The Beckoning Ghost, page 13
“Surely it's not that 'sweet' of me to speak the truth. “ His eyes fixed avidly on her face, he seemed about to say something else. Then he let his gaze slide away as he ran his hand along the edge of the cockpit. “So what is this 'fiberglass' made out of?”
Disappointed that he chose to remain reticent, she couldn't remember what fiberglass consisted of. Fibers, obviously, and what else—epoxy? “It's a type of resin, I think. Probably related to plastics. “
“So much of your modern world is this plastic?”
“Unfortunately so. It's not biodegradable. “ She stopped there, unwilling to go into the depressing complexities of mountainous landfills and all the other environmental dilemmas.
Brendan looked thoughtful. “That large box you sometimes watch in the cottage—isn't that made out of plastic and glass? It receives moving pictures and some sort of sound waves. “
“The TV? Yes, it's a receiver, like a radio. “ She hesitated. He probably didn't know what a radio was either.
“TV you called it? What does the 'TV stand for? Terribly vapid? Terminally vacuous? Or The Vacuum?
Marissa burst out laughing; he'd been teasing her all along. Sure, some things about the 20th century might surprise him, but he knew more than she expected.
“You're right. “ She giggled. “It's The Vacuum, and it can suck every intelligent thought out of a person's head, if given half a chance. “
“I love to hear you laugh, “ he said. “I hear it far too seldom... only when your friend Kelsey is around. “
“Well, these days not too many people wander through their own homes cackling maniacally. The men in white suits would come to lock me up if I did. “
Suddenly, she remembered that his wife had died in a sanitarium. “Oh, Brendan, I'm sorry. How callous of me... “
“It's all right. You meant nothing more than a harmless joke. I'm not that sensitive about my wife's illness. “
Nonetheless, Marissa felt a cold shadow fall over the boat. She shuddered. Would Rosalind Tyrell cast a pall over her life as she had Brendan's?
When they got back up to the house, Marissa noticed the blinking red message light on the answering machine in her office. She played it back.
“Marissa, it's Owen. Call me back today if you're able. I've got information about Miranda Egerton. “ Click.
Brendan gave her an odd glance. “What did you want to know about Miranda?”
For some reason, she felt caught. Why was she so interested in his ward? “If I located her papers—a journal, for instance—I thought it might give me more information about you. “
To her dismay, she sounded lame and defensive.
Brendan just looked at her, a half smile on his face. “I was simply curious. By all means, call your Welsh friend. “
He pulled up a chair and began idly rifling through her voluminous notebooks. Itching to snatch them out of his hands, she glared at him. Her notebooks were sacrosanct.
Then Marissa smiled. They covered his life, after all. What secrets did she think he'd find in there? Only her most outrageous speculative comments would embarrass her.
Brendan glanced up at her, his dark hair tumbled across his brow. “Is there something amusing or scandalous in here that you should warn me about?”
“I don't think so, “ she said mildly, then bit her lip to keep from laughing at the trenchant remarks he'd find therein. “Be my guest. I'm going to call London. “
“So, Owen dear, what have you got for me?”
“Not much on this end of the Atlantic. I found a few biographical references here that I'll fax to you, but I think all of her personal papers went to America. She and her husband lost their only son in France during the First World War, so her papers were passed on to the daughter of a cousin. That woman married a Yank during the Second
World War, and she's a widow now, living in Monterey, California. “
“Owen, my Welsh hero! You're a sweetheart! Have you talked to her—does she still have the papers?”
“No, I thought it would be better if you contacted her. It's your project. “ He gave her the name and number.
Marissa thanked him profusely and promised to get together with him in London in the near future. With the slip of paper in her hand, she did a small caper by the phone in the living room. Then she saw Brendan standing negligently by the fireplace, a glint of patient amusement in his eyes.
“Eureka?” he said dryly.
