing softly, which made no sense. Not in a house shrouded in black. The sounds were coming from the small chapel, located off the Great Hall, where Gareth’s body rested in repose on a block of ice. Astley Castle was said to be haunted, and in the dark of this night, he could well believe it.
As he edged closer, the singing grew louder. A woman’s voice filled the chapel, plaintive and ghostly. He looked past the doorway into the heart of the room lit by candelabra, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Beside his friend’s catafalque sat Lady Layton, clad in a wrinkled dressing gown, hair tangled about her head, her face tortured with grief. She was singing an old nursery song, the same one she’d sung when Gareth and Annabelle were small and crying over scraped knees. The one they had always relied on to make their pain go away and set everything right.
Alec’s
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