a haunted plantation house.”
“Most ghosts are harmless, Emma Devlin. Many of them are simply too sad to rest. But there are some that mean you harm.”
His words struck me like a cold blade along my spine. He was playing with me in a light, bantering way, and he had no idea how close to my heart he’d hit.
“I’ll be careful only to consort with the good-natured ones,” I answered, and unlocked my door. “Good night, Mr. Cates.”
Before I locked the door I watched the night swallow up horse and rider. I’d spent the day dreaming about Mary Quinn and met a strange history teacher who doubled as an actor. For a woman who’d done nothing all day, I was exhausted—and starved. Too hungry to wait for something to cook, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took it up the stairs to the bedroom. I was suffering from an odd aftershock of meeting Nathan Cates. I was bone weary and yet I felt as if a tiny electrical pulse was running through me.
Thinking back through the meeting, I was surprised to recall that once I spoke with him, I had absolutely no fear of him. I’d never been a person who made instant friends. My mother, who has a list of complaints a mile long about me, said it was because I was sarcastic and smart-mouthed. Before people got a chance to like me, I drove them away, she said.
Frank had defended me by saying that I weeded out the wimps. At the memory of those lively debates, I couldn’t help but smile. The smile faded as I thought about my reasons for being at Ravenwood. I’d spent a dreamless night my first night here. Would I see Frank tonight?
I finished the last bite of my sandwich and took the plate back downstairs. I made sure the doors and windows were locked before I abandoned the kitchen for the bedroom and a hot bath. A tiny rule I’d made for myself was that I would not think of Frank before I went to bed. If it was my subconscious acting up, I didn’t want to invite a visit from the man I loved accusing me of betrayal. I picked up my book, spun the coral mosquito netting about my bed and settled down for the night.
About eleven, my eyes grew heavy and I gave up my book. Outside the open window, the night was alive with small creatures. With a smile I surrendered to childhood images and sleep.
The brush of the mosquito netting across my face woke me. Waking up in an unfamiliar place can be unsettling, and I forced myself to remain calm. A gust of April wind must have blown through the open window with enough force to billow the netting over the bed. It was a strange sensation, like waking up in the folds of an elaborate gown. There was a coral glow around the bed. I was pushing my way clear to the surface of material when I saw Frank.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he watched me closely.
“Frank.” I wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hand, to touch his face. But I could not. The chill of the grave held me back. No matter how much I didn’t want it to be true, Frank Devlin was dead. Though he stood before me, handsome in the pink and coral light of dawn that had begun to chase the darkness from the room, I knew he was no longer of my world.
“The past is never dead, Emma.”
“I know that, Frank. I miss you terribly.”
“I have suffered at the hands of those I loved.”
His words were so sad, so horrible. Tears threatened to choke me, but I fought them back. “Not me, Frank. Never me. I could not have loved you more. You know that. I still love you.”
“I am betrayed, Emma. Betrayed.” His right hand came up and his finger pointed directly at me. “Emma…”
As in the past three times, he faded away. In a few seconds, the room was empty except for me.
“Frank.” I spoke his name, expecting no answer. My tears were bitter, bitter. Frank’s ghost was gone, but the specter of insanity completely filled my mind. Was I mad? Maybe the smartest thing to do would be to commit myself to an institution. Each time Frank visited, the pain was more unbearable. Each time his accusations were the same, and my ability to understand them no better.
Hugging my pillow, I cried until I had no more tears. Then I washed my face and went downstairs. I put on a pot of very strong coffee and thought about my options. I’d promised myself two weeks at Ravenwood. I would give myself that much time and no more. What I needed was a plan to find Mary Quinn. Walking to the oak hadn’t worked. Perhaps by sitting in Mary’s own room I might encourage contact with her. I had the coffee dripping when I ran back upstairs to change into a pair of stirrup pants and a long-sleeve blouse. God bless the creator of heavy knit. It didn’t wrinkle, held its shape and was as comfortable as a second skin. I crowded my mind with these trivialities, grasping desperately at the ordinary. Beneath everything I did, the question remained: was I losing my mind?
My fingers were working the last button when I heard the knock on the door. No one had a key to the gates, and I couldn’t imagine who might be on the premises. I ran down the stairs and peeked through the curtains in the kitchen door.
Nathan Cates was standing on the doorstep with a bulging grocery bag. Frisco stood patiently tied to a tree beside a buckskin mare. My mind blanked at the sight. I didn’t know what to do. Nathan was dressed in his uniform, undoubtedly on the way to work at the reenactment. He’d taken me up on my request for a ride.
He knocked again, and I couldn’t hesitate any longer. I’d thank him and tell him I didn’t feel like riding. I didn’t feel like living, if the truth were known. I opened the door. “Nathan.”
“Good morning, Emma Devlin.” He brushed through the door and took the grocery bag to the kitchen table. “I wasn’t sure if you’d brought provisions, so I picked up a few things for you. Then I thought I couldn’t take you out for a morning ride without breakfast. I hear that Southern girls are given to fits of fainting, and I suspect it might be because they don’t start the day with a healthy meal. So I brought some bacon, eggs, grits and the makings of biscuits.”
“Biscuits?” I was overwhelmed. In the morning light his eyes were sky blue against the gray of his uniform. The mustache I’d seen hints of the night before was full and blond, and there was a curved scar on his right cheek.
“Don’t you like biscuits?” he asked.
“I like biscuits from the breakfast buffet at a number of places. But I don’t make them.” I didn’t feel like company. I couldn’t eat if my life depended on it. Yet there was something about Nathan that soothed me. I needed to be alone, to think. But I didn’t want him to go.
“I make excellent biscuits. My grandmother taught me.” With a quickness and skill I’d never seen in a man before, Nathan made breakfast. As he worked, he talked about Ravenwood and the peculiarities of the house. He knew much more about it than I did. His voice was deep, reliable. It seemed only a few minutes before he put a plate of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits before me. He took a seat opposite.
Although I thought food would choke me, I ate with surprising appetite. Nathan kept up the conversation with cheerful ease. It wasn’t until he’d cleared the table and poured us both another cup of coffee that he stopped talking for a long moment.
“Would you like to tell me why you’ve been crying this morning?” he asked finally.
I did not want to tell him. I had no intention of doing so, but the words poured out. I told him everything. Every single detail of my madness. And he listened. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t question me. At some point, he reached across the table and picked up my hand. When