“Owen's found the woman who might have Miranda's papers—in California, of all places. “ She gave him an excited grin. “I'm going to book a seat on the next flight to San Francisco. “
He made a general comment to the cats, who sat hunched on the couch, staring at him. “I quite enjoy San Francisco, a favorite city of mine. “
“Oh, “ she said, nonplussed by his remark. “But how—I mean, do ghosts fly on airplanes?”
“I suppose it would be a novel experience for me. However, why don't I just meet you there?”
“You really want to come with me?” she asked, full of delight.
“Of course. I have as much at stake in this enterprise as you do. “ His eyebrows arched in a sardonic curve. “Or have you forgotten that, young lady?”
“No, I haven't forgotten. “ As he looked at her with that devilish gleam in his eye, she noted a tightness in her chest. It was too soon; it couldn't be happening this fast—this terribly unwise, complicated attachment. Feeling like a speeding car about to careen out of control, she smiled weakly.
Brendan smiled back at her, a slow lazy grin that curled her toes.
Chapter Ten
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide.
—Shakespeare
The Isle of Ischia, Italy, May, 1872
The ferry from Naples was running late. Brendan Tyrell opened his pocket watch, and looked at the clock hands with a jaundiced eye. He muttered to himself, as if glaring at his watch would make the Italian ferry system run on a more timely schedule. He smiled then, wondering at his own impatience.
In two years on this sleepy jewel of an island, he'd come to savor the Ischians' slower pace of life. The warm, drowsy days had nursed him through the rigors of the jungle fever he'd caught in the mountains of Nepal. Today, the sharp resin of the island's pines, the briny tang of the tiny harbor reminded him of la dolce vita, the very sweetness of life.
Sweet indeed, now that his Randie-bai was finally coming home. He hadn't seen her since she was a mere child of 14, seven years past. She'd been hurt then, wounded by his sudden marriage to Rosalind Chenowyth. Once he and Rosalind had returned to India, physical distance had compounded the emotional estrangement, and Brendan had felt he'd failed miserably in his duties as a guardian and substitute father.
Eventually, Miranda had answered his letters, but she'd still avoided meeting him in Rome three years ago. Worn out by his prolonged bout with the fever, Brendan had rested there briefly on his way to Ischia. He'd written nothing of his illness to his ward, just asked her to come to Italy from her school in Paris. Miranda had begged off, pleading the excuse of upcoming examinations. Her refusal had hurt Brendan deeply.
Brendan shrugged off his past disappointment. Miranda was coming now. After all these long, lonely years, he'd have his little girl back again.
A piercing hoot of the ferry's horn alerted him to its approach. He leaned over the railing and craned his neck for a sight of the passengers, but the sun glinting off the water obscured his vision. He saw only a dark mass of people and an unkempt pile of baggage on the deck. Under the voluble shouts of the crew and the casting of lines, the ferry nosed its scraped and peeling prow alongside the pier. With a loud clunk, the gangway dropped into place and the ferry began to disgorge its passengers.
A noisy, exuberant crowd of Ischians jostled past him, eager to meet their relatives debarking from the ferry. Brendan lost his vantage point by the railing. By the time he made his way to the ramp leading down to the pier, a lone farmer was leading a string of beige and black goats down the gangway. In the crowd of passengers collecting their baggage on the dock below him, he saw no sign of Miranda.
A young couple stood off to one side, avoiding the hurly-burly of the family reunion taking place on the pier. Dressed in a summery frock of cool green muslin, the girl conversed amiably with a young man in tight black trousers and a form-fitting jacket. Smooth-skinned, with dark, curling hair, the youth smiled, gesturing up to the hills of the town.
Her back to Brendan, the young woman declined with a shake of her head, causing the pink silk poppies on her straw hat to dance a jig. In polite dismissal, she gave the youth her hand. The lad doffed his hat and with a Neapolitan flourish, raised her hand to his lips in regretful farewell.
The young woman looked up at the ramp. Brendan caught a flash of vibrant gold as a thick ringlet slipped over her shoulder. Stunned, he stared at her face: a fine, patrician nose, long elegant throat, and that delicate English skin so reminiscent of Sarah's.
“Randie-bai?”
He started down the ramp at a dead run.
She caught sight of him, and the easy smile on her lips froze. In an unconscious gesture, her hand rose to the open throat of her stylish gown. Then her eyes lit with a dancing fire as she gathered skirts in hand and dashed to the bottom of the ramp.
“Brendan-ji!”
Without hesitation, she threw herself into his waiting arms, to the delight of curious onlookers. Oblivious to anyone but Miranda, he hugged her fiercely to his chest, which expanded painfully. “Randie, I didn't recognize you at first. You're so tall, so beautiful, so... grown up. “
She tilted her head back to look up at him, her wide-set green eyes sparkling with moisture. “Ah, Brendan-ji, did you think you'd find that forlorn girl of fourteen waiting here on the pier?” Miranda smiled, a lost, wistful smile. “I've had seven long years to grow up. “
“Piara, why did you stay away so long?” He stroked her blond curls, feeling a strange, warm peace blossoming within him.
She said nothing, just reached up and gently smoothed back an errant lock of hair from his forehead. For a long moment, she studied his face, as if she were memorizing each character line and crease. Finally, she dropped her hand. “I wanted to complete my education. You had no need of me until I did. “
Brendan's grip on her shoulders tightened involuntarily. “No need of you? How can you think that, after our years together in India? Poppet...
Miranda winced. “Please don't call me that anymore. “ A raw note of pain distorted her clear English voice. “As you can see, I'm not a little girl to be dandled on your knee or bought off with sweetmeats and presents. “
Startled, he dropped his hands from her shoulders, and she stepped back, opening some distance between them.
“Please forgive me, Miranda. How foolish of me. I wasn't thinking.... “
Regaining her composure, she smiled evenly. “No, I'm sorry for being so churlish. It must be something of a shock for you to see me this way— like Athena, springing fully grown from Zeus's forehead.” She paused. “Where's Rosalind?”
“Back at the villa,” he said with fond exasperation. “My wife is beside herself. 'What does Miranda eat; will she like the view, ' and so forth. She's managed to make herself sick with worry. “
“I'm sorry that she's been upset on my account. “ Miranda touched his arm, and he covered her hand with his. “Are you sure that it's a good idea that I come to live with you? I can easily find a home with friends in Paris. “
Brendan felt a stab of dismay. “What? Let that fine classical education of yours go to waste? Nonsense, pop—er, Miranda. You and I are going to work together. Wait until you hear the plans I've made for this trip. “
He motioned for the porter to bring her luggage. Tucking her arm in his, he led her up the ramp toward his carriage.
Miranda hesitated at the top. “You're sure that I won't be intruding?”
“Not a chance. I've been waiting for you to come home for seven years, Randie. “ He squeezed her hand. “From now on, we'll be together... a true family again. “
Miranda's lips curved, and a sudden warmth glowed in her emerald eyes. “Ah, Brendan-ji... you always could make me smile.”
Brendan had thought of Miranda as a winsome child, but he'd never expected to find such a stunning beauty on the flagstone terrace of his villa.
She stood there now, a slim shape of gilded lavender, silhouetted against the rose-pink of the setting sun.
As he poured the last of their white dinner wine, he studied her in fond tenderness. Oh, Tony, he thought, if you only could see the striking young woman your little girl has become. Brendan made a silent toast to the spirit of Miranda's father. Here's to you, dear friend.
The girl was a treasure: extremely bright, gifted with a ready wit and warm heart, and matchless, ethereal beauty. Brendan sighed with guilty pleasure. He'd have a difficult time keeping the young men at bay. Glad that they'd soon be leaving for the Middle East, he thought Miranda too young to marry.
The threat of her eventual marriage clouded Brendan's sunny horizon. He'd only just gotten his Randie back; he didn't want some callow youth to snatch her away again.
Carrying the wine glasses, he made his way across the terrace to the low wall where Miranda waited. With a small smile of thanks, she grasped the wine goblet by the stem and took a sip.
“Is Rosalind feeling any better?” she asked, turning once again to face the sea.
“No, it's one of her sick headaches, I'm afraid. She should be over it by morning. Rosalind is so anxious to meet you. “
“Who is that rather terrifying man looking after her? He seemed none too pleased to find me in residence here. “
“Biju Kapoor. He's Rosalind's servant, an old family retainer. Don't let that fearsome appearance and insolent demeanor trouble you. That terrible scar down his face is from a tulwar. He got it while saving her life at Meerut, and has been with her ever since. “
Miranda glanced back at Brendan, her face a mask of perfect composure. “She must be a fine woman, to inspire such devotion. “
“Yes, she is, “ he replied simply.
With a soft smile, she looked down and touched the shining opal and emerald ring on her left hand. “Thank you again for this beautiful birthday present. You have the remarkable gift to know exactly what will please me, from this ring all the way back to the first present I ever remember receiving from you... my lost golden locket. “
Brendan smiled down at her. “I remember that too... and how furious you were with me on the way to Allahabad when I refused to let you go back to Lucknow to look for it. You would have taken on the mutineers single-handedly if I'd let you. What a brave, impetuous disposition you had for a little girl—still have, I'll warrant. That's why I chose a fire opal for the centerpiece of your ring, to match your fiery nature. “
Miranda laughed self-consciously. “You make me sound like some fearsome Amazon, or avenging harpy.”
Brendan took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, kissing the delicate knuckle above the ring. “Never, Randie. I know you too well to think that. Like your dear mother, you've a fine, gentle soul, but you've also got your father's courageous spirit. “ He winked then. “Woe to whoever tries to come between you and yours. “
Blushing, Miranda sipped her wine in silence. When she finished the last of it, she set the glass down on the wall beside her. “Why didn't you tell me that you'd been ill?”
“I didn't want to trouble you. You were busy with your studies at the Sorbonne at the time. “ He answered evenly, draining his wine while he smothered his hurt at her past rejection.
In the twilight, her eyes held inky shadows in their green depths. “If I'd known how serious it was, I would have come at once. Nothing would have kept me away. “
Though pleased by her declaration, at the same time he was annoyed that she'd think him so old and frail that a mere fever would endanger him. He set his wine glass aside. “How did you find out?”
“Elena, the cook. I spoke with her while you were in with Rosalind. She claims full credit for your recovery. “
Brendan laughed. “So she would. “
Miranda's chin lifted as she gazed out to sea again. “I'd have never forgiven myself if something had happened to you while I was being so stubborn and silly. “
“Randie-bai, it was nothing.... “ He stopped, noting the quiver of her slender shoulders beneath the ruffles of her lavender gown. “Please, don't cry.... “
With a flurry of rustling silk, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against the soft cambric of his shirt. An anguished sob escaped her.
In spite of his concern, Brendan was secretly delighted. The tall cool beauty of the twilight had melted into someone dearer and more familiar, his darling poppet. His own Randie-bai.
“There, there, piara. “ He gently encircled her in his arms. “I'm fine now. No need for your tears.”
Miranda raised her head from his chest, and dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Forgive me, “ she said, “for I have been a spoiled, heartsick child all this time. Because I had you to myself those years in India, I couldn't bear the idea of sharing you with Rosalind. I tried to punish you by staying away. It was wrong and cruel of me; I see that now. “
Brendan felt tears prick his eyes, so he closed them. He drew her closer and pressed a soft kiss to her temple, regret lancing through him... regret that his marriage had so wounded her. If he'd only known back then the heartache that lay in store for both of them, he'd have never married... no, to think that way invited disaster.
“Miranda, I'm sorry that I made you suffer so. “ Opening his eyes, he placed his hands on either side of her face and tilted it toward him. “Our past hurts don't matter anymore. We need to forgive ourselves for the pain we've caused each other. Then we can laugh and simply enjoy being together again. “
